Monstrous screeching bats descended from the heavens in a flurry to an ominous classical chant. Powerful war drums echoed through the air and ravaging flames engulfed the area, rising up to shroud the bats behind a pillar of smoke. The vile winged beasts danced to the rhythm of the war drums in some sort of strange provocative mating ritual. The males howled with delight, spreading their massive wings to full span and flashing their enormous teeth in a display of masculinity. Swaying to the evocative tones, the female bats circled the men slowly, leaning in to take in the very essence of the male and feel their spirits join. In a matter of moments, the creatures broke off into pairs, tossing their heads back and screaming in total erotic pleasure. The blazing inferno that surrounded them seemed to explode into the atmosphere, consuming their entire world in a torrential downpour of sexual fire. The pounding of the war drums intensified, shaking the very fabric of existence: it was as if each crash were an earthquake, devastating mankind for miles in each direction.
The crowd within the Gotham City Opera House sat in their seats, stoic like statues, completely engrossed in the events unfolding before them. They sat slack jawed and bug eyed, taking their breaths in quick heaves at only the necessary times. As the fire glowed brighter and the war drums grew louder, the people refused to blink, afraid that they may miss even one small motion in the bats provocative movements. They all gasped in unison when one actor would perform some amazing acrobatic feat or fly across the stage. Children tugged at their parents' sleeves and pointed to the stage in awe as the creatures flew into the air, light as a feather. Even the adults were dazzled by the magical flight of the enigmatic bats that seemed to glide through the air like one might see a butterfly float along through the jet stream.
One child, however, buried his face in his mother's bosom, whimpering like a small canine backed into a corner. His mother gently stroked his hair; her acrylic nails gently passing along his scalp. She quietly shushed her son in an effort to sooth the fear built up inside him. Originally she had hoped that by bringing her son to this opera that he might gain culture that she belied her son was lacking. She prayed that this musical and theatrical masterpiece would spark her son's interest in something more refined than the Saturday morning cartoons he seemed enthralled by every weekend. After all she wanted something more for her only son: something more befitting the son of billionaire philanthropist Dr. Thomas Wayne. Her husband sat two chairs from her, on the opposite side of their son, his leg shaking in annoyance.
"Martha," Thomas Wayne whispered, leaning over his son to see his gorgeous wife. "I'm going to go have a cigarette, if you will excuse me." His wife nodded her silent agreement, though inside she detested the nasty habit that fouled her husband's breath and blackened his lungs.
Thomas eased his way to the end of his row and started quietly toward the nearest exit, which led to a narrow unused alleyway behind the theatre. He fumbled through his pocket for his small metal cigarette case and pulled it from his pocket as he sauntered down the aisle. He set his back against the door and glanced back at the stage for a moment as he placed a single cigarette between his lips. With a thin smile, Thomas pulled his matchbook from his pocket and struck one as he pushed open the heavy steel door. When he turned, he saw two men standing in the alley as if they had been awaiting his arrival: one man wore a fresh crisp suit and latex gloves and carried a heavy cane in both hands while the other wore a tattered peasant's suit and held a tiny revolver. The two men turned in a flash to see Thomas Wayne open the door and the cigarette in Thomas' mouth fell harmlessly to the ground in shock.
"Carmine?" Thomas asked, bewildered as to why the wealthy man was hanging around in the slums and alleys of Gotham City. The door to the opera house slowly crept shut and the last thing visible through the tiny crack in the frame was the cane in Falcone's hands crashing down against the side of Thomas Wayne's skull.
A few minutes passed, and no one came to Thomas Wayne's rescue. Inside, his son Bruce began to weep, drenching his mother's blouse in the sloppy tears of an eight year old boy. She lifted his chin up and looked into the eyes of her terrified boy, bringing up her handkerchief as well to wipe the mucus beginning to settle beneath his nostrils. Suddenly her mind ran back to a day, not long ago, when her frightened young son fell into a fissure behind the house and was assaulted by bats living in the caves below their manor. Her heart sank as she realized that she had brought her little Bruce into this nightmare and decided that it was her duty to help him escape it. She scooped her little boy into her arms and carried him to the end of the row. The pair headed for the alley where her husband had left to take his cigarette so they could all leave the theatre as a family. Martha flung open the door and saw her husband lying on the ground in a pool of his own blood, a mugger hunched over with a gun in one hand and Thomas' wallet in the other.
In one fell swoop, the music came to a crescendo, the curtain fell and Martha loosed a blood curdling scream that drew the attention of Gothamites for miles in every direction. Filled with panic, Joe Chill, the frightened mugger, blasted off two quick shots at Martha Wayne and her son. The first bullet pierced Martha's heart, splattering blood against the steel doors and sending her lifeless body crashing to the ground. The second bullet grazed Bruce's forehead, half an inch above his left eyebrow and the boy flopped to the ground with a howl, clutching the side of his face. Chill ran quickly into the darkness, tossing the gun into a storm drain and disappearing into the crowded streets.
Thomas Wayne's chest continued to raise in short pained bursts, each breath felt like his soul slipping out of his body and floating to heaven. "Bruce," he called out, praying that his son survived the hail of bullets. The little boy, still clutching his blood soaked face, crawled toward his father, fighting against the agonizing pain. "Daddy?" young Bruce cried, unable to see through the cascade of blood flowing from his wound. "Daddy?" he cried again, but still there came no response. Bruce reached his father's body and began to run his open hand across his father's body. He felt the warm blood oozing from the gunshot wound, but he felt no movement in his father's chest. He ran his hand up to his father's face, and felt no tension in the muscles. Tears mixed with the blood and the young boy's face was now a disgusting mixture of dark red and purple. Sirens began to echo, but the sound was distorted and fading in the child's ears. The air grew crisp and dangerously cold, while all light escaped from his world. By the time the police arrived, they found three bodies, drenched in blood, strewn across the alley: the wife against the building and the boy lying across his father's chest.