July 3, 1997

Bruce Wayne stood at his parents' graveside. They had just been buried last week, after being murdered by a gunman whilst walking home from the theatre one night. Bruce knew the details. He was there, he had seen it. And he was only eight.

Alfred Pennyworth, a friend of the young boy's parents and their butler/valet/confidant, was the boy's legal guardian, making him responsible for young Bruce's future. He was also with the boy, looking at the tombstone and the inscription:

Thomas Wayne: Cherished Son, Beloved Father, Devoted Husband

1959-1997

Martha Wayne, nee Kane: Beloved Daughter, Loving Mother, Devoted Wife

1962-1997

"Alfred," said Bruce, his voice filled with sadness, "why did they have to die? I thought everybody loved my parents."

The butler looked at his charge, thinking about changing the truth slightly, or lying completely, before he decided to simplify it for the boy.

"Yes, Master Bruce, yes, your parents were loved by everybody, almost everybody. There are people who your parents didn't like because they were criminals, and the criminals didn't like your parents because your parents were trying to kick them out." Bruce looked at him, asking again, "Do they have a lot of money?"

Alfred tensed for a moment, before nodding and replying, "Yes. They got it from forcing people to give it to them; telling them they'd end up in the hospital, and by smuggling, and stealing money from the unions."

Bruce nodded. He was smart for someone his age, and so he got the message pretty quickly. He was no longer sad; instead there was a different emotion.

Anger: Anger at the police, for not properly finding his parents' killer; anger at the politicians and businessmen who lied about their sympathy for him. And anger at all the rich criminals and gangsters who lived like kings while those they were extorting could barely afford to feed themselves or their families, and pretended they were respectable and legitimate.

He wanted to do something about it-he wanted to avenge his parents and ensure that those responsible were brought to justice.


October 17, 2008

The alarm clock woke Bruce up, the sound of From Russia With Love by Matt Munro filling the room. Groaning, he landed his hand on the clock and it stopped; he had hit the correct button. Getting out of bed, Bruce revealed himself to be wearing only a pair of grey-and-black checked boxer shorts. He checked the time. 7.00 hours. He smiled weakly to himself. Classes didn't start for another few hours.

He walked over to his closet and took out a dark red sweater, a navy blue dress shirt, and beige trousers. He picked out a pair of brown brogues and to complete the ensemble, a black duffle jacket. He then walked out of the dorm, which he shared with Star City's golden boy, Oliver Queen. You couldn't find a duo anywhere on the grounds of Cambridge University that were more opposite.

Queen was blond and unshaven. Bruce shaved regularly and had dark brown hair. Queen favoured archery and was studying medieval history, Bruce preferred swordsmanship and was studying forensic science. Queen was looking for 'the one'; Bruce was more of a Giacomo Casanova-figure. Queen was 5'11" tall, and Bruce was 6'1".

Bruce enjoyed walking around the University grounds at this point in the morning, when it was quiet. He had come here the year before after spending a year in Metropolis University studying Geopolitics and Oriental Languages, and was planning to leave when this term was over and head to Munich and learn Advanced Engineering, then a year in Trinity College doing Acting (undergraduate).

So far, so good. But he made sure his plan against the underworld wasn't just of the mind. By the age of thirteen, he had learnt Dragon-Style Kung Fu. In Keystone City Prep School, which his parents funded so that children from poorer families could attend, he was the middleweight boxing champion for two years in a row and was part of the Debating Team. By 18, he knew 7 different martial arts.


Now, he was 19, with eyes like his mother's, and a chin like his father's. If a reporter or journalist asked his fellow university students about him, or any of his classmates for that matter, they'd get more or less the same thing:

-'A real ladies' man, but he can't hold onto one for more than a month'

-'His relationships never last long. I think it's something to do with his parents' deaths'

-'He's a cheating, heartless bastard! I hope you go to Hell'

-'Could kick my ass while reciting Shakespeare and still be able to make out with a girl'

-'Great lips, greater abs'

To tell the truth, they were all right. But Bruce was also determined to succeed in training himself to be ready for Gotham's criminals, and once he felt he was ready, he would finish his sabbatical.

He just didn't know that his first test in crime-fighting was about to come around the corner.


AN: for those of you who don't know, Trinity College is the oldest university in Ireland (founded 1592), and the only college in the University of Dublin.

Also, this may seem like a typical Batman origin story, but wait until the second chapter.