Kristy: A Batman Story

Summary: Story based on song by the Offspring, "Kristy are You Doing Okay?" This is a Bruce/OC (kind of, I don't own the OC) story that takes place after The Dark Knight where the OC isn't entirely of my creation but rather my artistic representation of "Kristy" in the music video for the song.

Disclaimer: I don't own Batman or any of the characters

Prologue

He was thinking about her again. It was inevitable. He had forgotten for so long, but how could he forget? Those eyes, they were everywhere, they were in the little girl he had saved tonight. Bruce sighed, running his hand through his hair.

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He was really still a kid, back then, he knew that. And thirteen year old boys who have anger issues aren't necessarily the best companion, not the one who can fix things. She was of medium height, dark wavy hair, those almond shaped green eyes. Now that he thought about her, the change in her was so obvious. Blatant. Harsh. Cruel. He knew, he saw it in her eyes, the way the changed.

Bruce was practically catatonic the first two years after his parents were killed but on his tenth birthday something inside of him, something fragile, shattered, and everything had looked different. As if a light bulb had exploded but even throughout all of the murky gray mist he could see clearer. Two months after his tenth birthday, he started taking karate classes. That lasted for a while, but anger kept resurfacing and he couldn't control it.

Even at that age, he tried to.

There was always a voice in his head, dark and ominous, telling him to do something that part of him knew wasn't right. He hadn't known what it was.

He was alone, mostly, except for Rachel except that Rachel was in the in-crowd and never really had that much time with him. He paid attention, though, with the eyes of a child he silently watched everyone, trying to think, not really wanting to try to be a part of it because he had already lost the only thing that was important, anyways.

He wasn't really friends with her, Kristy. They were more of acquaintances, if you could say that about two immature thirteen year olds. They weren't that immature, though, even though perhaps neither of them realized.

He realized what it was, of course, how he figured it out. He saw his pain in her eyes. He recognized it. It was different – the flavor was tinted, the poison was different. But poison is poison and no matter the variety it still kills you.

Before he noticed the change, they talked sometimes in the hallway. Not much, because Bruce didn't speak often and neither did Kristy. But they smiled at each other in the hallway and waved "Hi" like school playmates who are friendly during school but never really see each other outside of school. But her eyes, they were the clearest green, not a shadow lurking beneath. He remembered her unmarred snow-white skin, and the ethereal way she held herself, somehow strong, even though it probably wasn't intentional.

Then it changed. There had been a party, a high school party that a bunch of them had snuck out to. He didn't go, but he had known that Kristy had went. He knew beforehand, too. Maybe he could have told her not to go. Anyways, the thirteen-year-old Bruce had figured, that must have been when it happened, whatever happened.

Because the next day in school she was there, walking through the hallways like a ghost. The shimmer in her eyes were gone and even though she stared straight forward and there was no emotion shown on her face, he could tell that she was seconds away from breaking down. He knew, because he had been there. He knew what it looked like to pretend nothing was wrong. Later on in his life he would know that even more so.

Sitting in his desk in that classroom, he saw Kristy raise her hand and ask for the hall pass. Her thick eyeliner and mascara (black lipstick, too. It just didn't look right on her) masked her pain, but Kristy wasn't going to the bathroom, or maybe she was but if she was she was writing poetry in her notebook that she would scratch out later and listening to tragic music. One tragedy wasn't enough, apparently.

He didn't know the extent of it. He saw, of course, in her eyes and behavior patterns that something was wrong, but he had problems of his own, and he never said anything. One day, maybe a month later (it was spring but Kristy always wore long sleeves), the school bell rang and Bruce was outside and saw Kristy sitting on the bleachers in the field behind the school, writing and tugging at her sleeves. He didn't know why he was watching, maybe it was curiosity? It wasn't like they were good friends, he spent most of his time trying to talk to Rachel. Things never got back to the way they were before Bruce's parents were murdered, though. Not with himself and not with Rachel.

He followed her (Kristy, not Rachel. It seemed like Rachel didn't even know he existed half the time), slinking in the shadows. He watched her toss her notebook in the garbage can, as if it was fire on her hands. Painful to touch, painful to hold. Too painful to keep anymore. The truth always was. Maybe that was the day he learned that if you try to throw away something, a burden, even if you don't really get rid of it, then its still gone for a while, and you're okay. Maybe he shouldn't have learned that. But he did. Maybe he should thank Kristy.

He had picked up the notebook. He had read her terrible words. Why hadn't he said anything?

Why had he read it, why had he opened Pandora's box?

It didn't matter, though. he had opened Pandora's box way before Kristy. Joe Chill had forced that grimy box open. And now the only thing that mattered was one day he would do something. One day. Some sort of revenge, something for Kristy, something for his parents. He tried not to care, but the anger pulsing in his veins was like a demon pounding in his blood, a parasite eating away at his healthy and innocent flesh. Innocent no longer, Pandora's box has been availed and dark secrets were revealed. Kristy wasn't the only one. So many times he looked at someone, wanted to smile and do what he was supposed to and say "Hi", but all he saw when he looked into all of their faces was the desperate, monstrous face of Joe Chill. Even in Rachel, sometimes. But never in Kristy.

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It was four a.m. and Bruce Wayne sat in the Batcave, having just returned from his nightly activities, which had included saving a girl who looked eerily like Kristy had when Kristy was thirteen, and it had jarred memories that Bruce wasn't sure whether or not he wanted to remember. At least he could be glad that he had saved the girl, who actually looked like she was younger than Kristy had been. He hadn't been able to save Kristy.

But he was a kid then. He still felt guilty for not saying anything, especially since he had no clue what happened to her since she had eventually relocated to a different school.

Bruce took off his mask first, then unshed the rest of his armor, and put it in his case. He felt something sticky; someone's knife had managed to get through his suit, but it was only a flesh wound that he hadn't really remembered until he saw the blood. Sitting down on the white table in the Batcave, he started stitching his own wound.

For some reason, he was still thinking about Kristy.

TBC.....

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