93. Batman

The last month has been business as usual--too much of it to permit me to record my thoughts here, in fact--but that all changed an hour ago, when I saw the much-rumored impostor for the first time.

After hearing a burglar alarm sounding nearby during my regular patrols downtown, I raced to the source of the ear-piercing noise. When I arrived, the perpetrator was several hundred feet away from the newly broken front window of the Gilded Feline, the jewelry store at the corner of Eggers and Martin. I pursued the thief as far as I could, but he ran quickly--with the agility of a trained professional--and managed to evade me by producing a number of smoke bombs and other distracting devices from his utility belt.

His costume does indeed bear an uncanny resemblance to mine. I never got a good look at it, or at his face, but I have a horrible feeling this will not be my last chance to do so.

92. Anonymous

When I put my costume on I feel strong. Invulnerable. Hard as a rock... in every way, through every inch of my body. I stretch the bodysuit over taut muscles, pull gloves over powerful fists, savor the stiffness of boot leather atop feet trained to kick and to kill. Sometimes the realization of my strength is so intoxicating that I must release the energy building up in me before I set off into the night, knowing full well that I am superior. Invincible.

And that I will destroy Him.

91. Batman

Robin has begun acting very strange lately. He is distracted during patrols and is prone to serious, obvious mistakes; he shows up late, often complaining of lack of sleep; and when I reprimand him about his many tactical errors, he grows irate. It almost seems as if he is actively striving to undermine my work, and I have been wondering if I made the wrong choice when I asked him to join me. Eventually I must have a long, pointed discussion with him, but for now the hostility I sense in him is too great to allow for meaningful communication.

On the whole, however, the peculiar silence on the streets of Gotham continues. We recently apprehended several members of the Barclay Gang, although the organization as a whole still grows at an alarming pace. Nygma has not shown his face for more than a month, a fact which has me feeling simultaneously relieved, hurt, and confused.

I have yet to meet the new masked man face to face, although his intentions appear to be clearer of late; he has been spotted on or near the sites of three robberies in the last ten nights, usually mistaken for me. This confusion is clearly part of his motive.

The weather grows colder. Time to test out the new insulated uniforms Alfred has developed.

90. Dick

Another two weeks have passed since my last entry. How does this keep happening? And why is it always increments of fourteen days? There's got to be some significance behind the pattern...

Jesus, I'm starting to sound like my boss now. And I guess that's how I think of Bruce lately: an incredibly hot, incredibly distant employer. On one of the few recent patrols I actually remember, I caught myself positioning my batnoculars so I could check out his ass in that tight-fitting batsuit of his from half a block away, after the wind blew his cape to one side. I stared at him for a good ten minutes before he turned toward me and gestured for me to join him. I did, then we swooped in on the Barclay Gang and took them by surprise. (I'm getting pretty good with my fighting technique, by the way, and I know I could probably hold my own in a showdown at this point, even without Batman by my side.) When the night was over, Bruce chewed me out for not responding sooner (evidently he'd been waving for a long time before I noticed), and I reacted the way I always have when a boss loses his temper: I zoned out, waiting for the moment to end.

The more I acknowledge my feelings for him, the more difficult it is to work alongside him. He's gorgeous, he's strong, he's the smartest man I know, he's a hero to an entire city... and he's a complete and total asshole half the time.

The worst part of it was last Tuesday night, when I really, really wanted to stay home and monitor--then mourn--the election results, and Batman insisted I join him on a stakeout instead. I know fucking well that Bruce voted for Bush, even though we never ever talk politics, and that thought infuriates me. (He's probably the only person I'll ever know who stands to benefit directly from W's economic policies, and that's only because he's so goddam fucking loaded. But I can't go on about this any more. Not here, at least.)

Oh, and news of Robin has definitely started to spread, this time through the gay community. On the cover of one of the local bar rags there's a picture of two guys dressed (more or less) like Batman and me, under the headline "Gotham's Newest Twosome?" Inside there's this totally bitchy, very badly written article full of gossip and innuendo, plus some much raunchier photos with the cover boys. The writer is way off base about pretty much everything, particularly my age--he describes somebody 5-10 years younger than me, and the guy in the photo spread looks about 5-10 years younger than that... which I must say is kind of flattering. Every time I see the magazine I want to point to the pictures and tell the nearest stranger, "That's ME!" But it isn't me, of course, and I can't open my mouth to a soul about the subject in any case. (I haven't even shown the thing to Bruce; my guess is he hasn't seen it yet, and god only knows how he'd react.)

Back to reality. Here's hoping I can manage another entry in less than two weeks next time.