The Batman 2.0
Chapter 2: The Investigation Begins
The low rumble of the motorcycle echoed through the busy streets as Bruce pulled up his hood, shielding his face from view. The cool afternoon air whipped past him, carrying with it the faint scent of salt from Gotham Bay. Beneath the roar of the engine, his thoughts took over.
Monologue:
Gotham is still licking its wounds from the flood.
The flood had reshaped the city—physically, emotionally, morally. Streets once filled with life now bore scars of devastation. Families displaced. Businesses ruined. But Gotham had always been a survivor, its people resilient even in the face of tragedy.
The Falcone family was no different. They destroyed themselves from within.
Carmine Falcone's iron grip on the city had loosened with his death. His children—sons and daughters of violence—fought over the scraps. The infighting had been brutal, leaving bloodied streets in its wake. In the end, only Sophia remained standing, running what was left of the family business with a venom that matched her father's.
Then there was Maroni. Salvatore's death left a vacuum too tempting for Oz Cobblepot to ignore.
Penguin had seized the opportunity, expanding his empire with ruthless precision. Drug trades, weapons deals, human trafficking—it all thrived under his watch.
Bruce tightened his grip on the handlebars.
I didn't step in. Not then. I could've intervened, but what would've been the point?
I remembered watching from the shadows as Gotham's crime families tore each other apart. The Falcones. The Maronis. The Cobblepots.
They would have kept fighting, even if I had gotten involved. All I needed to do was wait. Let them burn themselves out. Let them destroy each other.
And that strategy had worked—until Penguin crossed the line.
He tried killing Victor. An innocent. I couldn't let that stand.
Bruce's jaw tightened as he recalled the scene. He'd been tracking Penguin for days, following him after his mother nearly passed away in Gotham General, her mind left in a vegetative state. Grief had made Oz reckless, desperate, crueler than usual.
That's when he found his lifeless body.
Near Gotham Bay. He was just a boy, lying limp on the cold ground. Penguin had left him there after choking the life out of him. A warning to anyone foolish enough to cross him... or befriend him.
Bruce's heart pounded at the memory of rushing to Victor's side, his body pale and still. He'd worked frantically, performing CPR until Victor gasped back to life.
There wasn't time to call an ambulance or risk the authorities. Penguin might've come back to finish the job. So I brought him to Wayne Tower. Alfred handled the rest.
Victor was safe now, recovering. But the moment weighed heavily on Bruce.
This isn't just about saving one boy. This is about stopping Penguin before more innocent lives are lost.
He turned sharply, the city lights blurring past him as he sped toward his destination.
But now I've got another problem. Someone is out there, pretending to be Bruce Wayne. And they've killed twenty people to do it. If I don't figure out who's behind this, Gotham won't see the difference between the man who is trying to help rebuild it and the man who destroys it.
Bruce's eyes narrowed as the motorcycle raced into the city.
I can't let that happen.
5 PM
Bruce perched atop an abandoned building adjacent to Wayne National Bank. The charred remains of the once-pristine structure loomed in the glow of floodlights, casting long shadows over the grim scene. Police vehicles surrounded the area, their flashing red-and-blue lights painting the wreckage in a hauntingly surreal palette. Investigators swarmed the site, picking through debris, their low murmurs carried on the cool evening breeze.
Bruce surveyed the area through binoculars, noting the positions of officers and forensic teams. The blast had been devastating, the epicenter of the explosion reducing much of the bank's interior to ash and rubble. He could still smell the acrid stench of burning plastic and metal from across the street.
"This doesn't add up," Bruce muttered under his breath. "Whoever planned this wanted maximum casualties and to leave no trace of evidence."
Lowering the binoculars, his gaze drifted to the nearby intersections. His mind worked through the logistics. The suspect hadn't disappeared into thin air. The city's network of traffic cameras was bound to have captured something.
He pulled a small communicator from his belt. "Alfred, are you there?"
"Always, sir," came the familiar, calm reply.
"I need you to patch into the street cameras near the bank. Look for footage starting moments before the explosion. There has to be something—anything—that shows where the car went after it left."
"On it, sir. One moment."
Bruce tapped the side of his hood, activating his contact lenses' augmented reality feed. "Once you have the footage, relay it to my lenses."
"Of course. Give me a second to bypass Gotham Traffic's firewall... There we are," Alfred said. "Uploading now."
Bruce's vision flickered as his contact lenses synced with Alfred's feed. A live stream of camera footage appeared in his field of view, each frame overlaying his surroundings.
"Got it," Bruce said, focusing on the stream. "Start from the intersection outside the bank."
"Already ahead of you, sir. Switching between angles now."
Through the lenses, Bruce watched the grainy footage play out. The car pulled away from the bank moments before the explosion, the backseat bulging slightly with the two duffle bags. The suspect's face remained turned away from the camera.
"Following him now," Alfred said. The video transitioned seamlessly between different cameras, tracing the car's route through the city.
Bruce watched intently as the vehicle sped through Gotham's streets, weaving through traffic. "There," he said, leaning forward slightly. "He's heading toward the docks."
"Indeed, sir," Alfred replied. "Unfortunately, the trail ends here. He turns down a side street, and the cameras don't cover that area."
Bruce's jaw tightened. "The docks. Makes sense. He'd want somewhere quiet to offload the cash and disappear."
He stood, moving back toward his motorcycle. "I'm heading there now. Keep an eye on those cameras in case he resurfaces."
"Understood, sir," Alfred said. "And might I suggest a modicum of caution? The docks are Penguin's territory."
"Noted," Bruce replied, starting the engine. The bike roared to life beneath him.
"And sir," Alfred added, his voice tinged with concern, "do be safe."
"I always am," Bruce said with a slight smirk, before speeding off into the beginning of dusk, the path ahead illuminated by the glow of his headlight.
The docks loomed ahead, their shadows stretching long under the fading sunlight. Bruce killed the engine of his motorcycle a block away, the faint hiss of distant waves and the creak of rusted metal filling the air. He moved silently, his hood pulled low, blending into the darkness as he approached the scene.
Smoke curled upward from behind a cluster of shipping containers. The acrid smell of burning fuel and charred rubber filled his nostrils. Bruce's eyes narrowed. The getaway car.
He approached cautiously, his every step calculated, his senses on high alert. The car was engulfed in flames, the orange glow flickering against the steel walls of the surrounding containers. Bruce activated his contact lenses, snapping photos of the scene and cataloging every detail for later analysis.
He knelt by the edge of the fire's radius, scanning the ground. Footprints. Dozens of them, leading away from the vehicle. Some overlapped, but a few distinct patterns stood out. He quickly recorded them, capturing the unique tread designs with his lenses.
Just as he stood to examine the driver's side of the vehicle, a voice startled him.
"Got a dollar?"
Bruce spun, his hand instinctively reaching for his utility belt before remembering he wasn't wearing the Batsuit. A homeless man stood a few feet away, his cart piled high, random Monarch Theater flyers shielding his belongings from Gotham's unpredictable weather.
Bruce relaxed slightly, keeping his face shrouded. He patted his pockets, feigning nonchalance. "Yeah, give me a second."
His fingers found the wadded-up bills he'd stashed earlier. He pulled them out and handed the entire wad over, hoping to end the encounter quickly.
The man's eyes widened at the generous sum. "Thanks, buddy. Really, thanks a lot."
He leaned in, his curiosity piqued. "Who are you, anyway?" The man reached out, tugging at Bruce's hood.
Bruce jerked back, his reflexes sharp. The hood slipped slightly, but he turned away before his face was fully exposed. "You're welcome," he muttered, pulling the hood securely back over his head.
Without waiting for a reply, he slipped into the shadows, moving away from the scene.
Moments later, the wail of sirens echoed through the docks. Police cars screeched to a halt, their lights cutting through the smoke as fire trucks trailed behind. Bruce scaled a nearby stack of containers, watching from above as the officers spread out.
At the center of the commotion was the newly appointed Commissioner James Gordon, his trench coat billowing slightly as he surveyed the burning wreckage. His sharp eyes missed nothing, taking in every detail of the scene.
As the fire crews worked to extinguish the flames, Gordon's attention shifted to the homeless man, now packing up his cart. He approached, his voice firm but calm. "Excuse me. Did you see anything unusual here this evening?"
The man paused, scratching his chin. "Just the guy who gave me some cash. Real generous guy."
Gordon's brow furrowed. "Cash?"
The man held up the wad of twenties Bruce had given him. "Yeah. Helped me out big time."
Gordon pulled out his wallet, thumbing through it. "How about a trade? You give me that money, and I'll give you the same amount, plus a little extra for your trouble."
The man's eyes lit up. "Deal." He handed over the bills, grinning as Gordon added a crisp fifty to sweeten the pot.
Gordon examined the money, his mind already racing. "Bag this for evidence," he instructed an officer. "Get it to forensics ASAP. We might be able to pull prints."
Turning back to the scene, Gordon called out, "Start photographing the footprints. Get every angle, especially the ones leading away from the car."
From his vantage point, Bruce's jaw tightened. Gordon's good. Too good.
He slipped further into the shadows, knowing his time at the scene was up. He had to figure out who was framing him—and fast.
7 PM
The rooftop of the Gotham City Police Department stood silent under the weight of a cloudy night. The Batsignal lit up the sky, its beam cutting through the haze. Commissioner James Gordon stood with his hands shoved deep in his trench coat pockets, glancing at his watch.
"I figured he'd be here by now," he muttered under his breath.
From the shadows, a deep voice startled him. "I'm here."
Gordon jumped, spinning toward the sound. "Damn it, Batman! You've got to stop doing that. One of these days, I'm going to keel over, and you'll be out a commissioner. And I was just promoted to this damn position."
Batman stepped from the shadows, his silhouette blending into the night. He didn't reply, his silence urging Gordon to get to the point.
Gordon sighed, adjusting his glasses. "I assume you've heard about the explosion at Wayne National Bank."
Batman gave a slight nod, his expression unreadable.
"We've only got one lead so far," Gordon continued. "And you're not going to like it. Bruce Wayne."
Batman's cowl tilted slightly, his stillness unnerving.
Gordon held up a hand, anticipating the argument. "I don't buy it though. Sure, we've got security footage showing someone who looks like him, and yeah, his account was accessed for a two-million-dollar withdrawal minutes before the explosion. But come on—why would a billionaire playboy rob his own bank and blow it to hell? I have guys at forensics looking over some evidence as we speak. A homeless man might have seen the suspect. Luckily, and apparently—idiotic, the suspect was generous enough to give him some of the stolen cash."
Batman's voice cut through the night, low and deliberate. "Who do you think it is?"
Gordon ran a hand through his graying hair. "If I had to guess? Edward Nygma. He's had it out for Wayne in the past. You know how he is—always with the riddles, always with the schemes. This has his fingerprints all over it."
Batman's eyes narrowed. "You think Nygma's orchestrating this from Arkham Hospital?"
Gordon turned away, staring out over the sprawling city. The faint glow of fire crews still dousing the docks' blaze reflected in the clouds. "It's possible. He's clever enough, even from behind bars. But it's just a hunch."
The commissioner turned back to face the Dark Knight, his expression serious. "I'll have one of my guys check it out. Maybe we'll find something."
But the words were met with silence. Gordon blinked, realizing he was now speaking to the empty rooftop.
"Damn it," he muttered, shaking his head.
Just then, Gordon's CB radio crackled to life, the frantic voice of dispatch cutting through the night air.
"Commissioner Gordon, we've got a situation at GCPD lockup. You need to get here right away."
Without hesitation, Gordon descended the stairs from the rooftop and got into his car, sirens blazing as he sped toward the station.
Minutes later, Gordon entered the lockup area, greeted by the grim faces of several officers. Detective Montoya approached him, her expression tense.
"What's going on?" Gordon asked, his voice sharp.
Montoya hesitated. "It's William Kenzie. He's dead."
Gordon's eyes narrowed. Kenzie, a disgraced ex-officer who had been secretly working for Falcone, had been locked up for months—the same one Catwoman nearly killed atop GCPD. "How?"
Montoya glanced uneasily at the surrounding officers before answering. "Witnesses say... it was Batman."
Gordon froze. "What?"
Another officer stepped forward. "Sir, Batman came into the lockup about a half-hour ago, demanded to speak to Kenzie about a crime that happened before the flood. He took him into the interrogation room. Next thing we know, Kenzie's dead—neck snapped. Then he just... disappeared."
Gordon rubbed his temples, a sense of dread washing over him. "Show me the security footage."
The officers led him to the control room, where a tech pulled up the feed from earlier in the evening. Gordon leaned in, watching the grainy black-and-white footage. Sure enough, a figure dressed as Batman entered the lockup at 6:45 PM. The cape, the cowl, the intimidating stance—it was all there.
The video showed "Batman" walking into the interrogation room with Kenzie. Moments later, the door opened, and the figure emerged alone, disappearing down the hall.
Gordon stepped back, his mind racing. "This doesn't make any sense," he muttered. "I was talking to Batman on the roof just after 7 PM. He was already there, waiting in the shadows." Although, he thought to himself, that might've been just enough time to kill Kenzie and make it to the roof of the GCPD.
Montoya looked at him, puzzled. "Commissioner, are you saying there are two Batmen?"
Gordon didn't answer immediately. Instead, he rewound the footage, scrutinizing every detail. Something was off—just enough to unsettle him.
The posture. The movements. They were close, but not quite right.
Gordon rubbed his chin. "This isn't him. It can't be."
Montoya frowned. "Then who the hell is it?"
Gordon didn't have an answer, but one thing was clear—someone was out there impersonating Batman, and they were killing in his name.
8 PM
The imposing silhouette of Arkham Hospital loomed in the foggy distance, its stone walls a testament to Gotham's most deranged minds. Batman approached cautiously, his cape billowing behind him as he moved through the shadows. He had questions for Edward Nygma, the Riddler—a man who, if anyone, might take pleasure in orchestrating the events framing Bruce Wayne.
Scaling the outer wall with practiced ease, Batman slipped into an open balcony on the high-security wing. Inside, the air was sterile but heavy with the unspoken menace of the asylum's residents. Moving silently through the corridors, he reached the reinforced door to Nygma's room.
He activated the intercom panel next to the door. "Nygma. I need answers."
There was silence, followed by a low chuckle. Nygma's voice crackled through the speaker, sharp and condescending. "Ah, the great detective. Come to me for enlightenment? Or is this just a social call?"
"I don't have time for games," Batman said, his voice like gravel. "Did you frame Bruce Wayne for the bank explosion?"
Nygma's laughter grew louder. "Frame him? That would imply I care about your billionaire friends. I wanted to kill him! But no, this one's not mine, dear Dark Knight. Whoever did this is far cleverer than I—though that's debatable, of course."
Batman's eyes narrowed behind his cowl. "If it wasn't you, then who?"
"Why would I spoil the fun?" Nygma's tone turned venomous. "You're blind to the bigger picture, as always. But then again, your hands are full—literally, if the news is to be believed. Or do you not remember snapping that cop's neck?"
Batman's expression darkened. "What are you talking about?"
Before Nygma could respond, the sound of boots pounding against tile echoed down the corridor. A voice shouted through the halls. "This is Detective Bullock! Lock down Arkham! Batman is inside!"
Batman stiffened. What's going on?
"Oh, this is exquisite!" Nygma taunted. "Looks like your reputation precedes you. Better run, Batsy. The game's afoot!"
Batman threw a smoke pellet at his feet, filling the hall with thick, acrid fog. The sound of shouting officers grew louder as he slipped back into the corridor, moving swiftly but silently.
"There he is!" an officer shouted as the smoke began to clear.
Batman darted around a corner, taking a staircase to the upper levels. Every exit was sealed, and the surrounding area swarmed with officers.
Reaching the rooftop, he scanned his surroundings. Searchlights from patrol boats danced across the waters encircling the hospital. The only way out was through the icy depths of Gotham Bay.
Batman didn't hesitate. With a running leap, he dove from the rooftop into the freezing water below. The cold was a brutal shock, but he forced his muscles to move, swimming beneath the surface to evade detection.
Above, searchlights scoured the water, but the darkness and mist provided him cover. He surfaced briefly to catch his breath, his mind racing. Why does the police think I killed someone? Who's pulling the strings?
Reaching the far shore of the bay, he pulled himself onto the muddy bank, shivering but alive. The industrial district loomed ahead, offering temporary refuge.
The pieces of the puzzle were coming together, but the picture was far from clear. Whoever was behind this had set a meticulous trap—one Batman was determined to spring before it was too late.