The Batcave
Beneath Wayne Manor, Gotham City

I have been the sole maintenance staff for this facility for nearly five decades. In that time, I have mopped blood, polished titanium alloy armor, restocked medical supplies at 3 AM, and hand-washed a cape that costs more than most people's homes. I do this without complaint because I love Master Wayne. But I have thoughts.

The technology is extraordinary. The Batcomputer alone could run a small country. The vehicle bay is immaculate — I see to it personally. The forensics lab is world-class. The armory is organized with military precision. Five stars for every piece of equipment in this cave.

The bats, however, are a problem. There are actual bats. Hundreds of them. They live in the ceiling and they descend every evening like a cloud of leathery nightmares. I have suggested — politely, repeatedly, for DECADES — that we install ultrasonic deterrents or, at minimum, netting. Master Wayne says the bats "are part of the aesthetic." Sir, the aesthetic is guano. I am cleaning guano off a seven-million-dollar supercomputer. This is not aesthetic. This is a biohazard.

The medical bay is well-equipped but receives far too much use. Master Wayne returns from patrol with injuries that would hospitalize a professional boxer and asks me to "stitch it up." I am a butler. I trained at the British Butler Academy. Suturing a knife wound was not in the curriculum. And yet here we are, at 2 AM, with me holding a needle and Master Wayne insisting he's "fine" while visibly bleeding from four places.

Four stars. I would give five but I cannot, in good conscience, endorse a workspace where the ceiling produces excrement. I have raised Master Wayne from childhood and I love him dearly, but someone needs to say it: the bats are a health code violation and the cape is dry-clean only and he keeps getting it wet.

Three stars. The gym equipment is incredible — Olympic-level training facilities, parallel bars, rings, the works. But there's no thermostat. It's a cave. It is literally underground and the temperature is 54 degrees year-round. I trained in a leotard. Do you understand how cold 54 degrees is in a leotard? Bruce wears full body armor. He doesn't notice. I am acutely aware.

Also, there's one bathroom and it's a 200-yard walk from the main platform. When you're in the middle of a briefing and you have to go, you're walking past the Batmobile, past the armory, past the T-Rex (yes, there's a giant T-Rex, nobody has ever explained why), and then down a corridor that Alfred keeps at an unreasonable level of cleanliness. The walk of shame is real.

FIVE STARS. Absolutely LOVE this place. The decor is so SERIOUS. Everything is black and grey and brooding. It's like someone designed an entire cave around the concept of not smiling. The giant penny? HILARIOUS. The dinosaur? COMEDY GOLD. And Batsy doesn't even see the humor. That's the best part.

I broke in through the waterfall entrance — which, by the way, is EXTREMELY findable if you're paying attention — and I just sat in the Batchair for twenty minutes before anyone noticed. The chair spins! It spins! The world's most serious man has a SPINNING CHAIR. I laughed so hard I set off the motion sensors. Then I got punched. Five stars. Would break in again.