​Is Batman Finally Getting His Soul Back? (Batman #7)

​Every Wednesday is the one day of the week I allow myself to wake up and unashamedly live my life as intended—a giddy, overly (or exactly the right amount) excited man prepared to transform into the closest version of my real self. I become the turbo-nerd comic boy-man, free of the cumbersome adult mask I wear to conduct business, take my children to school, and wave to the neighbors during my daily walks. This necessary, life-sustaining non-metahuman cowl of the “family man” I must adorn for the real-world survival skills and justice of my future adult offspring is heavy. In other words: I love comics, and I really love great comics on comic day.

​To put it another way, this Batman—the non-legacy numbered (yet) rinse-clone-keep-the-outfit-only and maybe Joker (but it better be good! Look at Snyder! His Joker is Satan! Literally Satan! Shape-shifting Satan! He even hates jokes! Beat that!)—is just starting to feel like it has some real life to it; maybe even a soul. This issue shows off the kind of writing that I always love to experience from Mr. Fraction; his works have always been [sex]criminally great (shout out to my man-crush, Mr. Zdarsky).

​The first handful of issues could have easily become the perfect opener to a trope-fest Bat-mess if handed off to a lesser writer. The subtle pivots in this particular issue are giving me "the feels" similar to the not-so-subtle issue six of Invincible, and that's a great thing. I will once again don my heavy cowl and blend in with the general populace to wait in great anticipation of the next issue.

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The Batman (Issue #7): A Slightly Lost But Beautiful Soul Finds its Perfect Home

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  When midnight comes and the day can no longer be denied, people approach the conquest of their Wednesday in a plethora of unique ways. Some picture a desert—endless and infinite. This sand-covered hellscape proves time and again that it holds the world's most honest economy. It is measured not by census data, but by overwhelming rivers of crimson blood and salt-coated waves of human tears, shimmering as they meet the blinding rays of a horrid, torturous sun. This nightmare’s primary import is lost souls; its only export is death. Some shout, "Hump day!" desperately trying to inflect hope. Others whimper, "We are only halfway, Steve..." before collapsing from exhaustion. But a brave few adore this day to a point bordering worship. I consider Wednesday the one day I fully allow myself to wake up and live as intended—a giddy man prepared to transform into my real self. I become the turbo-nerd comic boy-man, free of the cumbersome adult mask I wear to conduct ...
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