February 2, 1989. Around 7 PM. In a small apartment in Northeast Gotham
Dispatcher, from the phone: "... Sorry, but we can't help you right now."
Garfield Lynns, on the phone: "But I explained everything. I can't continue working in the fire department. I'm unemployed now, you understand. Unemployed."
Dispatcher, from the phone: "We understand your problem. But there's nothing we can do for you right now. Try calling us back in a couple of days."
Garfield Lynns, on the phone: "And what am I supposed to do for a couple of days? Sit at home and eat the remaining canned food? Hey, hello! Are you there?" The dispatcher hung up on him.
At noon today, Garfield Lynns was discharged from the hospital with third-degree burns all over his face. He was lucky he received good first aid right at the scene, so his hospital stay wasn't prolonged. Of course, he couldn't continue working as a firefighter due to his health condition. Right now, he was trying to call the Gotham pension fund to request disability benefits—after all, he'd worked as a firefighter for fifteen years, surely he deserved some kind of pension—but his call didn't go very well.
His best solution was to go out and get some fresh air; he'd spent two days in a closed room anyway. Before leaving, he put on a hospital mask. It was prescribed to avoid further harming the damaged skin on his face, though he wanted to wear it more to avoid drawing unnecessary attention.
Northeast Gotham was very different from its southern counterpart. If poverty and human depravity reigned there, the northern part was something else. Not that the North was the complete opposite of the South, but the differences were more than noticeable. There wasn't necessarily less crime here—on the contrary, there might have been even more—but here, it wasn't built on the most vile and primitive human qualities. After all, this was where the Gotham State Port was located, which protected this place from excessive filth, while the southern part was noticeably saturated with the industrial districts located to its west. The architecture here was almost no different from the southern part—after all, they were built by the first settlers and developed at the same time, when the Norwegian mercenary Jon Logerquist decided to establish a settlement here. Only here in the north, the houses weren't noticeably run-down, there were no visible patches of insulation, broken bricks, no graffiti on fences, no homeless people begging on the streets, and no junkies huddled under bridges around a trash can fire.
Lynns wandered the streets of his neighborhood; the mask on his face protected him both from unnecessary contact with harmful bacteria and from the unwanted attention of people around him. Despite his attempts to distract himself from his current life situation, all he could think about was that phone call.
Garfield Lynns: "The dispatcher said to call back in a couple of days. … I know this city well, and if any government agency tells you to wait, they're just brushing you off. … Ugh, why does it have to be this way. Fifteen years of firefighting, all for nothing. Won't even give me a measly pension, just leaving me to starve. And what did I spend my whole life on… Where do I go now? Who's going to hire someone with a disability? I don't know…"
Lynns continues walking the streets and decides to distract himself another way—by reading a newspaper.
Garfield Lynns: "'Police announce manhunt for Bat-Man. A $2,500 reward for any information on him.' 'Carmine Falcone, rumored to be one of Gotham's most influential mob bosses, has marked a $1,500,000 bounty on Bat-Man's head.' The whole city's obsessed with him, huh? Both the cops and all those mobsters. $1,500,000… what a pain in the ass you have to be for your head to be worth that much. And the police only want to give you two and a half. I can understand, the police pay people with the city's safety, not money. … Wish I could do that anymore. Though I wouldn't say no to the money right now. Of course, in my situation. Two and a half for information? Why not? I'll just tell them about my meeting with this Bat-Man. Any information would be useful to them. And the payout would be useful to me."
The next ten minutes Lynns spends walking to the nearest police precinct. Before entering the building itself, they ask him to remove his mask to check it, briefly revealing the burns covering his face, but then they give it back to him. After that, Lynns is led to an interview room.
Officer 1: "So you're saying you encountered Bat-Man on the day of the attack on the Gotham Renewal Program building? And that's why you have these burns on your face."
Garfield Lynns: "Yes. Yes, exactly."
Officer 1: "I see."
Officer 2: "Listen, Mr. Lynns. Your story is certainly interesting and all, but understand, we need information that will help capture Bat-Man."
Officer 1: "Listen, could you repeat your story? About encountering Bat-Man."
Garfield Lynns: "Uh, sure. I saw him when I was climbing the fire escape toward the fire in that building, that skyscraper. At that moment, a gas cylinder exploded on the floor next to me, and I was caught in the blast. Then he appeared, grabbed me, got me to the ground, pressed his cape against my face, and then…"
Officer 1: "Hold on, hold on. One more time. About the part where Bat-Man presses the cape to your face. The pain from the burns started at that moment, right?"
Garfield Lynns: "Hmm, yes, from the explosion. Bat-Man pressed the cape to put out the fire, and then…"
Officer 2: "Okay, that's enough. Did you hear him?" he says to his colleague, who is writing something in a notebook. "So Bat-Man is responsible for your burns? Your… condition is due to Bat-Man wrapping you in his cape. Which created extra pressure and further damaged the tissue on your face."
Garfield Lynns, confused: "What are you talking about?"
Officer 1: "Mr. Lynns, we now have grounds to charge Bat-Man for your burns."
Garfield Lynns: "I don't understand. You're blaming Bat-Man for my scars? But that's nonsense, it wasn't Bat-Man. He's a decent guy, he wouldn't do that."
Officer 2: "Calm down, Mr. Lynns. Understand this. The first rumors about this Bat-Man appeared four days ago, and he's already broken all records. In these four days, he's already been accused of assault, trespassing, vandalism, resisting arrest, armed attack, and recently, robbery."
Garfield Lynns: "Robbery?"
Officer 1: "Yes, last night. A small jewelry store was robbed in the South-East End. The robbery was too perfect, too… clean. And this Bat-Man is quite talented at all these quiet, stealthy things."
Officer 2: "We thank you for your cooperation, Mr. Lynns. This interview is concluded, thank you."
Garfield Lynns, in disappointed bewilderment: "Alright. I'm owed the reward, right?"
Officer 1: "Of course, sir," he says, leaving the room and returning a couple of minutes later with a hundred-dollar bill. "Here you go, sir."
Garfield Lynns, taking the bill: "A hundred bucks? The paper said they pay two and a half."
Officer 2: "Two and a half we pay for information that helps us capture Bat-Man. Don't get us wrong, your story was useful, but as another motive for his capture, not as progress toward it."
Garfield Lynns, with an empty expression: "Alright. Thanks."
Lynns leaves the interview room and then the police precinct. Walking home, his head was flooded with emotions. Anger, disappointment, despair, injustice. On the way, he passes by the same newsstand where he got the newspaper earlier, but this time, his attention is drawn to the other half of the headline, "Carmine Falcone, rumored to be one of Gotham's most influential mob bosses, has marked a $1,500,000 bounty on Bat-Man's head."
February 3, 1989. Around nine in the evening.
Back in his small apartment in East Gotham, Gordon returns home after another workday. He's happy, because at home his wife and child await him, and the long day hasn't made them miss him any less. Entering the apartment with a call of "Honey, I'm home!", Gordon takes off his street clothes, hangs up his bag, and after changing into his home clothes—a red, green, and white short-sleeved shirt and black sweatpants—he heads to the kitchen, where pea soup is already waiting for him.
Barbara Gordon: "It's cooled off a bit. I'll make you some tea now, was waiting for you to get back."
James Gordon, sitting at the table and starting on his dinner: "Junior is asleep already?"
Barbara Gordon: "Put him down earlier today. He's had a fever since lunch. Not a criminal one, but if he's not better by tomorrow, I'll take him to the clinic," she says, setting a cup of black tea in front of her husband.
James Gordon: "Well, best wishes to him."
Barbara Gordon, sitting across from him at the table: "I wish. How your day was anyway? Did they really take you off that Bat-Man hunt?"
James Gordon: "Just moved to backup duty."
Barbara Gordon: "Sad. Imagine the fame if you were the one to turned him down."
James Gordon: "Well, life goes on. I'll have time for fame yet, with or without Bat-Man."
Barbara Gordon: "Jim, you're forty-one. At your age, cops are already coasting toward retirement after a glorious career. And you're a lieutenant with nothing of accolades at that age. No offense."
James Gordon: "No, no, you're right. But things are looking up. Everything will sort itself out soon—my job, us. I promise, honey."
Barbara Gordon: "You promised me the same when you said Gotham wasn't so bad. You didn't see the conditions I was in at that maternity ward. In Chicago, a place like that would've been shut down."
James Gordon: "Still, that doesn't change what I said. Everything will work out for us, I promise. Just give me a little time."
Barbara Gordon: "It's not about time, Jim. In fifteen years on the force, you haven't exactly grabbed any stars. And now you think in the next five years your pockets will burst from fame? I'm sorry, dear, but you'd need a miracle to save you. And you already had one, before they took you off the lead."
James Gordon: "Honey, there's still time ahead. I'll get another miracle for sure, you have my word."
Barbara Gordon: "It's not even about a miracle, dear. … Listen, one thing. If your miracle does happen, the first thing we do is go back to Chicago, okay?"
James Gordon: "Barbara, I'd love to, but you know how it is. I have a job progressing here. Future friends and colleagues are waiting for me."
Barbara Gordon: "You already have all that in Chicago. Listen, you don't owe these people anything, Jim. Just don't get too attached to them if you don't want to end up as messed up as they are."
James Gordon, after a small pause: "Thanks, honey. … You know, sorry I missed Junior's birthday."
Barbara Gordon: "Oh, forget it. You were held up at work, it wasn't your fault."
James Gordon: "You know, I actually wanted to say…"
The sound of a telephone ringing echoes through the house. Gordon starts to get up to answer it, but Barbara beats him to it.
Barbara Gordon: "Sit and eat. I'll see who it is." Picking up the phone, Barbara talks for about twenty seconds, then calls to the kitchen. "Jim, it's for you! Work!"
Gordon gets up from the chair, leaving his unfinished soup and tea on the table, and goes to the phone.
James Gordon, on the phone: "Yeah? … What,now? … Oh, damn. … Where? … Got it. Yeah, I'll be there soon." Then he hangs up.
Barbara Gordon: "What is it?"
James Gordon: "Heist at the port, they're calling everyone in urgently. Stole some very valuable cargo."
Barbara Gordon: "Couldn't they have picked a better time for a robbery?"
James Gordon, starting to get ready: "You know how it is, dear. All the Gotham scum wakes up at night."
Barbara Gordon: "Guess I'm waiting up for you till morning again."
James Gordon: "Not tonight. It's only about a ten-minute to the port, and it's all small-time work there. Cordon, evidence, the usual stuff."
Barbara Gordon: "Keep in mind, I'm not reheating your soup and tea again."
James Gordon: "Don't worry, they sure won't have time to get cold."
Barbara Gordon: "Did you want to say something about missing our son's birthday?"
James Gordon: "Nothing important, just wanted to apologize. Okay, I'm off." He says, kissing his wife on the cheek and leaving the house.
A little later, around midnight. About three miles west of Gotham Port. From this distance, you could see the police flashers coming from the port—they were especially noticeable from the rooftops where nothing blocked the view. Watching the cluster of police cars from this distance, Bat-Man was just waiting for at least the majority of them to disperse so he could examine the crime scene himself.
Getting ready to move closer for a better look, he heard a man's cry for help from a neighboring abandoned building. Descending to the ground, he entered the building through a first-floor window, but inside was empty, just a vacant lobby with a stairwell, one side leading to upper floors with empty apartments, the other to the basement.
Walking up the stairs to the second floor and stopping halfway, he hears a sound coming from the basement, a faint creak. A second later, an entire squad—four men of armed SWAT—spills out from the basement. A police ambush.
After the stairs shield him from the first shots, he retreats to the second floor, then fires his grapple between the stairwells, quickly ascending from the second floor to the fourth. Seemingly having shaken the SWAT team, another squad of SWAT—again four men—spills out from an empty apartment.
His first move is to jump down a floor and hang from the underside of the stairwell. He looks at a window on this floor, but seeing the frame is metal, the glass panes are too small for him, and it's boarded up, his plan changes by necessity. Hearing the SWAT team approaching from both floors above and below, he takes a smoke grenade from a compartment on his belt and tosses it into the gap between the stairwells, letting the smoke fill both floors at once, obscuring the view for both SWAT squads. Next, he draws four of his bat-shaped throwing weapons at once and, throwing all four simultaneously, each hits its mark, striking precisely the barrels of the assault rifles belonging to the SWAT team coming from the lower floors. Seizing the moment, he drops between the stairs to the first floor, emerging onto the street in a small alley.
Inside the building, the SWAT squad drops their rifles and draws their backup pistols, pursuing him. Outside, realizing he has little time, he decides to grapple onto the building's façade to reach the roof, but the moment he draws the grapple, his plan changes again. Knowing the second SWAT squad with functional weapons has already gone to the roof to intercept him, he glances at the nearest sewer grate at the other end of the alley. Realizing he won't have time to reach it, he takes another smoke grenade and tosses it directly onto the grate. As the SWAT team reaches the street, they open fire with their pistols into the smoke, unaware their target is now clinging to the building façade behind them. Hearing footsteps and realizing the SWAT team is descending from the roof to the first floor, he climbs onto the now-empty roof, where there's no one left to intercept him.
February 4, 1989. Around 5 AM.
In West Gotham, a small van sits in an alley. Nothing unusual about it, unless you look inside. Inside the trailer sat a man in a balaclava, holding an angle grinder he used to cut open metal crates marked "Wayne Enterprises." Next to him lay two other men, also in balaclavas, except their balaclavas had holes in the back, and around them were pools of blood that had flowed together into one large pool.
Finished cutting open the crate, having sawed off the locks, he takes out its contents, a flamethrower, and places it next to another open crate containing a jetpack with diesel-fueled engines on four small wings. After this, he removes his balaclava to catch his breath, revealing a medical mask underneath, with burns covering the rest of his face.
A short while later, Lynns enters what looks like a fairly upscale shoe store, not far from the alley where his van was parked, carrying a large case. Heading toward the back room, he's stopped by two burly men who take the case from his hands, then frisk him. Lynns offers no resistance throughout. Once the men finish frisking him, Lynns is allowed to proceed into the back room.
Carmine Falcone: "Who in the he hell is this?"
Garfield Lynns, standing before him: "Is it you Carmine Falcone?"
Carmine Falcone: "If you're here, you already do know the answer. Now, be clear."
Garfield Lynns: "I've come for the contract. On Bat-Man."
Carmine Falcone, not taking him seriously: "Ah, yeah-yeah-yeah. Right, yeah. I recall something like that. Still waiting for someone to accepting it."
Garfield Lynns: "That's why I'm here."
Carmine Falcone, slightly irritated: "And here I was hoping you were just joking. See, I've seen this Bat-Man fight. If you think you can kill him, you're fuck out of your mind. Now get lost before I'm in the mood to rough you up."
Garfield Lynns, standing his ground: "I'm not one of your goons. I know how to get Bat-Man's attention, how to force him out of his comfort zone, how to make him fight out of his terms."
Carmine Falcone, still not taking him seriously: "And how do you plan to do that? Go on, enlighten me then."
Garfield Lynns: "Your answer is in that case."
Falcone is silent for a couple of seconds, then quietly orders his guards to open the case they took from Lynns. Inside were the flamethrower and the jetpack.
Carmine Falcone: "And the hell's this? Some kind of ultra-weapon like the Death Star?"
Garfield Lynns: "Better. Weapons capable of defeating Bat-Man."
Carmine Falcone: "Alright, alright. I hear you. But what makes you think you'll succeed?"
Garfield Lynns: "Nothing," he says, removing the medical mask from his face. "These scars you see, they're because of Bat-Man. I've already lost my job and a normal life because of him. I have nothing left to lose, and you have a chance to get rid of a problem to lost."
Carmine Falcone, after a couple seconds of thought: "I don't care about your motives, only the result."
Garfield Lynns: "You'll get it. Only if you promise the payment, of course."
Carmine Falcone: "You'll get your money, nothing to worry. But only for a job well done, of course."
Garfield Lynns: "Be sure that tonight you'll sleep without nightmares."
Around 7 AM, in the tallest building in all of Gotham, the sound of the elevator descending to the basement is heard again.
Lucius Fox: "Hm, you're earlier than usual today. By about two hours."
Bruce Wayne, holding his back, groaning slightly in pain: "Shift was cut short today, so I dropped by early."
Lucius Fox: "Read the morning paper? About the heist."
Bruce Wayne, sitting in a chair next to Lucius's station: "Heist?"
Lucius Fox: "Yes, we were robbed. Last night, at the port. I was genuinely thinking it was you. Heard they're pinning a jewelry store heist on Bat-Man?"
Bruce Wayne: "Ah, that. Didn't know it was us that got robbed. What was taken?"
Lucius Fox: "Cleaned out a container. One flamethrower, a couple of crates, one…"
Bruce Wayne: "Hold on-hold on. A flamethrower? Since when does Wayne Enterprises sell weapons?"
Lucius Fox: "If you're still wondering why I'm not on good terms with the uppers, here's your answer."
Bruce Wayne: "Wayne Enterprises was never meant be a military corporation."
Lucius Fox: "Was never to, but after your father's death, the Waynes' influence on the company vanished, and your family's morals stopped mattering here. Too late to change anything. As they say, an arms dealer won't wish for world peace, or he'd go broke. Well, you wait here, I'll go get a drink. We're celebrating today, ought to mark the high day."
Bruce Wayne: "What's the hell of high day?"
Lucius Fox: "Well, isn't it obvious? You didn't come here with another order. A special day in a while."
Bruce Wayne: "Don't relax, I'm just masterfully building up to the reason for my visit. Here you are." Bruce hands him a small piece of paper with a blueprint for a bat-shaped blade.
Lucius Fox: "Hmm, and I thought we agreed not to make anything sharp or pointy."
Bruce Wayne: "And it's not sharp or pointy. It's meant for throwing, like a boomerang."
Lucius Fox: "Ahem, Mr. Wayne, you do understand the idea of a boomerang is that it returns to the thrower? This thing will embed itself in a wall, not fly back."
Bruce Wayne: "From a boomerang, I'm only interested in its aerodynamic principle, nothing more. I made four like this at home. Spent them all in an instant. I need you to take on a mass production."
Lucius Fox: "Hmm, you do realize this is no longer a joke? I could hide the loss of a couple sheets of Kevlar and such stuff. But this is on a different scale."
Bruce Wayne: "Lucius, you've been messing Earle for about ten years or so. You yourself said he doesn't even look at the things in the warehouse."
Lucius Fox: "It's not even abot that. Bat-Man is out of law in this city, Mr. Wayne. I'm already aiding and supporting a criminal with gear. And now you want me to start to mass it, mass the illegal weapons production for you."
Bruce Wayne: "Don't worry. The police have no idea you're in any way connected to Bat-Man. You have nothing to fear, and you know it, you're just looking for an excuse."
Lucius Fox: "Be aware, Mr. Wayne, if I get caught at this, there will be problems for the entire company, problems for you, for Bat-Man, not just for me."
Bruce Wayne: "You still haven't said no anyway."
Lucius Fox: "I've already warned you, Mr. Wayne. If stuff goes wrong, you're the one behind it."
Bruce Wayne: "If you say so. Alright, I've got to go. I'll come by tonight for the first batch."
Lucius Fox: "No need. I'll mail them to you with a congratulatory letter."
Bruce Wayne: "Yeah, yeah. Looking forward to it."
February 4, 1989. Around 10 PM.
In the still-tallest building in all of Gotham, the sound of the elevator descending to the basement could be heard again—strange at this hour for its usual visitor.
William Earle: "Surprised you haven't buried yourself down here yet with all this junk."
Lucius Fox: "Too much dust. And not enough space. And what brought your type down here?"
William Earle: "This is building of my rule. My job is to know about each of a cockroach between its walls."
Lucius Fox: "Well, it's not becoming for a king to descend from his throne to visit the dungeon in the basement."
William Earle: "Don't flatter yourself, Fox. I'm here to talk about last night's robbery."
Lucius Fox: "Haven't received the report yet? Maybe it got lost on the way up? How many floors between us again, seventy-eight?"
William Earle: "To your dismay, I did receive the report. And noticed a few… just to say, coincidences." He says, sitting in the chair next to Lucius, the one usually occupied by another regular visitor to this place.
Lucius Fox: "If you mean that on the day my car broke down and I didn't come to work and an engine happened to miss from the warehouse that same day, then I put my hands up, you got me."
William Earle: "No, something else. You see, recently a grappling hook went missing from the warehouse. The report for January 31st shows one less. Before that, a batch of Kevlar fibers, titanium plates, and other stuff disappeared."
Lucius Fox: "I don't even know what I'd need a grappling hook and Kevlar with titanium for. Though… the hook could make a good fishing rod, and the Kevlar and titanium a nice boat of it. You know what, thanks for the idea."
William Earle: "What concerns me isn't so much what items went missing, but the dates. The Kevlar disappeared precisely on the 29th. And that same night, the first rumors of Bat-Man started spreading through the city. Then the grappling hook disappeared on the 30th. That same night, Bat-Man was seen using a similar device."
Lucius Fox: "So you're convinced it's Bat-Man stealing our resources? Heard that a flamethrower went missing recently, can you think of what he could do with that?"
William Earle: "Don't evade to theme, Fox. You're Bat-Man's armorer. Only you would allow things to disappear from the warehouses so easily, and on such precise dates. Listen, Fox… Lucius. I don't care that you're supplying Bat-Man, or that you're essentially stealing from the warehouse. Not out of the goodness of my heart, but because it's a drop in the bucket for Wayne Enterprises, something I'm willing to overlook. But I do care that, of all people, you're harboring a criminal."
Lucius Fox: "If you're so unhappy about it, maybe make Bat-Man pay for the gear. Maybe that will make you overlook these too?"
William Earle: "The thing is, Lucius. See, this entire company is all I have. Imagine if someone found out that an employee of my company is illegally funding a guilty criminal? Do you understand what would happen to me, what whould happen to you, to all of us? So hear me out now. I'm giving you time until morning. Either you give me Bat-Man's identity, and I turn him over to the police. Or you can start packing your things and prepare to leave. Oh, sorry, I forgot. You don't have any things here in this warehouse." He says, getting up from the chair. "Make the smart choice, Fox." After which he leaves.
An hour later, around eleven, the sound of a pen scratching on paper can be heard.
"Mr. Bruce Wayne.
It is with regret that I must inform you I have made the firm decision to leave Wayne Enterprises and to cease being your supplier. Don't misunderstand, it's not due to any personal animosity toward you or your hobby. I have encountered legal complications arising from your activities. The long arm of the law has cast too long a shadow over me today. I am not ready to live under that cloud, because I respect it as a quiet one, and wish for it to remain so. I can only ask for your forgiveness for placing my personal safety above my obligations." - Lucius Fox
Later, already on the other side of the city, the sound of paper being ripped to shreds is heard, then again, and one more time.
Alfred Pennyworth: "You know, Master Bruce, paper is not a log, no need to split it into firewood before throwing it in the fireplace. You can just throw it in."
Bruce Wayne, his tone higher and more serious than usual: "Is that even the timing right now, Alfred? You've heard the thing."
Alfred Pennyworth: "Hmm, don't be upset. The paper waste problem isn't that serious, even nowadays."
Bruce Wayne: "I'm not upset. I'm disappointed. Care to know why? Here's your answer, Alfred, right here, in front of you, on these pieces of paper. You can put them together like a kid puzzle if you still don't get it. … And I did have hopes for him. And how it turned up?"
Alfred Pennyworth: "You do understand Mr. Fox had his reasons. You know Bat-Man is hunted by the police. Mr. Fox does not wish to share your problems with the law, Master Bruce. He follows the law and does not want to oppose it, unlike you."
Bruce Wayne, after a short pause: "Alfred, how can you fail to got one thing. How long've you lived in Gotham? Twenty years? Twenty-five?"
Alfred Pennyworth: "Twenty-two, if it matters this much to you."
Bruce Wayne: "And in these twenty-two years, you still haven't captured it. Here, the law is not a shield the police use to protect the people, Alfred, it's a weapon the police wield against anyone who doesn't serves it."
Alfred Pennyworth: "For your information, that's not unique to Gotham, it's the case in many places out there."
Bruce Wayne: "That doesn't change what I said."
Alfred Pennyworth: "And it doesn't change that for most people, the law remains rules they must follow to avoid punishment, Master Bruce."
Bruce Wayne: "Alfred, sorry, but you're no right there. The law is not rules to follow. It's a belief. The belief that humanity can be better than itself. The belief that every bad person will face punishment. The problem is, that belief doesn't exist here."
Alfred Pennyworth, making a slight pause, then thinking for a moment, begins to speak more slowly than usual: "Master Bruce. May I ask you out for one question?"
Bruce Wayne: "Go ahead, one more or less," he says, sitting in the chair next to Alfred and covering his face with his hand in a peculiar manner—his left palm covered the lower left part of his face, completely covering his mouth, his thumb on his left cheekbone, his index finger exactly to the left of his left eye up to his left eyebrow—almost covering it—his middle finger angled from his nose to his right eyebrow between his eyes, his ring finger passing over his mouth under his right eye and touching his right cheekbone, his pinky passing right under his mouth.
Alfred Pennyworth: "Master Bruce. What 'belief' does mean for you? For example, the belief in God, what is it for you?"
Bruce Wayne: "The belief in God… the closest one is the belief in miracles."
Alfred Pennyworth: "The belief in miracles. And what do these 'miracles' mean for you? For ones, a miracle is food on the table and water in the cup, for others it's a new house with a sea view or a sport car."
Bruce Wayne: "Alfred, don't drag it out."
Alfred Pennyworth: "My point is that belief is subjective. People are not obligated to look at one thing and see the same thing in it. One thing can give people far more than one kind of belief. I don't know, and can't know, what Mr. Fox does belief in, but the fact that he doesn't share your beliefs doesn't make him weak. You know, even the very fact that he was able to find belief in anything makes him strong."
Bruce Wayne: "That still doesn't change what I said."
Alfred Pennyworth: "And I'm not trying to cancel out your words. I'm trying only to give you a different belief in your own words."
Bruce Wayne: "If that's the case, then be aware, you out of success. And for your best to know, Alfred. I don't believe in God."
Alfred Pennyworth: "Hmm, your father sure would not be proud of it. He was quite the devout Catholic. Can you imagine how that must be, to have an atheist son?"
Bruce Wayne: "And I'm not even an atheist, Alfred. I don't believe in religion as an idea. That believing in God is believing in a miracle. The thing is, God doesn't care about us, Alfred, when we aren't playing by his rules, and when we do, he looks at us not as followers, but as servants. If it makes it easier for you, I don't deny God, I do deny the point of belief in him and his attachment to us. That's why my father failed, Alfred. He waited for a miracle from heaven instead of creating one himself. The common mistake of the men."
Alfred Pennyworth, dryly and unimpressed: "So this is what your goal is about, Master Bruce? To 'create a miracle'."
Bruce Wayne: "Missed again, Alfred. All I need to is finish what my father failed to, to make this place into a better one."
Alfred Pennyworth: "Then what's the point of trying to prove me all this?"
Bruce Wayne: "None. You see, miracles are coming streight up from your very life. If it sees a point in miracles for you, it will give you one. That what means 'to create a miracle'. To give a miracle reason to exist."
Alfred Pennyworth: "So you planning to give a miracle reason to exist in your life."
Bruce Wayne: "Alfred, in my life, there's no miracle to exist. I couldn't give my life a reason to give me one, no matter what I would ever do. Consider my words my confession of that this Bat-Man is no anything of my miracle to this city, just something that happened to be in city because of me."
Alfred Pennyworth: "You know your father would never approve to something like this, Master Bruce."
Bruce Wayne: "That's why I'm saying this to you, Alfred. You would never oppose me, unlike my father."
Alfred Pennyworth: "You know I could never tell you how to treat your father, but you should know how disrespectful to his existence he would consider it."
Bruce Wayne: "And do you personally consider that would be disrespectful for him? Personally, anf factually. Be honest."
Alfred Pennyworth, after a small pause: "No, I don't. But I think I wish I do."
Bruce Wayne: "Listen, if I was disrespectful to my father, I would never ever even enter the stage I am in right now. Now sorry, Alfred, the night is coming, I have to go."
Alfred Pennyworth: "One more thing, Master Bruce, before you get to go. Considering Mr. Fox. Not every man who ended up on a battlefield, happened to be a soldier."