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Cycle 1: Acceptance                                                  

Note 1: Bruce’s Dairy

How did I end up here?

I remember the chase.

I was investigating a drug deal, to be closed at Maroni’s burnt down diner at 23^rd Street. When Sal Falcone was convicted under the Dent Act, his position at the head of the crime family was taken in by an opportunistic handyman by the name of Roderico Balzani. He wasn’t a bad choice: he knew how to walk the walk, how to talk the talk, but he turned out to be too greedy. He could have just settled with his newfound position and make the best of it, but instead he tried harvesting more power by taking on Felipé Torres, a petty drug lord who had his business in the Narrows. Unfortunately, Torres wasn’t nearly as petty as Balzani’s bad intelligence had had him informed, and Balzani ended up losing both his newfound empire and his life when the diner was rigged with explosives and blown apart. After that, the Maroni’s took to doing their business in one of the clubs at 2^nd Roosevelt Street. Torres took 23^rd Street and the surrounding areas, worked himself up and earned a reputation that would keep him in league with the large crime-families for months. I believe he was killed about six weeks ago.

There were two reasons why I was interested in the deal. First: the diner. It should have been broken down by now, but for some reason it had been kept around as a reminder of Balzani’s failed ambition. And now it seemed it had found a new purpose.

The second reason: because ex-detective Flass was involved. If Gotham was ever synonymous to ‘state of corruption’, that would have been when Flass was still wearing a badge. The man had eyes and ears on every street corner and he was always following the money – no matter who would get killed due to his selling of information. If someone waved a couple of Ben Franklins in his face, he’d rat his mother out in the blink of an eye.

So I didn’t expect the police to be in on it – after all, Flass had more to fear from the Gotham Police Department than the Batman. Or at least, that’s what I thought. The whole thing turned out to be a set-up.

As soon as I landed on the floor of what used to be one of the most prominent crime cafes of downtown Gotham, the trap shut. Flass and his gang drawing their weapons – that I expected. I had no problem deflecting their shots and taking them down – I broke a nose, a kneecap and a wrist before I even reached Flass. That was when I started to get shot from behind. My armor stopped the bullets before any serious damage could be done, but nonetheless, the shots forced me to pull back into the remains of the diner. I prepared to get myself out, when suddenly I heard a loud, high-pitched noise, followed by a blow.

The floor exploded underneath my feet, and I was propelled into the air. I did manage to keep myself from landing on my face, but due to the instability of the remaining floor and my own imbalance I sprained my left ankle and fell. In the meantime, the police was closing in and firing bullets and me, and the only thing I could think of was to reach for my grappling hook and make a desperate shot for what used to be the roof of Maroni’s Little Italy, and get myself to safety.

I remember the fall.

A miscalculation of my own combined weight – myself including the suit, the heaviness of the new armor – and how much the concrete should be able to hold. But it didn’t hold and I fell, over fifty feet. If it hadn’t been for that same suit, and the police car that broke my fall, I would probably have died.

I didn’t die. I was taken in by Gotham’s finest, brought to the stockades at MCU. I remember waking up in an interrogation room, my hands cuffed to a chair, and Inspector Gordon sitting at the other side of a table.

“You realize it’s over?” he asked, and he sounded remorseful. I know he never wanted to take me in, but I knew like he knew that he couldn’t possibly let me go under the suspicious eyes of Commissioner Loeb. I opened my mouth to answer him – nothing came out but a crack.

“I have to take your mask,” Gordon continued. I saw his hands shake when he lifted them. “And your suit. I’m sorry.” I know he meant it. I pulled the handcuffs and felt a rush of pain running through my broken body. I should have been in a hospital, but they couldn’t have taken me there while I was still in my suit. Maybe they didn’t even know I was so wounded. Gordon pulled the mask from my face and all I could do was wheeze. I’d never felt so defeated in my life.

Note 2: Selina Kyle

Damn this shit!

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Note 3: Bruce’s Diary

It took the judges and jury four months to have me convicted. And they called it a ‘fast trial’.

I spend the first few weeks in a hospital room without windows, guarded by armed policemen on the inside and outside. Most of the time, they kept me in a restraint around my waist, and I wasn’t allowed any visitors. The nurses wouldn’t talk to me, nor would the guards. The only person to come and see me every now and then was Gordon. He would give me some information of what was going on in the city: it was through him that I learned that Alfred had been put under house-arrest, for conspiring with me. Taking his old age into account, the police force detained him in Wayne Manor itself, and kept him under strict surveillance. The house had been turned upside down, the Batcave discovered, my secrets unraveled. Wayne Enterprises had undergone a search as well, and the entire Applied Sciences Department had been cleared. More proof against me and my case. According to Gordon, not a soul in the world would believe me now if I claimed not to be the Batman.

I hadn’t even thought of denying the fact, it seemed so obvious to me. What would I have said in my defense? That neither I, nor Alfred had had any knowledge of the immense cave under my house, laden with artifacts and equipment? That I had put on the armor in the night of my arrest because it made a catchier outfit than an Armani suit? Should I have denied knowing of the Applied Sciences Department at Wayne Enterprises, and say that Lucius Fox was operating without my knowledge and permission? I should have acted a lot more stupid in the past few years if I would have wanted anyone to believe that.

Lucius had been arrested too, and from what I heard he was being kept at MCU. Although Mayor Crime Unit can hardly be called a vacation spot, I would have hated the thought of Lucius or Alfred ending up between the scum in Gotham State Prison. I asked Gordon if he had pulled some strings, and although he didn’t answer me in words, he did confirm my assumption. I thanked him several times and asked him about Alfred and Lucius every time he stopped by. It felt a lot better knowing that they were doing as good as they possibly could under the circumstances.

Of course, when Gordon came by he didn’t exactly come for the small-talk. He needed to interrogate me about the deaths I was involved with. Every day, he would show me photos and tell me about the lives of these people: what their histories were, how they’d lived, if they’d had families and what they had done for a living. And then he’d tell me how they died. In several cases, I could tell him I wasn’t the one that caused their deaths, simply because I wasn’t involved at all. In another handful, I wasn’t the one doing the killing: I was there, but I didn’t do it nor caused it nor was I in the position to stop it from happening. These were mostly hostage situations. Gordon would record my statement, have it written out for me and I would sign it the next time. At least half, if not one-third of the deaths that were attributed to the Batman, disappeared into different corners of the filing cabinet.

But still, there was a large number of deaths I had caused. More than I had expected. By the time we had finished going through my statements, we had concluded that – directly or indirectly – I was responsible for the deaths of six civilians, nine policemen, two firemen and forty-two criminals. Close to sixty deaths. Seven out of nine policemen and two residents of Gotham had died in a pursuit across the freeway or otherwise. At the time, I hadn’t even realized I had killed them.

Now I know all their names. I know who loved them, mourned for them and miss them – whether their lives had been good or bad to them, and whether they had served a just cause when they died, and sometimes even why.

Through Gordon, the dead became people to me once more.

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Note 4: Joker Transcriptions

Some people say it was the biggest mistake I ever made: not to kill the Batman. I had his life in my hands, I could have ended him in a jiffy, and I decided against it. All I had to do was give him a little push that would have send him flying to the ground and burst his skull on the pavement like an egg. I could have driven one of my knives into his eye socket, or in his neck to turn him in a sprouting fountain of death. And how neat would that have been!

But the truth is, I started to have a feel for the guy. He is such a puppy dog after all, the way he stares into the world with those big Batsy eyes and fails to see a thing I see – bats being blind after all. I could be his eyes, he could be my claws... just imagine all the fun we could have had together!
I hear they are planning to move him in here. They tried to keep it a secret – I’m being kept out on a lot of intriguing info these days, I don’t think the staff trusts me much anymore – but I have my ways of finding out. In a way, this is as much my prison as it is anyone else’s.

So when he’s here, I want to see him. I’ll just wanna talk to him, let him know how much I savour the moments we shared. Like when he beat me up in the holding cell at Major Crime, just before I blew up his little sass... that anger! That rage!

I’m sorry, is that too much for your appetite? Really, can’t a criminal declare his fancy for his opponent? It’s a rare thing for a man to find his equal, especially in my case, let’s be honest. But I found mine and yes, I swooned and fell for the guy after that one especially violent encounter. But it wasn’t the physical way of expression that interested me – getting beaten up isn’t exactly my thing, in case you think I’m some sort of freak. It was really all about the mind. The Batman has a great mind, a mind for violence and unjust justification – and wouldn’t it just be sad to rid the world of something so paradoxically beautiful?
It’s not that because I’m mental myself that I can’t be interested in someone else’s mind. That would be a joke. And I haven’t been one to make killing jokes these past few years. No, we should turn this thought around. Because I’m crazy just means that I can appreciate other people’s crazies even more. And I so love a good craze.

That’s why I didn’t want to kill the Bat. It’s not that I couldn’t, but I wouldn’t. There are lots of things that have no value to me whatsoever: money, lives, environmental issues, finding a place to sleep at night – especially that last bit hasn’t exactly kept me awake lately. But a mirror for my mind, yes. That is what keeps me from catching sleep.

So why would I want to destroy that? I finally found someone, possibly the only one, who might be able to understand just a little of what is going on inside my mind. Shrinks just say what they want to be true, and they want you to confirm that for them so that they think they fixed you and the job’s done. But some things can’t be fixed, and others shouldn’t be fixed because they were meant to be broken. Some people function at their best when broken, and I believe I have found the ultimate of broken toys.

So why give up your favourite toy? Plus, as far as I’m concerned, Gotham is the ultimate playground. Which doesn’t mean I won’t settle for second best if Gotham goes off the list of possible vacation spots. So, I’m just trying to say I’m glad they’re moving the Batman in here. I’d want him to know that, to feel welcome. Loved even, perhaps. It would be so nice to get those old grudges out of the way and start anew.

Anything else you wanted to hear, doc?

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Note 5: Bruce’s diary

 I wasn’t actually taken to court during most of the trial. I stayed in my cell, to limit the possibility of a break-out, and was informed by my attorney about what the jury was being told. My legal representative’s name was Philips, and he worked pro bono since all my possessions had been confiscated and even my bank account was considered evidence by the DA. At first, I got the impression that Philips was scared to death of me and therefore wasn’t trying too hard to defend my case. He did advise me not to plead guilty, of course, and to try and have my innocence proven. I smiled at him, apologetically, and told him I was planning to take responsibility for my actions. I had killed, after all, and whether I had killed intentionally or accidentally was really the matter that should be discussed at court, to my opinion. After he finally realized I truly wasn’t planning an escape or some wondrous turning of the tables, he sighed quietly and prepared himself for what would be a lawyer’s suicide: helping his client to get the full pay.

About three months after the start of the trial, Philips informed me that Alfred was to be summoned to court as well. He was being accused of having conspired with me, and he too could be charged with several years in prison. This was the first moment I actually started to worry about the outcome of the trial might be, and how I might influence it. In defense for my lack of interest I must add that I hadn’t been in touch with reality for some time: I had gotten a bit lost within myself. I was kept on a daily dose of diazepam as a safety precaution by special order of the DA’s office, and whenever I was able to keep a straight mind – mostly somewhere in the middle of the night – the weight of the trouble I had caused pressed upon me.

So when I realized what might happen to Alfred, I told Philips I wanted to be at the hearing. I had the right to demand that, and I hoped the logistics of moving me the court house would buy me some time to think. It did: Alfred’s hearing was delayed for a couple of days, in which I spend every moment of straight mindedness writing down what I wanted to do. On the day of the hearing, I showed my statement to Philips and he asked me if I had completely lost my sanity. I told him it was rather the opposite: that I had found it back after a long period of absence.

When I entered the courtroom, I could see Alfred sitting in the dock. He looked older than ever: worried and bereft of all energy. His left hand rested on a walking cane, and I could see both his hands shake as he got up from his seat and turned at me. When his eyes met mine I could see the most subtle of smiles appearing, I nodded and forced a smile of my own. I was sat down not far from him, and Alfred leaned towards me and opened his mouth to speak – but his attorney put his hand on his shoulder and shook his head, and Alfred obliged. I felt terribly sorry for all the pain I had caused him and what more I was about to cause.

When he was being heard, he declared his love for me, which was no less than that of a father to a son, and that he would never budge and inch from my side. It was exactly what I expected him to say, and it was exactly what I was going to use against him.

I will not reproduce the entire process, but I had Philips cross-examine Alfred and used his words to incriminate myself, to have it seem that I had used Alfred’s love and care to force him into helping me. Philips was good – he convinced the judges and jury that Alfred was nothing but a troubled old man with very poor judgment towards his pupil. By the time Philips had finished questioning my dearest and oldest friend, the twinkle in his eyes had all but disappeared and had made room for tears of defeat, and he wouldn’t look at me when he was taken out of the court room.

Two weeks later, I testified against myself. When the final verdict was pronounced, Alfred was acquitted of any serious charges and was merely put on probation. I was convicted to life in prison, and had given the media every reason to describe me as a spoiled, manipulative and deranged psychopath. And to be honest, I’m not even sure that that is far from the truth.

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Note 6: Jim's Notes 

Today is October 4^th, and Bruce Wayne has just been transferred from my cell to being another person’s worry. I suppose I should be glad. Don’t feel that way though.

June 30^th was when Gotham’s most over-achieving deputy brought the Batman in. I cannot keep myself from seeing the stupid grin on the man’s face echoing in my brain: deputy Foley smiled like he had just caught the biggest fish in the pond. And he wasn’t the only one who seemed to think he’d made a great catch: Commissioner Loeb praised him as if he was the Lord our Savior in person. I, on the other hand, couldn’t help but feeling he had put the only capable fisherman on the lake on a leash. And I regret to say I was right. Already, Gotham’s going back to being a bloody mess.

I didn’t want to be a part of any of it; I refused to even pretend to be happy about the Batman being apprehended. But despite my reluctance, I was still the one send in to do the dirty work. My people at MCU, heralded by the Commissioner, wanted me to take off the vigilante’s mask. My colleagues applauded, congratulated me, giving me the honor to finally unravel the mystery I was supposed to be trying to solve. They must have thought they were doing me a favor, but the only thing I had on my mind right then and there, was to think of a way out for the both of us. Could I get the Batman out? Give him a key, set him loose, leave the door open for a stupid second and let him take a run for it? I considered all of these options, but I knew them all to be in vain when I laid eyes on the man. The Batman. He looked like hell. Blown up, shot down, broken and battered. He could barely keep his head straight, let alone walk out on his own. No way was I going to save his ass now.

So I sat down, looked at him from across the table, listened to his panting breath. The man should have been in a hospital, not sitting on a damn steel chair with his wrists cuffed together.   

I waited to see if he would lift his head to me, if he still had the strength to look me in the eye, but he didn’t make a move. I bent across the table and said, in a soft voice because I didn’t want anyone to hear the lump in my throat: “You realize it’s over, right?”

He didn’t respond. I could see him flinch, so I knew he’d heard me. I took a deep breath and said what was expected of me to say.

“I have to take your mask. And your suit.” I looked at the man who had been my most trusted friend in years of fighting crime, and I hated myself for lifting my hands and reaching for his face. “I’m sorry.”

And I did it. I peeled away the last defense he had and found myself staring in the eyes of a man I did not expect to see. Bruce Wayne. I think I forgot to breathe for a few seconds. I’m a detective, and you didn’t have to own half a brain to know that the richest man in Gotham had to have been involved with the vigilante to some degree. Armored vehicles and Kevlar bodysuits don’t exactly grow on trees, and the Batman’s training must have cost a fortune on its own.

One of my theories, when I was still interested in finding out who was behind the mask – was that he had been a member of the Special Forces or CIA, and was now hired by one of Gotham’s rich boys to do the dirty work. Sometimes I even considered the options of there being several Batmen, two or three men who each had their own specialty, taking turns in dealing with Gotham’s lowlife. None of those theories starred Bruce Wayne himself as the caped crusader, though.

I saw the look on his face and I remembered having seen that look before. Over twenty years ago, I had had a little boy sitting across my desk, about eleven years old, in a neat suit three times more expensive than the clothes I wore on my own back that night. He had been to the theatre with his mom and dad, who had been shot by a mugger and killed over a wallet and a string of pearls. When we’d found the boy he had been crying, but shortly after he had been brought to the station the tears had dried up on his cheeks and the look on his face had turned to stone carved grief.

It was the exact same look, only twenty years older. The look of a man who knows he has lost everything.

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Cycle 2: Depression                                                   

Note 7: Bruce’s Diary

Immediately after the conviction, I was taken away from Gotham and brought here. ‘Here’ is a maximum security prison near Morris, Pennsylvania. And when I say ‘near’, I mean that that is the nearest town in a range of about thirty miles.

I am about three hundred miles removed from Gotham City. A distance I can feel in my bones.

The only way to come here is by train: there are no airports and there is no freeway – the facility is located in a National Park, and we are surrounded by miles of inhospitable woodland in every direction.

I doubt I am even supposed to know this. If I was, there wouldn’t have been a lot of use in keeping me blindfolded when I was brought here. This facility was built to keep us as far away from society as possible. The only people that come here are security guards and nurses – the prison staff – and those that get locked away.

The inmates can be divided into heavyweight criminals – serial killers, pedophiles and such - and those that are placed in the Special Ward. Besides Lucius – who was also taken here, to my relief – and me, the inhabitants of the Special Ward are Selina Kyle, the Joker, Lex Luthor from Metropolis, and a man named Adrian Veidt who insists on calling himself Ozymandias. Our ‘specialty’ is that we were all vigilantes – or their opponents. It’s a rather secluded group: we don’t get visitors, we don’t have contact with the other inmates, we’re not even allowed in the workplace. I assume the prison staff is afraid we might make devices of destruction out of doorknobs or paperweights. The only times I see the prisoners from the other wards is when they are taken from the recreation room and I am brought in. I’ve recognized a face or two, since I was the one that got them here in the first place, so I gather keeping us separated isn’t such a bad idea.

In the Special Ward, we are let out of our cells once a day, for a few hours, to go to the recreation area. On Mondays and Fridays, I’m let to ‘recreate’ with Lucius. We play Ping-Pong, most of the time, and have lengthy discussions like we used to. On Tuesdays and Sundays, I meet Veidt. He is convinced he is the smartest man on earth, and although that sounds rather smug, he is pleasant company. We play chess. Wednesdays I spend alone, Thursdays in the company of Luthor. We don’t get along. I only see Selina on Saturdays, and I wish I could see her more. She arrived here only a few weeks before I did, but she’s doing a lot worse. She acts like an animal trapped in a cage rather than a human being placed in a facility. She’s nervous and the only thing on her mind is finding an escape route. I tell her to calm down and come to terms with the situation, and she doesn’t like me for that. I’m not sure I like myself for that either, but since I worry for her state of mind, I think it’s the best advice to be given at the moment.

As for the Joker, I don’t think he ever leaves his cell, except when he is moved into the isolation room for the cleaning and searching of his cell. I hear they always find some Jokers stolen from the packs of cards from the recreation room. I don’t know how he gets a hold of them, since he’s never allowed in there. I’ve only seen him once since I came here, and he acted strangely, but quiet. Combed his hair back with the fingers of one hand and held the other out to me, congratulating me with my coming to Arkham Two.

“Arkham Two?” I repeated, and he replied:

“Yes, I am the new director here. I’m glad you came. Do you like your residence? Food alright?” I frowned at him and he hissed: “Don’t believe me? You’ll find out. Stay on my good side if you don’t want your meals to be overcooked.” Not exactly the worst threat I’ve ever had to face, so I just let him giggle and moved on.

Alfred has been sending me letters and I am glad for them. I was afraid he wouldn’t speak to me after what happened in court, but he appears to have forgiven me completely for making him look like a fool. He still lives in the Manor – one of the few things the government hasn’t managed to take from me – and tells me he is desperately trying to restore it to its former glory for when I come home. I haven’t had the guts yet to remind him of the unlikeliness of that ever happening.

Alfred also keeps telling me he wants to come over for a visit, and I keep telling him not to. I doubt he would be allowed to see me, and besides that: I wouldn’t want him to come all this way, across bad roads and harsh terrains. It’s a long trip, and he is getting too old.

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Note 8: Selina Kyle

Listen up. You can keep shoving notebooks and bits of paper into my face, but that doesn’t mean I am suddenly going to use it to spill my guts. I know that whatever I write down, you are going to read and use against me in sessions, so why bother? I’m not stupid. And I’ve never been much of a writer anyway. 

Note 9: Bruce’s Diary

Thursday November 14^th

Just another normal day. Lights go on at 7.30, but like always, I was awake long before that, so I took to doing some exercise. Besides writing and reading, it’s one of the few things I can do within the walls of my cell to keep me busy, especially when it’s still dark. Sometimes the guards look at me suspiciously when they find me doing so, but it’s not like I’m preparing to escape. I just think it would be a bad idea not to keep training, to let the work I’ve always put into become strong and athletic go to waste. And besides, I happen to know that when in prison it’s always handy to have a pair of biceps to scare the more bothersome people off.

Not that I have a lot to fear. My reputation seems to speak for itself: the only people who call me Bruce here are Lucius, Selina and Veidt. Besides them, I am commonly referred to as ‘the Bat’. Even Luthor caught up on it, and he’s not from around. I tend to leave it that way – safer for me.

So, exercise. Then a shower. Breakfast is delivered at 8 o’clock, after which I have another three hours to keep myself busy. Library cart arrives at approximately 10.30, so if I have a book to finish, that’s usually what’s on my mind. I’ve read more this past month than I used to in a year – and I was always a reader. We can change our books on Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays, and we’re only allowed to have three books at a time in our cell. On Tuesdays, I’m usually yearning for a fresh novel. I’ve asked the staff if I could send for books from home, and my request is being taken into consideration this week. I can’t wait.

At eleven, I’m taken out of my cell and to Dr Shikoba’s office. She’s the Special Ward’s shrink: a calm, sturdy woman with Native American features. Her voice is very pleasant. We talk; you could almost say ‘chat’. If it weren’t for the sterile environment of the office and the soft buzz of the voice recorder on the desk, I’d be like having morning coffee with an old acquaintance. Minus the part where it is voluntary, of course. Not that she forces me to talk or anything. Sometimes I don’t feel like saying much, and the Doc respects that. When we are talking, it’s mostly discussing: she poses a question – usually to do with ethics – and we converse about all there is to say about the subject, sometimes for days after another. Today’s topic: the difference between borrowing and lending. That sort of things.  I do like these conversations. I’m fond of discussing, and the Doc seems very open about her opinions and sometimes draws on personal experiences to make her point. I once asked her if she was even supposed to give such personal information, being a shrink and working with psychos. She said it depended on the person she was talking to. She seems to trust me, somewhat, and I trust her. Somewhat. Thanks to her, I am no longer medicated, which I am very grateful for, and she treats me like a normal person, not like a prisoner.

After an hour, I’m taken back to my cell, where I wait until it’s two o’ clock and I’m taken out again, to the recreation area. On Thursdays, that means Luthor. He’s a Wall Street type: sleek hair, polished shoes – I don’t know how he does that - and a smile that could convince you to give him your life savings in heartbeat. I don’t like him. But I greet him, he greets me – a short recognition of one another’s existence – and that’s about the conversation we make. He sits himself down on the couch, I take a Ping-Pong ball and a bat and entertain myself for the next two hours. 

By the time I’m brought back to my cell, I’m bored out of my wits, so I grab my notebook and a pen and start writing. There’s little else I can do but wait, eat, sleep, write, read and work-out – spending time trapped in a room with my own thoughts. I just write them down to keep them organized – and keep myself from crawling up against the wall. 

Dinner at 7.30, lights out at nine ‘o clock. Tomorrow will bring another glorious morning.

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Note 10: Jim’s Notes

Thursday, November 14^th. God, I hate my job.

Today we’ve had a kidnapping, a drive-by shooting, two armed burglaries and several armed robberies from the Narrows to High-End. It’s like the entire city has lost its mind. The police are being flooded with reports of cars being stolen; hospitals are packed to the brim with drug overdoses and victims of molestation or domestic violence. Every single detective in Gotham is working on cases of homicide or missing persons. It’s hasn’t been this crazy since I first came here.

The commissioner insists there isn’t a real problem. Nothing to worry about. He’s never going to admit that the police force was better off when we still had the vigilante to help us out. Yes, it cost us something – we had a few casualties on the corps and there is no denying that. On the other hand, we got a safer city in return. Fewer bullets flying around means a smaller chance for us to get hit too.

 My daughter Barbara had to quit her job at the Servex station. It was getting too dangerous, travelling up and down in the wee hours or late at night – she never did like the idea of having a daytime job. Going by bike used to be an option, but that has become far too dangerous for a young woman alone. So she took to taking the subway, which didn’t improve matters much.

So she’s come back to live with us again – no way she could hold on to her tiny apartment without an income. Sarah and I cleaned what had become the spare room out and helped her move back in. Fortunately, we have a basement large enough to store some of her things, like kitchen supplies, the dinner table and some chairs, and the small couch she bought when she moved out. Barbara spends most of her time behind her computer, creating programs and databases – I don’t know exactly what she does, I don’t have a mind for chips and batteries. She was hired by Lucius Fox at the time, who assured me she was brilliant. I’m pretty sure she didn’t get that from my side of the family.

Barbara says her job wasn’t much good anymore since the old Fox had been put behind bars. Apparently he was the one creating project space for the kind of things that made her job interesting. I’m not the one to judge, but I wasn’t pleased when he turned out to have been up to his ass into building illegal equipment for the Batman. Sometimes I wonder how much of that equipment had a touch of Barb in them, but I never asked.

That’s what makes me a good cop. Not the fact that I ask questions, but the fact that I don’t. Probably what makes me a lousy father too.

News of another homicide. I’d best call Sarah, tell her I won’t be home for dinner. Again.

I guess I am a little glad that Barbara came back to live with us. It’s easier to keep an eye on her this way, and it’s better for Sarah to have someone who it actually home sometimes.

I wonder how the Batman is doing, now. Probably a hell of a lot better than the rest of us.

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Note 11: Bruce’s Diary

Dear Alfred.

Merry Christmas to you too, and I am glad to hear you are doing better. I was worried when I heard you were ill. I guess the old chicken soup did work its magic again?

Please keep me updated on how you are, and how Gotham is doing. I wouldn’t want to be left in the dark if you weren’t doing alright. And don’t be alone this Christmas. Go to Florence, visit your brother in London, whatever. But don’t be alone. There is nothing keeping you here.

Thank you for the basketball. I can honestly say I could not have thought of a better Christmas gift for a middle aged, homicidal convict with an aptitude for costumes. And I’m not being sarcastic.

I should probably tell you that I am fine, and I am. I’m in good health, the food hasn’t driven me over the edge yet, Lucius and I still have enough material for our weekly discussions, the Joker hasn’t played any tricks, we haven’t had a UFO landing in three weeks… Okay, now I am being sarcastic.

The truth is that I am getting bored out of my wits. When I was finally arrested by Gotham’s Finest, I might have let it happen because I hoped it would give me peace. Batman had always been a shadow side of me, a psychopathic stranger who had to inhabit me regularly so I could get something good done for my city. I may not have liked doing it, I may not have agreed with the measures I had to take, but I did it, nonetheless, because I believed it had to be done.

And the schizophrenia of the matter was exactly what kept me sane: Batman’s casualties were Batman’s casualties, not Bruce’s. I didn’t have to deal with them, not yet. The time for that would come.

Then when I got arrested, I thought my conviction would help me reunite the two, that it would give me the opportunity to really face what I had done. No more hiding. Come clean. Face the facts and live with them. Inspector Gordon helped me with that. I felt guilty, responsible, I agreed with the penalty I had to pay for my actions, even though I believed it all to be for the greater good. I had to pay for the pain I had caused these people, and their families. I had to make due and I wouldn’t protest against the verdict, out of respect for these people.

But now, that all seems futile. What am I doing but sitting around, reading books, doing push-ups and breathing recycled air? I have had all the time I needed for rethinking my actions, I have rationalized them, and I have come to terms with what I’ve done. I know that the Batman and I are inseparable, that we share a conscious and that I cannot pretend that I am not directly responsible. And I know that each of these deaths I caused was either necessary, or accidental. Had I not been there, they might not have died, but many others would have. It may not have been good, but not acting would have been worse.  

Now that I have realized that, sitting here has become less of a penalty, and more of torture. I feel utterly superfluous. What use is there to live without purpose?

Don’t get me wrong, old friend: I’m upset, not suicidal. But I am now without meaning, without future. I have nothing else to look forward to, this place has no horizon. I have nothing else to look forward to now than reading books, doing push-ups, breathing air.

And playing with my new basketball, I guess.

I’m starting to think that letting myself get arrested wasn’t such a good idea after all…  

Chapter Text

Note 12: Joker Transcriptions

What ways does this universe offer to guide our pitiful lives from the cradle to the grave?

First: there is fate.

Second: chance.

Third: causality.

If you believe in fate, you might as well stop living altogether, because no matter what you do, you will end up the way you were meant to end up anyway. Case closed, evidence destroyed, witnesses eliminated. Bam, you’re useless.

If you’re a believer of chance, you’re pretty much playing dodge ball against death. You might get lucky and have enough of a brain to get a good job, find a beautiful wife, have kids, not get seriously ill or end up in the middle of a war and die a happily demented soul at the age of ninety-two in a somewhat decent home for human wreckage. Or not, and you might find yourself needling heroine up your arm on a street corner until you die choking in your own vomit.

So, third and most popular option: causality. Propaganda for the idea of control. You do something, you set something in motion, it comes back to bite you… It sounds good, doesn’t it? Being in charge of your life? But it’s nothing but one big illusion, and it leads to the most violent self-doubt, guilt and disappointment.

“Did my daughter die because of me?”

“Couldn’t I have done something to avoid getting cancer?”

“I stole a cookie when I was six, I probably don’t deserve to be happy…”

Fourth option: quantum mechanics. Each individual is nothing but a grain of sand on the face of the earth, and whatever sigh one person gives can either start a hurricane, or not even move a speck of dust. Any action can have a million different reactions, some of which may be more plausible than others, but none – even the most ridiculous possibilities – can be excluded and none can be predicted with any real degree of accuracy.

Because we are not just particles, no. Exactly because we aren’t. Particles can be predicted, but human minds are unpredictable. If you put a man in a steel box with a Geiger counter, a bottle of poison and a radioactive substance, there’s a fairly good chance you’ll end up with an insane murderer.

True story.

Fifth option: art. Life is aesthetic, and we must interpret all actions and events thus. We can try to orchestrate that what we see around us and try to come as close as possible to a ballet of life and death. Does it mean we can change much of what goes around, in our own lives as well as in other parts of the universe? Nope. But neither do any of the other options. At least art gives the consolation of having a part. You might be the conductor of the play or turn out to be a main character, or you could be just the wallpaper of a human drama. But at least you play a part. Nothing is in vain if you know what part to play. There had to be someone doing the dying in a gutter, otherwise you wouldn’t have a contrast for the lucky bastards to sparkle up against. The world needs losers to separate them from the winners. You’d need the loser to dangle from a couple-a-story building and tragically fall into the hands of a bunch of cops to know you’d won.

True story.

Chapter Text

Cycle 3: Bargaining                                                  

Note 13: Bruce’s Diary

 I’ve spoken to Lucius about my current disposition. We were playing Ping-Pong on Monday and he beat me. He does that – he is a far better player than I am – but this time I wasn’t being much of an opponent. He put down his bat and said: “Blurt it out. What’s bothering you?”

I gestured to the walls surrounding us: “What else?”

He shrugged. “Most convicts would consider our predicament a pickle. We don’t have to screw door handles together in workshops, we get to wear our own clothes, the food ain’t bad…”

“You’re joking. Don’t tell me you haven’t got a floor plan of this place hidden somewhere underneath your bed.”

Lucius gave me one of his typical smiles and I knew I was right.

“So,” he continued. “You having any plans?”

“Not yet.” I picked up the bat, he did so too, and we continued playing. “Do you?”

“Not much to speak of. Getting out of here won’t be the problem. It’s outside these walls when the trouble will really start.”

“Is that why you haven’t gotten out yet?”

Lucius missed the ball by a long-shot. “Excuse me?”

“I had you taken for a smart fox. Always have. To be honest, I didn’t even think you’d let yourself get imprisoned.”    

“So that’s why you took the fall for Alfred and not for me.”

“Did that bother you?”

“Not really. I always considered myself to be a smart fox too.” He scored. I went to pick up the ball.

“I assume you’d want to go back to Gotham, then?” Lucius asked.

“I guess.”

“Even though there is no going back to how things were?” I was distracted, he scored again. “D’you write to Alfred often?”

“Yes. But I think he’s keeping things from me, so I won’t worry. Which makes me worried.”

“Got any evidence to back that up?”

“He didn’t tell me he was ill until the doctor told him to get a chest X-ray.”

“Oh my. Is he okay?”

“Chest X-ray didn’t show anything. I believe he was on antibiotics for three weeks before his cough started to diminish.”

But he is okay now?”

“I asked him about it in my last letter. Told him to be honest with me. I’d want to know if something were wrong. Whether he is really doing alright, if the city hasn’t been reduced to ashes yet – I’d want him to tell me if the goddamn sewer isn’t working. I know I can’t exactly do much about it, but he doesn’t have to keep those things from me if they are bothering him. I don’t like to be kept in the dark like that.”

I hit the ball far too hard and made it fly against the wall. It fell to the ground and Lucius went to pick it up. There was a big dent on the side.

“This is no fun,” he said. “Put down the bat.”

I smiled wryly. “Isn’t that what started my trouble in the first place?”

Note 14: Selina Kyle

If I start writing something down, will you stop shoving that notebook into my face? I’ll write you about ponies and starfish, if that’s what you want, and that I am so very very sorry for all the misery I caused. Just don’t expect me to be serious about any of that.

Chapter Text

Note 15: Bruce’s Diary

Another interesting conversation this week – with Luthor, of all people. I was in the recreation room, reading The Count of Monte Cristo, and old favorite of mine, when he came sitting next to me. I put down my book, since I expected he didn’t come to sit there because there was no other seat available – we were the only two people in a recreation room built to host sixty. Or well, it was us and a handful of guards. But they stood. Anyway.

“What’s up, Wayne?” he said. I waved my book in his face. “Monte Cristo. I expect it’s a prison classic. Did you get past the part where he escapes Château d'If yet?”

“I’m about halfway. So that would be a yes.”

“Inspiring material, I take it?”

“What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean. You don’t have a Mercedes waiting for you on the outside?”

“I do, but I expect it to have been confiscated by now,” I said, in an attempt to be funny. Luthor gave way to a smile that could best be described as fiendish.

“You’re not a bad guy,” he said. “We may not be friends, but I can tell you’re not here because you’re a ruthless criminal. You have values. You were fighting for a greater good.” He waited a moment before he continued: “You must be aching to get out of here.”

“Impressive,” I said. “I didn’t take you for a psychology enthusiast.”

“Don’t joke around. I’m about to make you a serious business proposition.”

“I’m pretty sure I’m not interested in any business proposition you make. Hence the joking around.”

“What did I ever do to you?”

“You’re not my type. Plus, your reputation precedes you.”

“Mister Wayne, you disappoint me. You’d think a man like you wouldn’t listen to mere gossip. I’m simply a man of the world, like yourself, and I know that unpopular measures sometimes must be taken for the greater good.”

“Is that the same speech you used on Veidt?” I inquired. “Don’t tell me you didn’t try to get him on your team first – he’s much more in your line of measure-taking than I am.”

Luthor started to lose his aura of charm and said: “Don’t you think that’s rather irrelevant? I want to get out, and I assume you do too. Why not help each other out while we’re at it?”

“What did Veidt say?” Luthor didn’t answer me, so I repeated: “What did he say?”

“He wasn’t interested,” Luthor divulged.

“Why not?”

“Ask him yourself. I think we’re done talking.” He got up and left. I looked at him, knowing he wasn’t likely to leave it at that. You didn’t end up in the Special Ward if you hadn’t the ambition to achieve your goals by whatever means necessary. I’d hear more of this, I was sure. And though I might not have been interested in helping Luthor out myself, I was curious about what he was planning to do.

I picked up my book and continued where I had left off.

Next Sunday, I asked Veidt about Luthor’s offer.

“I refused.” Veidt said simply.

“Why?”

He looked at me as if I asked him why the sun comes up in the East. “Because I lost, Bruce. I had a good plan, calculated the losses and weighed them carefully against the winnings, executed it thoroughly, missed out on a tiny detail – and lost everything. But unlike Luthor, I don’t let myself be misguided by ‘what-if’ or ‘maybe’. If I had succeeded, I would have united the entire world. But I lost, and now I am here. I may not like it, but it is fair. If I tried to change that by escaping, I would undermine the system of justice I had previously always tried to serve. So I won’t. If staying in this facility means serving the system, than that is what I’ll do.”

After that, I valued him even higher.

Chapter Text

Note 16: Joker Transcriptions

I hear rumors. Talk of break-out and escaping. Everybody is elbowing everybody and no-one even bothers asking little old me. Even though I have the biggest network around here. Been here the longest too, so that’s only fair. And I’m good at making friends. I know people who know people, and I know how to let those people know that I know them. I have to. The most important thing in a place like this is leverage. And leverage comes with knowledge and knowledge comes from inquiry. And I don’t just mean talking someone up and letting ‘em spill their guts – there’s the damn psyche problem again, the most untrustworthy thing in the whole damn world. You can learn plenty that way, but it’s not the best source of information. No, the best information comes from observation. Looking at evidence, looking at the clues someone drops without being aware that he’s doing so, and then inquiring yourself about what it might mean. That’s where you get some serious answers.

Take the Catgirl, for example. She’s been living up to her name, acting like a scared kitten trapped in a dog pound. For months, she looked like she would claw anyone who dared come to close to her. But now the escape buzz is out and suddenly she’s turned into little miss sunshine. Especially around the Metropolitan millionaire – I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s been talking her up. I don’t know their plans, but I’d like to get involved.

Leverage, obviously.

Personally, I feel that if you have a free mind, it really doesn’t matter in what nut drawer you’ve been shoved. I can get along fine in any environment. Again, leverage. It’s the magic word.

But I must admit I am looking forward to returning to Gotham City. I have had plenty of preparation time, and I can’t wait to try out some of my new ideas. Should be a lot of fun. I’d love to try opera, for once. Not necessarily for the singing, of course, but for the staging.

Nonetheless, I know I have to hold my horses and wait for the right moment. An early start could make everything tumble down like a house of cards and I’d be back in a place like this in the blink of an eye. First, I need to get out of this place. Then I’ll need my ingredients and assemble them. Third, I will need conducting. And then, fireworks! Wonderful fireworks!

BOOM! Hahaha!

The sound of explosion is like a symphony of ferociousness. I can’t get enough of it. The low thundering of the bass drums, the carefully orchestrated rhythm of blows swiftly following up, people screaming in unison in high alto’s and tenors… And then the coloring: dark blacks and grays, bright reds and ochre’s to literally blow your mind. Best painted against a starry night sky, not even Van Gogh could top that.

People don’t seem to realize how much work I put into these events. It’s good fun of course, for my part, but it isn’t all fun and games. It’s political, aesthetic, moral: it’s about making a statement. It’s about trying to make a change.

And it takes so much time just preparing. Thinking it out. Not plotting, exactly, or planning, but trying to envision what it could be like. What I want to achieve. Try to predict the responses or my unwilling participants and audience – would it work? Would it be beautiful?

You have to predict the unpredictable, that’s the trick, the science, the difficulty. It’s what makes it so much more than vehemence. It’s beauty. It’s art.

A violent mind truly is a joy forever.

Chapter Text

Note 17: Bruce’s Diary

I spoke to the Joker today. I never thought I’d have a one on one conversation with him, not in his current form. He hasn’t got my prerogative of being able to put down his identity: without his make-up, he still looks deformed. He’s always carrying that grin.

He still hasn’t mentioned his name. Not to anyone. The prison staff used to refer to him by his cell number, but allegedly that angered him so much they had to drop it. So when I stepped into the room with him, I had nothing to call him.

He looked up as if my presence hardly interested him, and continued playing a game of cards with his bound hands. I sat down, two guards stood by the door. He looked at them and said out loud: “This wasn’t what we agreed to, doctor.”

Dr Shikoba, who had asked me to step in with the Joker, opened the door and gestured at the guards, telling them to get out. She gave me a look of reassurance and I looked back, forcing a smile. She had told me she was getting nowhere with the Joker, and that the only thing he had asked for repeatedly was to talk to me. When she asked me to help her out, I didn’t hesitate to say yes. I was curious myself. I had dropped my mask: would he be able to drop his?

After the guards had left the room, he took up his last card and showed it to me. It was a joker card, of course.

“Well, what do you know. What a coincidence,” he said.

I continued smiling. “No, it’s not. You had that one up your sleeve the whole time.”

His grin widened and he started shaking his wrist. Four or five more cards fell out. All joker cards, and from different decks.

“You’re right. Nice trick though, huh?”

I folded my hands across the table. “What do you want?”

He glanced at my hands. “You not afraid of what else I might have up my sleeve?”

“No.”

“Why not? Think you’re safe here?” He folded his hands as well, his and mine almost touched at the middle of the table. “Don’t pretend to be a fool like them,” he said, tilting his head towards the door. “You’re not like them at all, Batsy.”

“I’m not the Batman anymore.”

“Yeah. And I’m sitting here waddling in my own happiness. Go spread your fairy tales someplace else, Batsy boy.”  

“My name is Bruce Wayne,” I insisted and leaned across the table. “What’s yours?”

He chortled. “Mine’s Joker. I thought you knew that by now.”

“You weren’t always. You used to be…”

“No, you’re wrong. I was hoping you wouldn’t go so low as to try and copy their methods. It’s disappointing.” He sounded calm and rather bored, like a tutor explaining something to a student over and over again. “I am the Joker. If ever I was anyone else, that person had been long dead and I can’t even remember who the hell it was. It’s not like I can break out of it, like it’s a disease you can cure. It’s me. The only way to cure me is to kill me.”

“I feel sorry for you,” I said.

“Feel sorry for yourself.” He shot back. “It’s who you are. Bruce Wayne was a scared little kid who died at age nine in a backstreet alley, weeping over his dead parents. You think you lost your mask? This is your mask, my friend. This and your whole ‘I’m just a normal Joe’-act. Lose it. It’s not who you are.”

“You don’t know me.”

“I know you better than you know yourself. You thought you came here to talk to me? You came here so I could talk to you. I don’t pretend to be in control – I am in control. You people just don’t realize it yet.”

At that point, the door opened and the two guards came back in, followed by doctor Shikoba.

“Your conversation has ended,” she said, looking angry and flushed. I wanted to get up and leave, but suddenly the Jokers hands reached out and grabbed mine.

“If you won’t listen to me, listen to yourself,” he grunted. “You know I’m right.” One of the guards lifted his weapon, the Joker let go and held his hands up, to show he meant no more harm. I tried not to stagger when I left the room, I didn’t want to admit how upset I was.

I still feel that way right now.

Chapter Text

Note 18: Jim's Notes

January 9th.

Another funeral this week. Lieutenant Banning, goddamnit. She was a fine officer, took a bullet patrolling around Well’s Street. Kid who shot her was seventeen years old and recruited by the Jefferson cartel. We busted a raid in what we thought was their headquarters the day after, but the gang had already moved. And they can keep moving because we lost control over this city – it’s them that have got the step ahead now!
This has to stop. This city is worse than it ever was, and I knew it bad. And I knew it better. When we needed someone to back us up most, we had an unlikely ally. But we got rid of him because someone thought the police corps had to assert itself.
When the Batman was arrested, I felt bad about it, but I knew in my guts that it was right. He had to be brought to justice in the end, he had to be tried. And since we had him now, we might as well let it happen. We had it under control, right? We were the badass cops of Gotham, and we had a quiet town to look after. But now the Bat is out and it seems that Gotham has lost every sense of limitation, every bit of restraint.
And it’s not just that we lost the Batman, we lost Wayne too. Much as I hate to admit it, the man did invest a fortune in schools, shelters, housing projects, infrastructure... Now all that money has found its way into the wrong pockets, and Gothams Finest is left to handle the human debris.
I’ve come to wish someone would go Judge Dredd on this city.

---
January 11th

Sarah called. Her purse was stolen. When she said something about it, thief pressed his knife against her cheek and told he didn’t have time for her now, but if she kept talking, he’d find her and come back for more. She’s very upset. I tried to go home early, but there are too many others who need my assistance right now. I feel guilty towards Sarah, but if I go home, I know I’ll feel sorry for all the other Sarahs that wander the city alone. Wish I could split myself in two.
---
January 17th

That’s it. Justice or no justice, we need to get the Batman back. I’ve contacted old Pennyworth at Wayne Manor and he says he’s keeping in touch with Wayne in prison. Sends him letters and Christmas presents. Pity I’ll have to end his vacation, but I need him back. There has to be a way to accomplish that, preferably in a legal way. Illegal if I have to.
---
January 17th (continued)

I’ve been thinking about it, and I wonder if I could make it look like Wayne was framed. Like he really wasn’t the Batman, but for some reason he agreed to take the blame and let himself get locked away. Trouble is he confessed to everything, to get his butler out of jail. And he lost his money, his possessions, all of WayneCorp in the process – the company is hanging on the verge of bankruptcy. It’s going to be hard to make it look like anyone, even a sloth like Wayne, would give all that up voluntarily.

I guess there’s only one person who can help me figure this one out. I’ll have to take a trip to Pennsylvania. Time to take up some of those precious sick days.

Chapter Text

Cycle 4: Anger                                                         

Note 19: Bruce’s Diary

A few days ago I spoke to Veidt, who warned me about Selena.

Listen Bruce,” he said, the moment the guards released him and retreated to their posts at the door. “You need to talk to her. She’s gonna blow soon. I’ve tried to talk to her myself, but she won’t listen to me anymore.”

I had noticed she had become more and more on edge, and Veidt had talked to me about her often. He got to see her twice a week, and I know he favoured her company above anyone else’s, despite her being agitated. Once, he even asked me if I knew what he should get her for a gift.

“Jewellery,” I replied. “Especially if you stole it for her in some elaborate way, I’m sure she’ll appreciate it.” I think that tempered his eagerness a bit. Selena doesn’t dislike him, but she never showed any interest in becoming more than just friends. I did feel sorry for Veidt, but I doubt it would have worked out between them anyway: prison isn’t exactly a spot for romance.

“Help her, if you can,” Veidt said. “Or better yet, don’t. Try and talk her out of that nonsense Luthor’s been trying to put into people’s heads.”

“You think she’ll try to get out?” I asked.

“Yes. And I know Luthor’s only interested in leverage and will dump her the moment he’s on the outside.”

So today, she did blow. I didn’t even have to say anything; she came right up to me and asked why I had refused.

“Refused what?” I said.

“You know what I mean! I don’t care if you’re having a ball here, or if you’re just planning on staying out of some deranged sense of guilt, but you have no right to take away my only change of getting out of this bloody sinkhole!”

“Luthor’s talked you up, I take it?”

“Yes, he did. And I don’t understand why you and Veidt choose to be passive about this. What good are you in here? Do you two seriously think you are helping anyone? You know people are going crazy in Gotham, right? And yet, you choose to stay here and rot away while we all know you could get us out of here in the blink of a fucking eye!”

“That’s not true,” I said, and by those words I meant that I didn’t know Gotham was – in her words – going crazy. Alfred never mentioned it to me, despite my asking him to be honest about everything. He was my only source of information from my hometown; we were kept away from news channels and papers.

Selena interpreted it a different way and she shot at me: “Yes, you could, if only you tried! But you won’t. Not for me, not for yourself, not even for the town you swore to protect! I’m telling you, if Luthor finds a way of getting out, I’m going with him, and I won’t look back.

You can stay here if you want, you and Veidt. And that Joker figure. You three nut jobs can have the Special Ward all to yourselves.”

She turned away from me, to the nearest guard and told him she wanted to be taken back to her cell. She shot an angry look at me while the man cuffed her and took her away. I stood for a moment, baffled and not knowing what to do, until I sat down, grabbed a pen and some paper and wrote to Alfred, asking him to finally cough up everything he hadn’t told me.

Chapter Text

Note 20: Joker Transcriptions

I like how things are falling apart in here.

You can notice the little differences after my short conversation with the Batman. I’ve seen the little cracks I’ve made in his belief that he belongs here, that he is doing the right thing by staying locked up like a tamed pup behind caged doors. He’s no puppy dog – I’d make him my lap dog, if I could, but that’s a whole different story. No, he’s a hellhound, he could rampage, if only he’d let go of the whole goody-goody routine. If only he’d let me show him how. The seed’s planted, now I need it to grow.

But it’s not just him. It’s the others too. The doc finally seems to realize I’m not into therapy; the guards are on edge with all this escape-talk going around. And maybe I had a bit of a hand in that: they did find a whole lot of cards in my cell last Wednesday  - I was starting quite a collection. Some of the prisoners have started giving them to me, as if they want to chum with me. I appreciate the thought, and no doubt these people can be of use to me at some point. Somehow.

And I keep rising on the popularity scale: the Metropolitan guy actually tried to get me to talk to him, but I don’t like him. He’s too eager, thinks himself a big man, but he doesn’t understand what game he’s playing. He’s just a pawn, thinks himself a queen, and I don’t need any more queens. I’m not gonna waste my time on him. He’s never gonna do what I want him to do, and he thinks he can play me. At that, he’s no different than the staff here.

Nonetheless, I’m not going to interfere with his game. All the talk of him getting out of here – can’t keep his mouth shut it seems – that’s started to draw the attention of the guards. And whatever attention he draws, he draws away from little old me. And what I have planned goes a good way further than stealing some playing cards.

If I had a dog, I’d call him Pluto. Not after the Disney character, but after the god, obviously. Love what he did to old ‘Sephone – the trick with the pomegranate seeds? Very symbolic. I like that sort of stuff.

Now first, I would take Pluto to puppy training. A good dog needs to know who’s boss. Sit, stay, lie dead, bite, tear, kill – you know. The utter basics.

Then, we continue to the advanced instructions. I’d want my pooch to answer only to me, but to recognize what people are up my alley and who are not. And to greet them accordingly. Also, I’d like to feed him myself: fresh meat – only the best for my little poochy! Can’t be a killer if you’re not much of a biter.

Also, I’d like my little eradicator to take off his mask. The whole dark knight vampire bat thing was a nice touch, but I think that showing a real face – a real vicious face of flesh and blood - could be infinitely more scary. Plus, if you’re on my side, you don’t need to hide. You can be all out in the open, no problem: I’ll make sure there’ll be nothing left to lose. No family, no friends, no reputations, no sanity. Instead, there’ll be things to gain: creativity, an open mind, subjects to be subjected, infinite possibilities! It’s a dangerous job, sure, and I can’t exactly promise you’ll be in service for a long-time – although if you’re a big player like me, you are more likely to get put away than if you’re a small-time handyman: you tend to just get blown off- but for as long as you’re in, you’re bound to have a good time.

Now I can’t remember whether I was discussing dogs or bats. Both can have a rabid bite, so I guess the rest is redundant anyways...

Chapter Text

Note 21: Bruce’s Diary

I have a visitor from Gotham. That’s what the guard told me when he opened my cell door this morning. I expected it to be Alfred and immediately worried that my last letter had encouraged him to come over and talk to me in person. Half of me hoped he hadn’t, the other half burst at the thought of seeing Alfred again. So you could say that I was somewhat disappointed when it turned out to be Inspector Gordon, who waited for me in the empty visitor’s room.

“Surprised?” he asked.

“Extremely.” I sat down. Gordon called the guard and told him to free my hands. The man protested, but the inspector told him he vouched for me. This puzzled me even more.

“Now leave us,” Gordon grunted and the guard did as he said.

I didn’t know whether to be amused by Gordon’s temper or alarmed, so I asked: “Something wrong, detective?” 

“Let me tell you what’s goddamn wrong, Wayne,” he said. “What’s wrong is you, sitting on your ass whilst second rate scum burns my city to the ground.”

For a moment, I didn’t know how to respond. Selena and Luthor had been pushing me towards a breakout, the Joker was telling me to do the same, Lucius didn’t exactly discourage me when I brought it up and now Gordon was telling me taking jail time was the worst idea. Was Veidt the only person still seeing things my way?

Then what do you want?” I said. “Want me to come back?”

“Preferably, yes.”

“And how do you imagine I do that? Break out? Walk out? Shove everything I confessed to doing - everything you helped remind me of doing - under the carpet and continue like nothing ever happened?”

“Listen up, Wayne,” Gordon said, pointing at me like he could pin holes into my words. “I’ve talked to Pennyworth; I know that you think that what you are doing is noble, paying jail time for what you did and I confess, I thought this was the right thing to do too. But I realize now we were both wrong. Your city doesn’t need Bruce Wayne behind bars because he dressed up in a suit, tried to make a difference and made some mistakes in the process. Your city needs you back...”

“You’re saying you want a convicted murderer to leave prison so that he can help out? I can’t just get up and walk out, Gordon. I’m the reason people are dead. I am convicted. What justice would it be if you bailed me out?”

Gordon jumped and shouted: “What justice is it if people are dying because our best isn’t good enough? What justice is it when good cops die trying to perform their duties? What good is it when good people die because we locked up one guy who wasn’t half-bad?”

“I’m in here because the law...”

“Screw the law! This goes above the fucking law!”

He fell silent after that, me too. His words seemed to hover between us in space.

“There,” Gordon said and sat down. “That’s it. I’ve said it.”

“I can’t believe you did.”

“Well, I work for the law, so I should be the one to know what falls under law enforcement and what goes beyond it.” He sighed heavily. “I need you in this, Wayne. And I need you to make up your mind about it real quick. I haven’t got time to do lengthy discussions, I’m no bloody debater. All I know is that my city is a powder keg and I need someone to put a stopper on it. And since you were pretty damn successful the last time, I need you back on my team.”

“How were you planning to do that?”

“You mean you’re in?”

“I mean I’m listening.”

Chapter Text

Note 22: Jim’s Notes

Talk with Wayne went well. He is smarter than I used to think he was. Especially before I knew it was him in that suit.

We talked our options through and decided we had to go for the legal way. Even if we could get him to break out, we would more likely start some wild man hunt for every agent in the state than that we could get something done around town. But how could we make it sound even remotely plausible that Wayne confessed to everything, losing practically everything he had, to help the Batman out who for some other weird reason disappeared after Wayne was locked up?

“You got yourself in quite a position, Wayne,” I grumbled. I got us both coffee, some biscuits, paper and pencils and told the vice president of the prison I needed Wayne to help me roll up some hefty crime syndicate in Gotham City. Told him he could call Commissioner Loeb if he needed verification and I assume he didn’t consider it necessary, because I haven’t heard anything about it. I gave him my own phone number anyway.

“I thought I was done for,” Wayne responded and ate a cookie like he hadn’t tasted one in ages. “I thought it best to just confess, accept my penalty and live with it.”

“And look where you got us, you ass.” I drew a symbolic line on the paper and said: “First thing we need is the Batman in Gotham and you still here. Just a few sightings should do to convince people we got it wrong, and your conviction was a mistake.”

“He’d have to be good,” Wayne said. “If the Batman just shows up here and there without doing anything, people will realize it’s a hoax. He needs to take action the way he used too.”

“We’ve still got your suit in storage; it shouldn’t be too hard to make that disappear. That and some of your gear. But who could we ask to put it on?” Wayne shot me a look, I protested. “Don’t look at me; I couldn’t jump through a hoop if it could save my life. No way am I going to climb up against walls or beat someone to pulp with my bare hands.”

“Neither can I, inspector. Not without the suit, trust me.”

“Yeah, well I haven’t done a push-up in years and you look like doing them for the whole ward, Wayne. Twice a day. Anyway, it ain’t happening. Not in your wildest dreams.”

“Fine then. I know someone else.”

“Who?”

“His name is Grayson. We haven’t spoken in some time, but I know I can count on him.”

“And he would impersonate you?”

“I think he’d make a great Batman.”

“Better than you yourself?” The look on his face told me he didn’t like that, so I forged a laugh. “Only joking Wayne, only joking.”

“If you can get me a phone without a tap, I’ll give him a call.”

“I will. And what about your excuse?”

“You mean my confession?”

“Yeah.”

We thought about that, long and hard. I poured myself another cup of go juice.

“What if we said the Batman framed me?” Wayne suggested. I poured him one too.

“You want to incriminate yourself even more?”

“Look,” Wayne said agitated. “If I’m going to do this we need to separate Bruce Wayne from the Batman again. The Batman could have framed Bruce Wayne because he wanted out.”

“And did he ask for your – sorry, Wayne’s –

cooperation or did he threaten to take everything from him and make him confess?”
“I lost everything anyway, didn’t I?” He smiled wryly.

“Not everything. You’ve still got the old man, Pennyworth.”

“Alfred.”

“Evidently. Everybody knows you only took the full responsibility so you could bail him out.”

“Is that so?”

“Everybody who’s seen the slightest bit of your performance that day, absolutely. And the rest of the world heard it through the grapevine.”

Wayne considered it. “Then that would be our best option. So, how exactly did the Batman get the idea of letting Bruce Wayne take the blame?”

“This is starting to sound schizophrenic.” I said.

“You have no idea.”

Chapter Text

Note 23: Bruce’s Diary

I may have underestimated Luthor.

He came at me like a bullet from a gun. I was about to sit down at the table when he grabbed me by the wrist and twisted it on my back before I could stop him. I guess seven months in prison have made me a bit slow.

“Listen up, Wayne,” he said. “If you don’t want to help me get out of here, I’m fine with that. Or actually...” He twisted my arm a bit further. “I’m not. I think it displays a serious lack of backbone for a man who used to roam the streets dressed up as a bat.”

“Make your point, Luthor.”

“Not just yet. I’m kind of enjoying this.” He twisted my arm even further back; I bent double in trying to prevent him from breaking my arm. “Alright then, keep listening. I don’t want you in my way when I make a run for it. If you do, I promise I will do my utmost to make your stay here a living hell.”

I broke into laughter and kicked him against his right leg. The grip on my wrist fainted slightly, enough for me to shake him off.

“You think you can threaten me?”

“It’s not like you’re much of a threat now,” Luthor sneered. “And you don’t seem interested in doing anything about it.”

“You don’t know me,” I said, and in my mind I heard the Joker reply: “I know you better than you know yourself.”

“So you’ve got plans of you own? Fine. Just don’t get in my way.”
“I wasn’t planning on getting in your way, but now that you’ve brought in under my attention I’d like to know what you’ve been talking to Selena about. Did you promise her a safe passage?”

“I told her I would appreciate a little help and she was more than willing to oblige.”

“What sort of help?”

“Listen Wayne, we just want to get the hell out of here. The lady’s got talents, and she’s damn good-looking too. That’s useful no matter what you’re planning.”

“And after that? After you got her out, you two are just going to part ways?”

“Not if I can help it,” Luthor said and gave me a grin. “Like I said: the lady’s got talents, and she’s damn good-looking too.”

I raised my fist and hit him in the face. I heard something crack and I wasn’t sure whether it was his nose or my knuckles, but I didn’t care much. Luthor’s hands grabbed his bleeding face and he yelped. When the guards came in, I put my hands obligingly behind my back and let them cuff me.

“Good luck with that breakout, Luthor,” I said. “I hope you succeed, because I’d prefer never to see your bloody face again.”

“Damn you, Wayne,” he howled. “I will pay you back for this.”

“Please try. I’m curious.”

The guards took me out and brought me back to my cell. I took the notebook out of the small desk and continued the list I had started to make the evening before: supplies. What would I need for the Batman’s great comeback in Gotham city, and what evidence would my new accomplices have to plant to make it look like he had really returned?

I had only managed to add a few items to the list when the cell door was opened and Dr Shikoba appeared.

“Bruce Wayne,” she said. “You are in serious trouble.”

Chapter Text

Note 24: Selena Kyle

Dear Bruce,

Never trust a man to do a woman’s job. Better yet, don’t trust a man to do any job worth a woman’s while, since he’ll only manage to screw it up.

By the time you’re reading this, I’m out. I know because otherwise, you wouldn’t be reading it. And don’t worry, I will take care of myself. I’ve always found ways of taking care of myself, remember? Maybe not the best of ways to your eyes, but hey: at least I’m not still sitting in a room of two by three with a huge metal door in front of me.

I just hope you will take care of yourself, because frankly, you have been a bit off these past few months. Don’t become sluggish, Wayne, pull yourself together! And don’t stick to thinking this is where you belong. You are a good person, and you know that. You don’t belong to rot in here. So get out. Be free. Take your ass to Bermuda and spend the rest of your life on a beautiful beach if what’s keeping you in here is the same thing that’s keeping you from going back to Gotham. But please, don’t stay.

I wasn’t planning on leaving anything behind to remind anyone of my miserable months here, but I felt the need to at least write to you. I want to apologize for my deception. I’m sorry if I drove you half-mad sometimes – even though that was kind of the intention: the theatrics were necessary. Had to look convincing and I couldn’t have you blowing my cover. So there’s that.

And besides, you liked the idea of me being a scared little girl, admit it. Can’t believe you actually fell for that, I thought you knew me. But thank you for being so protective. Especially concerning Luthor: I know the man is a huge creep. I wouldn’t have been where I am now if I didn’t have the talent to spot his type from a mile away. I just needed him to believe I’d help him out, so he’d give me his info, but I never seriously trusted him. Again, I thought you knew me, Wayne.

Please send Lucius my regards when you see him, and thank Adrian for his kindness. He really is a nice guy, if somewhat awkward, and I think he deserves to know that if the circumstances were different I’d have been more willing to give him a chance. That is, if he would have lived in some big house he didn’t have to share with nine hundred inmates. Don’t tell him that last bit, though. That’s between you and me.

A final word of advice: don’t let Luthor get to you. Believe it or not, he is smarter than he looks. And like I said: get the fuck out of there.

See you in Gotham!

Love,
Selena

Chapter Text

Cycle 5: Denial

Bruce’s Diary

Prison is bad for you. It makes you underestimate people. I underestimated the Joker, Luthor and now Selena too.

I was baffled when Dr Shikoba gave me Selena’s letter, and told me how she had gotten out. Apparently, Luthor found out about an old pipeline that leads into the woods, and which hasn’t been in use since the building’s new sewerage system was finished some eight years ago. Before he could get there, though, he’d need to create a hole in the wall behind the ladies room near the recreation area, from which he could drop himself to kitchen level. Then, if he could break out the extra wall between the stoves and outside wall of the prison building and enter the cellar unnoticed, he could crawl into the pipe and get out some couple hundred miles away from the penitentiary.

However, he was going to need the extra hand, and since Selena was the only lady in the Special Ward and thus the only person with access to the ladies room, he couldn’t execute the plan without her. And Selena was indeed happy to oblige, as long as she didn’t have to bring Luthor along.

Shortly after Dr Shikoba had been informed about Selena’s escape, she was told I had used the almost exact moment to pick a fight with Luthor after having kept to myself for months. Her conclusion was logical: she thought I was creating a distraction so that Selena could get out. I had all the trouble in the world convincing her that it really was a remarkable coincidence.

Or maybe not. I might not be doing Selena justice by suggesting it all happened because it happened. I had forgotten how smart Selena is, and how she deserves the name of ‘Catwoman’. She must have felt the tension building up within the ward, added some fuel to the fire herself by being agitated all the time and yelling at people, and when that all came to a climax and even I started to lose my nerve, she used the distraction to her advantage, and escaped.

I sat at Dr Shikoba’s office, read the letter, reread it and couldn’t help but laugh. The psychiatrist was not amused: she stood at the desk, arms folded, eyes flaming, and asked what the hell was so funny.

“I’m sorry, I can’t help it. With all the talk Luthor and the Joker had of escaping, no one would suspect Selena of making it out. I can’t believe she played me so well I didn’t see it coming.”

“Really?” She pulled back a seat and sat down.” I heard you actually wished Luthor luck with getting out. So you did know he had it planned.”
“I didn’t. It was meant to be ironic. I can’t stand the guy.”

“So you broke his nose.”

I shrugged. “He had it coming.”

“What the hell is going on with you, Wayne?” Shikoba said, and snatched the letter from my bound hands. “You were a model detainee! You cooperated with tests and interviews; you spoke openly about your thoughts and your schizophrenia – and now you’re suddenly involved in prison breaks, fighting…”

“I’m not a schizophrenic,” I said. “And I don’t get involved in prison breaks, or fights. I broke Luthor’s nose because he has been an ass ever since he came here, and because he insulted Selena.”
“Who you helped to escape.”

“I didn’t. Haven’t you read the letter?”

“I did. And I think she wrote it to help her accomplice, and to incriminate Luthor because you both seem to hate the guy.”

“So now I’m also in the business of conspiring? No doc. I may not shun violence when I think someone deserves it, but I don’t do plots. The letter’s legit.”

“And you?” She folded the letter and put it away in her desk drawer. “You weren’t hoping to escape with her?”

“No.” I hesitated a moment. “No, the only way I’m getting out of here is through court.”

“And you’re never going to get out that way. You are a convicted criminal, Bruce Wayne, and you’ll never get out again, You know that, right?”
I thought of Gordon’s visit, the list of supplies in my drawer, the last letters I exchanged with Alfred in which we spoke in code about our plans, and conjured a smile.
“Yeah,” I said. “I know.”

Chapter Text

A.T.C. Pennyworth

Dear Master Wayne,

I am doing very well, thank you, given the state of affairs. Since you have asked to be informed of absolutely everything, I feel I am obliged to inform you that some of the silver tableware has been stolen last week, along with the vase that used to belong to your great-aunt Anastasia. I’m afraid I wasn’t at the manor at the moment of the occurrence, so I wasn’t able to stop the event from happening. I know you fret about the safety of your old butler, but I assure you I am still quite capable of keeping both myself and Wayne Manor in the best of states. So long as I am not separated from the manor at the moment of mischief, that is. So there’s that.

I was informed of the incidents at your current residence, and although I am somewhat indecisive of how to review the outcome of said incidents, I do hope the swellings of your right hand have declined. Also, a certain Miss Kitty sends her sincerest regards and thanks you for the attempt at protection of her honor.

You will be glad to know that my cousin Gordon had indeed made great progress in his research and he is expected to graduate cum laude somewhere over the course of the next month. He has met your acquaintance, mister Grayson, and he has agreed to help improve my cousin’s thesis on the influence of animalistic behavior of the masses. And investigative pilot should start anytime now. I have promised them both that I would keep you updated on the matter.

Furthermore, I have been informed that there had been some question at the high court in regards to your conviction. Apparently, the mister Philips that was appointed as your lawyer by the ministry of Justice had received a rather large sum of money from Councilman Bates, right after you were sentenced to life. As you are well aware, Bates then buried WayneCorp under official complaints and had practically every decision you or Mr. Fox ever made in the company’s favor turned back, thus scarcely bankrupting the company. You will be pleased to know that the high court has now called for an investigation, which – and now I am pleased to say – is going to be led by no other than Inspector Gordon. The inspector publicly announced not to be pleased to have been given the job, but we both know that the inspector is an honest man and will undoubtedly turn every last stone to find out about the truth.

Some other pleasant news in that regard: the department of Justice has released some of your more treasured items. I believe they were taken to be used against you in your trial but ended up somewhere in the archive, since they proved not to be of any further use. You’ll be happy to know that I have stored them safely in their original place, ready for use, should you ever need to.

This said, I conclude this writing with my usual longing: to see you again soon. And in good health, if possible.

Regards.

Yours sincerely,

Alfred T.C. Pennyworth

Chapter Text

Notes 27: Bruce’s Diary 

Today is June 7 ^th . I’ve just been informed that my case is going to be reopened.

Notes 28: Jim’s Notes

It is set in motion and the wheels are turning. With any luck, the Batman will be free to roam the streets again in a few months. Can’t say I’m really having second thoughts: although I am considering I should have just hired Grayson to do the job from now on. He seems just as effective as the real guy, and he’s a good deal more pliable.

The return of the Batman has sure had its effect on the city. Most petty thieves didn’t need more than a week to stop their activities; some other small time crooks needed some more encouragement but could eventually be persuaded to lay down their business. But the bigger fish still cause plenty of trouble, so as soon as Wayne comes out of the bin, he’ll have his work cut out for him.

It’s all been pretty ironic: me having to put my efforts into bailing someone out, instead of trying to get someone behind bars. I don’t like getting involved with the court: I get people off the streets, collect the evidence against them, get someone to confess if necessary, but after that, it’s in the hands of the judges and the jury. This time, I haven’t just been messing with the court, but I’ve had to turn everything the full one-hundred-and-eighty. Dig up a big fat lie. Forge evidence. Take false statements.

Well, not completely. The whole operation would’ve been a whole lot more difficult if Bates hadn’t indeed tried to bankrupt WayneCorp, and if he hadn’t sponsored Philips with an incriminatingly large sum of money after the trial. People fooling around like that make my job that much easier.

What’s really bugging me is the fact that I don’t even feel bad about doing any of this. It’s not like I am setting something right: what happened was the right thing. Man got people killed, got put away. Now I’m trying to prove he shouldn’t have been put away because I need him to help me out. Which I’m sure is wrong. But I don’t seem to give a care, and you’ve gotta admit it’s getting eerie when a police officer who put hundreds in jail can pull a stunt like this and not give a care. What then, is righteousness?

I always considered myself to be righteous. To know morality and live after it. I didn’t take bribes, never turned a blind eye – I’d take certain circumstances in mind, sure, but no-one ever escaped what was coming to them.

Till now, that is.

When this all started, I thought it was simple: Wayne put on a mask, got people killed, got what he deserved. Jail time, for life. It turned out not to be the case: the Batman got people killed. But he ain’t the one we locked up. He isn’t the one we caught. We went for the Batman, but we caught Wayne.

Worst part is: he knows this. He knows he is sharing his body with a psychopath – one that he can control, more or less – and he was prepared to take full responsibility for what the Batman did. That probably makes Wayne the best man I ever met. So I don’t mind releasing him. However, I don’t have any bad feelings about releasing the psychopath either, because that’s the guy I need to keep my city calm. If he can accomplish that whilst causing the minimum amount of trouble, I want him out there. I want him doing his worst.

What does that make me?

Professional cop.

Accomplice of a vigilante.

Agent of righteousness.

Evidence forger.

I’m no less schizophrenic than this guy.

Chapter Text

Note 29: Bruce’s Diary

October 14 ^th .

This will be my final entry. I’m waiting for Gordon to come pick me up: my release papers have been signed, and I’ve said goodbye to Lucius and Veidt. I told them both I’d see them again soon, and I intent to keep my promises. Gordon assured me Lucius’ case is going to be reopened soon, so I don’t worry about the fate of my CEO too much. Neither does he, fortunately. I gave him my basketball as a farewell gift, to keep him busy when he has no-one to play Ping-Pong with.

Last time I saw Veidt, he tried to talk me out of leaving. He asked me how I could keep on pretending to be an agent of justice after I had defied justice by escaping through court. I told him I couldn’t. Not to myself, anyway. I know now that I need the Batman – or maybe not I, exactly, but Gotham. So he stays. And since I have to be the one to release him, I have to be released myself. He didn’t seem to understand that, he said I’d find out that I was wrong someday and feel terrible about it. And I told him that if that day would come, I would return to the Ward voluntarily.

I feel sorry for Adrian, knowing he’s going to end up alone with only Luthor and the Joker to keep him company. So I intend to write to him, and visit him as often as Gotham can miss me. He seemed to appreciate that intention.

I haven’t seen Luthor since our disagreement in the recreation room, and I hardly mind.

Dr Shikoba and I haven’t spoken for weeks and I don’t think I ever will again – we have fallen out, sort of. She’s very angry about the fact that I’ve undone everything she thought she accomplished with me in the months of my detaining. She’s kept telling me how much she admired me for being so open, for being honest about my juxtaposition with the Bat that lives inside me. She also believes that by escaping and letting him out I will return to my schizophrenic state, as she insists in calling it. I’ve tried to explain to her that I don’t see it that way: I have learned a lot about myself, about the way I can deal with these two very different ways of life and unite them in one principle. When she realized she wasn’t going to change my mind, she stopped talking to me altogether. I also feel sorry about that. I liked her, and I think she hates me right now.

Can’t satisfy everyone, I’m afraid.

As for the Joker, he requested to have a final talk with me and I agreed to have one. I was taken to see him, not in an interrogation cell, but in the recreation room. He sat there, I saw him slipping a white queen from the chess set in his pocket when I entered.

“Hi,” he said and raised a hand in a greeting. “Heard you were getting out after all?”

“That’s right.”
“Good to hear. I guess that proves me a right after all.”

I conjured a smile. “Maybe a little.”

He sniffed and sat down, gestured at the couch opposite from him that I should sit too. I did. He grabbed a pack of cards from the side table and started looking for the jokers, I suspect.

“So, since everybody’s thinking of leaving, it seems the Ward is going to become pretty quiet. If everyone has their way, it’ll be nothing but old Ozymandias keeping the doc company.”

“And you.”

“I’ve seen enough of the place. I think it’s time to move on.”

“How were you going to do that?”

He grinned. “Like I’d tell you. I’m not crazy.”

I leaned back. “Was there something specific you wanted to talk to me about?”
“No.” He put his attention to the cards. “I just wanted to wish you luck. Rebuilding your life, saving the city, that stuff.”

“Why’d you want that?”

“Well, I don’t know. So I’ll have something to tear down when I come back?”

“Why’d you want to?”

“Well, I gotta do something with my life. And that happens to be what I’m good at.”

“You could try something different. Maybe there are other talents for you to explore. You could try painting.”

He chuckled: “I’ll be sure to keep that in mind.” He put down the cards, got up and put out his hand. I got up too and hesitated.

“Oh, come on. I promise I won’t bite.”

So I shook my enemy’s hand and left, feeling good about being able to have an almost normal, non-threatening conversation with him. The guards then took me back to my cell and when I sat down at the desk, I felt something in my pocket and found a Joker card. Somehow he had managed to slip that into my pocket without me noticing, probably when he was shaking my hand, maybe at some other moment when he kept me distracted – I don’t know. But I do wonder why he hasn’t broken out yet, if he is so quick with his hands.

Note 30: Joker Transcriptions

All I really needed was a queen.

Check.

Mate.

Time to go paint me a city.