He wakes up from his sleep. Middle of the night. Third time this week. It's hard getting used to actually getting sleep. Especially for him.
He gets up and walks down the short hallway towards the kitchen. He pulls a beer bottle out, opens it, and sips it.
The window creaks opens to the small apartment and he reaches for knife on the kitchen table. "Bruce Wayne?" A young voice asks cockily.
"I think you have me confused with someone else. My name is Thomas Grayson," the old man with the dark gray beard responds, aggravation evident in his voice.
The young man laughs. "So this is what has become of the great BATMAN!" He mocks.
"Like I said, I think you have me confused with some…" the older man states sounding even more annoyed than before.
"Shut the hell up, old man!" The younger of the two shouts. He reaches into his torn leather jacket and pulls out a gun, aiming it at the elderly man. He walks closer putting the gun to the old man's temple. "Now where do you keep the money?"
"If I was Bruce Wayne, do you think I'd be living in this shitty apartment?" The older asks, perturbed at the familiar feeling of the metal pressed against his head.
"Does it look like I give a fuck what you say? All I want to know is where the fucking money is?" The young man shouts, spit flying in the older man's face as he does so.
The older begins tensing up and moving more towards the younger, growling through clenched teeth, "I don't know, where the fucking money is. Now get the hell out of my apartment."
"Tell me, or…. or... I'll blow your brains out!" The young man stutters, growing nervous as the man becomes more and more like the myths he heard his parents tell of the Batman.
The older narrows his eyes, then lets out a chilling chuckle, sending shivers down the young man's spine. "Like you have the guts! Besides, safety is on." The older taunts coldly.
The young man slowly pulls the trigger, angered by the taunt. The older man closes his eyes and slowly exhales, wondering if this will be his last breath. Wondering if he really cares.
The gun doesn't fire.
When he doesn't hear a bang, just a click, the old man becomes angry. He doesn't know if he's angrier that the man tried to kill him, or that he didn't succeed. The older man reaches up and disarms the man. He punches him in the ribs. Three snap like twigs. Then in the nose. It crushes under the pressure of his fist. Finally he kicks out his knee.
He picks up the now fallen enemy with ease, and walks him towards the window he came in through. He dangles him over the ledge, then without hesitating, drops him out of the window.
As the man falls two floors, the older closes the window, not caring about the agonizing scream he hears. As he locks the window, he doesn't notice the tapping of the even older man's cane as he gets closer and observes him. "Ma… Master Br… Bruce," the man exhales heavily, "you… you could've killed that man."
"I didn't." Bruce assures, agitated at the notion.
"How'd you know the safety was on?" The old man asks worried at what the answer may be.
Bruce hesitates momentarily, but not long enough that the man notices, "Because he was a minor crook, he wasn't going to kill me. He wouldn't. Besides, he wanted to know where the money was."
"Master Bruce…" the old man's voice chokes out.
"Don't worry about it Alfred." He says walking over to the couch with his beer and lying down. Drowning out his anger, his pain, his disappointment. The disappointment in himself, in the result of the battle. God how he's changed.
Ten years ago, he would've heard the criminal before he even started opening the window. Now, not only did he not hear him, but he let him put a gun to his head. And he told him to pull the trigger. And he was content with it all.
He grabs another beer and drowns out the thoughts. He drinks another. And he begins to sleep.
Knocking. Knocking. Knocking. Bruce gets up from the couch groggily. He walks over to the door looks through the peephole, unlocks the five different locks, then opens the door to a man preparing to knock once again. "Who are you?" Bruce mutters tiredly.
"I work for the CIA…" the man in the black and white suit begins.
"CIA isn't operating anymore. No government organization operates anymore. Not since President Luthor." Bruce tells him.
"Technically we don't."
Bruce eyes the man carefully. He looks him up and down. Expensive suit, plus he's got a gun under his jacket. "What do you want?"
"Someone high up wants you for a mission."
"Who do you think I am? You think I'm James Bond?" Bruce questions cynically.
"No, we think you're Batman." He replies matter of factly.
Bruce chuckles to himself. "Batman died ten years ago along with every other member of the Justice League." And it's the truth, Batman is a symbol, and all that symbol stood for is gone.
"'His' survival was covered up by my boss." The agent tells him.
Bruce's eyes widen in realization, "You work for…"
The CIA operative cuts him off, "The boss wouldn't like to make their presence known to anyone listening in."
"No one could find me, let alone listen in on me," Bruce answers.
"So someone didn't break in last night asking for Bruce Wayne? You've gotten old, sloppy…" the CIA operative looks him in the face and points towards the bottle by the doorway, "and you've started drinking."
"You come to recruit me or judge me?" Bruce asks aggravated at the man.
"Anyway, your mission is simple. You have to find someone and extract them for us." The agent tells him.
Bruce looks at him unsure for a moment. "Who is it?"
"Unimportant currently. If you choose to accept the mission, you will be told a special address to meet at where you will receive the rest of the details," He declares before beginning to walk away from Bruce, slowly.
"Can I at least know where I'm extracting the person from?" Bruce asks.
The man turns around, smirks, and responds, "Joker's territory."
Bruce stares with eyes as cold as steel. His fists clench at the mere mention of the name. His muscles tighten. "I'm in."
The man walks near and leans in and whispers to Bruce, "Meet us at your backup Batcave under GCPD in 24 hours." Bruce nods and the man walks away.
Bruce walks back into his apartment, slamming the door behind him. "Alfred! I'm going out of town for a couple days."
He hears the tapping of the cane hitting the floor, followed by the old man's voice. "Very well Master Bruce. Where to, if I may ask?"
"Joker's territory." He answers, disgusted by the name.
Tears threaten to slip from Alfred's eyes. "I will not let you!" He shouts waving his cane at Bruce. "I will NOT let him kill ANOTHER! Not after… you cannot go," Alfred pleads.
"I have to do this!" Bruce explains, hoping Alfred understands..
"You have a deathwish? Master Bruce, he wouldn't want you to…" Alfred cries out. The tears stream down his wrinkled face. He hunches over using the cane for support.
"IT DOESN'T MATTER WHAT THE HELL HE WOULD WANT, ALFRED!" Bruce shouts. His voice becomes softer and more sullen, "He didn't deserve that. None of them did."
"And neither do you," Alfred tells him, a tear sliding down his cheek.
"You know I do," Bruce replies looking away. "My decision is final, you can't change my decision."
He grabs a beer before leaving Alfred behind in the kitchen. As he enters his room, he slam the door and punches the wall. It stings, but not enough. He hits it again, and again. His hand begins bleeding as he hits the wall. He takes a sip of the beer. Then hits the wall. He is both getting out his built up rage and sadness, and also punishing himself.
Punishing himself for all the pain he caused people. For the pain he's still causing to Alfred. The man doesn't deserve any of the things he's gone through. He lost a best friend in Thomas. And he's losing Bruce. And then there's everyone else that died.
Bruce forgets at times that he's not the only one suffering from loss. He's struggled with that since he was eight years old when his parents were gunned down in front of him. When he watched his friends die.
He lies down in his bed and closes his eyes and tries to get that out of his head. He tries to not think about all of the people that died. All of the people he hurt. All the people he couldn't save. He falls asleep.
For a short moment he's at peace, but it doesn't last long. Peace never lasts for Bruce. The nightmare start.
"Bruce…" Clark begs, "PLEASE, DO IT!"
Bruce pulls down his mask, a tear slips past his eye. "I can't Clark."
"YOU HAVE TO!" Clark says as his body becomes thinner and thinner, the energy and life sucked from him. "You have to kill me."
And then Bruce wakes up, sweating, heart pounding. He looks to his side at the clock. 3 o'clock. He tries to close his eyes, but he can't. He can't see it again. He doesn't ever want to see it again. But, still it happens every night. Forever keeping him from getting a full night's sleep.
He can never get a full night's sleep. He hasn't since his parents were killed, and he never will again. He's too haunted.
He knows he can't just lay awake in bed. He gets up and decides to be productive. So he begins to pack for the trip ahead of him that he is going to take. He opens his drawer and opens the false bottom, revealing his Batman suit.
Torn.
It's torn all over. So long since he last wore it. At least nine years. The last time he wore it he vowed never again. And here he was, taking it out so he can wear it on a mission.
A mission that is in twenty hours. A mission that the government is running. A mission he took because of his damned emotions. He doesn't know anything about it. He doesn't even know how high up in the government it goes.
Lex? He doubts that the President is involved. Lex isn't motivated by much these days. Ever since the invasion, the US consists of the north east, south east, and part of the midwest. The rest belonging to criminals who have their own territory.
Criminals like the Joker. Vile, despicable human beings.
Lex exiled them to the land after almost all of the world was killed. He thought, 'The land is empty, might as well put the criminals somewhere where they can't kill innocents.'
But he was wrong. Some innocent people survived. Hence why Joker moved there. Why else would he? Why would he move somewhere where he can't ruin poor, innocent, miserable families lives. It wasn't like he was told. He offered before the program even became official. He couldn't wait to ruin more lives.
Lex of course tried to send in a team to evac them. Of course it didn't work though. Almost all of the military, navy, and airforce was killed during the invasion. The world's population went from 7 billion to barely over 100 million, in the course of a week and a half. So, he barely had a team to go in.
Bruce tried to help of course. All the remaining heroes did. But there weren't many left to begin with, and there are even less now. People think that he's dead too. It's better that way. Doesn't mean that he doesn't help though. Since the disaster ten years prior, he's worked in construction crews. Rebuilding homes, neighborhoods, cities. The only way he can really help.
Batman doesn't have a place in the world anymore. Neither does Bruce Wayne. Though Thomas Grayson, the construction worker does.
It's odd that he spent the majority of his life breaking bones and corrupt organizations, and now he's building things.
He places the Batsuit into his bag. Going into another drawer, he presses a red button and a special compartment pops out.
All his leftover gadgets and gear. He dumps the contents into the duffel bag and zips it. He throws it over by the door, and decides to take a run through Gotham.
He opens the door, and quietly closes it, careful not to wake Alfred. He runs down the flights of stairs and out the front door of the apartment building. He breathes in the air. Clean air.
That's one of the many things that makes it different. Sure, it's still called Gotham, but it's not Gotham. Not really. It still has crime, but it's not rampant. The city isn't overpopulated anymore. Most of the skyscrapers aren't standing tall anymore. It's not the Gotham Bruce grew up in.
He continues running through along the sidewalk. As he turns the corner of a toy shop, he runs into a man, knocking him over. "I'm sorry," Bruce apologizes, feeling bad that he just bulldozed into someone. "I should've been more careful."
"Don't worry about it," the younger man answers. As the moonlight shines on him, the man's appearance is able to be seen, and it is so hauntingly similar to that of Clark's. He wears thick framed glasses, and has his thick black hair parted to the left.
Bruce's breathing halts momentarily, as he realizes the similarities. He wants to reach out and hug the man, a way he rarely, if ever, feels. He can't speak, so instead, he just offers the young man a hand up, which he accepts.
"Well have a good night," Bruce tells him weakly. And they walk in opposite directions. Bruce looks back to make sure he didn't imagine it, but the darkness obscures the man from view.
Bruce feels sick, but he starts runs hard. And harder. Harder, past the point where he feels he may hurl. Until he gets to the old tavern. One of the few original buildings from Gotham. He throws open the door and walks into the quiet setting.
Sitting at the stool, he greets the bartender, telling him, "Gimme a shot of whatever is the strongest thing you have is."
The bartender nods, and places a shot glass in front of Bruce, and pours a drink into it. Bruce doesn't even hesitate, before throwing back the drink. Bruce signals the bartender for another, and he gets his wish. He throws it back. Repeat. Repeat.
He can barely walk when he gets out of the bar several hours later. He stumbles through the streets. Knocking into people. Everyone looks at him wondering what a drunk man is doing in the streets at almost six in the morning.
It takes him awhile to get back to the apartment. He takes a couple wrong turns, but eventually a cab driver pulled over and gave him a ride. Though he had to repeat the address a couple of times because his speech was so slurred. And he's not sure how much he gave the driver. All the faces on the bills looked the same.
He climbs the stairs cautiously, hugging onto the railing for support. He makes his way to his door and shakes the knob of the apartment, barely able to unlock it in the first place. The scent of beer overwhelming. The couch is a few feet away, and he falls into it barely.
He reaches for the bottle of beer at his feet and empties it, drinking the two sips left of the bottle. His eyes feel heavy, and he drifts into sleep. Basically the only way he can fall asleep.
He wakes up 6 hours later. Noonish. He has another 11 hours left.
11 hours.
How the hell is he going to pass that time. Any other day he'd drink. But, he can't show up wasted to see the head of the 'CIA'.
Well he could, but he doubts they'd send him into Joker's land if he shows up like that. And he NEEDS to go to Joker's territory. And when he gets there he will personally kill Joker, and also extract whoever they want.
But in his mind, his main job is to kill the Joker. To kill the man who caused so much pain and suffering. The man who destroyed his remaining family. He's going to do what he should have done all those years ago.
Bruce is snapped out of his thoughts of vengeance, by Alfred asking, "Master Bruce, would you like some lunch?"
"Alfred, you don't work for me anymore. You don't have to do anything for me. You don't owe me anything. I on the other hand," Bruce begins, "I owe you everything."
"If I let you cook for yourself, you would surely die of food poisoning within a week," Alfred retorts.
Bruce shakes his head responding, "I have the one of the highest IQ on the planet, I'm sure I can make lunch."
"You may have tons of intelligence, but it doesn't make up for modesty," Alfred jokes.
"That's why you're here, Alfred, to keep me in my place." Bruce replies jokingly. Alfred's glad for the moments of levity they can both have. Though they are brief and don't come around nearly as often as he wishes.
"I hate that you are going away to that place," Alfred says bringing seriousness into the conversation. He wishes he didn't have to bring it up, but things need to be said.
"I know, but I'll be back. I'll only be out of town for a week, two at most. I need to extract someone for the government."
Alfred glares at him not believing him. "If you say so. And what I said earlier, about him not approving, I'm sorry."
"I know. It's just hard without him." Bruce tells him sullenly. Disappointed in himself that it was Alfred who apologized first when it wasn't even him who did anything wrong.
"I know." Alfred says and he moves to embrace Bruce. And they stay hugging for a few moments, stuck in a sort of father-son embrace.
They break apart and Alfred tells him, "If you are going to go to that dreaded place, you have to be prepared. You should practice using your old weapons. And you should shave that bloody beard."
Bruce feels his beard and states, "Yeah, you're probably right."
"Probably? I know I'm bloody right! Now go shave that damn thing!" Alfred jokes.
Bruce exits the room and walks towards the bathroom. He picks up the razor and puts the blade to the hair.
Ten minutes later he exits the bathroom, freshly shaven. He walks over to Alfred who tells him, "My god, Master Bruce, you look 15 years younger. Now you need to move like you're fifteen years younger too." He hands him a batarang. "Try to hit that vase."
Bruce takes the batarang and brings his arm back in the motion. He aims and throws it. The batarang is a good inch off. "You best hope they don't make you do trials."
"Thanks for the motivation, Alfred," Bruce answers sarcastically. He walks over and picks up the batarang and tries again. It gets closer, but not quite. He tries again. Again.
The vase shatters.
"Good job," Alfred compliments, patting Bruce on the back. "Though, it's a bloody shame, I liked that vase."
Bruce smirks and picks up the batarang. He points at a stain on the wall. He aims and throws the batarang.
It slices through the air, whirling at its target. It strikes the concrete, and Bruce goes to examine if it hit it's target.
"You 'it it?" Alfred questions.
"Yeah, but just barely."
"Better than barely missing, ain't it?"
"That it is," Bruce agrees.
Alfred stares at him. "You like to try grappling next?" He asks half joking, half serious.
"I doubt I'll even have anything to grapple onto, Alfred," Bruce tells him, as he pulls the batarang from the wall. He takes the position he was in earlier and states, "I'm going to try to hit the same spot."
"Well get on with it! I don't have all day, and neither do you!"
Bruce pulls his arm back, he aims. He puts his full body into the throw. The batarang flies. Flies fast, and hard. It makes a loud noise as it connects with the wall. He walks over to the wall, announcing, "Almost."
He spends another few hours practicing on his aim until he gets to the point where he can hit the same spot twice and can hit a target he barely looked at. It's mostly muscle memory, so he doesn't need to work as hard developing his aim as he originally did.
Next, he works on his agility. He goes up on the roof, the way he trained when he was sixteen. He starts running. He increases his pace until he's fully sprinting. The building stops in ten feet and the next building is ten feet away and equal height.
As he reaches the end of the building, he jumps. His foot misses the roof, but before he falls his hand grabs hold. He pulls himself up and goes back into a sprint. The next building is about five feet out, but a good ten foot drop.
Bruce exhales his breath as he jumps and lands with a roll onto the building. From the roll, he goes back into his run. People are staring now, at the man running along the rooftops in broad daylight.
Sliding to a stop, he jumps down onto a fire escape. Then he vaults over that and lands on the ground with a roll. His breathing is heavy from a lack of doing this over the years.
He walks into the street and waves for a taxi. He gets in and gives him the address to Wayne Manor.
After he was reported dead and his identity revealed, Wayne Manor was declared the official Batman museum. That was before they even found the Batcave. They didn't even have to do anything to the Batcave, Bruce had memorabilia all over anyway.
However, what they didn't find in the Batcave, was Bruce's special vault. A giant insanely difficult to crack safe that led to a huge room where he kept his many vehicles.
Bruce needs a vehicle to get to Joker's territory after all. Sure the government will try to provide him with one, but nothing beats a Batmobile. He goes in through a secret entrance that no one has found that leads directly to the vehicles.
He taps the code into the vault. Then he presses his thumb to the panel. Then his eye is scanned. Then he speaks the word, "Thomas." Finally the vault opens to the hall of vehicles.
Pulling the dust filled tarp off, revealing a shiny, long, slim, black car. "Open," he commands. The top of the vehicle slides back revealing the cockpit. He hops in and the roof closes. He revs the engine and drives out of the cave.