Batman: The Chill of Old Ghosts

Batman, Murder Suspect

I.

Don’t go out there, Alfred warned. They’re everywhere, looking for you, hoping you’ll show in all the right places. Not just the cops, innocents, citizens who once thought you a hero, now dejected and betrayed. They’ll tear you apart if they catch you. It’s not worth the risk.

Bruce knew it all. Heard it all, from Alfred and his own inner voice. But his inner voice sounded weaker than usual, weaker than before. As if it were resigned to the lie they have brought against him. Believing the lie. It sounded frail and afraid, and sounded like it was giving up.

But inner voices often cheat their hosts, and Bruce knew however deep this voice wailed from, it was false. The voice was Alfred’s in disguise, begging and pleading since day one for Bruce to hang up his cape. It was Gordon’s, calling him forth like a siren from the sea, only to drown him under waves of betrayal once his back is turned. It was Clark’s voice too, booming high above him like the voice of God, damning his sins and threatening almighty reckonings on his head. It was the voice of Bruce Wayne, aged 8 years old, dancing in the hallways of Wayne Manor, carefree and foretelling his great future of wealth, prosperity, family, and dynasty. And then it was Bruce Wayne’s voice again, this time aged 9, serious and mature, telling the truth of it. The world is a cold and heartless bitch, who’ll extend her hand just to squeeze your throat. Fortune is forged through fire, not made, won, or inherited. Wealth is paper for a reason. Family is a blessing to those who don’t need it, and a curse to those that crave it.

All of these voices have picked at Bruce for years, growing in number and volume. With each new threat comes a new perspective, a new fear and new hazards to overcome from within.

The only way to silence the noise, is to remove the head, and don a new one. One that drowns out the voices, stays out of the light, and attracts fear rather than absorbs it. And so he wears the mask, the suit, the cape, the symbol. And he leaves Bruce’s cowardice and fear at the cave. Out here in his element, he is the one true voice of Gotham and everybody knows it.

He sits atop the Monarch Theatre, looking down on a city of squalor. He belongs down there with them, he tells himself in these moments, with the fathers, the workers, the humble, and the unfortunate. But it is not his fate. Not his blessing or curse. He is The Bat, defender of those who cannot defend themselves, and sworn protector. He swore the oath to his father’s memory, no-one ever heard it. No-one ever knew it existed. And now they look down on him from above.

He spies a huddle of three meeting in the alley...THE alley. Crime Alley. Only the lowest dwell in the alley, gathering when the lights go out like roaches. Their business is only criminal and the Bat could swoop down in an instant, put them down and take three more rotten pieces off the board. But the alley skirts between busy streets full of crowds, and even in the darkness, the noise would draw unwanted attention. And like weeds, more would simply rise in their place, continuing the cycle. Most unfortunate of all, the Bat’s custom brand of serving these weeds to the law is no longer an avenue. Where once the signal shone and awaited deliverance, now it sits gathering dust and dew. Now the signal says ‘approach at your own peril.’

So he waits. Their business concludes and the three depart separately, under hood and shadow, and the alley, but for the ghosts who blow the winds between the walls is silent. He waits more, for the crowds passing by to disperse, and as the evening winds away, so do they. He spreads his wings and lowers softly to the floor, landing crouched on a knee. His head swivels left and right to scan the area of anyone possibly approaching. Once clear, he walks quietly to the scene, as he does every year, twenty-five years now. He steps to the spot where his father’s head bounced off the concrete without life in his eyes. Where his mother’s precious pearls clattered and clustered all down the pathway. Where the bullet shells clanged. Where the blood escaped their bodies and spread around them in a hurry. Where they died. Where all of them died. Mother, Father, and beloved Son. That nine year old boy full of life and hope, never left this alleyway that night.