Chapter 1- Era's End
Outside, it's a normal morning around the manor, if there really is such a thing. The air is a bit chilly with a few clouds spotting the beautiful blue sky. Inside, Bruce Wayne sits in a large brown leather chair about to read the morning paper. He takes one more sip of his coffee before reading the headlines. He turns it over and positions it on his lap. The headline reads:
"RIDDLER FOUND DEAD IN SEASIDE WAREHOUSE".
The paper drops to his lap, then slides off to the floor.
"No!" he says. "I'm not ready."
He lifts a small voice activated device from under the blanket covering his legs and says, "Chair to room four", then lowers it back to the blanket but still holding it in his hand. He sits there studiously, unmoving, obviously the words of the paper have plunged him into a deep thought. After a few moments, the device in his hand begins beeping softly interrupting his thinking. "Oh. I'm sorry," he says instinctively,and pushes a button on the small box. There's a click in the door to the room and it swings open by itself.
"Come in" he says. A sleek mechanized chair rolls itself into the room and alongside the chair where he sits. He waits a few moments expecting Alfred to enter the room at anytime, but then decides to transfer himself into his mechanical conveyance,
though not without a good degree of effort. Bruce is repositioning the blanket over his legs when Alfred steps into the room carrying a tray. He lifts his eyes to find his friend and employer already in the chair.
"I'm so sorry Master Bruce. I was just…" But Wayne cuts him off.
"It's alright Alfred. I'm fine." Bruce's' comment was expected, but Alfred catches something his inflection.
"I was just bringing you your breakfast sir."
Alfred purposely keeps his tone normal, not to seem overly apologetic, but sincere. Things have been a bit different since the accident.
"Will you be taking breakfast in the office or the bedroom"?
Bruce has yet to look up at his friend. He feigns at repositioning his legs in the chair and smoothing unseen wrinkles in the blanket.
"Neither." Bruce replies, while lifting the control device to his lips, then hesitates. "Humph." he grunts. "From a voice-activated Bat-mobile to this." his hand slamming down on the armrest of the chair. Finally, he looks up but only to finish his statement with a critical humor. "Not where I expected to be at this point of my career". Alfred stands there trying not to appear sympathetic. Bruce grasps the directional control of the chair and starts to roll past his manservant.
"Will you require anything else this morning sir?"
The question stops Bruce just past the crest of the doorway, but it takes him a few seconds to answer.
"Yes, Alfred". He says. "I'll be taking lunch in the Bat-cave". His announcement hangs in the air. His head turns halfway waiting for the response he knows will be coming,… and it does.
"Do you think that's wise sir"?
Bruce turns the chair around to face Alfred straight on and reveals an expression his friend has not seen for a good, many years, and there was good reason for that. The grim expression actually startles Alfred it catching him completely by surprise.
"Wisdom has nothing to do with it anymore". The words are without recourse but filled with intent. There's nothing Alfred can read in his eyes, except a hint of something he really doesn't want to see.
"Master Bruce…." Alfred starts, but Bruce cuts off his plea with a motion with his head, then turns his wheelchair and silently rolls away. Alfred takes a deep breath and looks in the direction of Bruce's' nod. At first, nothing catches his eye; it takes him a moment to scan the small area. Then he sees it, the newspaper lying up against the side of the chair. He has to cock his head to the side to read it clearly, though anyway it's read the impact would be the same. The words of the headline scream out filling the elderly gentleman with an instant sense of dread.
"OH NO!" he says. Almost dropping the tray he forgot was in his hands. "He's not ready"!
Bruce rolls down the hallway toward the part of the house that has become the very essence of his very being. The events unveiling themselves in Gotham were not unexpected, though his reaction to them is. They've awakened something in him he thought was long dead. Alfred thought that too. Obviously both of them were mistaken. Bruce is unable to see the concern in his friends' eyes. Though he doesn't have to look at Alfred to know the concern is there. Over the years, these two men have established a relationship that could be seen as being closer than brothers, or perhaps even closer than a father and his son. The fact is these two men are friends in the truest sense of the word. Each knows what the other knows, and feels what the other feels, except in this case. That's exactly what's bothering Alfred. He doesn't have a clue what is going on in Bruce Waynes' head. If Wayne was a normal man that wouldn't really pose that much of a problem. You'd have an average guy who's upset, who also happens to be confined to a wheel chair. Unfortunately, Bruce Wayne isn't an "average" guy. Amid a myriad of other things, Bruce Wayne is the Batman; The Dark Knight, the Avenging Son of Gotham City, that alone leaves room for concern. Only Alfred knows what Bruce had to endure in order to become the Dark Knight, and what he's had to suffer remain the Knight. All this time he would say that he almost knows what Bruce is thinking, but not any more. Not right now, and that's the part that really worries him, …not right now.
Bruce sits in the vast Bat-cave deep in thought. The paper reported that the police have no clues or suspects in the connection with The Riddlers murder. He knows.
"There's only one person who has an agenda that would require the removal of every other large scale criminal master-mind in Gotham." he thinks to himself. "But even I didn't think he was deranged enough to actually put such a rabid plan into action. But he has, and here I sit, out of action, disabled and totally unprepared. I've anticipated and countered every move he's ever made, until this…" his thoughts stop and give rise to total frustration.
"Arggh!" he shouts, pounding his fist on the console in front of him. "This time I'm stuck in this blasted wheel chair, totally out of the picture". He grabs a clipboard and flings it across the polished concrete floor of the large room. It slides to rest under the Bat-mobile, positioned as it is every night, prepped on its' pad, ready to launch. Bruce looks at the car pointed at the cave exit.
"Are you calling me, or mocking me". He asks. His words echo in the darkness, forcing him to listen to them over and over again before they fade, leaving him alone with the question. A single light at the far end of the cave throws its' light off the smooth lines of the car and starts Bruce reminiscing about his last mission out. The faint light reminded him of the moonlight on the hood of the car as he raced toward a con- frontation with "Bane" but he had allowed himself to become preoccupied with too many others matters, which almost proved fatal. He ended up with a broken back as a reminder of his lack of focus. He leans forward in the chair and slides his hand down to the small of his back where the major part of the injury occurred. He rubs over the "neural-enhancing netting" that is helping to speed his recovery.
"No way I'll be back in action in time to stop the Joker". He says aloud, allowing his frustration to get the best of him again.
"Azreal's doing a commendable job filling in for me while I'm on the mend, but he's still isn't ready to mix it up with the Joker; not on this level anyway. Too much is at stake. That mad man is going to try to turn Gotham into a bloody Armageddon and it's going to take more than just "good" to stop him. He isn't ready to do what has to be done; normally I don't know if I'd be up to it either. But…," he leaves his thought hanging for just a second while he considers it's full implications. "…the luxury of choice has passed".
He rolls his chair over to the car that started his thoughts to rolling, and gently slides his hand across it's' length, again remembering. It was the Joker who started all this so long ago. Neither of us can keep this up forever, maybe he realizes
this. Maybe this is why he's beginning the final song.
His thoughts are interrupted by a sound from behind him. Alfred.
"Your tea master Bruce". He says as he always does.
"Thank you Alfred" he says, and reaches for his cup. Raising it to his lips, he realizes that it's hot and blows to cool it.
"What time is it?" He asks unaware
"It's eleven forty-five sir". Alfred replies with a raised eyebrow.
"Hmmm, I didn't realize I had been down here all morning". he says taking his first sip.
"PM Sir". Alfred says demonstratively.
Bruce's face freezes in an expression of complete surprise.
"You're kidding," he says, hoping for one of those rare comedic moments of Alfred's.
"No sir. I came down a number of times throughout the day, but you were deep in thought. I felt it was best not to disturb you".
"Thank you". He says taking another sip. "I'll be taking dinner down here".
"I thought you would be. I also took the liberty of transferring your calls to the main console. You'll find eight messages waiting. All from Gordon".
Alfred turns to walk away but stops after a dozen or so steps and walks back toward Bruce.
"It's him isn't it"? He says though not really asking
"Yes, it is. But you already knew that".
Alfred lowers his head as if a guilty man caught.
"You're not prepared Master Bruce. What will you do?"
Bruce sets the cup and saucer on his lap and rolls the remaining few feet toward his long time friend.
"That is the question of the day Alfred. What will I do? Or better yet, what can I do!"
What about Master Azreal, or better yet Master Dick"? Alfred is drawing at straws and he knows it, but he's trying to come up with options, any option, that Bruce might have overlooked.
"Those are both good choices, except that Azreal isn't ready, and this isn't Dicks fight. Beyond that, I don't believe either of them could go the distance in this one. This is going to be a different kind of fight".
"How so sir?" This time the question is posed with true intrigue.
"This one's for real Alfred. The Joker is starting a blood frenzy and he's going to have to be matched, drop for drop."
The older gentleman paces a few steps from side to side.
"Well what about tipping off Gordon with precise information". His suggestion is genuine, but the tone desperate.
"That wouldn't do much good. The police are already overwhelmed as it is, and the way he's gone under ground and changed his MO, I don't even think our information would help some of the other
Super Teams that might be available." Bruce slams his hands down on the armrests again.
"Damn it Alfred! I'm The Batman. He says throwing the blanket that covered his legs. "Look at me, I'm helpless, all because I got careless; just once. Just for a moment and its' cost me everything. Everything I've worked so hard for since my parents death is in jeopardy of being wasted." Again, he slams his fists down, but this time down upon his almost useless legs. "I can't believe it's come to this".
Alfred takes the last step that separates them seeing his long time charge nearing a breaking point. But Bruce holds up his hand, halting Alfred where he stands.
"When I first became The Batman I swore to take down the criminal element that plagues Gotham City. To this end the most I can say is that I've been semi-successful."
"No". Alfred interrupts, "You're really being too hard on yourself Master Bruce. You've been selfless in your dedication to the citizens of this city. I won't allow you to say that."
"Thanks Alfred, but I'm not being too critical. Think back, how many criminals were there in Gotham when I first became the Batman? Six, Seven? How many are there now, almost triple that number. I keep putting them away, but they just keep coming back, each time more deadly than before. And in the middle of that are the innocents who keep getting hurt, even killed. Even though it was to them, I made my vow. I haven't actually rid Gotham of anything. And now with the addition of drugs, gangs
and automatic weapons, it hasn't 'gotten any better, it's 'just gotten worse. So what have I really accomplished"?
Alfred stands there visibly shocked at the Crusaders critical assessment of himself and the situation. For the first time in recent history, he has no reply. There is nothing he can say, but that, only last for a second.
"Well none the less. I shudder to think of what might have been if you and Master Dick hadn't been there to defend this city as long as you have." His words are determined and he ends his statement looking sternly into Bruce's eyes. Even so, Bruce refuses to relent.
"None the less, the questions remains, what will I do? The answer is, "I don't know. I have no alternatives. There's absolutely nowhere to turn."
Bruce Wayne sits in his wheel chair clutching the armrests with his head hanging. Alfred stands at his side very concerned, half a step away, but honoring the dignity of his friends demand of him to stand fast. In all the years he has known Bruce, Alfred has never seen him so broken. He has always found the strength to remain a mountain of a man, regardless of the circumstances. Always found a way to succeed, despite the odds against him. But right now he just sits, literally, broken as a result of the recent events of his life. These two men have shared many times together: happy times and sad. Emergencies and celebrations, but they have never faced a crisis such dire ramifications as this. Neither man knows what to say. The reality is the silence; it's deafening. For a long while, neither man moves or speaks.
Its' Alfred who finds his voice first, taking that last half a step separating them and kneels down to look at Bruce face to face. Gently he places his slightly built-aged hand on Bruce's and calls his name.
"Master Bruce". He says calmly, but gets no answer from the crippled crusader. He waits a few seconds then calls him again. This time simply as a friend.
"Bruce" he says softly. "Is it over"? He forces himself to allow the words to slip from his lips. He can't believe himself that he's actually spoken them,...but he has
Bruce begins to raise his head as tears begin welling in his eyes, but not falling. He scans the cavern that has been his base of operations, his sanctuary and his home for more than half his life. He thinks about his parents, and how they died and the vow he made to avenge their deaths and to cleanse Gotham of the cancer that took them. His mind races through years of memories and events that forged his determination transforming him him into the man, and the specter of justice he has become. And he thinks about that single lapse of focus that has led to this mortality-facing moment, and as quickly as that, his contemplations are finished, realizing reality has dictated his only course of action.
"I just can't believe that its' going to end like this. After everything we've been through, it isn't fair. It just isn't fair!"
Bruce buries his face in his hands and breathes deeply. Alfred stands looking down at his friend and asks the question again.
"Is it over sir?"
This time Bruce's head rises straight away looking directly into Alfred's' down looking gaze and says very strongly,
"I'm afraid it is Alfred. I'm afraid it is".