jla_watchtower | And where, and where... is the Batman?

Dr. Hugo Strange is alone in his study.

Freshly shaven once more, he sits in the leather chair in the dimly lit room, watching the sunlight slowly fading away through the drapes.

The grandfather clock ticks in the hallway, the only sound.

Criminals are a cowardly and superstitious lot. Rupert Thorne is no exception.

The familiar smell of old literature permeates the room.

Thorne is a monster. He tortures Gotham City with his vice just as he tortured me to get your name. But he could not break me. He will never break me. Instead, I will break him.

He hears the slight rustle of paper down the hall, and his mail slot creaking shut.

I will deliver the justice you purport to uphold. I will succeed where you fail, or do not even try.

His eyes close, and his breathing deepens.

Criminals are a cowardly and superstitious lot. Bruce Wayne is no exception.

A sequence of buttons is pressed on a panel in the arm of this chair, and a wall turns inside out in response.

I will prove that you are but a shell, Mr. Wayne. A hollow champion of hollow ideals. You are nothing. I am darkness. I am the night.

He rises, crossing the room to gaze up at the cowl he will wear tonight, once again haunting Thorne's footsteps as he did after faking his own death to escape the monster.

I am Batman.