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Master BruceB R U C E W A Y N E ‘ S J O U R N A L
A P R I L 3 0 T H, 2 0 1 6
M A Y 2 N D, 2 0 1 6 ♦ T H E B A T C A V E ♦ G O T H A M C I T Y, N J
A P R I L 3 0 T H, 2 0 1 6
All I hear is laughter and screams. Mirth and pain. They join together like two lovers’ hands, intertwining with the comfortable familiarity of time. I want to make them stop, to tell them to be quiet, but they’re persistent and unwavering, unwilling to leave me be. They pierce my mind with a clarity I don’t want – I can hear them as clearly as I can smell the tangy iron of blood, as clearly as I can see brick and steel plummeting to the streets below. Soon all that will be left is laughter and anarchy, the mark this diseased excuse for an Earth has left on me and mine.
I’m sorry, Father. I’m sorry, Mother. It’s taking me over. I can’t see past my own fears and doubts. I thought I could not fail you more than when I lost Tommy… but the events of the past six months are weighing heavily on me. Gotham is dying, and the world is not far behind. It’s plagued with scum, a cowardly lot that seemingly outnumbers the few good people left at every corner; no one is motivated out of anything but their own agendas, their own greed, their own lust or their own anger. Gotham reeks of terror and mistrust, of concealed chaos and corruption of the innocent. It fears the unknown; it fears that the unknown might reveal itself like it did weeks ago. Alfred and Barbara have tried telling me that it’s not my fault, and I’m desperate to believe them, but although my heart yearns for absolution, my mind knows better, and so the guilt stays, mingling with the laughter and the screams. Gotham is dying. And I fear that the Batman is, too.
I know that the mission must go on. I know that I have to keep fighting. But the laughter and the screams won’t leave me alone. I don’t know where they end and my reality begins.
I fear that someday soon, they’re all that will be left.
I’m sorry, Father. I’m sorry, Mother. It’s taking me over. I can’t see past my own fears and doubts. I thought I could not fail you more than when I lost Tommy… but the events of the past six months are weighing heavily on me. Gotham is dying, and the world is not far behind. It’s plagued with scum, a cowardly lot that seemingly outnumbers the few good people left at every corner; no one is motivated out of anything but their own agendas, their own greed, their own lust or their own anger. Gotham reeks of terror and mistrust, of concealed chaos and corruption of the innocent. It fears the unknown; it fears that the unknown might reveal itself like it did weeks ago. Alfred and Barbara have tried telling me that it’s not my fault, and I’m desperate to believe them, but although my heart yearns for absolution, my mind knows better, and so the guilt stays, mingling with the laughter and the screams. Gotham is dying. And I fear that the Batman is, too.
I know that the mission must go on. I know that I have to keep fighting. But the laughter and the screams won’t leave me alone. I don’t know where they end and my reality begins.
I fear that someday soon, they’re all that will be left.
M A Y 2 N D, 2 0 1 6 ♦ T H E B A T C A V E ♦ G O T H A M C I T Y, N J
Bruce Wayne was looking at them again. Their names. Their pictures. Their families. The sickly glow of the computer showed it all; everything there was to know about the one thousand, one hundred and fifty-four lives lost in Gotham during the Kryptonian invasion. Alfred didn’t understand why he kept torturing himself like this. Why he didn’t just try to move on, to accept that there wasn’t anything else he could have done. But Bruce couldn’t lie to himself like that. He didn’t do enough. People died because the Batman couldn’t protect them. Looking at their lives, at all that they were before their world crashed around them, was all Bruce could do to make up for it. Knowing all that he failed to save was the only thing he could do to cope with his failure. The Wayne Foundation was not enough. Rebuilding the city was just the first step – no matter how much he gave back to those that were injured and to the families of those who died, it would never be enough. Ever.
Light stubble covered his face. He hadn’t shaved in days. His hair was unkempt, disregarded, a mess of black with no direction; he ran a hand through it subconsciously, covered by a gauntlet though it was. He wore the Batsuit, as Lucius and Alfred called it, its metallic grey and black plates reflecting barely any of the Batcave’s minimal lighting. Its cowl rested atop the computer’s desk, staring at him with its hollow eyes. He stared back. It didn’t look away.
The computer spoke in Alfred’s voice, interrupting his thoughts. “Master Bruce,” it said. “There’s a guest here for you. I did you the favour of inviting him down to the Cave myself.”
“Thank you, Alfred,” he replied, turning around. A man clad in red and blue smiled at him. “Hello, Clark.”
“It’s been awhile, Bruce.”
He sounded tired. His eyebrows were slanted upwards, his brow creased, smile strained; weary. The bags beneath his eyes indicated lack of sleep… was he patrolling more? No. Nightmares. He usually had good posture, shoulders rolled back, confident and relaxed, but now they were slumped, submissive... he felt defeated. He wanted advice.
Bruce nodded.
“It never gets easier, does it?”
He was asking about the guilt, Bruce knew. Why else would he be here? His people came to Earth with the false pretence of reuniting with him, their lost son. Instead, they launched an invasion and initiated the genocide of approximately eighteen million, three hundred and sixty thousand people worldwide. If Clark hadn’t managed to stop them, the death toll would have quickly climbed to seven and a half billion. Of course he felt guilty. And if his body language was any indication, that guilt was eating him alive.
Bruce knew the feeling.
“No,” he answered. “No, it doesn’t.”
Images flashed into his head of blood spilled too soon, of swarms of flies eating staling flesh, of a sadistic grin marked by its owner’s blood, and he clenched his jaw in an effort to hold the memories back, to keep the floodgates closed.
Clark moved his hands behind his back, fidgeting, as he turned to look over the Cave. He was struggling to form the words he wanted to say, unsure of how to say them without appearing weak. Bruce could almost see the guilt on Clark’s shoulders, crushing him beneath its weight, equal to, or perhaps even greater than, that of the world – a titan, forced to bear the weight of the heavens upon his shoulders.
“I failed them – I failed all of them on that day.” He sighed. He could barely hold himself together. “I should’ve seen it.”
“Yes,” Bruce said, “You should have. And all those deaths… a part of them is on you. But those you failed don’t outnumber those you saved. Don’t forget that.” An image again, a baby; blood flowing among sinew and bone where its left arm used to be. Bruce’s jaw tightened, his hands balling into fists as he tried to repress the memory.
“I haven’t forgotten anything. I don’t think any of us can forget something like that— and knowing what I know now, I’ll make sure they never do. Luthor’s taunting won’t change that.” It was barely perceptible, but Bruce heard it – a tremor in Clark’s voice at the mention of Luthor. Anger.
Luthor hadn’t held back after the invasion. He was quick to place the blame on Superman, crediting him with everything that went wrong; the media flocked towards him like seagulls, devouring every breadcrumb he threw their way. With his influence, he could turn the entire world against Clark… it was only a matter of time. This was but the next step in his vendetta against him. The years he’d spent trying to kill Clark, testing his limits, were nothing compared to this. To destroy a man’s body was one thing, but to destroy his image, his reputation, his mind – that was the ultimate blow. In some ways, that hurt far more than physical pain ever could.
Maniacal laughter echoed through Bruce’s mind. Shut up, he commanded. It didn’t.
“Luthor’s playing mind games with you, Clark. The taunting, the bad press; it’s all to get in your head. He wants to prove that he’s better than you, and you have to show him he’s not,” he said. “You’re stronger than me, Clark. You always have been. More than you think, in more ways than one. Use that strength. Don’t let the invasion hold you back. Prove to yourself that you can do better, that you are better – and maybe the world will see it, too.”
Clark chuckled humorlessly. “You know, they call me the Man of Steel, the Hero of Tomorrow... Superman. It’s funny.”
Only it wasn’t. Over the past four years of knowing Clark, Bruce had come to understand better and better why he’d been given those titles. Clark had that air about him, an aura that exuded confidence, from which goodness and honesty flowed freely; the moment you spotted him hovering above you, cape flowing elegantly in the wind, you knew that everything was going to be alright. A beautiful lie. Time and time again, Clark had proven to the people of Metropolis – to the world – that deep down, he was a good person. The best, even. Who needed to put the fear of God into criminals when you had that poster boy smile and that stern look in your eye, with the ability to crush even the most hardened offender with guilt with only a simple, “I’m disappointed in you”? Ever since the days of Steve Rogers and Jay Garrick, Superman had become the symbol that they used to be; the epitomisation of everything a hero should be. He was given those titles not because people worshipped him, but because they saw in him what they had seen in Captain America and the Flash. A hero. The very best of them.
“I never asked for those titles – never advocated for them. I was just a guy stopping a 747 from falling into Downtown Metropolis back when Lois coined it. A lot of people are putting faith into those nicknames... or they did. It’s going to take a lot of work to restore that. I can’t go back to the way things were before April, and I don’t expect it to. I know I have to look forward instead of back, but sometimes I feel like that’s impossible. How do you force yourself to keep moving forward when the screams keep following you?”
And then the screams came back in full force, screams of laughter devoid of any sanity, screams of laughter despite the fresh cuts and bruises on their owner’s face, despite the broken teeth and bones, despite the armoured fist beating down onto his broken form, unleashing a torrent of fury and hatred and fear unlike any Bruce had felt before. The laughter continued even after Jim Gordon pulled the Batman away, leaving the murderous, psychopathic jester in a pool of his own blood, mingling with that of the babies he’d killed. ”HAHAHA!” the pale man screamed, ”HAHAHAHAHAAAAA!”
Shut up, Bruce told him, Shut. Up.
For once, he did.
“I do it because I have to,” Bruce said. “I do it because if I don’t, it’s only a matter of time before something worse happens. The screams follow me, Clark. Every hour of every day, everywhere I go, they follow me. I can’t ignore them. I can’t let them go. But you can. You’re a hero. When criminals look at me, all they see is a monster. The bogeyman. But when they look at you… they see the next Steve Rogers. Lois Lane didn’t give you those titles because you asked for them. She gave them to you because you are them. They’re how people saw you. Give them a reason to see you that way again.”
Clark smiled at the comparison to Captain America. He could see that as clear as day, Bruce knew. Despite how it seemed at the moment, Clark knew his own strengths.
“Right. It’s just a matter of putting in the effort and keeping positive.”
Clark took a breath as his eyes moved towards the computer screen. Remorse flooded into them as he saw the names of the Gothamites killed during the invasion, and he looked at Bruce.
“There was something I once read in high school from Czesław Miłosz. ‘The living owe it to those who no longer can speak to tell their story for them.’ I think we share that sentiment.”
Bruce remained silent. His gaze was transfixed on one name: Oriane Linville. A young single mother of two, she’d moved to Gotham from Barjols, France, after receiving a job offer from WayneTech. She was a prodigy, a genius in her own right, and she might very well have gone on to become the next Tony Stark or Hank Pym if not for the Kryptonians. She was crushed by falling debris, the remnant of a building damaged by Dru-Zod’s World Engines, killing her instantly. Her kids were left orphaned with no home to go back to; they had no living relatives in France – their father had left Oriane shortly after their birth, and authorities had no way to contact him – and even if they did, Bruce doubted that he would be willing to take them in. Instead, they’d spent the past month at Pinkney Orphanage in Old Gotham, with nothing to remember their mother by but what WayneTech and the Wayne Foundation could recover from her lab. It was likely that they would remain there until they turned eighteen, raised by the nuns who operated the place. They were only six years old. There was a chance they wouldn’t even remember Oriane by then.
They didn’t deserve this. Bruce should’ve done better.
Realising his mistake, Clark hastily changed the subject. “I’ve been meaning to ask you about what we’ve been working on – our investigation on Luthor. Do we have any leads? Any evidence that might link him to what he’s done?”
“No,” Bruce answered, and it was the truth. Luthor was untouchable. LexCorp’s records were clean; everything seemed legitimate. He had covered up any and all of his crimes. They couldn’t be traced back to him, not his hiring of Robert DuBois or his experimentation on John Corben – least of all his development of the synthetic radioactive crystal he’d weaponized against Clark, which he’d promoted as a potential alternative source of energy, pending further research. According to what evidence there was, Luthor was innocent. “Not yet. I’ll keep you updated.”
“I guess I’ll leave you to it. If anything comes up, you know how to get in contact with me.”
Bruce nodded, and Clark turned, making his way out.
“And Bruce? Thank you.”
A gust of wind blew Bruce’s cape, and in an instant, Clark was gone.
As if on cue, the computer beeped behind Bruce. A notification covered its screen, large and urgent, sent from the burner phone he’d given to Jim Gordon on their first meeting in 2010. It read:
Pressing down on a key, Bruce spoke into microphone at the computer’s base. “Alfred, I need you down here. I’m going out.”
“Right away, Master Bruce.”
He grabbed his cowl and strode towards the Batmobile, navigating the Cave’s dimly lit caverns with practiced ease. The car’s cockpit closing overhead, he turned on the engine, its roar echoing through the dark. He drove.
It was time to get to work.
Light stubble covered his face. He hadn’t shaved in days. His hair was unkempt, disregarded, a mess of black with no direction; he ran a hand through it subconsciously, covered by a gauntlet though it was. He wore the Batsuit, as Lucius and Alfred called it, its metallic grey and black plates reflecting barely any of the Batcave’s minimal lighting. Its cowl rested atop the computer’s desk, staring at him with its hollow eyes. He stared back. It didn’t look away.
The computer spoke in Alfred’s voice, interrupting his thoughts. “Master Bruce,” it said. “There’s a guest here for you. I did you the favour of inviting him down to the Cave myself.”
“Thank you, Alfred,” he replied, turning around. A man clad in red and blue smiled at him. “Hello, Clark.”
“It’s been awhile, Bruce.”
He sounded tired. His eyebrows were slanted upwards, his brow creased, smile strained; weary. The bags beneath his eyes indicated lack of sleep… was he patrolling more? No. Nightmares. He usually had good posture, shoulders rolled back, confident and relaxed, but now they were slumped, submissive... he felt defeated. He wanted advice.
Bruce nodded.
“It never gets easier, does it?”
He was asking about the guilt, Bruce knew. Why else would he be here? His people came to Earth with the false pretence of reuniting with him, their lost son. Instead, they launched an invasion and initiated the genocide of approximately eighteen million, three hundred and sixty thousand people worldwide. If Clark hadn’t managed to stop them, the death toll would have quickly climbed to seven and a half billion. Of course he felt guilty. And if his body language was any indication, that guilt was eating him alive.
Bruce knew the feeling.
“No,” he answered. “No, it doesn’t.”
Images flashed into his head of blood spilled too soon, of swarms of flies eating staling flesh, of a sadistic grin marked by its owner’s blood, and he clenched his jaw in an effort to hold the memories back, to keep the floodgates closed.
Clark moved his hands behind his back, fidgeting, as he turned to look over the Cave. He was struggling to form the words he wanted to say, unsure of how to say them without appearing weak. Bruce could almost see the guilt on Clark’s shoulders, crushing him beneath its weight, equal to, or perhaps even greater than, that of the world – a titan, forced to bear the weight of the heavens upon his shoulders.
“I failed them – I failed all of them on that day.” He sighed. He could barely hold himself together. “I should’ve seen it.”
“Yes,” Bruce said, “You should have. And all those deaths… a part of them is on you. But those you failed don’t outnumber those you saved. Don’t forget that.” An image again, a baby; blood flowing among sinew and bone where its left arm used to be. Bruce’s jaw tightened, his hands balling into fists as he tried to repress the memory.
“I haven’t forgotten anything. I don’t think any of us can forget something like that— and knowing what I know now, I’ll make sure they never do. Luthor’s taunting won’t change that.” It was barely perceptible, but Bruce heard it – a tremor in Clark’s voice at the mention of Luthor. Anger.
Luthor hadn’t held back after the invasion. He was quick to place the blame on Superman, crediting him with everything that went wrong; the media flocked towards him like seagulls, devouring every breadcrumb he threw their way. With his influence, he could turn the entire world against Clark… it was only a matter of time. This was but the next step in his vendetta against him. The years he’d spent trying to kill Clark, testing his limits, were nothing compared to this. To destroy a man’s body was one thing, but to destroy his image, his reputation, his mind – that was the ultimate blow. In some ways, that hurt far more than physical pain ever could.
Maniacal laughter echoed through Bruce’s mind. Shut up, he commanded. It didn’t.
“Luthor’s playing mind games with you, Clark. The taunting, the bad press; it’s all to get in your head. He wants to prove that he’s better than you, and you have to show him he’s not,” he said. “You’re stronger than me, Clark. You always have been. More than you think, in more ways than one. Use that strength. Don’t let the invasion hold you back. Prove to yourself that you can do better, that you are better – and maybe the world will see it, too.”
Clark chuckled humorlessly. “You know, they call me the Man of Steel, the Hero of Tomorrow... Superman. It’s funny.”
Only it wasn’t. Over the past four years of knowing Clark, Bruce had come to understand better and better why he’d been given those titles. Clark had that air about him, an aura that exuded confidence, from which goodness and honesty flowed freely; the moment you spotted him hovering above you, cape flowing elegantly in the wind, you knew that everything was going to be alright. A beautiful lie. Time and time again, Clark had proven to the people of Metropolis – to the world – that deep down, he was a good person. The best, even. Who needed to put the fear of God into criminals when you had that poster boy smile and that stern look in your eye, with the ability to crush even the most hardened offender with guilt with only a simple, “I’m disappointed in you”? Ever since the days of Steve Rogers and Jay Garrick, Superman had become the symbol that they used to be; the epitomisation of everything a hero should be. He was given those titles not because people worshipped him, but because they saw in him what they had seen in Captain America and the Flash. A hero. The very best of them.
“I never asked for those titles – never advocated for them. I was just a guy stopping a 747 from falling into Downtown Metropolis back when Lois coined it. A lot of people are putting faith into those nicknames... or they did. It’s going to take a lot of work to restore that. I can’t go back to the way things were before April, and I don’t expect it to. I know I have to look forward instead of back, but sometimes I feel like that’s impossible. How do you force yourself to keep moving forward when the screams keep following you?”
And then the screams came back in full force, screams of laughter devoid of any sanity, screams of laughter despite the fresh cuts and bruises on their owner’s face, despite the broken teeth and bones, despite the armoured fist beating down onto his broken form, unleashing a torrent of fury and hatred and fear unlike any Bruce had felt before. The laughter continued even after Jim Gordon pulled the Batman away, leaving the murderous, psychopathic jester in a pool of his own blood, mingling with that of the babies he’d killed. ”HAHAHA!” the pale man screamed, ”HAHAHAHAHAAAAA!”
Shut up, Bruce told him, Shut. Up.
For once, he did.
“I do it because I have to,” Bruce said. “I do it because if I don’t, it’s only a matter of time before something worse happens. The screams follow me, Clark. Every hour of every day, everywhere I go, they follow me. I can’t ignore them. I can’t let them go. But you can. You’re a hero. When criminals look at me, all they see is a monster. The bogeyman. But when they look at you… they see the next Steve Rogers. Lois Lane didn’t give you those titles because you asked for them. She gave them to you because you are them. They’re how people saw you. Give them a reason to see you that way again.”
Clark smiled at the comparison to Captain America. He could see that as clear as day, Bruce knew. Despite how it seemed at the moment, Clark knew his own strengths.
“Right. It’s just a matter of putting in the effort and keeping positive.”
Clark took a breath as his eyes moved towards the computer screen. Remorse flooded into them as he saw the names of the Gothamites killed during the invasion, and he looked at Bruce.
“There was something I once read in high school from Czesław Miłosz. ‘The living owe it to those who no longer can speak to tell their story for them.’ I think we share that sentiment.”
Bruce remained silent. His gaze was transfixed on one name: Oriane Linville. A young single mother of two, she’d moved to Gotham from Barjols, France, after receiving a job offer from WayneTech. She was a prodigy, a genius in her own right, and she might very well have gone on to become the next Tony Stark or Hank Pym if not for the Kryptonians. She was crushed by falling debris, the remnant of a building damaged by Dru-Zod’s World Engines, killing her instantly. Her kids were left orphaned with no home to go back to; they had no living relatives in France – their father had left Oriane shortly after their birth, and authorities had no way to contact him – and even if they did, Bruce doubted that he would be willing to take them in. Instead, they’d spent the past month at Pinkney Orphanage in Old Gotham, with nothing to remember their mother by but what WayneTech and the Wayne Foundation could recover from her lab. It was likely that they would remain there until they turned eighteen, raised by the nuns who operated the place. They were only six years old. There was a chance they wouldn’t even remember Oriane by then.
They didn’t deserve this. Bruce should’ve done better.
Realising his mistake, Clark hastily changed the subject. “I’ve been meaning to ask you about what we’ve been working on – our investigation on Luthor. Do we have any leads? Any evidence that might link him to what he’s done?”
“No,” Bruce answered, and it was the truth. Luthor was untouchable. LexCorp’s records were clean; everything seemed legitimate. He had covered up any and all of his crimes. They couldn’t be traced back to him, not his hiring of Robert DuBois or his experimentation on John Corben – least of all his development of the synthetic radioactive crystal he’d weaponized against Clark, which he’d promoted as a potential alternative source of energy, pending further research. According to what evidence there was, Luthor was innocent. “Not yet. I’ll keep you updated.”
“I guess I’ll leave you to it. If anything comes up, you know how to get in contact with me.”
Bruce nodded, and Clark turned, making his way out.
“And Bruce? Thank you.”
A gust of wind blew Bruce’s cape, and in an instant, Clark was gone.
As if on cue, the computer beeped behind Bruce. A notification covered its screen, large and urgent, sent from the burner phone he’d given to Jim Gordon on their first meeting in 2010. It read:
Cpt. Gordon: Murder. Three vics. Norman Dr., the Narrows. Come ASAP.
Pressing down on a key, Bruce spoke into microphone at the computer’s base. “Alfred, I need you down here. I’m going out.”
“Right away, Master Bruce.”
He grabbed his cowl and strode towards the Batmobile, navigating the Cave’s dimly lit caverns with practiced ease. The car’s cockpit closing overhead, he turned on the engine, its roar echoing through the dark. He drove.
It was time to get to work.
