The Batman 2.0
Chapter 11: Damning Evidence
7 PM
After wandering the streets a bit more, searching for anything that could help him remember, Bruce Wayne arrived at a shelter. He stood outside the unfamiliar building, still struck with amnesia. Just before he was about to enter, his attention was drawn to a set of stairs leading down into the subway tunnels. Something about the tunnels called to him, stirring an unease he couldn't quite place. Unable to resist, he wandered down the steps, his mind flashing with fragmented images. He could see himself riding a motorcycle through tunnels—perhaps not these exact ones, but the familiarity was undeniable. Just as the memory slipped away, his surroundings came into focus once more.
Bruce barely had time to process what was happening before he was interrupted by three men stepping out of the shadows. Their faces were painted in black and white clown makeup, giving them a menacing, theatrical look.
"Are you lost, bum?" one of them sneered, stepping forward with a smirk.
"Yeah, the subway is for paying customers," another added, cracking his knuckles.
Bruce didn't need to read their expressions to know they meant trouble. The three thugs spread out, circling him like a pack of wolves.
"This is our territory," one of them said, glancing around to ensure they were alone. Suddenly, Bruce felt a forceful shove from behind, sending him stumbling into the speaker.
"Watch where you're going!" the thug snapped before throwing a punch. Bruce barely saw it coming but managed to roll with the impact, lessening the damage.
"I'm not looking for trouble," Bruce said, keeping his hands raised in a non-threatening manner.
"That's okay," the largest thug replied. "Trouble was looking for you."
Without warning, a powerful fist crashed into Bruce's ribs. Another thug followed up with a punch to his stomach, forcing Bruce to double over in pain. The three men closed in, their laughter echoing off the tunnel walls.
Then, something inside Bruce ignited. A deep, primal instinct took over. As one of the thugs lifted a foot to kick him, Bruce reacted without thinking. He blocked the kick, then drove his fist into the thug's knee with pinpoint precision, sending him howling to the ground. In the same motion, Bruce launched an uppercut at another attacker, striking him square in the jaw and sending him stumbling backward.
The third thug lunged at Bruce from behind, but Bruce dropped low and executed a sweep kick, knocking him off his feet. The thug he had struck in the knee tried to rise, but Bruce, still crouched, delivered another punishing blow to his other knee, rendering him useless.
The man Bruce had hit in the jaw recovered and charged again. Bruce sensed him coming and delivered a swift backfist strike, crushing the thug's nose with a sickening crack, sending blood splattering onto the cold concrete.
Just as Bruce steadied himself, one of the thugs pulled a knife. The blade gleamed under the flickering subway lights. Bruce dodged the first few swipes, but he was backed into the grip of another thug, who locked him in a tight bear hug.
Using the leverage of his trapped position, Bruce swung his leg out in a controlled arc, kicking the knife-wielding thug's hand. The weapon clattered to the floor, and in the same fluid motion, Bruce's foot connected with the man's face, sending him sprawling. He then stomped down hard on the foot of the man restraining him and, within a split second, slammed the back of his head into the thug's nose, breaking the grip.
The last conscious thug, now enraged, pulled a gun from his waistband. "I've had enough of you," he snarled, aiming directly at Bruce.
Before he could fire, the sound of laughter and chatter filled the subway. A large group of people, likely coming from a nearby bar, entered the station, their presence disrupting the moment. The thug hesitated, realizing he had too many potential witnesses. With a frustrated growl, he shoved the gun back into his waistband and signaled to his defeated comrades. The three men staggered off into the darkness, leaving Bruce standing alone, his heart pounding.
He took a shaky breath and looked down at his hands. The fight had come so naturally to him, his movements precise, instinctual. How did he know how to do this? And more importantly—who was he?
7:30 PM
Commissioner Gordon stood near the unlit Batsignal. He wondered why Batman hadn't met up with him. Normally, he would have been there promptly at 7 PM, but not tonight. Gordon looked at his watch. It showed 7:30. That's when he had a weird feeling that something must be wrong.
"It looks like I'm going to have to go at this investigation alone tonight," he said to himself.
Just then, he could hear gunshots going off in the distance. It sounded like a warzone. Blocks away, a man wearing a red hood was firing madly at Penguin's men, who were trying to unload crates from three box trucks. Holes filled the side of the box trucks as the red-hooded man reloaded his weapon. Penguin's men were like sitting ducks because the red-hooded man had the high point on a bridge, which also shielded him quite well. Doing the best they could, they all tried taking shots at him, but it was to no avail.
Suddenly, one of Penguin's men looked up and noticed the shooter was aiming a bazooka at them. Knowing they wouldn't be able to stay where they were, all of Penguin's men scattered in all directions. And then—Swoosh, Kaboom! The missile blasted one of the trucks, causing a chain reaction of explosions with the other trucks and the ammunition inside. Sirens could be heard in the background, causing the red-hooded man to flee the bridge. His mission was complete, and another one of Penguin's operations had been foiled yet again.
Meanwhile, Commissioner Gordon climbed into his car and turned on the police scanner. Reports of the explosion were already coming in. The destruction of Penguin's shipment meant someone was waging war against Gotham's criminal underworld. Gordon knew Batman would have been on top of this by now—but Batman was missing. He gritted his teeth, started the engine, and sped toward the chaos, hoping to get some answers before it was too late.
9 PM
Penguin sat in one of his hideouts, surrounded by his henchmen, particularly those who had been unloading the box trucks when they were attacked. His beady eyes scanned the room with frustration.
"Did anyone see who did this?" Penguin squawked.
"There were a lot of bullets coming at us," one henchman answered. "Plus, he was hidden behind a barricade on the bridge."
Penguin had a look of disdain. "Who saw what he looked like? Was it Batman?" he pressed.
Everyone hesitated, looking around uncomfortably. "That son of a bitch has gone rogue. First, he kills Kenzie, and now he's coming after me. It's like he's trying to finish what Riddler started, coming after Falcone's men," Penguin muttered.
He slammed his fist on the table. "I want someone to bring me Batman's head!" he yelled, his voice echoing through the room.
Just then, another henchman stepped inside. "We've got other problems, sir."
"What now?" Penguin snapped.
"It's Sofia Falcone," the henchman said cautiously.
Penguin narrowed his eyes. "What about her?"
"She was let free from Arkham Hospital this morning by Councilman Hady."
"What!?" Penguin bellowed, his face turning red with rage. "That double-crossing bastard! He assured me she'd be locked up forever this time!"
Penguin's temper boiled over. He pulled out his gun and began firing wildly into the air, sending his men diving for cover. The room filled with the deafening echo of gunfire, the scent of gunpowder hanging thick in the air.
As the gunshots subsided, the henchmen cautiously peeked out from behind the furniture. Penguin took a deep breath, exhaling sharply. "Find out where she is," he ordered coldly. "If she thinks she can take back her father's empire, she's got another thing coming."
Meanwhile, Victor Aguilar was just getting back to his apartment. Graciela was still there, waiting like a faithful companion.
"You shouldn't be here," Victor said, pulling back his hood and tossing his jacket onto the floor.
"I'm worried about you, Victor. Where did you go tonight?" she asked.
"I had things to take care of. Things you wouldn't understand." Victor replied.
Graciela stepped forward and put her arms around Victor's shoulders. "I know you've had a rough life, but we can leave all this behind. Let's just get on that bus like we were going to do the first time and leave this hellhole behind," she said, though Victor wasn't squeezing her back.
"It's not that simple," Victor replied. "Someone has to do something about the terrible people in this town," he added.
"Someone... You mean... you?" Gracie asked with a frown.
"Like I said. You wouldn't understand," Victor repeated.
Gracie changed the subject. "You had a visitor earlier," she informed him.
"Who?" Victor asked. "Was it Batman?"
"No. It was an older gentleman. He said he was the one who helped you during your coma. What was he talking about?" Gracie pressed for answers.
Victor stood with a moment of silence. "Is that all he said?" he asked.
Gracie wanted to keep pressing for an answer, but instead, she handed Victor the card Alfred left. Victor looked at the message about him meeting with Batman at their secret location. Victor didn't say another word. Instead, he turned, snatched his jacket back off the floor, and walked out the door.
11 PM
Bruce, weary from an arduous day, finally found a place to rest. As he closed his eyes, his mind drifted into a dream, reliving a haunting memory. He stood before the cold, sterile walls of Arkham Hospital, where a chilling message was scrawled: "One by one, they'll hear my call. Then this wicked town will follow my fall."
His vision abruptly shifted—he was in pursuit of a man in a red hood near the reservoir. The figure was attempting to poison Gotham's water supply, his laughter ringing through the night like a macabre symphony. Bruce stirred in his sleep, his subconscious replaying the moment the red-hooded man unleashed toxins into the water. Suddenly, the scene morphed again—the viaducts erupted in explosions, thwarting the villain's plan to eradicate the city.
Then came the unmasking. Bruce yanked the hood away, revealing a ghastly visage—green, patchy hair marred by bald spots, a face bleached white and twisted into a grotesque grin. Even in defeat, the madman cackled without restraint. Bruce recalled the overwhelming urge to let him fall into the poisoned waters below but, at the last moment, chose to pull him back from the edge.
The nightmare intensified. The dams surrounding Gotham gave way, unleashing torrents of water that consumed the city. Bruce stood frozen as the flood surged toward him, an unstoppable force of destruction. Just as the deluge was about to engulf him, he jolted awake, his heart pounding in the oppressive silence of the night.
Midnight
Councilman Sebastian Hady rose from bed, unable to sleep. His mind was consumed with worry over what Penguin might do once he discovered that Hady had orchestrated Sofia Falcone's release from Arkham Hospital.
He had gone to the kitchen to get a drink of water from the sink, when a sudden noise from the living room made his pulse quicken. He instinctively reached for a knife from the kitchen counter before cautiously making his way toward the disturbance.
To his shock, he found Penguin reclining comfortably in one of his chairs, smirking.
"Jesus Christ," Hady stammered.
"What's the matter, Councilman? You look like you've seen a ghost," Penguin said, his voice laced with amusement.
"What are you doing in my home?" Hady demanded, gripping the knife tightly.
Penguin leaned forward, his smirk widening. "You've got some explaining to do."
Before Hady could respond, two of Penguin's henchmen stepped into view. His breath caught in his throat.
"It was out of my control," he said quickly. "She had leverage on me—things she was going to show my wife." His eyes darted toward the staircase, listening for any sign that his wife had awoken.
"What kind of things?" Penguin mused, producing a stack of photographs and tossing them onto the coffee table. The images depicted Hady in compromising situations with multiple women.
Hady's face paled. "When… when did you take these?" he whispered, glancing nervously toward the stairs again.
"Everyone knows about your affairs," Penguin replied dismissively. "Did you really think freeing Sofia was worth it? Just to keep your wife from leaving you?"
Without another word, Penguin's men seized Hady, forcing a noose around his neck and throwing the rope over a ceiling fixture. They pulled it taut, placing a small stool beneath his feet—just high enough to keep him from strangling outright.
A moment later, the commotion stirred his wife awake. She called his name, but there was no response. As she descended the stairs, she froze in horror at the sight before her—her husband barely balancing on the stool, the noose biting into his neck. Penguin and his men were gone, leaving only the damning photographs scattered across the floor.
At first, she was going to help Hady down, but then she hesitated, picking up the pictures, her eyes scanning the explicit evidence of betrayal. Then, slowly, she looked up at her husband.
Hady met her gaze with desperation, muttering for her help.
For a moment, she simply stood there, her grip tightening around the photographs.
Then, with a cold, deliberate motion, she pressed her foot against the stool—
And kicked it over.