Author's note: This will start off with several origin stories, and then
develop into a story eventually. Just bear with me.
"Run, Bruce," his father urged, gripping him tightly by his wrist. Bruce Wayne had very little time to think as he ran with his parents down the alley, away from the man with the gun. It seemed like years ago he had skipped out of the movie theater, hand-in-hand with his parents, reliving the magic cinematic moments.
His father, a strong, stern man, seemed invincible. But tonight, Bruce noticed the look in his eyes, the tremble in his hands and the sweat on his forehead. Thomas Wayne, a man among men, was scared. This thought echoed through Bruce's head as he began to cry silently. Tears rolled down his face as he followed his family into an abandoned building.
"I think we're safe here," Thomas said in a hush tone, huddling behind some boxes on the warehouse floor. The warehouse, dimly lit, seemed to stretch on for miles. Ten or fifteen huge metal canisters towered over the family, and a catwalk ran overhead, ending in a fire escape. "We'll give him a few minutes, and if he doesn't show up, we'll run up that catwalk, and over to the escape. From there, we can probably get far enough away that we can call the police. Hopefully, he's given up and will leave us alone."
"I would have, if I weren't such a persistent bastard." The gunman, dressed in a dark red suit and yellow-shaded glasses, appeared around the corner, pointing his pistol in their direction. "Now that you made me work for it, though, yer definitely going to pay for it!"
As he walked towards the family, Thomas leapt up. "Run for it!" he shouted as he lunged for the gunman. Bruce and his mother headed for the catwalks as Thomas wrestled for the gun. Once on the stairs, Bruce stumbled and fell, so his mother picked him up and carried him as she climbed, resolutely, towards their goal. Bruce had a perfect view, then, as his head rested on his mother's shoulder looking behind her, as the gunman recovered the gun and fired a bullet into Thomas's head. Indifferent to the blood and brains leaking onto the floor, the gunman began rifling through Thomas's pockets, pulling out his wallet and pulling off his watch and jewelry.
Closing his eyes, Bruce felt his mother jerk to a stop. He climbed down and turned around, looking at a huge gaping hole in the catwalk. It had rusted through, years ago from the look of it, and there was no way across. A nearby window allowed enough moonlight in to show the ground looking very foreboding 40 feet below.
Frantically, Martha Wayne whirled around and headed towards the stairs they just climbed, Bruce by her side, only to find their oppressor blocking their path. "Take it easy and nobody else gets hurt," the man rasped. "I wouldn't want you to get hurt, too, and then have your son grow up an orphan who is forever tortured by the images of his parents dying and he couldn't prevent it, would you?"
In response, Martha headed to the edge of the walkway. Stretching as far as she could, her fingers grazed the window latch, but she was too short and the window was too far away. As she willed her fingers to be just a little bit longer, imagining the window opening and granting freedom, a shout from behind startled her.
"Hey! What the hell are you doing? I told you to take it easy!" the attacker yelled. "Are you deaf or stupid?" His eyes widened slightly as the woman, frightened by his outburst, lost her footing and tumbled over the railing. Spastically, she flailed her arms and caught onto the window sill. As she slowly pulled herself up, she turned and looked at Bruce.
"Bruce, come and jump! I'll catch you honey, I promise!" Martha braced herself against the window, and with her left hand, opened the latch. As she slid the window open so that she could use the leverage to catch Bruce, the gunman shrugged at her.
"Told you, you stupid bitch." He raised the gun and fired a single shot into her torso. The bullet passed through her and shattered the window behind her as her body fell to the hard, unrelenting ground below. With a vicious shriek, the boy charged the gunman, punching and kicking. For a child, his blows were strong, and one in particular caught the gunman unaware. "For the love of . . ." he gasped, kneeling down and holding his groin. Bruce followed up with a kick to the attacker's temple, knocking him prone.
Before he could inflict any further pain, a fluttering sound filled the room as the light from the moon was occluded. Bruce looked out the window right as hundreds of bats flew in, landing in his hair and cutting him with their claws. Moving backwards, flailing his arms wildly, he flipped over the railing and landed 10 feet below, cut and bleeding, but otherwise unharmed. Bruce looked around and realized that he had landed on the tops of one of the giant canisters. Standing on the glass lid, he looked down and watched the chemicals in the canister bubble and froth. He could almost read the full name etched on the lid: "Crawford Chemical . . ."
As he searched for a way down, he heard a crack, and before he could react, the lid shattered. Wordlessly, Bruce plunged into the chemicals below and disappeared without a trace.
"Wow," said the gunman, Eel O'Brian, as he peered over the edge of the catwalk. "That was really bats, man."
"Run, Bruce," his father urged, gripping him tightly by his wrist. Bruce Wayne had very little time to think as he ran with his parents down the alley, away from the man with the gun. It seemed like years ago he had skipped out of the movie theater, hand-in-hand with his parents, reliving the magic cinematic moments.
His father, a strong, stern man, seemed invincible. But tonight, Bruce noticed the look in his eyes, the tremble in his hands and the sweat on his forehead. Thomas Wayne, a man among men, was scared. This thought echoed through Bruce's head as he began to cry silently. Tears rolled down his face as he followed his family into an abandoned building.
"I think we're safe here," Thomas said in a hush tone, huddling behind some boxes on the warehouse floor. The warehouse, dimly lit, seemed to stretch on for miles. Ten or fifteen huge metal canisters towered over the family, and a catwalk ran overhead, ending in a fire escape. "We'll give him a few minutes, and if he doesn't show up, we'll run up that catwalk, and over to the escape. From there, we can probably get far enough away that we can call the police. Hopefully, he's given up and will leave us alone."
"I would have, if I weren't such a persistent bastard." The gunman, dressed in a dark red suit and yellow-shaded glasses, appeared around the corner, pointing his pistol in their direction. "Now that you made me work for it, though, yer definitely going to pay for it!"
As he walked towards the family, Thomas leapt up. "Run for it!" he shouted as he lunged for the gunman. Bruce and his mother headed for the catwalks as Thomas wrestled for the gun. Once on the stairs, Bruce stumbled and fell, so his mother picked him up and carried him as she climbed, resolutely, towards their goal. Bruce had a perfect view, then, as his head rested on his mother's shoulder looking behind her, as the gunman recovered the gun and fired a bullet into Thomas's head. Indifferent to the blood and brains leaking onto the floor, the gunman began rifling through Thomas's pockets, pulling out his wallet and pulling off his watch and jewelry.
Closing his eyes, Bruce felt his mother jerk to a stop. He climbed down and turned around, looking at a huge gaping hole in the catwalk. It had rusted through, years ago from the look of it, and there was no way across. A nearby window allowed enough moonlight in to show the ground looking very foreboding 40 feet below.
Frantically, Martha Wayne whirled around and headed towards the stairs they just climbed, Bruce by her side, only to find their oppressor blocking their path. "Take it easy and nobody else gets hurt," the man rasped. "I wouldn't want you to get hurt, too, and then have your son grow up an orphan who is forever tortured by the images of his parents dying and he couldn't prevent it, would you?"
In response, Martha headed to the edge of the walkway. Stretching as far as she could, her fingers grazed the window latch, but she was too short and the window was too far away. As she willed her fingers to be just a little bit longer, imagining the window opening and granting freedom, a shout from behind startled her.
"Hey! What the hell are you doing? I told you to take it easy!" the attacker yelled. "Are you deaf or stupid?" His eyes widened slightly as the woman, frightened by his outburst, lost her footing and tumbled over the railing. Spastically, she flailed her arms and caught onto the window sill. As she slowly pulled herself up, she turned and looked at Bruce.
"Bruce, come and jump! I'll catch you honey, I promise!" Martha braced herself against the window, and with her left hand, opened the latch. As she slid the window open so that she could use the leverage to catch Bruce, the gunman shrugged at her.
"Told you, you stupid bitch." He raised the gun and fired a single shot into her torso. The bullet passed through her and shattered the window behind her as her body fell to the hard, unrelenting ground below. With a vicious shriek, the boy charged the gunman, punching and kicking. For a child, his blows were strong, and one in particular caught the gunman unaware. "For the love of . . ." he gasped, kneeling down and holding his groin. Bruce followed up with a kick to the attacker's temple, knocking him prone.
Before he could inflict any further pain, a fluttering sound filled the room as the light from the moon was occluded. Bruce looked out the window right as hundreds of bats flew in, landing in his hair and cutting him with their claws. Moving backwards, flailing his arms wildly, he flipped over the railing and landed 10 feet below, cut and bleeding, but otherwise unharmed. Bruce looked around and realized that he had landed on the tops of one of the giant canisters. Standing on the glass lid, he looked down and watched the chemicals in the canister bubble and froth. He could almost read the full name etched on the lid: "Crawford Chemical . . ."
As he searched for a way down, he heard a crack, and before he could react, the lid shattered. Wordlessly, Bruce plunged into the chemicals below and disappeared without a trace.
"Wow," said the gunman, Eel O'Brian, as he peered over the edge of the catwalk. "That was really bats, man."