Chapter 2: To Good Men

I remember one night  early in my career, Gordon looked at me quizzically and asked a question I keep hearing, often from myself.

I was in the pouring rain, a would-be rapist in one hand while my other was knotted into a fist dripping with his blood. Gordon surprised me from behind, something I didn't let happen ever again. He stumbled upon me caught in a rage as I pummeled the man's face in. We weren't yet friends, but we'd worked together before, so he didn't even pull his gun. He only reached for it.

"You're one of the good guys, right?" He asked.

I responded by dropping the wretch into a puddle of rain and rat feces, then taking out my grappling hook and lifting myself away from the scene. It was one of the few times Gordon ever watched me exit anywhere

A year or two later, I had a similar interaction with Clark.  I'd worked with him before, but it was still early in our relationship. We didn't really know each other, and he still thought I didn't know he was Superman. We weren't friends back then.

I was staking out a Gotham drug king-pin that was carrying out a deal in Metropolis when the red and blue boy-scout appeared. He flew up to the rooftop I was stationed at, holding a quizzical look on his face. The narrowed eyes and curiously pursed lips also carried a slight sign of what was either annoyance or anger. I couldn't blame him for anything he was feeling. If I'd caught him surveilling a building in Gotham back in those days, I'd be curious, and maybe more than a little territorial as well. That said, full of my own ego, I didn't feel like walking him through my entire investigation, so I pretended to ignore him. But he's Superman.

"You're one of the good guys, right?" He asked.

I replied by shooting a canister of tear gas into the building across the street, then grappling over and slamming my body through the window. Metro PD got fifteen collars that night.

It's become a routine whenever people ask that question: I stay silent and I act on it. People need to realize that good isn't just a category we can box people into, it's about action. My Catholic father would have some qualms with that but ultimately agree, and the same goes for my Jewish mother. They both instilled in me an inherent desire to be thought of as good while also teaching me that the best way towards that was to actually do good things for good reasons. For the right reasons. Heaven and Hell were far off and probably not real, what mattered was doing the right thing every time I had the chance. I respond to those questions with action because that is the only appropriate response.

That's what I tell myself at least.

The truth is, I don't know if my actions are good. If anyone knew how much second-guessing I do, or how much self-doubt I carry, they wouldn't believe it. Selina knows, but every time I bring up the question of whether or not my good deeds really count, she quotes Bojack Horseman and tells me that I'm fetishizing my own sadness. Maybe she's right. I know for a fact that Clark and Diana question their actions as well, but I also know that it's different for them. Neither of them are Batman. Batman is not a symbol of hope and all things good in the world.

Take an ornate Catholic Church interior: Diana is the angel, the kind messenger sent here to guide and protect. Clark, no matter how much he wishes he weren't, is Jesus as of late. The savior of humanity that can do no wrong. But I'm not inside the church, nor can I ever be. I'm the gargoyle on the outside. I am ugly and cruel and scary in order to protect the worshipers inside from everything uglier and crueler and scarier on the outside. I like being the gargoyle because someone has to be. But just because I'm not a symbol of hope does not mean that I don't have a role to play in inspiring it.

I'm Batman. I'm supposed to keep people safe from the monsters that would prey on them by taking on the qualities of those monsters. But I can never—must never become the monster itself. It's hard to tell when I'm edging too close to that monstrosity. I make mistakes and toe the line between gargoyle and demon. It could be something relatively small, like being too brutal with a criminal, or it could be something that spells doom for millions, like my involvement with Brother Eye. Every time I try to do something so good that I might shake these wings and scales off my back for a second, something brings me back. Maybe it's a mistake I make because of my hubris or paranoia, maybe it's not a mistake but a necessary evil I must perform to keep other safe--there's always something else that brings Batman out of the blue cowl and back to the black one. So I try and save my good deeds for when I become Bruce Wayne again, because Bruce Wayne isn't as encumbered by the same burdens as Batman. The same problems persist nevertheless. 

Barry once asked me how I managed to build the Batcave without anyone noticing. I told him I used undocumented migrant laborers who were paid handsomely and given papers. He laughed, because there was no way that I'd do that. Diana once remarked that bankrolling the Justice League had to have made my investors suspicious. I told her that I cook my books and she rolled her eyes like she didn't believe it. And of course, she didn't believe it, or at least she didn't want to. But the simple fact is that on paper, Bruce Wayne is a corrupt capitalist. I've hacked my own FBI file before, there are theories that I'm connected to everyone from El Chapo to Lex Luthor. These sins I carry even affect my private and family lives. Clark asked how I managed to hide the boys' bruises and cuts from Gotham Academy's school officials, and I told him that whenever a school counsellor comes knocking, I build another dormitory or create another scholarship. He thought about it for a moment, and then told me that would never work even if it were true.  Oliver Queen and Vic Sage are perhaps the only Leaguers fully aware of how dirty Bruce Wayne's hands have become by maintaining Batman, and I think a part of them still hates me for it.

It bothers me to know that to maintain this lie, I've had to paint myself as the very thing my parents always told me to never become. Yet I keep doing it. I funnel money into off-shore accounts. I find families on the border abandoned by coyotes and promise them a house in a suburb in Michigan if they build yet another safe-house for me. I've paid bribes more bribes than I can keep track of. To save a boat of sex slaves, I had to implicate myself in their capture and transport. Bruce Wayne has to get his hands dirty just as much as Batman, and that's what the others don't realize. In order for both Bruce Wayne, the hope of Gotham, and Batman, it's ever-present gargoyle to coexist, we have to do things that neither of us want to do.

The night of February First, I did one of those things.

Don't get me wrong, I supported the Gotham NAACP and was glad to learn they would receive such a large donation. But I knew Joseph Grant – the man donating it – too well to trust his seemingly altruistic motives. Most of the room knew that he was a public supporter the Trump/Pence campaign, and had himself tweeted many disparaging remarks about the Black Lives Matter movement and Standing Rock protests. Those well-versed in the type of legal history that gets swept under the rug when newspapers change hands also know that, like Trump's father, he was caught in a housing discrimination scandal a few years back. There was enough common and lesser-known knowledge out about Joseph Grant that the whole city was surprised by his act of charity.

Grant's family was also a founding family of the Gotham City Ku Klux Klan, and he himself was an honorary member. This was a fact known only to those of us in the room that made up the elite of the Gotham elite, and perhaps a few of the older members of Gotham's NAACP. He was smart enough not to be formally listed as a member, just as the other Grants have done for decades; but they still attended the more important functions, and supported the party where they could. The man was a racist, it was a verifiable fact that he'd barely hidden. Yet there he was in my house, having a party celebrating a thinly veiled pre-emptive cover-up to the questions that would be asked during his nephew's gubernatorial campaign. It made me sick, but I did it anyway, because this was the type of event that Bruce Wayne had to throw. It kept up appearances.

Lucius walked over to me, giving a small, socially acceptable hug which ended in a professionally friendly handshake, "I'm glad to see you're enjoying yourself, Mr. Wayne."

"I'm happier to see that you're enjoying yourself, Lucius. The happier I keep you, the better my chances of keeping Grant from taking my title as Gotham's greatest philanthropist."

Lucius laughed, "Oh, Mr. Wayne, you kidder."

"In all truth, Lucius, I think this is a phenomenal project. In fact, I'd like to toss my own hat in. Next year, I was thinking of—"

"Okay, Bruce you can stop, the reporter's not looking our way anymore."

I relaxed a little and unclenched my body, "I meant everything I said, you know."

Lucius shook his head, "It was all true, but you didn't mean it. I know you're enjoying this about as much as I'd enjoy having Bane as my chiropractor."

I smirked, "I'm not saying that was better, but I was having back troubles when that happened, you know. So for a quick moment..."

Lucius smirked and shook his head again, "And people say you don't joke enough."

I took a glass of champagne from a passing waiter. Bringing it to my mouth, I muttered, "That's the other guy."

Lucius smiled.

Taking another sip, I asked him the question that had been in my mind for a while, "Aren't you worried?"

"About this biting me in the back?" Lucius said with his hand on his chin, "No, I don't think so. There was a certain level of caution that went into accepting Mr. Grant's proposal, but we ultimately decided that we could weather any backlash we'd face for it. Organizations like mine would go bankrupt if we didn't accept checks from people that didn't have great track-records with our people. You're old enough to understand that now."

I nodded along, largely unsurprised by his answer. There were obviously stark differences, but in that moment, I realized that what Lucius was doing wasn't too different from what I had to do to maintain the lie of my night activities. I wished he hadn't, most of all because his method meant that he still had to call someone like Grant, "mister."

I looked around the room, annoyed with some of the names I recognized in attendance. "Still, the company he keeps...isn't this hard for you?"

Lucius just smiled and shook his head, "You should really read some Ellison sometime, Bruce."

I made a mental note to have Alfred purchase Invisible Man on tape for me.

At the pompous sound of a silver-plated spoon hitting my third best crystal set, Lucius excused himself from my side to join Grant onstage while I took my own seat at a table in the front row. Damian was already there, his head held aloft and a petulant scowl on his face. Tim and Duke were doing their best to appear interested, but I saw the tell-tale sign of a thumb war being fought under the table. I wanted to sigh but didn't, at least one of us had to appear acceptably invested by social standard.

"Ladies and gentleman," Grant said into the microphone with a haughty air. "I am pleased to be here with you all tonight, celebrating both diversity and persistence through adversity in our glorious city. And I'm very  pleased that none of my own money is going into throwing this party."

Polite, wealthy laughter went around the room.

"Father," I heard Damian whisper. "At your instruction I shall purchase majority share of his own corporation through our shell companies."

"No hostile takeovers before dessert, Damian," I dismissively retorted with a wide, fake smile on my face.

Grant continued his speech, "In all honesty I want to say thank you, Bruce, for your contribution to this endeavor. This is a fantastic party, and I can't wait to see the party you throw when you inevitably try to make a bigger donation than mine. What's Gotham's biggest philanthropist planning next, a benefit gala for baby seals?" 

Another round of laughs around the room. I made a mental note to revisit the Disney World/WayneCorp Party for a Greener Earth plan. Perhaps I'd scrap the whole idea. It seemed too predictable.

Grant continued with his speech.

"When I first decided to donate five million dollars to the Gotham NAACP, I was actually at a small Party gathering. Some of you may remember the Republicans of Gotham benefit dinner three weeks ago. I had the idea at that party during a conversation with a friend of mine. Well, when I told this friend I planned to donate one million dollars to the NAACP, he asked me why. Handouts and the like aren't typically the style of our party, he said. I told him that this was true. I don't want to get into politics here, but it is indeed a fact that our party tends to advocate for independent movement upward through our nations meritocratic system. But for so long, not everyone had access to the resources necessary to move upward. And that's all that the NAACP does."

Grant put an arm around Lucius in an awkward type of politician hug.

"I told my friend as I'm telling you right now that I will proudly support the NAACP. For it is an organization that is helping the remaining disenfranchised people of color in our great Gotham community work towards the future and benefits that we've all been blessed with. By giving these five million dollars to the NAACP, we invest in Gotham's future, not provide a handout."

Another dignified, respectable applause went throughout the room. Lucius looked pleased, but I'd known the man long enough to tell when he was swallowing his tongue.

My phone went off in my pocket. One pulse and two small beeps. Emergency news alert. I was concerned, but I didn't want to be seen checking my phone in the middle of Grant's speech. When I heard Damian's phone go off, I cursed him in my head for disobeying a direct order to keep his devices on silent. I considered hiding it again, to teach him the lesson the hard way. He'd probably try to kill me for it, but that didn't concern me too much. Tim's phone went off not long after, and just as quickly, so did Duke's. I knew then there was something wrong.

"Mr. Wayne," Duke said as he sneakily passed his phone to me.

I didn't look down. I didn't have to. All around us, the ball room had transformed into an amphitheater of chirps and buzzes. Gotham's social elite were retrieving phones, fiddling with watches, and staring into blank space as they read augmented reality displays invisible to the rest of us. I reasoned there were at least fifty different news apps that were all reporting at the exact same moment. There's a very limited number of things that would cause that great a response in Gotham, the city where a zombie on a rampage is delegated to the third page news.

As inscrutable and dutiful as always, Alfred suddenly appeared right as I was wondering how I was going to slip away. Before I could react, he spilled a bowl of hot soup onto my lap.

"Goodness, sir!" He exclaimed while he hurriedly covered my now singed privates with a cloth. He  quickly began to lead me out of the room as he continued, "I was so dismayed when I saw the news on young Master Thomas's phone that I lost my composure. It will never happen again. There's a set of formal wear already laid out for you in your private quarters."

"Thank you for your foresight, Alfred," I said. Once we were in the hall, away from prying ears, I asked, "What do we do if Bruce Wayne doesn't come back from his bedroom in a timely manner?"

My faithful companion smiled, "Well Miss Vale, I'm unable to disclose the comings and goings of my employer. But I assure you that the very accusation that he would leave an important charity event to...'host' a pair of models is absolutely absurd! I long respected your news station, but I am appalled to find they are reporting such lewd and obviously false rumors as this."

 I patted Alfred on the shoulder then left him to continue managing the party. The quickest route to the cave from that part of the house was through a pair of fireman poles concealed by an unassuming grandfather clock. I approached the clock, and positioned it's hands to read the exact moment of my parent's death. As I slid down into the cave, I couldn't help but think about my psychiatrist. Undoubtedly, she would have something to say about that particular combination choice, but I didn't care. It kept me rooted and reminded me why I became Batman. Maybe surrounding myself with my parent's ghosts was unhealthy in the long run, but if it meant I was so afraid of disappointing them that I over-thought every action I took, then that was just the way it had to be. 

I landed with a barely audible thud, and immediately got to work. Stripping away the tuxedo and tossing it's sections to the floor, I said a silent prayer that I'd be spared Alfred's discontent for not hanging it properly. As he promised, the suit was ready for me me not far from where I landed, and I quickly slid into it. 

Once again, I became that part of me which was beginning to feel more real than Bruce Wayne. I became the vengence of the powerless, the night from which no malicious secrets could hide. I became the bat of Gotham, the gargoyle of the Justice Trinity, and the darkest of the world's knights. With a turn of my cape and the stomp of my boots, Batman walked once again.

I hopped into the Batmobile and turned the key. Hearing the engine roar to life, I began to speed towards the Batcave's exit. As I passed the Batcopter and Batwing, I heard Damian's voice transmitting through the Batcoms.

"Father," he said in a stern and curt voice, as though he were ordering me to respond.

"Yes, son? Is there a problem?" I asked.

"What happened to Batcow? Robin-slash-Lark-slash-Signal doesn't believe that she was real."

"I'm hanging up now," I stated through gritted teeth.

In any other situation I might have excused a little lightheartedness and humored his request. But not that night. I could already tell that the last thing I'd be in the mood for would be jokes.

"This is Tom Thompson," the voice on the radio stated. "And I'm coming at you live from the site of yet another Joker attack!"