AN: Welcome to the back-story to my Wayne's Boys series. This chapter is an edited version of the chapter that appeared previously with what is now Family Ties. Parts of it are based on the Batman: Year One story published in the Eighties. Enjoy; and please review to tell me what you thought. Any questions, review or PM me.
Flashback Chapter 1 Bruce Be Bat
A dark alleyway. A child's laugh. Streetlights reflecting off metal. Demands, "Gimme your money! Quick! An' those pearls…" A plea, "Fine, just stay calm, whatever you wish…" A gunshot. Another. Two bodies hitting the ground. Running footsteps. Wailing. A boy kneeling in pools of blood between the bodies of his parents. His parents. Dead. No! Nononono…
"No!" A twenty-year-old man with black hair and blue eyes sat up sharply in bed, his chest heaving. With a shake of his head he tossed the not-infrequent nightmare away. Shivering slightly, he dressed in the dark and quietly left the manor.
He ran, swiftly and softly, through the gardens, to a fenced-off section. Beyond the fence were rows of gravestones. He slowed down and paced between the rows, until he reached a pair somewhat newer than the rest. One read 'Thomas Wayne', the other 'Martha Wayne'.
"Hey, Mom, Dad," the man said, kneeling by the graves. "I haven't forgotten you. I know I've been gone for four years, but I'm back. I'm back and I'm ready to start cleaning the streets of the filth that took you."
He sighed. "It could be harder than I thought. I haven't been back a week, and already I'm pulled in so many directions. Parties, gala concerts, fundraisers. Alfred thinks I should go to enough to keep up appearances. He says if I don't, it'll be betraying your legacy. I don't know. It's hard enough to run Wayne Enterprises…
"There's one thing I've agreed to with no regrets. You know Jack and Janet Drake, the neighbours? Turns out they still don't have a godfather for their year-and-a-half son. They asked me. I'm flattered. He's a lovely boy, little Timmy. Got his dad's blue eyes and his mom's black hair. Alfred reckons he looks a lot like I did at that age. But I get the impression he…irritates his parents somehow. And I hear they're going off on another archaeological dig in a few weeks. I can't help wondering if they chose me just because they felt they needed to find someone before they left. I don't care. I'm going to do my best either way.
"I think Alfred's hoping I'll find a girl, settle down, have children. Give up on the mission. But I haven't. Even. Started. And I won't give up until you're avenged. Not until the circumstances that allowed your deaths are torn down forever."
He rose, brushing dirt from his knees. "Rest easy. I'm on it."
A few days later, he was preparing to go out in a rather unusual way. Instead of a crisp suit, he wore a slightly ragged, slightly dirty army uniform. He also applied a thin layer of make-up, darkening his complexion, and added a pale scar on the side of his face. Tonight, he was starting his mission.
He walked through Gotham, paying little attention to his surroundings. Before too long, he was in the bad part of town. Admittedly, most of Gotham was the bad part of town, but this was the worst. He turned down Park Row, aka Crime Alley. The place where his parents died. He wasn't alone. A hundred metres away, a dozen youths were gathered around a pair of teenage girls in tight jeans and skimpy shirts. The boys seemed to be jeering. As he approached, he could make out their words.
"C'mon, girls, put out."
"Gimme a kiss, gorgeous."
"You know we'll have our fun anyway. Why make it hard on yourself?"
The leader of the boys leaned against one of the girls. "Come on, sweetheart," he said. "Fun time." His hand reached down the back of her jeans. She yelped. The boys laughed.
His blood started to boil at the sight. This was what he was fighting, because the girls couldn't. He could. He stepped forward. "Boys," he said. "I don't think the little ladies like you."
Most of the youths turned. Three stayed focused on the girls. Not the leader. He stepped forward. "Maybe we don't care what you think," he said. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a knife. "Maybe you should run off now."
'They don't fear me,' he thought, lunging for the knife. As he disarmed the leader and knocked him down, the others started pulling knives. 'I can't do this mission unless I can make them fear me,' he continued to himself, fighting back. As he knocked out one youth, another got in a strike, drawing blood. He kept going. The remaining three joined in, and the girls fled. 'That's the civilians gone,' he thought. 'Now to win the fight.'
After a seeming eternity, the youths were laid out before him. He staggered back, reeling from multiple knife wounds. All his training hadn't prepared him for the reality of a street fight. Next time, he would need to be better prepared. Better equipped. But how to make them fear him?
Somehow, he made it home. He collapsed in an armchair, feeling the breeze from an open window. He mused, thinking of how and why something that should have been easy went so wrong. The League of Shadows had cultivated a reputation inspiring fear in their opposition and his training had reflected that. Without the weight of that fear, his independent actions were unimposing. He just didn't make an impact…The blood was still flowing from his wounds. At least Alfred had trained in combat medicine- how fortunate was that?- and could treat him when he called for him. But that wasn't important. He needed to know how to move forward with the mission.
"Criminals are a superstitious and cowardly lot," he muttered, thinking of the guns they hid behind. "How can I use that to my advantage?"
His head seemed to be floating; that would be the blood loss. He heard a noise, and looked up. A bat came through the window. It had been in a fight; there was blood on its muzzle. Its shadow stretched behind it menacingly. Half smiling, half grimacing, the man rung a bell.
"Master Bruce?" An older man looked in, then hurried over.
"I shall become a bat," Bruce whispered.