The following excerpts have been extracted from (1) the posthumously published memoirs of one Bruce Wayne, entitled “Thoughts at the End of a Life: A Billionaire’s Confession - Vol. I”, (2) the official Gotham City Police Department records of one James Gordon, the former Police Commissioner of Gotham City, and (3) the personal diaries of one Selina Kyle, renowned cat burglar extraordinaire. The writings have been arranged in ‘as close to’ chronological order as possible in an attempt to lend credence to the events described, as well as to further substantiate the claims made herein by the contributing parties. This volume covers the year 1939, the first year of the Batman’s activation.
While many of the infamous mysteries of this time in Gotham City have been the subject of wide speculation and rumor, this anthology has been compiled in an attempt to ascertain clarity on many of them.
From the confessions of Bruce Wayne
I have never been so terrified to put pen to paper as I am now. Alas, this internal torment has plagued me for far too long. Dear reader, I present to you my final confession.
I shall begin my story in Gotham City, NJ, circa 1924. Citizens had been going missing from the streets for weeks, and by some stroke of misfortune, I was to be the city’s next victim. Perchance, as I was departing a fundraiser with my mother and father, trailing down an empty alleyway, I briefly ran ahead of them, seeking to expel a sudden burst of youthful energy. I had remained still within their protective eyesight, to be sure, when a hired abductor took notice of my rather vulnerable young form and seized his opportunity to snatch me away. Too bold in his attempt, he failed to sense my father and mother rushing to my rescue. Thomas Wayne, Billionaire and CEO of Wayne Enterprises, struck the man hard upon the back of the head. The stranger flinched, and was hit again as my mother, Martha Wayne, pulled me into her protective clasp. As the man fell to the ground, he produced a concealed firearm and unloaded upon his foe, killing my father instantly. I often struggle to recall moments in my life when I felt raw terror - adrenaline boosts, yes, but rarely instances of true fear - but this instance is one I could never forget.
The man stood up, aimed the gun at me and exclaimed to my mother, “Give me the boy! I just need the kid and you can go free!”
Stubborn woman that she was, my mother refused to comply with his request. With a cry of desperation she threw herself between me and the kidnapper, and subsequently attempted to rouse me into a running dash towards the open streets beyond. Another shot rang out, and I heard my mother slumping to the ground behind me. I turned back in a panic to see her lying there, still urging me to keep running. I could not. Too frightened and afraid for her well being, I dropped to my knees as the killing bullet splashed her blood across my face. There I sat, frozen, inanimate, and unable to think clearly. Too petrified even to inscribe to memory the face staring down upon me - a mistake which would haunt me for the remainder of my youthful years. With that, he lunged for my wrist, and continued to pull me deeper into the labyrinthian alleyways beyond, often dragging me when I could no longer keep up. Soon after, I lost consciousness, for it had all wrought entirely too much strain upon my juvenile sensibilities.
When I had awakened, I found myself completely alone, caged within four concrete walls. A dangling solitary light flickered its last few breaths overhead, briefly illuminating a crudely carved opening in one of the walls, wherein someone had jammed a wooden door-like flap deep into its crevices. My hands were tied behind my back, and my feet had been bound tightly to one another. I lay there for an unknown period of time, the final few moments I could remember of my parents’ lives steadily replaying over and over in my mind’s eye like an endless nightmare. It wasn’t long after the light died away that the door jerked open, and someone could be heard stepping into my space. They tapped the light and it jolted back to life just long enough for me to catch a glimpse of them. It was a human figure, thin as any adult person could be. A burlap sack masked his face, and two small holes around the eyes had been cut out for him to see through. He stared down at me for a brief moment before brandishing a needle. I tried to escape then, but it was entirely hopeless. I felt the pin prick in my arm at once, and heard his voice for the first time as he turned to leave.
“Just a few moments more, little one.”
In the next few minutes, I began to sweat. My anxiety rose even higher than I ever thought possible. My heart threatened to beat out of its cage, and the sound of my own breath felt as though it were crushing my head. The dim flickering of the light attacked every one of my senses, even as I tried to shut my eyes to it. A gentle whimper escaped my lips and echoed endlessly into the depths of oblivion. Then he came again. This time he was not alone.
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“Do you like animals, child?”
His voice had taken on a very different tone to my now compromised mind, almost as if the devil himself were speaking. The bag over his head took on a terrifyingly sinister form as well, from which every weave of fabric twisted and constricted into an evil smile. He then threw his hands skyward, unleashing the true demon upon me. A shrieking, fanged, winged creature flew to the top of the cavern, casting its horrifying shadow down upon my helpless form. In my fright, I hadn’t noticed the man’s departure, as he’d left me alone with this squealing beast, flapping violently this way and that. I screamed a deafening scream so loud it swallowed the room whole, again and again for what seemed an eternity. In the end, the man had returned to recoup his flying companion without another word and departed once more.
I know not how many times this occurred, though it was many. By the third instance, upon seeing the man I fell into absolute hysterics. Pleading and wailing and crying for it all to finally end.
Eventually, the concoction I was given wore off, and I lay shivering on the sweat-dampened dungeon floor, exhausted. The man came yet again, and I cried uncontrollably, knowing again what was to come.
“Lucky night, kid. You’re free to go.”
He then unfastened the bindings on my hands and feet, and departed for the last time. The door to my prison had been left open, inviting my escape. At first, I thought it had to have been a trick. A test of some sort. However, as minutes and perhaps hours passed me by, sitting alone in the dark, I took hold of this fortuitous happenstance and left.
Wandering the streets aimlessly, in a blur, the shock had completely overtaken my being. It seems impossible to remember that period of the night, as exhaustion must have inhibited my ability to forge hardened memories. By some miracle, however, I was found by good citizens and ushered safely to the police headquarters. The investigation into my parents’ corpses had already begun at that point, as well as the preparation of a city-wide search for one Bruce Wayne.
That was April 26th, 1924.
And so, this leads us to my confession, and perhaps the true reason for these writings. To my deepest, darkest secret, of which I have never spoken the words aloud.
I am the one they call The Batman.
Or, rather, perhaps it is more appropriate to proclaim that renowned billionaire, Bruce Wayne, is in fact the secret identity of the Batman. In truth, I have long struggled to reconcile the two identities myself.
Such a revelation surely beseeches the question, why confess now? Why, as I am grievously sick and fast approaching my end should I choose to finally unveil this secret I’ve held onto for so long? Why not rather in the glory days of my youth, when I could have enjoyed the fame and commendations from my fellow man? To those I would say, do not forget that this playboy billionaire grew up in the public’s eye. I know nothing outside of its scrutiny and judgment, and for every one person who would praise me in my endeavors, another ten would condemn me for them. Indeed, I never planned to reveal this truth at any point in time. Having at last reached the end of my life, however, it would seem I’m having rather a certain change of heart on the matter. I feel the need to reflect, and to remember events in my life I’d previously hoped to never revisit - if only because it grows more difficult by the day to remember with vividity just how they transpired. And, perhaps, I am inclined to give meaning to the choices I’ve made, as well as the difficult paths taken. To pass judgment upon myself, mayhaps.
I had only been 13 years old on the night in which my parents were murdered. And while a significant portion of the child who had been Bruce Wayne died along with his kin that evening, something new was born in its place. Some may call it an alternate personality. Some may simply say that I underwent a transformation of a kind. I haven’t the words to describe precisely what it was, but indeed, from whence it came the Batman was born. A part of me that yearned for, and perhaps needed, vengeance. For my parents, who were no more. For the person I was meant to grow into, had not the events of that night taken place. For the city that had spiraled so far into a criminal abyss, and allowed for such travesties as this to occur - and with such ease. For the boggled investigations that allowed criminals like the one who plotted these kidnappings to get away freely, time and again. Vengeance - for all these things and for so much else yet to come.