Per 
IMAGINE THAT YOU’RE a competent, hardened criminal working in Gotham’s underground. You’ve hurt people. Maybe you’ve even killed some. You’ve seen some messed up shit; the sort of things you can’t unsee. You try not to let it get to you. You’ve got a good head on your shoulders; you can keep your cool under pressure.
You carry a gun, but you don’t like to use it – not if you don’t have to. You prefer words to bullets. But you’ve also learned that when things get heated, bullets can make very persuasive arguments.
One night, while pulling a job with some of your mates, you realize something’s off. Two of your men haven’t reported in. At first, you think it’s the cops – but it couldn’t be. Not in this city. Your boss pays them more than enough to stay away, and the few who won’t take the money aren’t dumb enough to venture out here.
Feds, maybe? No – feds wouldn’t be this quiet. They’re flashy; loud. This is something else. Another outfit, maybe? Somebody moving in on your boss’ territory?
Another man fails to report in. That brings it up to three. Then, you hear the sound of gunshots – followed by a scream. Whatever this is, the job’s officially turned sour. You order the rest of your crew to pull out – boss won’t be happy, but he’ll be even less happy if all of his muscle is dead. Except by the time you issue the order, it’s already too late.
The two men with you are gone. Their guns are on the ground; their flashlights are rolling across the floor. You’re alone.
You don’t panic – not yet. In this work, panic gets you killed. Instead, you calmly pull your pistol and make your way toward the exit.
You hear a faint rustle, followed by a whoosh – and then a wet, harsh thump. Something bites into the back of your hand. The pistol falls; it clatters, making several metallic clinks against the concrete. Stupid. You shouldn’t have dropped it. You reach for whatever it is that hit you, pulling it out. It’s a small, delicate two-sided throwing blade – black as coal, with its blades shaped like serrated wings. For a second, you stare at it, numb and uncomprehending. Then, you toss it aside and make a run for the exit.
That’s when something wraps around your ankle. With a metallic whine, you’re yanked into the air. The snare leaves you dangling in the air, upside down – like a fish that’s been reeled in. A weak and confused yelp escapes you. Someone is approaching – sinking down from the ceiling. A man.
He’s dressed in black; his eyes are a pure, burning white. He wears a black cowl – two pointed horns emerge from it. Like a devil. As you struggle to keep that legendary cool of yours, he starts talking. His voice is a husky, harsh snarl. He’s asking you questions – questions about your boss. About this job. About your crew.
You tell him to piss off. He asks you again – harder. Feeling a cold terror in your belly, you tell him just enough to make him stop – but not enough to get you in trouble. You figure you’re a dead man already. Might as well make the process painless as possible.
Except – much to your shock – he doesn’t kill you. Once he’s learned what he wants to know, he turns to go – intent, apparently, on leaving you to hang. As he does, you’re seized with an uncharacteristic surge of curiosity. “Wait,” you cry out. “Who are you?!”
He stops. Turns. Fixes you with those bright, burning eyes. And in that deep, thunderous growl, he responds:
“I’m BATMAN.”
You stare. For a moment, the room is as silent as the grave.
And then the snickering starts.
It’s small, at first. Just a chortle. But it rapidly swells into something out of control. The snickers develop into giggles; the giggles develop into a full-blown belly-laugh. You’re laughing so hard it fucking hurts.
“Batman,” you wheeze. “Oh my God, that’s–” (laugh, wheeze) “–the pointy ears, they’re–” (wheeze) “–the throwing blades, they’re shaped like–” (wheeze, laugh) “–oh my God you have a bat-symbol on your fucking CHEST–”
Only part of his face is exposed – and your tears are making your vision blurry. But as your laughter continues, you think you recognize something in his silent, stony expression. Not resentment – not anger. No, something else.
Resignation.
A few minutes after he leaves, you manage to get a handle on the laughter. You’re starting to put some serious thought into how you’re going to get down – and after that, maybe think about a career change. That’s when you see it – hear it. A beast of a vehicle, colored pitch black. It must be his. It’s driving off into the night, rushing past you.
A goddamn tank.
A tank with bats engraved on the goddamn rims.
You laugh so hard that you’re pretty sure you’ve peed yourself.
