Chapter 40: Another Cage
In a world where news cycles are dominated by superhuman battles and alien invasions, it was remarkable that an ordinary billionaire could dominate the New York headlines for days on end. Of course, "ordinary" was debatable, given the catalyst.
A single, speculative article from a hungry young reporter had ignited the media frenzy.
"Young NYC Billionaire Linked to Fisk Takedown?"
The sub-headline was even more tantalizing:
"Has Our World Been Invaded by Comics? Is Kane Group's New Chairman Tied to 'Batman' Sighting?"
It sparked a wave of amateur sleuthing. People combed through every available photo of Wick John Kane, analyzing his posture, his jawline, anything that might match the shadowy figure seen fleeing the Fisk Tower wreckage.
The fervor began to die down when the newly launched Kane Group website went live, listing its executives. At the very top: Wick John Kane, Chairman & CEO. A name. A face. A legitimate, if suddenly wealthy, identity. The mystery seemed to evaporate into corporate banality.
Then the same reporter published a follow-up.
"Could the Kane Fortune Be Batman's Secret Backer?"
The speculation roared back to life, louder than before. Paparazzi staked out the Kane Group headquarters, hoping to catch a glimpse of something—anything—incriminating or extraordinary.
They got nothing but shots of a handsome, bored-looking playboy arriving and leaving with a rotating cast of stunning models on his arm. No dark suits. No brooding intensity. Just a young man enjoying his sudden, immense wealth.
When it was revealed Bruce had purchased a modestly-sized manor in the New York suburbs—christened "Kane Manor"—and that he'd chosen it not for its natural caverns or lake, but seemingly at random, the public's interest waned further. It didn't fit the myth they were trying to build. The seller's agent confirmed the purchase was straightforward, with no unusual requests. The story was losing its fangs.
The grand "unmasking" of Batman was turning into a public joke, and the joke was on the people who had believed it. Frustration mounted, and it found a target: the newspaper that had published the speculative pieces. Under pressure from complaints and a flood of mocking letters, the paper acted to save face.
The young reporter was fired.
Just like that, the city moved on. The Batman decryption campaign fizzled out in a haze of embarrassment and redirected gossip. No one asked the billionaire if he was a vigilante anymore. It was, as most people realized in hindsight, a stupid question. Life returned to its chaotic, super-powered normal.
None of them knew how close they had actually been.
Deep beneath the unassuming Kane Manor, far from prying eyes and public speculation, Bruce Wayne lowered his welding mask. The arc light died with a final crackle-hiss. He set the torch down and straightened, working the stiffness from his shoulders and back.
"It's starting to take shape," he murmured, surveying the space.
"Reminds me of the beginnings of the Cave," Thomas Wayne's voice observed in his mind, a note of paternal pride cutting through the usual gloom.
"Not even close," Bruce replied aloud, his voice flat. This wasn't the sprawling, iconic Batcave. It was a repurposed, forgotten Cold War-era bunker he'd discovered buried in the property records—a lucky find that had saved him from needing to engineer a more obvious, and riskier, lair. It was functional. A hole in the ground with potential. It would serve.
"It'll do," Thomas said, his ghostly tone unconcerned with scale.
Before Bruce could respond, another voice cut through the mental space. It was distorted, layered, as if multiple people were speaking through one damaged throat. It came from a different part of the prison in his mind—a new cell, recently occupied.
"Perhaps... you could use some help. My expertise..." the voice rasped, unsteady.
Thomas Wayne's spectral form turned with a snarl, his genteel doctor's demeanor shredding. He slammed his hands against the invisible bars of his own confinement, glaring across the dark mental corridor. "You shut up! I don't know what you are or what you've done, but my son is nothing like you! He's not broken! He won't become you!"
The other occupant of the psychic prison fell silent. Bruce, in the physical world, paid the internal argument no mind. He was checking the welds on a new section of the main computer console.
He knew exactly who the new voice belonged to. A Batman from a darker fork in the multiverse. A Bruce Wayne so consumed by failure, by the belief that his war had never saved Gotham, that he had turned his rage inward and outward, fixating on the Flash as the root of all cosmic disorder. A Batman who was not a hero, but a tyrant in a cape.
Another cautionary tale. Another ghost in the machine. Another potential future to be locked away and studied, but never embraced.
Bruce finished his inspection. The bunker was secure. The tools were laid out. The work was just beginning. Outside, the world thought the Batman mystery was over. Down here, in another cage of his own making, it was only the prologue.
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