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."