Cyrus Pinkney: January 13, 1855: The moment of my death approaches and there is naught I might to do to stop it. I dared dream of greatness, but in the process, I forgot that such ambition oft demands a heavy price. Still I pay it gladly, for knowing that Gotham has become a city whose magnificence will echo across the ages. But its origins must not be forgotten. And so I have scattered my journal across the city, placing pages where I believe they shall endure. Find them. Read them. Then share what lies within. For though the truth may not be so beautiful as the legend - it is necessary all the same.
Entry Two:
Cyrus Pinkney: April 22, 1846: Our recent financial troubles have forced us into business with one Henry Cobblepot, a print magnate of questionable repute. The man cares little for me and my 'base station', as he put it. And so the negotiations are left to Solomon. But I fear his idealism shall lead us down a treacherous road. For Cobblepot is a sneak - and surely his sweet words mask a nefarious intent.
Entry Three:
Cyrus Pinkney: August 11, 1851: I fear I've angered Henry Cobblepot. But he sought to build over the last remaining vestige of the original Gotham, and I could not allow it. Solomon and I went before the Mayor and bade him support us. Henry was opposed - insisting his work was necessary for Gotham's financial security. I think it's more to do with his own. Solomon Wayne's hotel put Cobblepot's out of business. I do wonder if Mr. Wayne erred in opening that place. But what's done is done.
Entry Four:
Cyrus Pinkney: February 7, 1852: I have met the most extraordinary young man by the name of Amadeus Arkham. Though still just a student, he exhibits an intelligence unmatched by even Gotham's most learned. He is possessed with a kind heart as well - and seeks to help those who all others have abandoned. Rehabilitation instead of incarceration. It is the most progressive notion and one that few of his peers support. But I believe. And so I shall provide him with plans for the greatest asylum the world has ever known...
Entry Five:
Cyrus Pinkney: April 3, 1853: I'm sorry Solomon... to have gone behind your back. To have bargained with the devil. But the accounts have run dry - and our work is but half begun! I had no choice but to approach Henry Cobblepot. The others would contribute no more. He consented to my request, though I fear it will come at a great cost. For now he says I owe him nothing. But how long until I do?
Entry Six:
Cyrus Pinkney: December 22, 1854: I fear I'm not long for the world. Henry Cobblepot finally came to collect - and I refused. He wishes to open a munitions factory inside the city. This is not part of the plan and it works against everything we've accomplished. To say nothing of the danger to Gotham's citizens. I went to the mayor and begged him to introduce a bill banning the endeavour. Thankfully, he agreed. But I'm sure to be punished for my betrayal. It's only a matter of how and when...
Entry Seven:
Cyrus Pinkney: January 11, 1855: I've accepted the invitation, knowing that it means my death. Henry Cobblepot claims its merely party to celebrate my fortieth birthday. He insists that he's forgiven my past transgressions. Turned over a new leaf, as it were. But I know better. With me gone, he will use his wily charms to see the law changed and his factory built. Already there are rumours that his son, Theodore, intends to run for mayor. Victory is all but assured. I will hide this journal of mine, in the hopes that some day it might be found. To go public now - before my work is done - would put it all at risk. It must wait. But I hope in time, my words are brought to light...
Entry Eight:
Cyrus Pinkney: January 14, 1855: My god, it worked. Amadeus truly is a genius. You've come this far, dear reader - allow me to explain: I learned Cobblepot intended to poison me. And so we endeavoured to replace his tainted wine with one of our own creation. As expected, I choked. I sputtered. And then I passed. But it was not poisoned I consumed. Rather something made by Amadeus. His concoction enabled me to enter a soporific state so profound that, to even the keenest of physicians, I appeared a corpse. Yet here I am - resurrected. And now I will have my revenge: Henry Cobblepot will pay for what he's done.
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