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They whisper on the street corners. The pushers and the newspaper vendors and the businessmen alike, from uptown and downtown to crime alley and the east end, rumors in hushed tones are passed from person to person until the truth distorts and twists in on itself, coming out more dynamic than when it started.
The Batman retired, man, I heard the Batman retired.
Thought he fell off a building? When Killer Moth—
The Scarecrow—
—the Joker pushed him?
Nah, dude. He took one—
Three—
Five to the chest, I saw it!
The Batman is dead.
The Batman is dead?
Nobody's seen him for weeks, Millie. Weeks!
I thought I heard Killer Croc got him while he was saving some little old lady.
No, you idiot, it was during that fire—
When that car bomb went off—
When that LexCorp lab blew up! He saved all those scientists—
—a school bus full of children—
—a whole precinct full of cops!
He's dead, or gravely injured, or just…gave up. He's never coming back, he was never real to begin with, or he'd never leave Gotham unprotected. The story's tone changes depending on the teller, but ultimately, a thousand versions of the same fact circulates:
The Batman, for whatever reason, is gone.
There is no candlelight vigil when the Batman dies, if he really is dead. Instead, the Bat Signal haunts the sky every night for weeks without a sighting of the vigilante.
(Criminals still scurry like rats into the shadows when it shines.)
Soon, every night becomes every other night.
(They scurry a little slower.)
Once a week.
(And slower still.)
Once a month.
(A few don't scurry anymore.)
Once a year.
(Some begin to doubt the Batman ever really existed at all.)
Finally, the signal goes dark for good.
Three years pass. Jim Gordon retires—for real, this time—to an easy chair and a smoking pipe and a yellowed newspaper.
Six years on, Barbara Gordon makes detective.
Seven, she makes it out of her chair.
Eight, she makes it to the altar—or at least, makes it close enough to leave Dick Grayson there.
Nine, Tim Drake gets out of graduate school. Goes into communications technology. Does pretty well.
Ten years after the signal finally goes dark, Alfred Pennyworth dies. He takes a would-be burglar or two down with him, using nothing more than a sterling silver dinner tray, but his heart finally gives out.
Bruce Wayne doesn't make it to the funeral. But then, Bruce also never calls. Or writes. Or communicates with the outside world at all.
He still shows up in the society pages once in awhile, his hair a little grayer, his handsome face a little rougher, but he's busy jetting around the world, artfully avoiding the only family he has left. He becomes a ghost that fades into Gotham and out again without being seen by anyone but the tabloid reporters who somehow always know where he's going to be.
Occasionally, he's seen at dinner in the company of a certain philanthropist with ties to a certain animal refuge, but though rumors fly amongst those old enough to remember the romance they shared during their younger days, nothing much comes of it.
Before long, the front page stories about Gotham's wayward golden boy are pushed to page three. Newer, younger, more handsome most-eligible-bachelors take his place.
Reporters who remember how important he once was, both as himself and as Batman, start to retire.
Eventually, news of Bruce Wayne's exploits are no longer news.
The annual "Where is Batman?" article stops being published.
The newspapers begin to die out, one by one.
Dick Grayson drops by Wayne Manor every few months or so, though somehow never when Bruce is at home. Every time, he enters the house, turns on the lights and finds the furniture all covered with sheets that grow dustier with every visit. Finds Alfred's room kept just as it was when he died, right down to the unfinished cup of tea still at his bedside. His own childhood bed still made up as it had been when he left for college.
He leaves a lengthy letter in Bruce's room every time he comes. As time passes, the many pages become one. The single page letter eventually becomes a slip of paper with just one sentence—I'm here if you want to talk—D.
After a few years, he stops coming at all.
Jim Gordon passes away fifteen years after the Bat Signal goes dark. Dick and Barbara come together again for the funeral.
They do not embrace.
Neither of them asks the other where Bruce is. The question hangs unspoken and unanswered.
Over coffee, they congratulate each other on their life's accomplishments—Barbara's promotion to Police Commissioner, Dick's mentoring program—and promise to get together again soon.
Outside the coffee shop, they part ways, but at the street corner, Dick turns back to look at her one more time.
Barbara doesn't do the same. At least, not that he sees.
Another year goes by. Then another. Still no word from Bruce.
Tim gets married to someone he meets at work. Dick and Barbara sit together at the reception. They talk about old times. There are no unspoken questions between them, about Bruce or about anything else.
Before the night is through, they are holding hands.
Life moves on without Bruce Wayne in it. Gotham continues to grow without Batman watching over it. Time marches on, as it is wont to do.
Twenty-five years past the night Batman first disappeared, Bruce Wayne returns to his manor house. He comes back only when he is sure everyone has stopped waiting for him. He comes back only when he's sure the children on the streets have stopped pretending to be Batman. It's better this way, he thinks. It's what he wanted, he thinks. A faded legacy and an empty house and his little army living their lives the way they should have been all along—without him.
He gets a guard dog to keep him company.
A few years pass, quietly. He gets used to being alone. He learns to like it.
Bruce enjoys his retirement as much as circumstance will allow. He reads a lot, goes to see a film once in awhile and writes a memoir that no one will ever read. It makes the time pass a little easier.
The occasional news item catches his attention, during those rare times when he watches the news. The deaths of the Gotham Rogues are treated like footnotes; the marriage of the police commissioner to a former detective turned youth center founder barely blips on Gotham's radar. Yet, Bruce marks every notable occasion, in his way. A proper resting place for Harvey Dent, a champagne toast for Dick and Barbara…
And still, every year, roses for Thomas and Martha Wayne.
The dog dies. He gets another.
The last day of Bruce Wayne's life comes thirty-five years after the last day of his career. He is eighty-six when he steps out into the crisp autumn air of downtown Gotham for the last time. The Orpheum hosts a day long film festival that coaxes him out of Wayne Manor for the first time in a long time.
He happily sits through Metropolis and Modern Times. He gets caught up in worlds populated by Garbo and Valentino, Bogart and Trent, Lugosi and Karlo.
The day wears on until, around nine, the festival starts winding down. The day's final film is one he does not want to see, so Bruce slips out the back of the theater into the alleyway between buildings, avoiding the crowd.
Outside, he limps toward the sidewalk, to where his chauffeur will be waiting. He thinks of nothing more than home and a book and a nice hot cup of lemon tea with honey.
A scuffling sound stops him. He turns. Hobbles towards it.
"Hand it over, lady!"
In a shadowy corner of the alley, tucked away behind a dumpster in the space between the theater and a Thai restaurant, a young mother fumbles with her purse. Her daughter cowers beside her, crying.
The thug who holds them at gunpoint has a Mohawk and wears thick red plastic sunglasses, even though it's the middle of the night. His finger twitches on the trigger as he snarls, "Shut it, kid!"
"It's okay, baby, it'll be okay, shh," the woman soothes, desperately pulling wads of money out of her wallet. Her hands tremble.
The mugger snatches the cash and looks at it with disgust. "Izzat it?"
"I'm sorry, I…it's all I've got!"
He scoffs and points the gun at her. "Too bad. Yer kid's about to become an orphan."
Bruce moves without thinking. Faster than he's moved in years.
It's not going to happen again.
Two gunshots.
Not here.
Pearls scattering.
Not now.
Blood on the pavement.
There's a pop.
His cane clatters in the alleyway.
The punk panics and runs off into the night.
The woman drops to his side, pressing her scarf against the gunshot wound, but he barely feels it.
"Are you…all right?"
"Yes," she whispers to him, trying in vain to stop the bleeding, "Thank you."
"No need…to thank me…"
"We're going to get you help, don't be afraid." She squeezes his hand.
"I'm not afraid."
The stars above him grow dim.
"I'm…Batman."