A/N: Well, I've been reading the Catcher in The Rye, and while reading I had this idea of doing a teenage Bruce fic with first pov, quite a challenge for me, to tell the truth.

Premises of this story and the title are coming from Inkjade's amazing fic 'until our city be afire', I think it's safe to say that I've been also inspired by her fic :)

Not edited; so all grammar failures are mine. But if you see glaring problems, please, lemme know.

Chapter One:

Mr. Birchen always says being fifteen simply could explain a lot of stupidity. I suppose he's right. Because when I come to think about it I can't find any better words to sum it up than 'fifteen and stupid.'

God, I really don't want to do this.

But I told Alfred I would. To explain the—current situation, I guess I need to tell you stuff from the very beginning, tell you who I am and how I turned out like this, but frankly I don't want to do it. Besides, it'd be a giant waste of time too, because well, if you're reading this, then you already know who I am (if you don't...seriously, what in the hole are you living? Everyone knows me.) Yep, that's right; everyone knows me. Say Bruce Wayne in a crowd and everyone tells you something. Some of them are naïve, and full of sympathy (oh, poor boy, he lost his parents before his eyes... poor, poor boy), some of them spiteful (oh, god, he's not the only orphan in the world, besides, he's got countless billions...luckier than those poor chaps in Gotham Care.)

I guess they have a right to be spiteful, to be honest I'd be spiteful at me too if I weren't me, I am lucky, and I suppose they also have a point; if you're to be a bastard, it's much better to be a rich bastard.

But still they don't understand. That's my bane. They all have opinions, opinions that I can't neither agree nor disagree but no one understands. But they still talk like they do, and sometimes I just wish the bastard finished the whole job... God, I really don't want to do this.

But I told Alfred I would, and I don't want to lie to him because he's like...you know, family. Besides, it won't serve anything. Alfred has those eyes that look at you that way, and that tilt of his head that make you feel like you're transparent and he could see all. He always understands. (He rarely talks though.)

And that's his bane, I guess.

But I'm going off topic here, ain't I? Okay then...Well, I don't need to start from the beginning but I need to start from somewhere to explain how I ended up like this, just gotten out of the County, face and knuckles bruised, lips split, eyebrows burst, a few cracks in the ribs, sitting in the bed writing to an imaginary audience.

Yeah...sounds stupid? (Told you already.)

If have to blame it on something, I guess, it was the fault of the committee that decided to take Rachel too for the London trip. (And of course, they did, who else can represent the school better than her?)

And maybe it was the fault of the idiots that thought a friendly picnic gathering with Gotham High School was a terrific idea to teach the upper crust of Gotham society a little bit humility.

But truth to be told, more than anything, it was Thomas Elliot's fault.

Perhaps I did a mistake at the beginning. Perhaps to sum it up I should have said; fifteen and stupid... and friends?

I don't know. I never did.