"7:45 p.m. January 21st, 2001. Ten minutes ago, President Gore announced that Gotham City has the highest crime in the nation. In the nation! Even with this supposed 'Batman' character patrolling the streets, crime is still higher than ever. Freaks and weirdoes have been crawling out of the woodwork since this guy supposedly showed up in town. Which begs the question, do the freaks draw out the Batman or does the Batman draw out the freaks? So who's responsible for all of this, you ask? Personally, I blame guys like Bruce Wayne and Harvey Dent; Seriously. All these guys do is preach to the masses about cleaning up Gotham City but then they never do a damn thing besides pose for fancy magazine covers and throw expensive dinners for their rich, snooty, friends. Guys like this really piss me off. Guys like this need to be keeping up on their promises to us, not stealing the taxpayers' hard-earned money to fill their own pockets. I haven't worked my ass off for twenty-five years just so they could sit on theirs and bullshit us. If I don't see some sort of change sometime soon, I might just dress up in a cape and try to clean this city up my damn self. Anyway, that's my stand. I'm Alexander Knox, signing off and reminding you to sleep with the light on."
A fancy black limousine raced down the back alleyways of Gotham City; a phantom vessel weaving in and out of the late afternoon shadows. The Narrows was a dingy cesspool of sex and murder, so the sight of a transport like this one surely drew the attention of even the most depraved citizens. They crawled out onto the streets like cockroaches, pouring out of buildings in disgusting droves. Their hungry eyes watched the limousine closely, seemingly waiting for the car to slow just enough for them to strike.
"Are you sure you want to be out here, Master Bruce? It's not even nightfall yet and yet I still can't shake this dreadful feeling of-"
"Just keep driving, Alfred. You know where to go."
"Yes, Master Bruce."
Inside the vehicle, Bruce Wayne surveyed the January 2001 edition of TIME MAGAZINE. On the cover were himself and his close friend Harvey Dent, the district attorney of Gotham City. The two men had met as teenagers in a grief counseling program for children whose parents had died when they were young. Despite the obvious differences – Bruce being a rich, white, suburbanite and Harvey being a poor, black inner city youth – the two boys fast became inseparable. Harvey's mother had died giving birth to him and his abusive, alcoholic father had been shot in the kitchen of their apartment while Harvey watched from his bedroom. Both men hated crime in all its forms, the only thing different was their personal opinion of how crime should be dealt with; Bruce believed in harsher justice, delivered swiftly and personally, while Harvey believed the law could work, with the right leadership. With Bruce Wayne's power and Harvey Dent's influence the TIME MAGAZINE headline was correct, BRUCE WAYNE AND HARVEY DENT: GOTHAM'S DYNAMIC DUO. Another smaller headline mentioned briefly the arrest of former Governor of Florida John Ellis "Jeb" Bush, brother of Presidential election loser George W. Bush, who had been charged with falsifying poll results in his home state during the recent presidential election.
The limo continued deep into the heart of the narrows, eventually slowing to a halt in front of a well lit nightclub known as the Cat Scratch Fever. A busty young blonde sauntered over to the window of the limousine in her stiletto heels and miniskirt. The window rolled down slowly and the young prostitute leaned her chest and face inside the vehicle. She examined the man in the car while he stared down her cleavage, imagining what other hidden treasures might await him beneath the glitter soaked top.
"Say, aren't you Br-"
"You'll do. Get in the car."
"Whatever."
The door opened and the well endowed female slipped into the car sensually. As she passed her gentlemanly patron she pushed her breasts in his face, accidentally that is. She sat down and crossed her legs, like a lady should, and examined the shining interior of the limousine. She ran her fingers up and down the Italian leather seats, realizing that this may very well be the fanciest car she had ever seen, let alone in which she had ridden.
"Take us home, Alfred."
"Yes, sir."
Slowly the car took off once more, heading this time toward the large mansion known to all as Wayne Manor. Wayne Manor had been the home of Gotham City's most influential family for seven generations, but Bruce Wayne was perhaps the only person to hate the home's natural exclusion from the rest of the city. A part of Bruce Wayne's soul was Gotham City, and being even a second away from the bleeding heart of his city cut deeper into his soul than the death of a close friend. As the limousine sped across the bridge leading back toward Gotham Square, Bruce stared out his tinted window and took in every slight detail of the city he loved so dearly. Meanwhile his new companion shifted uncomfortably in her chair, trying to move nearer to the handsome billionaire.
"So, what brings you out here?"
"Don't talk."
"Well, I never-"
"I said don't talk."
When they arrived home, the sun was barely visible over the horizon with a few scattered clouds in the sky, but by the time they had finished their business, the moon was high overhead and blocked out by thick gray storm clouds. A heavy rain fell on Gotham City, as if God himself were trying to wash away the filth of the city and blast it off the face of the earth; it seemed to rain all the time as of late.
Bruce Wayne, meanwhile, stood naked in front of his window, a large wall-sized window, staring out over the Gotham City skyline. Wayne Manor's position at the top of Mount Gotham provided a wonderful vantage point for concerned citizens like Mr. Wayne. Bruce Wayne's chiseled, statuesque form resembled that of a man competing in the Mister Universe competition and at a whopping six foot five inches tall, Bruce was a terror to behold. In public, he chalked up this enormous physique to his personal code of physical health. The public never asked any questions; as far as they were concerned, the raven-haired behemoth was as dumb as he was large. On the bed, the young prostitute seductively covered her more provocative areas with Bruce Wayne's white sheets, giggling playfully.
"Ready to go again?"
"Get out."
"What?"
"I said get out. Your money's on the dresser. There's an extra thousand dollars in it for you if you keep your mouth shut. Now take it and leave. Alfred's out front with the car, he'll take you wherever it is you're going."
"Fuck you, prick."
The disrespected young businesswoman gathered up her clothes in her arms, took the money off the dresser and stormed off down the stairs. Bruce never flinched, his gaze affixed on his city. From the dresser beside him, Bruce Wayne popped a handful of pills into his mouth and washed them down with a swig of an unknown brown liquid. Looking closer at the dresser, one would notice the bottle of Vicodin prescribed to Bruce Wayne; a trained eye would also see that the prescription was written for a Mr. Alfred Pennyworth and had expired seven years ago. Next to the pills was a nearly empty bottle of Jack Daniels and a glass used to smooth the taste of the Vicodin.
November 14th, 2000, 3:40 PM
"I thought he would have given up this revenge nonsense by now, Alfred. I thought that was why he went on that ten year sabbatical of his. I mean he's what, 35 years old now?"
"Twenty-nine, actually."
"Y'know, I could lose my medical license if anyone found out about this."
Doctor Leslie Tompkins was beautiful for a woman in her early sixties. She had been Bruce Wayne's personal physician since the time he was born, even delivering him herself. Her long silver hair shone like the lining of a cloud in heaven. For years, she and Alfred had tried desperately to balance their feelings for one another with their care for Bruce Wayne. Since his return two years earlier, Doctor Tompkins had written numerous false prescriptions for painkillers for Bruce Wayne, but he always had the same complaint each time; it does nothing to numb the pain. Even now she wrote out another falsified document for the vigilante playboy.
"I know, Dr. Tompkins-"
"How many times do I have to tell you, Alfred, it's Leslie."
"I'm sorry, Dr. Tompkins, but that would be disrespectful to Mr. Tompkins."
"Oh Alfred… sometimes I wonder how differently life would have been if I had only met you before Robert."
Alfred quickly reached out and put his hand on the kind doctor's shoulder and spinning her to face him. He looked into her eyes with deep sincerity and tenderness, obviously wishing that what she said was true. His rough hands reached up and caressed her soft cheek comfortingly.
"Please, Leslie, do not speak of such things. Sometimes we must guard our tongues against the words of our hearts, for our minds know better."
"You're right, Alfred. I'm sorry. Now about Bruce-"
"I fear he's getting worse, Doctor. His anger is beginning to grow and he casts aside all personal responsibility the moment the sun goes down. I've tried to talk to him, but he pushes me away oftentimes, chasing away the nightmares, instead, with whiskey and vicodin…"
"There's not much we can do for a man like Bruce, I fear. He's too stubborn to deal with his past like an adult and give up this vigilante alter ego of his-"
"It stopped being an alter ego long ago, I'm afraid. Batman is his own identity now. I'm not sure how much of Bruce Wayne even exists anymore."
The piping hot water of his shower would have scalded the flesh of a normal man, but not that of Bruce Wayne. The Crown Prince of Gotham City was anything but a normal man. The hot water he endured was his personal punishment for the sins he had committed in the past. The act was symbolic of burning the grime and filth off of his tarnished soul. But nothing washed away the blackness buried deep inside. No matter how hard he scrubbed he could never cleanse his being of that horrible past, and he knew he would spend the rest of his life trying in vain. With one hand on the wall of the shower, Bruce Wayne lowered his head, closed his eyes and allowed his mind to drift back to that fateful night.
November 1st, 1979, 6:45 PM.
"Happy birthday, buddy," Thomas Wayne shouted excitedly to his unhappy eight year old son sitting on the edge of his father's bed. "What's wrong, Bruce?"
"I wanna go to the movies," young Bruce demanded coldly.
"Well we're going to the opera, son. And it's kind of like a movie." Thomas turned away from the bed and began to fix his bowtie in the dresser mirror.
"It's not the same though, daddy," the boy whined, kicking his feet against the bed.
Martha Wayne, the mother of young Bruce, strolled into the room, pulling the straps of her dress over her shoulders, and gave her husband a warm kiss on the cheek. "We're going to the opera, Bruce, and that's final. I think it's time we exposed you to a little bit of culture."
"I still don't wanna go…" Bruce mumbled quietly to himself.
"What was that, Bruce?" his father asked sternly.
"Nothing, papa."
"That's what I thought."
"Thomas, darling, which necklace do you think I should wear tonight?"
"I don't know, sweetheart, why not the gold one?"
"It doesn't match my outfit, Thomas."
"Then I don't know."
"Mama?" Bruce asked sweetly, tugging at the bottom of his mother's black glitter dress.
"Yes, dear?"
"Why don't you wear your pearls? They're really pretty."
"Oh no, dear, those are only for special occasions."
"But it's my birthday, mama. Can't we make tonight special? Please?"
"Well… all right, sweetie," Martha said after a few seconds. She was always unable to deny her son's cute face. "Why don't you help me put them on, honey?" Martha leaned down while her son stood on the edge of the bed and clasped the jewelry around her neck. Afterward she turned to her son and smiled, giving him a kiss on the forehead which he quickly scraped off of his face with a resounding "Yuck!"
I should've told her I loved her too.
Everything suddenly went black.
BANG!
"Nice pearls, lady."
As Bruce Wayne exited the bathroom, a cloud of steam rolled out into the hallway. Wearing nothing but a pair of boxer shorts, Bruce started down a long hallway he affectionately called the Trophy Room. On either side of the hall were tall, imposing statues covered in different suits of armor from all around the world. After his eighteenth birthday, Bruce Wayne left Gotham City, originally planning to end his own life in the bitter cold of the Himalayan Mountains. The bullet in his gun froze in the barrel and Bruce nearly died of the cold had he not been saved by an old hermit named Henri Ducard. Ducard saved his life and gave him a talk that inspired the young man to continue living his life.
Leaving the mountains, Bruce went on a ten year trek across Europe, Africa, Asia and even Australia, training with different teachers everywhere he went. In India, Bruce met a woman who taught him the secret of managing his emotional and physical pain to the point where he could withstand even the most powerful of physical blows without flinching. In Africa, he hunted wild animals with the natives of the Congo rain forest. While in China, Bruce spent two years mastering the different styles of Kung-Fu under the tutelage of a powerful master. His time in Japan was spent mastering different weapon styles such as the katana, manriki-gusari, bisento and shuriken. After surviving in the wilds of Australia alone for six months, the native Aborigines taught Bruce the finer points of hunting in the desert of the outback and their renowned powers of deception and the advantage of superstition in battle. Lastly, before beginning his final journey home, Bruce spent a year in a monastery in Nepal undertaking a vow of silence so as to learn the finer points of stealth and the true power of a trained ear. The suits of armor and weapons in this hallway were mementos that Bruce had sent back to Alfred, so he knew the boy was still alive.
The expansive room at the end of the hall was the Wayne Library. Wall to wall bookshelves matched with tall rows that wrapped around the gigantic room like a labyrinth. On the wall and tops of the bookshelves were more trinkets and items Bruce had gathered during his travels. Bruce weaved through the numerous bookshelves to the back corner and stared at an unassuming bookcase before him. To the untrained eye, this bookcase would seem just like any other in the library. But behind this shelf was a secret that Bruce Wayne guarded from everyone besides Alfred Pennyworth, the man to whom he owed his life. Bruce slowly reached out and grabbed a single leather-bound book, tilting it toward him. As he did that, the sound of gears grinding filled the air and the seemingly normal bookcase slid backward and then to the left revealing an old mine shaft style elevator. The book Bruce had pulled back was an original copy of the opera "Mephistopheles," which had cost him millions of dollars to apprehend; but it was worth every penny.
November 1st, 1979, 8:45 PM.
Monstrous bats descended from the ceiling to the sound of beating drums. The creatures danced sensually, leaping into the air as light as a feather. In the front row of the audience, Bruce Wayne hid his shaking face behind his mother's shawl. Tears of panic streamed down his face as he saw the bats on the stage. They reminded him of the terrifying bats which had nearly attacked him when he fell into an abandoned well in the backyard of his palatial home at the age of six. In his hand, young Bruce held the playbill for the opera; the playbill read "Mephistopheles."
"I need a cigarette," Thomas Wayne whispered, leaning over his young son to inform his wife. "If you'll excuse me, I will be right back." Before leaving, Thomas kissed his son on the top of the head, "Happy birthday, Son." Thomas quietly ushered past the crowd to his right and headed toward the back alley exit, reaching for his cigarettes eagerly. He opened the door, eyes on the ground and stepped outside. The music grew louder, and no one heard the screams of Gotham City's wealthiest philanthropist.
A few minutes later, Bruce Wayne tapped his mother on the shoulder furiously, "Mama, can we go? I don't like this show." Bruce looked up at his mother, eyes welled up with tears and his mother knew she could not say no to him.
"Grab your jacket, honey. Let's go get your father." Martha headed toward the back alley exit her husband had taken, sniveling child in tow, so they could all leave as a family. She flung open the door and saw before her eyes a terrible sight beyond that of even her worst nightmares.
Thomas Wayne lay sprawled on the ground, a pool of his own blood beneath him. Standing huddled over the body was a mugger with a gun in one hand and Thomas's wallet in the other. The mugger's left arm, his gun arm, was wrapped in an obviously homemade cast. Another man, cloaked in darkness stood at the end of the alleyway, cane in hand; when he saw the wife and child emerge from the theatre, he slowly and casually walked away toward the busy streets.
The music in the theatre drew to a crescendo as Martha Wayne loosed a blood curdling scream that could have been heard from outer space. Startled by the cry, the mugger quickly blasted two shots aimed at the woman and her son. The first shot pierced the heart of Martha Wayne, splattering blood on the wall behind her. The second shot grazed young Bruce Wayne's forehead barely two inches above his eye. The war drums beat a final time, and the curtain fell.
Martha Wayne's body slammed back against the steel doors, her arms outstretched and then her body went limp, sliding down the steel doors and eventually onto the ground. The mugger, seeing the beautiful and expensive necklace the woman wore, quickly began to inspect it. He held it in his hand and examined the potential value of the beautiful pearl necklace.
"Nice pearls, lady," the killer grumbled snatching the pearls from around her neck and then turning to run away down the alley before someone noticed what had transpired.
"Daddy?" young Bruce cried out, blood beginning to cascade down his forehead and block out the vision in his left eye. Bruce crawled along the ground toward the body of his father. As he slinked closer to his father, his knees began to stick in the viscous human blood. Finally, Bruce reached his father's mangled corpse. Half-blind, he ran his fingers over his father's chest, feeling the blood beginning to cake on his once fresh suit. When his hands came to his father's face, he felt the enormous crack in his father's skull, from where most of the blood had began to flow. There between his father's eyes, was a bullet hole that had been made post-mortem. Bruce wiped the blood from his eye and looked back at his mother, her gaze frozen in terror, eyes wide open. He threw his head back, shouting up to the heavens in dreadful torture, "NO!" The last thing Bruce Wayne saw before collapsing onto the body of his father from excessive loss of blood was the image of his mother's life-blood plastered on the wall; the way that she had fallen had left an image like a Rorschach test panel. Most people would have seen nothing on the wall but blood, but Bruce Wayne saw something far more ominous and foretelling.
Bruce Wayne saw a creature with wings outstretched in terrifying dominance; Bruce Wayne saw a bat.
Happy Birthday, Son.
As he descended into the bowels of his personal hell, Bruce Wayne fingered the prominent scar he had over his left eye from that dreadful night. The elevator came to a crashing halt and Bruce Wayne exited onto a wide stone platform. The winding walkway led down to a large center stone platform which extended outward in four different pathways, including back the way he came. Around him was nothing but a stone coffin; these caves were hollowed out from the mountain on which Wayne Manor had been built. Years ago, these caves had been used by the Wayne family to smuggle slaves further north during the Civil War. Below him were the rushing rapids of the Gotham River, flowing through the mountain, weaving in and out of the jagged rocks jutting upward from the cave floor. The walls of the cave were damp, cold and dark, much like a visible reflection of Bruce's dark twisted soul; this was his hallowed ground, his sanctuary, his escape, his cave.
To the left of the center platform was the famed super computer built by Bruce Wayne and Alfred Pennyworth from the scrap pieces of Wayne International technology, military grade computers and powerful television sets. Bruce had spent nearly a year cooped away in his cave perfectly assembling the type of computer necessary for his endeavors. He toiled zealously day and night on the intricate design processes that were required of such a computer meant to run both efficiently and constantly. Finally, his hard work paid off and he could revel in the spoils of his work. The powerful computer had three sixty inch screens which wrapped around a console so that each was visible from a single chair by simply turning one's head. There were multiple processors, a police communications hacking device, fingerprint and DNA analysis machines, and several other impressive multi-purpose tools and devices.
To his right was a path leading to the secret garage he had built beneath the real garage on the mansion grounds. Originally this area was a storage room for the hidden slaves, later updated to add electricity and running water. Luther Wayne, Bruce's grandfather, had renovated the garage into an underground workshop where he could repair the vehicles he kept in the garage upstairs without upsetting the show value of the other cars. In that spirit, Bruce kept his most promising inventions, gadgets and vehicles in the garage for storage and maintenance. Also in the garage, was a secret path Bruce had built that led around the mountain and out a secret rear entrance to the cave disguised as a closed off service entrance equipped with a fake roadblock and gate which lowered upon the activation of a special remote. This was generally the way Bruce used to leave the mansion when he traveled at night.
Directly in front of him was another stone passageway leading to a hall of lockers. The lockers were made of steel, with glass doors to reveal the contents inside of each. Contained within the first locker was a cloth bodysuit with a thin blue mask and cape. The gloves and boots were made of the same material as the mask and cape combo. Many years ago, before leaving town, Bruce nearly threw away this costume, haunted by the memories it stirred within his subconscious. Instead, Bruce kept the costume which later inspired his future.
October 31st, 1979, 8:12 PM.
*DING-DONG* "Trick or treat!"
"Rawr!" the front door of Wayne Manor flung open wide and a man in a costume sprang from the shadows like a lion pouncing on his prey. The five children standing at the door were unafraid as they held open their bags patiently. "Tough crowd," Thomas mumbled to himself, revealing his candy bowl and passing each child a few pieces of tooth-rotting candy. Without even so much as a thank you, the children scampered back down the path to their parents' cars. Thomas slammed the door with a heavy sigh, disappointed that his costume had no effect on anyone so far and the evening was nearly over. Thomas Wayne gathered up what was left of his dignity and headed back into the huge ballroom underneath the mirror stairs behind him to rejoin his party guests. Normally, Thomas would never have answered the door, but because he loved Halloween so, he left Alfred in charge of the party while he watched the door.
As he threw open the doors, the entirety of the crowd turned their attention to the flamboyantly dressed millionaire. He wore a gray cloth bodysuit with a blue horned mask, spiked gloves and boots. Desperate to milk the attention for all it was worth, Thomas spun around in a slow circle, his shiny blue cape flowing in the breeze behind him. He further marveled the crowd with a series of fancy jujitsu moves which only enhanced the strong masculine appeal of his mysterious costume. Then, out of nowhere, came a great crash from the living room which drew the attention of all the party guests. Thomas ran toward the banquet hall doors to ascertain the cause of the alarm when a powerful battering ram crashed into the doors and blew him back three feet across the ground along with the splintered remains of the double doors. Five tall men in ski masks and black sweat suits stepped over the rubble with fully automatic machineguns firmly in their grasp.
"Which one of you is Thomas Wayne?" The lead thief asked in a threatening voice. The party guests merged together in a giant group, hiding Thomas in the crowd. "That's fine, you wanna play hard to get? I'll just kill guests until you decide to show your face, Mr. Wayne. How about it," the thief asked snatching up a middle-aged woman and her young son and placing a gun to the woman's temple, "can you live with their blood on your hands."
"Let them go. It's me you want." Thomas valiantly pushed his way through the party guests when he saw that the woman and child were his own wife and young son. "I'm right here." Thomas stood proud before his masked assailants in full costume; strangely, the costume made him feel empowered and strong.
"What the fuck is this? Who the hell do you think you are?" the lead thief jested upon seeing Wayne's costume. "You look like a goddamn fruitcake. Boys, ice this- UGH!" The masked thief howled in pain as Martha Wayne's stiletto heel crashed into his groin full force.
Taking the opportunity to cash in on the thieves' momentary distraction, Thomas Wayne leapt at the men who broke into his home fully utilizing the jujitsu training he had learned years ago. He first disarmed the man closest to him with a powerful swat to the forearm, then knocking him to the ground with a spinning sweep attack. For a death knell style blow, Thomas dropped to a knee and slammed his open fist against the downed foe's windpipe.
Before anyone could even think of a way to react, Thomas leapt into the air poised to land a terrifying flying kick. The near lethal blow drove Thomas's heel deep into the sternum of a second attacker, the bones in his chest cracking under the stress. The second assailant crashed into the ground, losing his grip on his gun and quickly going limp. Thomas Wayne instinctively turned his attention to the other men who seemed bent on erasing his existence.
The third, and largest attacker, rushed toward Thomas, shoulders down like a bull, but the experienced martial artist dodged to the left and stuck a well placed strong elbow in the direct path of his face, effectively shattering his nose. Trudging on through the blood and searing pain, the goliath punched Thomas Wayne in the chest and dropped him like a ton of bricks. Sub-machinegun in hand, the monster of a man prepared to drop the pummel of the weapon on Thomas's skull. Thinking quickly, Thomas brought up his feet and used the beast's momentum as leverage to send him flipping through the air and onto his back. Thomas leapt to his feet and turned to face the rhino like giant who was quickly regaining his balance. Once more he charged at Thomas who this time leapt into the air with a spinning axe kick, the side of his foot crashing into his enemy's temple and knocking him out cold. When this behemoth hit the ground, the earth quaked as if from a powerful seismic shock.
The fourth man, much lighter and quicker than the rest, dropped his gun and leapt onto Thomas's back like a wild ape. He quickly wrapped his forearm around, Thomas's windpipe, bringing the older gentleman down to one knee. Gathering up what strength he could, Thomas Wayne jumped to his feet, flipped the small nuisance over his head and slammed him down hard against the linoleum. With feverish intensity, Thomas pummeled the man's face with solid punch after solid punch, eventually head butting the man as hard as he could. Thomas ignored the blood pooling around the young man's head and stood triumphantly, turning his gaze to the leader and final intruder in his home.
The lead thief, now back on his feet, fired a few frantic shots at Thomas Wayne which missed by a mile due to his unsteady hand and lack of aim. Fearing the bloodthirsty look in Thomas's eye, the criminal threw down his gun and took a weak boxer's stance. He swung a weak left hook at Thomas, which he easily dodged. Ducking down low, Thomas Wayne grabbed the masked criminals arm at the wrist. He held the arm there tightly for an excruciating moment and then, with all the force of a raging hurricane, he struck upwards against the man's elbow, effectively cracking the bone so such so that blood spurted from the wound and across his face, the bone jutting out from the wound. Even as the man screamed in pain, Thomas saw only the possible deaths of his family and so he thrust his palm into the man's chest, knocking him to the ground hard. Confident that the man would cause no more harm while in such pain, Thomas regained his cool and turned around to face his fellow party guests. Writ on their faces was fear and bewilderment; never before had they seen such a perverse display of violence and brutality. Yet as disgusted as they were, they found themselves strangely enjoying the sight for they felt the victims' deserved to receive full punishment for their crimes. This same question of when it is okay to senselessly destroy another human being would plague young, influential Bruce Wayne throughout his adult life.
"Alfred! Call the police to come pick these scumbags up." Thomas walked back over to his wife and son, grabbing them tightly in a relieved embrace. Years ago, Thomas had begun taking Jujitsu lessons from a teacher to help him center himself and focus his mind on the task at hand; he never would have imagined that the teachings might one day save his life and that of his family.
Without warning, a gunshot rang out from the doorway and from the sound that followed it was believed the bullets hit something metal. Thomas looked up and saw the chandelier overhead teetering unstably. He quickly snatched up his wife and child and dove out of the way of the solid glass chandelier. The light fell to the ground, shattering into millions of tiny glass pieces. Luckily, no one was injured, but the leader of the thieves had used the distraction to disguise his exit. Thomas couldn't care less however; all he cared was that his family was okay. When they were all standing once more, Martha and Bruce hugged their protector tighter than they ever had before.
"Where did that come from, Thomas?" Martha asked, staring up at her husband in fear and anxiety.
"I don't know. Something about this suit just made me feel… powerful. I felt like I was invincible, like I could do anything. I know it sounds silly, but, I can't explain how… freeing it was." These words would stay with young Bruce for the rest of his life as the words that perhaps inspired his future the most. "I'm sorry if I scared you, darling."
Thomas leaned down and looked his young boy in the eyes, "Hey, buddy, you ok?" Bruce nodded excitedly in agreement, not fully understanding what had happened. "All right, I need you to be a good boy and get some sleep all right? We've got a big day tomorrow."
"Ok, daddy."
"All right, Bruce. I love you and good night." Thomas and Martha both gave their son a kiss on the cheek before sending him off to bed with Alfred. After Bruce was out of sight, Martha shifted a concerned gaze toward her husband.
"So who would want to kill you? And why?"
"My money is on Thorne. My campaign for mayor threatens everything he's spent his whole life building. All the crime and corruption in this city, he knows I want to fix it and make this place safe for kids like Bruce to grow up in."
"What about Falcone?"
"Carmine? No, he'd never-"
"He still blames you for his father's death, Thomas. Maybe this is his way of getting revenge?"
"And maybe Carmine and Rupert are working together?" Thomas had a hearty laugh at that thought. "Besides, I don't think revenge is really Carmine's sort of thing. Come on, let's head to bed."
"Thomas, darling, are you sure you still want to go out for Bruce's birthday tomorrow? I mean the day after someone tried to…" Martha fell into a fit of sobbing, pushing away her husband at first before eventually accepting his embrace. "I'm scared, Thomas."
"Shh…" Thomas stroked his wife's beautiful auburn hair gently. "I'm not going to let anything to you or to Bruce. But I can't live in fear of them. I have to show them, and the people of this city, that I am not afraid of their threats. I stand for something good, and Gothamites need to be reminded that good always trumps evil.
"Besides, I want to give Bruce a birthday he will never forget…"
Then next locker contained a very simplistic suit, much like the one his father had worn on Halloween so many years ago. This suit was black rather than blue, for the mask, cape, boots and gloves. Around the waist was a tacky yellow utility belt which held various crime-fighting tools. And in the center of the chest was a black bat silhouette, much like the blood smear on the wall where his parent's died. This was the first bat suit that Bruce had worn when he decided to venture into Gotham's underbelly only one year ago. Unfortunately, the suit ripped to tatters that first night and so Bruce cast aside the dangerous cloth design for a much more safe ceramic plating system.
Finally in the third case was a suit that reflected Bruce's hard work for two years since his return to perfect his crime-fighting ability. The suit was a perfect combination of double-weave Kevlar covering thick, yet lightweight, ceramic plating. The suit was straight black from head to toe, with the mask, gloves and boots actually gaining more sturdy Kevlar material rather than cloth. The boots were equipped with non-slick surfaces and extreme grip for scaling buildings. In much the same way, the gloves had enhanced grip and the spike on the forearm had been strengthened to be usable as climbing tools. Quite a marvelous creation was the memory cloth material Bruce accidentally created in his home lab; the cloth, which he used for his cape, would become stiff when a fast enough air current rushed through it, allowing it to be used as a hang glider almost. The cape was also removable with the simple click of a button on his utility belt in case of emergencies which deemed the loss of a cape necessary.
The mask and utility belt were perhaps the most impressive features of the refined suit. The eyeholes of the original mask design were replaced with a plate glass-like material of Bruce's own creation. On the outside, the eyes seemed to be white like a human's, only without a pupil, making them all the more menacing; from within, Bruce saw as clearly as day. There were also several modes of vision programmed to the "eyes" such as a heat vision mode, night vision mode, and sonar mode for seeing around corners and through walls; all of these modes were accessible via voice activated commands. Lastly, the mask had a built in gas mask which would shield Bruce's face from toxins and/or deliver fresh oxygen as needed; this was done with the click of another button on the utility belt. The utility belt itself contained bat-shaped throwing stars and boomerang-similar projectiles that could be thrown at far off enemies or used strategically to cut power lines or the like. There was also a powerful grappling gun positioned on his right hip for easy access. The bat symbol on his chest was now a copper-titanium alloy that could deflect bullets.
With a touch against the case, the glass slowly opened and the rack with the suit came out on a track before Bruce. Drawing in a deep breath, Bruce slowly slid on each piece of his suit, beginning with the full body jumpsuit. Before putting on his boots, Bruce threw a couple of quick punches and stretched his muscles within the suit. Once his boots were on, he stood up on his tip-toes a few times, making sure to stretch his calves. The gloves were next and Bruce clenched and opened his fists several times to ensure his full mobility. The hardest, yet easiest, part for Bruce to accept was the mask. In a way, putting on the mask symbolized that for a few moments at the least, Bruce Wayne was gone and his pain dissipated. The Batman, brutal and unrelenting, took over his body and mind, guiding his hand in the way of true black and white justice. The Batman represented everything Bruce Wayne wanted to be and more; strong, callous, stoic, and free. Although, at the same time, each time the mask came off Bruce wondered how much of himself he regained, and how much of Batman he still remained.
Casting aside his fears and thoughts, Bruce Wayne slid the mask over his face, threw his cape over his shoulders and headed for his secret garage. Batman quickly gathered up a handful of smoke pellets and packed them into his utility belt. Checking once more to assure that he had everything he needed for his night shift. Secure in his thoughts, Batman jumped atop his customized motorcycle and revved the engine twice. In addition to having a customized engine enabling the back to pass one hundred miles an hour easily, the bike was also equipped with dual grappling hooks that fired from the front wheel well; there were also handles on the bikes body the Batman could grasp to ensure that he not fall from the bike should he ever find this feature necessary. Lastly, the bike had a set of guns on either side that could be revealed and fired with the press of a button on the handlebars.
Ready to begin his real life, Batman sped down his secret pathway behind Wayne Manor and shot out of the back exit. The fake construction gate fell to the ground as Batman approached, and stayed down as he passed, rising back up after he had sped past. A thick overcast blotted out the majority of the light from the full moon, blackening the city to almost entire darkness; just the way the Batman liked it. The rain still fell sideways, but it did not affect the Batman in the least, for he would not let it. If the Batman had a single regret about this beautiful night, it was that he had begun his duties so late.
"Master Bruce?" Alfred called, exiting the elevator on the Bat Cave floor, a plate of piping hot pasta in one hand, knowing that Bruce was often awake, and hungry, until all hours of the night. He limped on his cane further into the darkness, peeking around the corner for a better view. "Are you hungry? I made Fettuccini." At the end of the path, Alfred saw the open locker and then he noticed the light still on in the garage. With a sigh, Alfred turned off the light and shut the locker. Still carrying the bowl of Fettuccini, Alfred headed back upstairs via another secret entrance in the garage. A workbench slid aside to reveal a set of stairs that headed upstairs. When he reached the top of the stairs, a pressure plate stair caused the wall in front of him to shift and spin aside, revealing the living room of Wayne Manor. Before heading any further, Alfred made his way to the grand piano across from the secret entrance and played the beginning of the melody to "Heart and Soul." After a few notes, the wall slid back into its original place, appearing to be a statue of a knight in his full suit of armor. Alfred headed over to a nearby trashcan and began to dump the Fettuccini into the barrel, mumbling quietly incoherently under his breath.
Opening the front door, Alfred stood in the threshold of the door watching the rain fall. He wondered where Bruce was and whether or not this would be the night he didn't come home. Originally, Alfred had never planned to be a butler like his father, but an unfortunate knee accident ended Alfred's military career and forced him to use a cane for the rest of his life. When his father was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer, Alfred offered to take over at the Wayne house until a suitable replacement could be found so that his father could return home to his family. After the unfortunate deaths of Thomas and Martha Wayne, Alfred believed it dishonorable to leave the boy alone and decided to become his legal guardian. Since that time, Bruce Wayne grew into the son he had never had, filling the void in Alfred's once bitter heart. Alfred watched with growing disappointment and fear as Bruce created an alternate identity to mask his own feelings of inadequacy and weakness. Unfortunately, Alfred could never shake away the disturbing feeling that one day the hate-fueled and revenge-driven identity known as Batman would consume Bruce Wayne's being to the very point where only one could remain in existence. They only question was a simple, albeit frightening one; in the wake of that final climactic clash of existence,
Who would be left standing, Bruce Wayne or Batman?