Four Ways Bruce Wayne Didn't Die
...and one way Batman did.
--
The doctor's say he will go easy. He was old, and it was his time, they said.
Ninety-two, Bruce Wayne supposed, was old. Very old. Older then anyone had ever expected him to last, expected anyone in this city to last, for that matter. It was a mile stone, considering his career. He should be thrilled. He goes with dignity, with respect, at a ripe old age, his fortune as in tact as his reputation. Now, he could die peacefully, in his home...alone.
He was alone. He was old, he could no longer fight, no longer defend. The rest were dead, and he was by himself in this mansion that could hold thousands, but only contained one, with an uncompleted will he could not bring himself to finish. His sidekicks, Dick, Robin, Tim...even Barbara. Not here. Visited, of course. Several times, in fact. He was less then inviting, however, and they quickly got the message.
Even Alfred was dead, down on the job. Working till the end, for a man who hardly appreciated it.
Yes, he was an old man, and he was alone in his mansion. He used to be Batman. That was a long time ago.
--
The car speeds down Gotham's long-running highway, at a less then sensible rate, and the only thing that stops it is a diaper truck. I hear it first, the crushing, heart wrenching sound of metal on metal, the screech of tires on asphalt, and I hoped it would stop. But then, I hear the crash, and walls cave in on me, and I regret it.
It tumbles, then it's still, and a horrible quiet has wrapped around the world like an ice soaked blanket. Bloods dripping from my head, and sirens are screeching, and then it's dark.
--
Little Bruce Wayne sat behind the windowless van, plastic handcuffs cutting into his wrist. Two men, large and masked, towered over him, arguing. Another drove, Bruce figured, because he could feel constant road bumps jostling him against the walls. He asked several times for the ropes to be loosened, but received no response save for a smack against the cheek.
He asked once more, though, because he was now almost completly on his side, and he had to scratch his nose.
"Shut up," one said, the bigger one.
"I want to go home," he said.
The other man, the one with the gun, chuckled slightly, shaking his head, "When your folks pay up, kid, you can go wherever the fuck you want."
Bruce heard police sirens grow closer, and so did the men, and panicked chatter ensued.
The van bumped, harder, as it lurched to the side, and the first man tumbled over, his mask torn off by the sharp end of the gun.
Bruce barely got a glimpse of his face; unremarkable, like any in a crowd. Beardless, round nose, sharp chin. Bruce would have probably forgotten it in moments.
"Shit! He saw my fucking face!"
They argued more, something about shooting him, something about money, about jail, and suddenly, Bruce found the barrel of the gun in his face.
"Sorry, kid," Bruce heard the driver mutter up front, and then a bang, and then nothing.
--
A girl leaned against a news stand, flipping through a Time magazine with nothing particular to do on this cloudy Sunday afternoon. A small television was propped on display in the electronics store across the sidewalk, playing the news channels in a mindless loop that she lost interest in hours ago.
Suddenly, this screen, and any other in vicinity, lit up, with bright, eye catching colors, the words, "Breaking News," bannered across. A women, her hair imaculately pinned into the perfect up-do, her teeth so ridiculously white they could have been made from the same papers she feigned reading. She looked up towards the camera, and her lips moved like ruby feathers, "Breaking news. We have just been informed that Bruce Wayne, CEO and heir to Wayne Enterprises, has been found dead in his Gotham home at three forty five this afternoon from a heart attack. Reports have it that it was his butler, Alfred Pennyworth, who found the thirty one year old..."
The news stand man looked up from his newspaper and stared at the screen for a moment, somewhat interested, while the girl slowly grew bored of the telecast. She didn't even know a Bruce Wayne. She wondered how the news women got her hair like that.
--
And now, here lie Batman, a lump in the streets he used to rule, with blood spreading like a grim halo around his skull.
He knew he would go like this. Never peacefully, by illness, or decease, or age. Just like this, by the hands of those he fought, in the streets he defended. Tirelessly, of course, and his luck had run it's course.
He thought of the moment he'd become Batman--really become Batman--and wondered what the fuck he'd been thinking.
Oh, well. You win some.
He was not Bruce Wayne, though. He pretended to be, his mask his own flesh and blood, and he is this piece of bullet proof iron. It was, in all honesty, a fairly pathetic life.
He was Batman, but he still had to speak for Bruce Wayne.
Now, he was tired. The world closed in on him, and it was dark.
This was how Batman died. How Bruce Wayne died was still pending further research.
Author's Note: Aw, jeez, there was a thing on LiveJournal, and I asked some folks, and...aw jeez, it's late....Seriously, if you want to kill Bruce Wayne any other way, let me know and I'll maybe make another...just cause...