Gotham... is a sheet of black paper.
It's the white words you write on that black paper. It's the path you desperately chase, sinking deeper and deeper.
It's like the first sentence of the last story in your life.
—— Batman: Gotham Impressions
…
"Zzzzz... Gotham Gazette brings you the latest news... The standoff between the Ventriloquist and the police at the Gotham Evidence Bureau has lasted for three hours. Experts believe…"
"…this is nothing more than freaks attracting freaks… The massive breakout at Arkham a few days ago… Because of Batman, you know, he draws in those kinds…"
"As of now, Batman still hasn't appeared at the scene. One has to wonder, could the rumors of Batman's death be true? Has the Gotham City Police Department really become so incompetent… Wait, there's a new development. It's Batman! He's here!"
Rain fell steadily over Gotham in June, but the square in front of the Gotham Evidence Bureau was more chaotic than usual.
Mark's Batmobile hadn't even come to a full stop before a swarm of reporters descended like flies on rotting meat.
Braving the drizzle, they shoved past protesters holding signs that read "We don't want Batman," and the police officers wielding batons trying to maintain order.
Camera flashes went off nonstop.
"Batman, what do you say about the recent rumors that you were killed by Bane…"
"…regarding the Ventriloquist's challenge, do you have any…"
"…Batman, why are you showing up so publicly this time…"
"You freak! It's your fault! That lunatic inside—you get it, right? You're the one who attracts…"
"…grab him, grab him!"
The protester who tried to attack the Batmobile was quickly subdued, but Mark paid no attention to the commotion.
Amid the chaos, facing gazes filled with admiration, indifference, or disgust, he opened the sliding roof of the Batmobile and inhaled the first breath of damp air on this rainy night.
Whoo—
He felt a rare trace of nervousness.
In his previous life as an actor, he should have long been used to standing under the spotlight.
But… today was different.
Mark let out a sigh. Crossing into the DC Universe was one thing—he was a die-hard comic fan, and he was confident he could do just fine. But what he never expected was that he'd end up in the body of the one and only Batman—Bruce Wayne himself…
What happened to clinging to a big-shot's thigh for survival? Now he was the thigh. How was that supposed to work?
As everyone knows, Batman is the only member of the Justice League's Big Seven without superpowers, yet he's arguably the strongest pure human in Earth's history.
He's insanely wealthy, brilliant beyond measure, a master tactician, an unmatched fighter, and has willpower like forged steel. He's punched Darkseid in the face and kicked the entire Justice League's ass—there aren't even words to describe how badass he is!
But—what did any of that have to do with Mark, the transmigrator?
Oh right, Batman's an orphan. And in his past life, so was Mark. That might be the only thing they had in common.
A body with dead parents, inhabited by a soul whose parents were also dead—this double-orphan combo was so tragic, it was almost cool.
What made things worse was that becoming Batman was already hell mode—but the timeline he landed in? It was during Batman: Knightfall, when the Dark Knight was about to suffer one of the few total defeats in his life—having his spine shattered by Bane!!!
At this point, calling it hell mode was an understatement.
Mark had considered dropping everything and leaving Gotham behind, but he quickly gave up on that stupid idea.
Bane knew Batman's true identity. If Mark ran now, it would be the same as suicide.
Once Bane crushed him and took full control of the city, maybe… no—definitely—that would be the day he died. Even if he somehow survived, he'd spend the rest of his life in a wheelchair…
His gaze drifted to the bottom left corner, where a line of silvery text appeared—only visible to him.
[Alfred Protocol is currently active]
[Warning! At least one anchor item is required to synchronize Batman's memories!]
Damn it!
Other transmigrators show up in the Batcave, check in, get platinum kryptonite, swallow it whole, and boom—instantly become Superman. And him? He didn't even get the basic benefit of "original body's memories"!
Three days after crossing over, he had even tried everything in the Batcave—including the toilet paper—and still didn't get a single reaction.
Mark knew about the Alfred Protocol, but in the comics, it was supposed to be a physical mechanical system Batman used to prevent memory tampering—not some weird thing that popped up on your retina!
"Batman!"
A voice cut off Mark's thoughts. He turned his head and saw Gotham City Police Commissioner James Gordon hurrying over.
With huge dark circles under his eyes and disheveled, wet, gray-streaked brown hair sticking to his forehead, he looked both bedraggled and unhinged—like a groundhog that had been violently… traumatized into a nervous breakdown.
"God! Batman! You're here. I can't believe you're still alive. I saw Bane snap your neck with my own eyes. Are you really Batman? Or is this some twisted game where the Joker found your corpse, put on your costume and cowl, and is here screwing with me in some kind of role-play stunt?"
"This pointless probing ends here," Mark replied. "Don't be fooled by those rumors."
He had immediately caught the undertone of Gordon's joke—it was a subtle test. So he cut him off right away.
Yes, the body was real, but the soul wasn't. So please don't figure that out, sharp-eyed detective.
Mark sighed inwardly. Dealing with the cunning folks of Gotham was tough. Without Batman's memories, he had to rely entirely on himself.
He turned his gaze toward the Gotham Evidence Bureau, silent in the rain.
So, this was the plan.
As a hardcore comic fan, he had memorized every detail of the Batman comics and knew the villains like the back of his hand.
Combined with his award-winning acting skills and his past experience as a psychiatrist—his ability to read and manipulate minds—maybe he could try to control or influence some of the weaker or unstable villains on a psychological level, and use them against Bane…
Mark looked at Gordon and got straight to the point.
"Did you bring what I asked for?"
"Oh, of course."
Commissioner Gordon's eyes briefly drifted away from his face as he lifted the evidence bag in his hand. Inside was a grotesque-looking puppet, with a scar running across its face.
Scarface—the Ventriloquist's favorite puppet.
"Mm, hand it over."
Commissioner Gordon clearly hesitated, but still obediently passed the evidence bag to Mark, which made Mark breathe a little easier.
After a moment of thought, he decided to offer an explanation:
"The source of that rumor—the Batman supposedly killed by Bane—that wasn't me. That was my apprentice, the Angel of Death."
"Right, right," Gordon replied, wisely choosing not to press the subject further.
Mark gave him a long, meaningful look.
"We'll talk more about this later."
Then he retrieved a large duffel bag from the back of the Batmobile. Holding Scarface in one hand, he walked toward the entrance of the Evidence Bureau, fully exposed under countless watching eyes.
"Hoo…"
He murmured softly, almost inaudibly:
Ladies and gentlemen,
The props are in place.
The actor is ready.
Please allow me the honor of announcing—
The performance…
Begins.