Standing here on the brink looking below to the neon lit street. The heat haze from the blacktop and the low smog of car exhaust defuses the blue neon glow; it could be a river rushing through a black walled canyon, the headlights of the traffic becoming the glints of light on the white water.

Time to stop looking down.

His hand finds the grapple at his hip resting in its holster on his belt. It's his own design combining a nearly invisible strand, able to hold a hundred fold his weight in the lab yet elastic enough to decelerate his fall and keep his arms in their sockets. The gun assembly comprises a reel, a winch and micro compressors to charge the cylinder with compressed air and fire the grappling hook. Again everything works in the lab.

Now it's time for the real test.

Bring the gun to bare he takes aim, high to account for the natural fall of the hook and right to account for the gusting wind running in from the bay.

Fwoom!

All at once the recoil and trill run through him. A split second later the ring of metal on stone as the hook finds purchase on a sentinel gargoyle on the building across the neon canyon. A sharp tug fixes the hook and a button on the grip draws in the slack line.

Now a perfect Zen moment when all the wants and fears, the hate and bile of loss, the driving shouting voice of rage all cease.

Fixing his target ledge in sight and with a perfectly still mind Bruce Wayne leans back letting the line hold him for a single moment and then drops.

The wind rushes filling his ears clawing at his eyes drawing tears and freezing his skin. The glowing river sharpens in to focus. The line holds the tiny yet powerful motor draws in the line. Arms and shoulders tense and hold against the load fighting gravity and fear to hold on to the line. The ledge flies into view tiny now whilst in motion, a target to small for Bruce Wayne to hit.

Bruce Wayne never makes the ledge. In his fear and the panic, the training and the rage take over. Muscle and instinct replace thought. Standing on the ledge Batman, a product of rage and bile of training and discipline, looks over the neon canyon where Bruce Wayne was finally laid to rest ten years after he died with his parents in an alley behind a cinema for a wallet and pearls.

Fwoom!

A gleaming hook arcs through the thick gloom ringing with its purchase on new roof top. The Bat leans back taking in the slack and slides into the night.