1945

It hurt, when Bruce looked out the window and saw the city he grew up in. From his chair in the den of Wayne Manor, his parents'... his home, rather, he had a perfect view of the city through a tall glass window. He saw the spotlights shine up on the heavy clouds in an attempt to help the dirigibles find their way through the night sky. He heard distant claps of thunder, followed by flashes of lightning. Rain beat against the window in a steady rhythm, and Bruce felt like weeping.

He didn't know how he had survived for so long, living that way. Every day, he woke up well past noon, and even then couldn't drag himself out of bed and into his clothes for another hour or more. He hardly ate enough to keep himself alive, and all he did when he was among the living was waste away at home. He had no purpose. No drive. No meaning. His heart felt empty, and his chest felt constricted by his own ribs, and he often found himself wondering what the point of it all was. Over the course of twelve years, he had watched the city he grew up in descend into a cesspool, ruled by gangs and corrupt police. He missed his parents every day of his life. He felt ashamed of the way he was living. If his parents could only seen him, aimless and alone. How disappointed would they be in their only son? How much would they hate him for failing to amount to anything more than a sad, pathetic rich boy who never did anything to help improve the lives of his fellow men and women. With each day that passed, Bruce could stand the monotony and shallowness of his life less and less and less. The only reason he was still alive was because he knew how much losing him would hurt Alfred and Leslie.

"What can I do?" he whispered, heartbroken. Every night he asked the same question of himself, and every night he found no answer. The rain continued to beat the glass. The thunder continued to clap. The city continued to sink further and further into its filth. But that night was different from all the other nights. Bruce just didn't know it yet. He held in his hands a copy of A Study in Scarlet, unfinished even after he had begun to read it months ago. The old detective novel from his mother's collection would serve as one half of his inspiration that night in June. As for the other half...

The window shattered suddenly, and Bruce nearly fell from his chair. There was a screeching noise as the thunder clapped again. Rain soaked the carpet and he felt some of it splash against his face. He raised a hand as if to shield himself and he isaw it/i. The bat that had crashed into his home. In that moment, it left it's mark on Bruce, one that would last until his twilight years.

"Yes, father. I understand..." Bruce said to himself, his resolve shining for the first time in twelve long, aimless years. "I shall become a bat."

"Bruce Wayne! What have you been doing with your nights?"

Bruce blinked in surprise as lights flashed in his face. Over and over and over, each time with a pop that reminded him it was cameras blinding him and not a spotlight. And Vicki Vale was holding her pen and paper in hand, waiting for a response. At least, he was pretty sure that's what was happening. He could barely hear her over the live jazz band that was performing at the police gala that night.

"I've been... Dealing with some personal issues, I guess you could say." It wasn't entirely a lie, he reasoned. "But now I'm finally ready to embrace all that Gotham's high society has to offer," he told her in that fake voice he had practiced all week. All light and bouncy and utterly ivapid/i. He could hardly stand himself.

"The death of your parents, you mean?" Vicki asked. She was blunt, that's for sure. But in a way, he appreciated that.

"Yes. But it's time that I put that tragedy behind me and moved on with my life. I'm not a little boy anymore, Miss Vale." Another half truth. He'd moved on, but he hadn't left it behind him at all. "Now, I think I'd like to hit up the dance floor. Care to join me?"

He'd dance to a few songs, chat with a few more people, pretend to drink a few drinks, and then he'd slip away when nobody was paying attention. There were more important things for Bruce Wayne to do than enjoy some party.

He might have been crazy. He was hardly in his twenties and he was wearing a cape and cowl and a grey bodysuit that he hand stitched in the den of his parents' home. His home, he reminded himself for the umpteenth time. His parents died when he was eight years old and yet Bruce still found himself thinking of them as though they were alive. Maybe that was part of why he was crazy. He laughed. A short, dry, bitter laugh. One that could easily be mistaken for a cough.

Bruce checked the yellow belt that hung loosely from his waist. Purple gloved hands vetted each pocket, making absolutely sure that the first aid supplies were still there. He'd more than likely end up needing them, considering what he was about to do. That night was an important night. The most important night of Bruce Wayne's young life. Halfway across the world, a war that had consumed the planet and took countless lives was nearing it's end. But in Gotham City, New Jersey, something new was just seconds away from beginning. An entirely new war, Bruce thought to himself. A war for Gotham City's soul, after decades of spreading corruption and crime and cruelty. A war that was, in some part, instigated by two shots from a mugger's gun over a decade prior. This action, on this night, was Bruce Wayne's retaliation.

He took a deep breath, gripped the edges of his cape in his hands, and leapt off the building into the streets below. He felt like he was flying.

And when he landed, it was with a sickening crunch as his boot stomped on the face of some Red Hood punk. The gangster crumpled just like that, but he had friends. Two other members of the Red Hood gang pulled their guns on him, and one more raced to toss their haul into the back of their getaway car. Instead of shooting at him, they just stared in shock and disbelief. Just as he had hoped. It was like some creature feature had come to life before their very eyes, and they were scrambling for clarity.

He reached out, grabbed the gunners by the backs of their masks, and slammed their heads together. While they were reeling, he punched one in the solar plexus as hard as he could. The other got a kick to the groin. Batman looked to the getaway driver, and found him fumbling to get the keys in the ignition. He scooped one of the pistols off the ground and hurled it at the driver in one clean motion. It connected with a dull thud, and he was out cold.

The Batman left before the police arrived, and naturally, nobody believed a word that the gang members said about the supposed bat monster that attacked them. Criminals were a superstitious and cowardly lot, after all.