Author's Note:

I'd like to thank you for taking the time to view my story. Just a note, the following chapter will begin in the "present." I won't explain who is who, but hopefully you'll be able to figure it out. In the "note" before the next chapter, I will reveal this.

I'll highlight the most interesting review/question about the story at the end of each chapter, I figure this might create some interest. This story is intended to be quite long and will take quite a while. It will not focus on Batman at all. This story is about the teenage Bruce Wayne and how he turned into the man that would don the cowl of the Bat. Sort of a "Smallville" type version of Batman, if you will.

With that said, enjoy.

Prologue

Today

The burning immediately alerts my sense of smell as to the problem I will soon be facing.

This is not good, I think to myself, as I exchange quick glances with my two understudies.

We all move quickly to try to prevent the impending disaster—a futile attempt, unfortunately.

Without warning, the explosion sounds. All around us, debris is scattered and plastered on the walls and on our persons.

It is too late.

After taking a quick look at my surroundings I begin chuckling, ruefully. The other two join in and before we know it, the three of us are rolling on the floor in fits.

While we are basking in the humor of the situation, my butler comes in our vicinity and gives us an evil look before sighing and dropping to his knees to begin cleaning up.

I had counted on the recipe to be timed just right, but apparently the company I kept had prevented me from paying attention. We all let out a few last chuckles before joining in to assist the old man.

After our arduous task is complete, we all rise and I pat my old friend on the back as I think of just how long he has served my family. The man hasn't seemed to age at all…almost all of my visitors through the years made sure to comment on this fact that I had begun to take notice of only very recently.

As we reach the master living room, we all sit down and I survey the crowd gathered. Both of my understudies join their wives on a couch and for a moment I am amused at the fact that I have trained all four of these individuals, husband or wife. As we all sip our beverages for a brief silent moment, I think of the other two that are not present, for a moment my thoughts turn to one and I am quite proud of what she has accomplished, and my thoughts turn to the other, and my stomach turns with disgust at what he has become and how much deceit he has leveled against me personally.

These dark musings are interrupted by my wife, who comes down the stairs smiling at everyone and carrying three photo albums that look like they are going to fall out of her arms at any moment while speaking loudly about how we'd better be ready for some prime-time embarrassment.

We all push the couches back, gather around in a circle, and for the next few hours reflect on days long gone…some good, some bad.

As I flip through a particularly cluttered album in silence while my wife and the other two women chuckle about a probably embarrassing photo of one of us men, one photo stands out. I look at it and furrow my brow in deep thought, trying to figure out the date.

"Your first day in Europe," my butler says, solving the mystery for me.

My wife is quite for a minute, as is everyone else. "Europe?" she asks.

"Yeah, I'd like to know what that's all about," adds the older understudy.

I lean back against the foot of the couch, and for a moment I debate letting the butler tell the story, but one look at him tells me he's just going to deflect the honors back to me. With a sigh, I shrug and look at everyone.

I've known all gathered for years and years, but none of them (with the exception of the butler) have ever heard this story—seven years of my life that I've kept in the dark, until today. I briefly wish my one absent student (the female one) would also be present to hear this, but I can only guess at the ultra-discomfort it would cause two of the people in the room.

I clear my throat, and begin to tell my untold story.