A word from your author

Forgive me, Daddy, for I have sinned: It has been 5 years since my last chapter here, and it wasn't much of one at that. I can't even guarantee I'll ever post another--not because I don't want to,  but because I have a lot going in both my Bat and Br*c* W*yn* lives.

That said, there are 5 years worth of chapters for you to ... enjoy, starting here.

And if you make it through all of those and are hungry/thirsty for more, please let me know, either in the comments here, or via Twitter or e-mail. If I hear enough begging for new chapters (on your KNEES, boy!), maybe I will satisfy your cravings. Stranger things have happened.

And if they do, I'll tweet about them for sure.

LDN1. Tom Drury

In some ways it seems impossible that it has been a year to the day since The Long, Dark Night that sealed the fate of Gotham City. Sometimes it feels like we've always been in our current hell, and other times it feels like a dream we had just last night.

Lord knows what happened that night was as surreal as the strangest of nightmares. People started gathering outside City Hall in mid-afternoon. They came alone, in groups of two or three, in family cars, by the busload. Some brought blankets and lawnchairs, apparently expecting something like a fireworks display. There was a huge stage--bigger than anyone had ever seen in that spot--covered in scaffolding. It had appeared literally overnight, and it was guarded by dozens and dozens of armed men clad in black.

The men regarded all of us like ... well, like cattle, being led to slaughter, if you'll excuse the cliché. It's a pretty accurate expression in this case, after all.

Here's another hackneyed phrase that rings true: there was electricity in the air as the sun went down.

Only it wasn't just electricity. You could smell it. Hell, you could practically taste it. And things would never be the same again.

2. Hello? Hello? Is anybody in there?

Time seems to be passing at its own rate these days. I say "days," but I can't really tell. There are no windows in here, no clocks, I'm not wearing a watch. I seem to keep nodding off and waking up again, not sure whether I've dozed off for a few minutes or entire weeks. Every time I come to, I find myself sitting here, as always. It almost feels like I've always been here, like I've never left.

That said, it suddenly dawns on me that I haven't actually tried to leave. Haven't wanted to, haven't had the energy to, haven't even thought about it until now. I'm starting to wonder, just now, if it's possible that I'm here by choice--perhaps I've done something to myself on purpose ... maybe this is some kind of experiment, or an attempt to learn something about myself, or to undo something done to me by someone, even ...

Knowing who I am might be a nice start.

1. Write what you know

(The nameless man with a nearly empty mind finds himself in a nearly empty room. The walks are blank. The only furniture is a plain wooden table and a plain wooden chair. On the table there is a laptop computer. It has been turned on. There is a blank page staring at him. He feels compelled to type.)

Not sure what I'm supposed to do with this thing or who it is that wants me to do it. There's a good chance that I set all this up before I ... blacked out, some time ago. There's an equally good chance I was brought here by someone else, someone observing me ... holding me? Perhaps, if it is someone else, that person is as much in the dark as am I about who I am and why I'm here.

Haven't tried the door yet to see if it's locked. That didn't even occur to me until now. I doubt I could even stand up, let alone walk, if I tried. It's as if I just woke up in this chair, at this desk, ready to write. I vaguely remember waking up a few other times, then going back to sleep.

I don't know how long I've been sleeping. Don't know where I am. Still don't know who I am. I see that I can string words together easily; perhaps I was a writer.

The keyword there is was. Whatever I did before I went to sleep, I don't think I can do it anymore. Not sure I can do much of anything at the moment but sit up, stare straight ahead of me, and type these words.

That'll have to do, for now. It's not much, but it's a start.

0. Today is the first day of the rest of your life

(The omniscient narrator returns ... in a new guise)

In some unknown place,
at some time,
a man is waking up.

He does not know who he is
Does not know where he is
Where he has been
or where he is going next.

He knows he is a man
(the evidence of THAT is staring him in the face, wide awake),
but that is all he knows,
and he's not even all that sure he believes it.

The man suspects he has been sleeping
Dreaming
Wild, vivid dreams
Horrible dreams
The kind any sane man would consider nightmares
But not this man.

He does not know how long he has been dreaming
cannot be sure they were only dreams
cannot be sure they will not return
the next time he closes his eyes.

Somewhere in his gut he senses something he does not want to admit
A truth he cannot face
Not yet at least
Not before he finds out who and where he is
How he got there
And why it all happened in the first place.
He wants to go back to sleep
but he can't.
Not now.
Not here.
Because the thing he cannot deny is this:
Something is beginning
or perhaps beginning again
any
minute
now.

296. Media communique

Men and women of Gotham City:

Tomorrow is Halloween, a day long associated with horror. And horror you shall experience in a form more intense than any mere motion picture or amusement park ride.

You have already begun to feel the iron grip of the Honest Men. Tomorrow that grip shall tighten.

Events will unfold in front of Gotham City Hall after dark.

You have been warned. Sleep well, my darlings.

SCARECROW

295. Jonathan Crane

The recent demonstration impressed my employers, as I knew it would. But now is not the time for self-congratulation; my work must intensify.

To that end, I have devised a new experiment involving the subject who called himself the Batman.

First, I must recapitulate an overview of my strategy. With each of the four subjects, beginning many months ago, long periods of total isolation were coupled with increasing dosages of the fear toxin. This had the effect of destabilizing the men's psyches; they learned, first, that they were vulnerable in ways that they had previously worked hard to overcome. Once their denial of their mortality was removed, I began to make clear to them the utter helplessness of their situation. Their familiar costumes were removed, and they spent a transitional period completely naked (but for their masks). In time, they were assigned the new uniforms they now wear, accompanied by certain privileges, like the ability to see--but not speak to--each other for a few moments at seemingly unpredictalbe intervals. Before each such visit, they were administered a strain of the fear toxin that rendered them terrified of their former colleagues, thus feeling even more alone—and ever closer to me.

In my next experiment with the Batman, I shall begin to take fuller advantage of the intimacy he feels with me. This should prove quite ... interesting.