“The TruBatman Show,” Part 3

Originally published July 24, 1998, in Comics Buyer’s Guide #1288

“The TruBatman Show, Part 3 (Conclusion)”

He sits before me, looking at me with an assortment of emotions tumbling through him. I was sure of that. How could he not be feeling shock, confusion, anger, denial—every possible human emotion? Were I human, I could likely relate more closely to it.

Batman was surrounded by all his greatest foes and greatest friends. They were mingling with disconcerting informality, and he had an insane impulse to laugh at the absurdity of it all.

They were all there in the Fortress of Solitude, all of them. Anyone who had ever played any significance in his life. Wonder Woman next to Catwoman, Killer Croc beside Nightwing. Hovering above, observing it all, was Superman, his powerful arms folded. As inscrutable as a monument, he surveyed the controlled chaos and seemed to be judging when it would be best for him to step in.

Batman simply stared at them all, although, of course, that was difficult to discern, considering that he was wearing a mask with white eye slits. He had not spoken in some time but, instead, had simply pulled his cape around himself and taken to standing motionless. There was not so much as a flicker of a hint that he had any true idea what he was seeing or what was happening.

It seemed that, by consensus, Alfred was chosen to approach him first. He had, after all, known him the longest. Also, since he had always been a “non-combatant,” it seemed unlikely that Batman was likely to turn on him. He advanced slowly until he was a few feet away, then straightened his crisp jacket and said, “Master Bruce?”

Batman didn’t appear to acknowledge him at first, but, finally, the great head swiveled, a masked conning tower, and aimed in Alfred’s direction. “Master Bruce, I know this is something of a difficult notion for you to grasp…”

“Grasp?” The word was almost amusing. “Grasp,” he said again, mulling it over. “I track across a frozen wasteland to find answers that I think Superman may possess—and find all of you here, socializing… fraternizing…”

“It isn’t what you think, Master Bruce—”

It seemed as if Batman hadn’t make the slightest motion, but suddenly he was right there, inches away from Alfred, and he appeared to radiate a cold, dark anger. “Then what—is it?”

“You should really be addressing that question to me, Batman.” It was Superman’s deep voice. He drifted toward the floor like a lazy cloud.

“Joining us mere mortals?” Batman asked.

“Oh, I’m mortal, Batman. All too mortal. Everyone here is.” He paused, steeling himself—appropriately. “However, only one of us—you—is a human being.”

“I see. And the rest of you?”

“Let me try to explain this as simply as I can.”

“That’s always the best sort of explanation.”

“My name is Kal-El. And I’m a scientist. But I’m also in the—well, what could best be described as the entertainment industry. You know that I’m from Krypton—”

“Yes, yes,” Batman said disbelievingly, impatiently. “The planet which blew up when you were a child, and you were sent hurtling—” But then his voice trailed off in confusion, as Superman slowly shook his head.

“No,” Superman said quietly. “Krypton never exploded, never blew up. It’s as healthy as it ever was. But the populace—is bored. It wants entertainment. And I decided on—a way to give it to them. I constructed all this—” and he gestured around them.

“You mean The Fortress?”

“No. I mean the world: the world you live in, the world you inhabit. You live inside of what Terrans would call a Dyson Sphere, in orbit around Krypton. And there are cameras, hundreds of thousands of them, mounted throughout the interior. And every single one of those cameras is focused on you.”

“What are you talking about? That’s insane—”

“No. No, it’s not. Not remotely.”

“You’re Superman—I’m Batman—”

“No,” said Superman, his voice like a gong chiming out the truth of the world. “I’m not Superman. There is no ‘Superman,’ as an actual individual. No Robin, no Joker, no Alfred. They’re all actors, Batman. All Kryptonians. An all-Kryptonian cast. And then there’s you: the star of the show. A foundling, an abandoned child discovered by my ‘casting agent,’ left in a garbage can in a back alley on Earth. You were brought here, to this prepared world that had been created especially for you. Your background, your ‘family,’ was created to be as close to Earth normal as we could approximate. We made you the son of a rich family, the Waynes, so that you would want for nothing and could lead an exciting, jet-setting life. Kryptonians tuned in, daily, constantly, some of them round-the-clock. They found you fascinating and the manufacture of an alternative world—complete with a genuine alien—to be irresistible. And then—”

“And then—what?” said Batman, still having trouble grasping it all.

Kal sighed heavily. “Contract negotiations. What can I tell you? Your parents decided to play hardball. Tried to strong-arm us. I have my own concerns and my own budget. And, frankly, I’m not enthused with cast members trying to strong-arm me. So we killed them.”

“Killed them—” Batman shook his head. “You—”

“Bruce—”

Batman didn’t want to turn and look behind him, didn’t want to respond to the voice. But he couldn’t help it. He turned—and stared into the faces of Thomas and Martha Wayne. Thomas he recognized immediately as the man he’d spotted in the control room. Thomas shrugged slightly. “Man has to earn a living somehow, son,” he said, as if reading Bruce’s mind.

Martha, for her part, took a step toward him, her arms open as if to hug him, but Batman instinctively moved back as if he were shrinking into himself. “Keep back,” he said in a gravelly tone.

“Bruce—”

“Don’t call me that. Do not ever call me that. I’m Batman.” He turned to Superman. “Are you saying—you made me into Batman—sending the bat through the window—”

Superman shook his head. “Not at all. We had no idea you’d react the way you did. You’d been grim and intense for more than a decade, Bruce. The audience was complaining. Ratings were dropping. Day after day, year after year, of you studying and working out. Viewers had had enough. Unfortunately, the bat through your window was, well, it was a miscommunication.”

“A what?”

“I’m the director of the series, as well—which, at the time, was called The TruBruce Show. I wanted you to take up an interest in baseball—perhaps buy a team. I called for a bat to be thrown through your window. A baseball bat. But my propmaster misunderstood.

“Next thing I know, I’m watching a mechanical bat fly through your window and, the next thing I knew, you were putting on a cape and mask. It was completely unexpected, a total accident—but it paid off. Paid off big. Viewers were so taken by it, we wound up changing the name of the series to reflect the new emphasis. And we populated your world with other heroes, including me, using a yellow sun generator,” and he tapped his belt buckle, “to provide me, and others, with powers and abilities far beyond yours.

“And we gave you grotesqueries for you to fight. As you got older, we even added teenage sidekicks to make sure we didn’t lose the younger viewers. We never expected you to find out, Batman—but sometimes one must learn to deal with the unexpected. We are left, then, with only one question: Now what?”

“Now what?”

“Well, now you know. You know the truth. We have several options—and none of them will be imposed upon you. We are, after all, civilized. You can continue with your adventures, if you wish. In order to make it all believable to you, we can wipe your memory of all this—”

“And spend my life as some sort of—captive freak?” Batman shook his head.

“Then you can continue here and keep your memory. You can think of it as a sort of—of ongoing challenge. We will continue to dream up foes for you, problems to solve. It will be very intellectually stimulating—”

“I want to get out of here,” Batman said tightly. “I want out. Gone. I want to go home. Home to Earth.”

“Earth is not your home, Batman. Don’t you understand? There’s no place for you there.”

“It’s not like here, sir,” Alfred warned him. “Reality of a super-heroic world works within its own sphere. There are certain—‘rules’—that make it all possible. The true Earth has no super-heroes, none of those rules. You won’t survive there.”

“I’ll survive. Survive as I always have—and always will,” he added.

“Batman, I urge you—”

“Take me—home.”

In the tone of his voice, in the set of his jaw, it was evident that there was simply no reasoning with him. “Very well,” he sighed. “I will—arrange for it. And may Rao have mercy on your soul.”

I monitor the Earth broadcast, as I have from time to time. And I see the item that I knew, inevitably, I would see. Indeed, it took not much longer than I had anticipated.

A vigilante in Manhattan—unarmed, weaponless, wearing a costume with a mask and large cape—attempted to intervene in an armed robbery in midtown.

One of the robbers pulled out an AK-47 and opened fire. The vigilante attempted to dodge the bullets but was unsuccessful, as the bullets tore open his sternum.

He climbed into a conspicuously decorated black Corvette and sped away as the police approached, but became gridlocked in traffic as he attempted to flee into the Lincoln Tunnel.

He is at present in a hospital, unconscious, with doctors giving him only a 30% chance of survival. I would rate it slightly higher, simply because I know him and his singular determination. It is ironic, though, that the greatest lesson he will learn in his life is that, sometimes, ignorance of one’s situation is preferable.

As for me—I am presently casting for a new star. If you are reading this and have an infant, or know of one, who might be appropriate—simply cut out the shape of a bat from a piece of cardboard, tape it across a flashlight, and shine it into the sky. I’ll be watching.

Peter David, writer of stuff, can be written to at Second Age, Inc., P.O. Box 239, Bayport, NY 11705.