This is Bruce Wayne. He is alone.
They say his father, Dr. Thomas Wayne, was the last trustworthy man of power in Gotham City. Politicians, policemen, the common thug, one could always turn to him to amend any ailment or injury, all without risk of blackmail or debt. The Waynes became a fairly wealthy and popular family because of this. Honesty is the best policy, they'd preach. It was something they championed, even while living in an ever expanding, ever advancing, ever diluted thieves town. Martha Wayne helped fuel her husband's campaign by creating an entire industry under their name, gathering the smartest and honest people to unite under one name of business and commerce and the like. Thus you had Wayne Enterprises, and thus their fortune became endless. With all that wealth, people expected them to grow corrupt; they were natives of Gotham City after all. But their contribution to the city just became more and more expected of them, and even this pressure from the whole of the community, still didn't convince Thomas Wayne from leaving. He felt he had a duty to these people, you see. The funny thing about it is that he thought these people were innately good. "Bruce, one day you'll see that this city is a wonderful place, full of loving and honest people," he told his son one night. "You just have to see for yourself." Well, it didn't take very long for Bruce to see for himself.
Gotham simply didn't deserve them, some would say. It was only tabloid news, the death of his parents. It was shouted from the rooftops for maybe the first week, but then the whole story faded away from most everyone's memory. They didn't seem to care. This city learns to adapt, you see. Anytime the city doesn't get its way, it changes its shape. That way, it may trek forth on its path to inevitable ruin. Of course, it doesn't think ruin is the right word. Paradise sounds better.
The police never found the man or the gun, so they quit. There were a lot of quitters on the GCPD those days. That's how Bruce learned not to trust them, not to care about them. To him, they represented the authority of the world he lived in, and if he couldn't trust the authority, he couldn't trust anybody. Instead, he sealed himself inside the mansion his parents built for him. He wouldn't watch TV—it was corrupt. He wouldn't read the newspaper either, it was corrupt too. And he would never go on the interwebs, for that as we all know is the most corrupt of all. If he wanted to know anything, he'd ask Alfred, his butler. Everyone trusted the Waynes, and the Waynes trusted Alfred, so that was that. Alfred became his teacher, and his only friend.
Of course, they couldn't be kept inside forever. One summer day, Bruce was reading Great Expectations for the fifth time, when Alfred brought a pamphlet along with his rare cooked steak, the master's favorite. "What is this, Alfred?"
"A program, sir, for Gotham State University—you ought to be a high school graduate by now and I think you ought to attend in the fall like you are supposed to."
"Why should I?" demanded the young Wayne, "I don't need a degree, especially one from somewhere as corrupt as Gotham City." (Corrupt had become Bruce's go-to insult by this time)
"Pardon me sir, but this wealth of yours isn't going to last for much longer. Now, your parents insisted that you get an education, specifically from Gotham University, if you are to fully inherit their company."
Bruce was peeved to say the least. He'd grown to be extremely introverted and socially awkward. How could he possibly go to college, if he couldn't even go to high school? Couldn't he just educate himself, like he had done all this time? On the other hand, he couldn't let his parent's company get taken over by some greedy fat pompous pig. As much as he hated the idea, he couldn't turn down the offer.
Gotham State—where all your journeys begin; that's the mantra at least. But the sort of journey, what would that be? That's why the motto fit them so well; the place reeked of obscurity and ambiguity. It looked, smelled, and felt like a ball of clay that could be molded into something great, or something awful. There was nothing distinct about it to say the least—it wasn't ranked very high on anything worth ranking, it sandwiched itself between an insurance firm and an actual sandwich place. The buildings were kept well, but to the point where they hadn't needed to upgrade since the 70's. Class colors were black and white and just a HINT of dark grey. There weren't any rival schools either; rather they kept to themselves except through sports, which the school admittedly wasn't very good at. However, there was always one redeeming and shining quality to the college: Pride.
Pride bled through those brick walls like radioactive ooze. The faculty, staff, and even the students were so full of themselves, that they made going to that school feel like going to the moon. Prestigious was a word tossed about loosely, like it was a matter of fact. Self-consciousness was made to look so foolish, that one could simply NOT feel self-conscious if they tried. One thing was for sure, one could definitely be themselves at Gotham State. There were still your bullies and your gossiping young adults and your quiet ones, but whoever you were you just felt like SOMEBODY in this cesspool of egoism. Bruce for one didn't see the appeal of it. All he thought of it was an obstacle he had to get out of the way. Unfortunately for Bruce, there was no getting around THIS obstacle.
Alfred didn't demand that Bruce stay on campus, but it was mandated. Nobody should commute to the greatest place on earth if you could just stay there! "You'll make more friends that way anyway, Master Bruce," he would say. I could make friends no doubt, he thought, but I could make foes too. He knew if he was ever to run his family's business, he had to interact with people better than he could now. Gotham State could teach him THAT much.
At the very least he needed befriend his new roommate. He stood at his dorm room door, not excited in the least for his first actual confrontation with human life in forever. Bruce hoped that maybe he could've had a single, but to think that was ever a question for GSU was like thinking you could ask a banana to peel itself. Just don't let him be a creep, he prayed. When he finally opened the door, he was greeted to 6 feet of masculinity and pride and self-confidence. Typical GSU student, he surmised. The dude had rich brown hair combed up to one side, bright eyes that made him look eager for a question or an answer, and a stoic grin on his face, like he knew everything about everything. "Bruce Wayne," he started, "I'm Harvey Dent."
Bruce didn't know what to make of Harvey. He certainly seemed like an honest chap, peculiar for a native of Gotham City. But since he'd be living with the man for a while, he figured he may as well not act cold. "You settled in here quickly. . ."
"Oh, I've been here since last year. I'm a sophomore."
"Then why are we rooming together, if we aren't even in the same grade?"
"Beats me!" Harvey laughed, "I really don't care, do you?"
". . .No," Bruce muttered as he threw his luggage on his cot. So much for not being cold.
"Well!" replied Harvey with a newfound sense of resolve, "Why don't I show you around campus?"
"No thanks," replied Bruce, "I already got a tour. Not to mention I have a class soon anyways."
"You haven't had one of MY tours!" Harvey retorted, "C'mon, ya big lug!" With that, Harvey grabbed young Wayne by the wrist and dragged him all about campus. He showed Bruce all the alleyways, shortcuts, and best places to eat, but Bruce still didn't seem to care. "I have a class starting soon, let me go!" Bruce begged over and over again. After an hour Harvey stopped by the campus store and turned to his captive. "Look here man," explained Dent, "If you're gonna act so standoffish, then where you gonna be in life?" By life, he meant GSU, which Bruce couldn't tell was loyalty or brainwash. "I just care about what I came here to do, which was to learn and get a degree in four years," Bruce said frankly.
"Ugh, just stop being so damn depressing, dude!"
"Heheh, he's right you know!" chortled a voice. The two roommates turned to face the chimer, only to have one of those classic cinematic moments where they don't see anything, then the voice grunts 'A-HM-HM' and the camera pans onto a clearly tinier person than whom they expected. The short stature of the unusually well-dressed creature had a girl in each arm. He was literally half the height of both guys and both girls, but he had an air about him that declared, "Yes, I am a legalized midget. I'm still twice the man as you with half the height!" Plus, it was still a fairly warm day for early autumn, and yet he was wearing two black coats with boots and gloves and a big hat like it was the middle of January. Bruce could've sworn he saw fog come out from under the man's long nose as he spoke. "Pardon me, gentlemen," quacked the suave pimp, "I couldn't help but overhear that you two are lacking in the ladies department. Am I wrong?"
"Um...yes," answered Bruce.
"Yes, as in you are lacking in the ladies dep—"
"No, as in yes you are wrong!" snapped Harvey, "We are not lacking in anything, thank you Ozzy."
"I told you to call me Oz, Dent! Cause I'm the wizard at this school, you know that!" Ozzy shook his head and whispered something to the broad on his right, who had to bend way down in order to hear. She giggled, but in a way anybody but Ozzy could tell was fake. Or maybe she just laughed like that. She stood to face the confused look on Bruce and the discouraged look on Harvey and smirked, "It's OK fellas, we know we aren't your type!" The trio laughed in unison as they passed by on their way, consumed by how clever they all were in the encounter.
"I don't like that guy," admitted Harvey. "I don't see what Vicki sees in him besides money."
"Who is he?" Bruce asked. "His name is Oswald Cobblepot," answered Harvey, "and he is the scum of the earth."
Professor Crane was said to be the worst English professor in the school, and not the 'dumb as a doornail' sort of worst, but the 'spawn of Satan' sort of worst. His failure rate was a staggering 92 percent, having never administered an A in his life, because the only papers worth an A would be: his own. "Fair warning, I am a teacher of the unknown," he declared smugly to his classroom of 50 something, which he was betting on to all try dropping out. He snickered to himself about how great a portion of them wouldn't be able to drop out, and the look on their faces when they realize their precious little GPAs will go down the crapper, never to resurface again.
As he scanned the room of his future victims, there was one who caught his eye. Dark, scruffy hair, perfect posture, a small tight frown and eyes, eyes that seemed to peer into your soul and NOT like what they see. At first the professor chocked it up to mere hate, or perhaps pretended bravery in the presence of fear, like all of his students had for him and his class, but there was no hate or courage in this one. It was fortitude. Nothing would shake this individual, or so it seemed. When Professor Crane read off the attendance, he watched for this young man's name. "Bruce Wayne," he called. "Present," the teen replied, firmly, proudly, defiantly, and blunt. Never had Crane loathed a human being so instantly in his 40 years of teaching. Remarkable, he thought, He really doesn't know what he's getting himself into. And what's more, he seems to understand that, and yet out rightly doesn't care. Why, it's either fearlessness or foolishness! Innately, he seemed to bow his head underneath his broad brimmed hat, like he was cowering for a moment. Then his neck shot up straight, and he turned his back to the class as he hastily wrote some nonsense on his chalkboard, swearing under his breath that this Bruce Wayne would never pass his class.
As that was his only class of the day, it didn't take long for Bruce Wayne to notice that he was bored. Some folks don't take notice until maybe the fifth hour of doing absolutely nothing productive, but Bruce was keen on keeping himself occupied. However, instead of resorting to doing anything productive affiliated with GSU—a next to improbable accomplishment—he decided to search outside the iron gates of the establishment. Hours went by as he shuffled up and down the empty streets gazing melancholy at cheap after cheap outlet, until he stumbled upon a gym. To his surprise, he instantly liked this gym, because for once he found something that wasn't trying to be something it wasn't. That, and he'd never really seen one before. Alfred had him convinced that the way to exercise was with push-ups and sit ups, but he never imagined machines that could help you, as silly as that seemed even to him.
In he wandered, and as he stared at the weight machines and the huge roped off ring for the first time, he heard fast breathing and soft thuds in the corner. A girl about his age was going at it on a punching bag. She seemed to be the only one there. The world was turned off for those few minutes, and it was only her and that punching bag, and the swirl of thoughts that fueled her to keep going. Bruce stared at her for a while, not saying a word to break her concentration. He had been there before, that state of being. Her swings ultimately got swifter and heavier until the point when her right fist slowed to a brief stop before it made a final blow on the sandbag, and there the fist rested. She seemed to be aware of his presence by that point, but she kept his eyes off him. Her body straightened, still breathing heavy, and she tilted her head back in satisfaction before asking, "You own this place?"
Bruce fidgeted a little, and croaked, "No. . .do you?" And she paused and threw her head down and smiled, "Hell no."
She finally turned to face him, and Bruce could see how long she had been here. Sweat had settled all over her body, which was at the point that it had no fat to burn, and was only gaining muscle. Her very short chocolate colored hair covered some of her eyes as she smiled more and more, seemingly relieved to see him. "Well what the fuck are you doing here, huh?" she breathed. Bruce was taken aback by the language, but he supposed she was just part of a group that talked that way, and she was brought up rough. She could tell that he was nervous around her too, which she apparently liked very much.
"I've—heh—never been to a place like this before," Bruce admitted. Her eyebrows furrowed, as she started walking towards him, and he inclined to walk back. This raised flags that excited her. "You must live under a rock," she chuckled, "A very expensive rock too."
"How do you know that?" Bruce stammered, starting to realize he was losing his cool.
"I have my ways," she hinted, as he stopped and she circled about him, "I can smell it around you. It's this distinct aroma I've been able to trace my whole life. I don't know what it is, but it just makes me feel. . .euphoric. . ." Then she stopped, and they made eye contact, and for a brief moment Bruce was wondering if she was actually going to kiss a guy she just met. She must've thought that too, because she giggled and walked away towards a locker on the other side of the room. "So who are you supposed to be?" she mused.
"Bruce, it's Bruce," he muttered. He never felt that way before and didn't know what to think of it. He had only read about it.
"You know who owns this place, Bruce?" she asked as she took her drenched tank top off. Bruce was too small a fish out of water to not avert his eyes. "Um—no—I just discovered this place! ...and what, you don't? Who are you?"
"I'm Selina, and no, I don't know whose this is. I stumbled upon it myself just yesterday. I'm going to GSU down the street and I was just looking for something fun to do before the clubs started up. It felt a lot more. . .intimate than at their own gym, you know?" Intimate is an understatement, Bruce thought. "I'm, I'm going to Gotham State too," he replied. She had finished changing her clothes by now. She slipped on a pink leather jacket and Uggs, but instead of leaving she wandered further down a hall into the darkness. The sun had disappeared by this time, but Bruce wasn't dense enough to miss the hint that she wanted him to follow. So, semi-reluctantly, he did.
The two talked for what seemed like forever in a lounge room. It turned out that Selina Kyle wasn't as promiscuous as Bruce was being lead to believe, but that didn't mean she was a virgin either. She had a full honors scholarship to GSU to study Theater and Communications, so she was certainly smart. It occurred to both of them that the gym must've been abandoned, and it wasn't just any gym. Selina explained how it was used to practice mixed martial arts, having plenty of equipment and the whole nine yards with a film of dust thrown in. Gotham city was an ever changing, ever moving entity, so anything could've happen to force the previous owners to abandon the place. "This city is so tough," she brought up after a while of talking, "I think it'd help if the two of us trained here, maybe teach ourselves some fighting skills. Waddya think? Beats buying a gun!" She laughed. Bruce kept quiet, and frowned. He hated guns, the idea of them. They were so cowardly; an infant could use one and just take away somebody's life without realizing the consequences. Selina only didn't buy a gun because of all the trouble of having one. "If I was ever caught with possession of a gun, I'd go straight to jail!" she fumed. "There's such a thing as a right to bear arms, but to arm someone like me? Those cops wouldn't give a fuck; they'd find a reason to cuff me. But, we all gotta defend ourselves somehow, right?"
"I don't know, Selina," Bruce muttered, "I can't stand violence. Besides, it's not me that I'm worried about. It's everyone else." He stood up and got as far as the door.
"Look Brucey," she started. Nobody had ever called him "Brucey" before. "It isn't pretty outside those walls. As cruel as it sounds, you have to fight to not be treated like a bug around here. Honesty is not the best policy." He couldn't handle that thought, so he said his goodbyes and stormed off into the night.
The night is always delightfully, and dismally quiet when it wants to be. It can syke out the most stoic individuals and make them rattled and measly and weak. The underside of Gotham comes out at night, you see, and those who catch themselves inside don't usually come out without at least a few scratches.
Not me, though. It's my weapon, my tool.
I was making my weekly hit on my alma mater when I heard leaves crunching behind me. I took another bite of my Hershey's bar, a favorite of mine to have in my free hand. I had decided to leave a more artistic mark than my usual profanities, because I knew I had more time on my hands. That's the worst thing to give someone like me, time on their hands. I grinned even wider than normal, surprised to hear movement on a night as especially creepy as this one was. I lifted my finger off the spray can head, twitched my head as quick as a woodpecker's, and slowly made my way to face the newcomer. I always made it a point to make up my shabby appearance with a dramatic performance, keeping my observer as high on his toes as possible. Only this boy didn't seem so frightened yet. He was angry instead, his head askew and his eyes looking up at me like he had seen me before. I was on a perch, you see. I'd have to come down to him for him to do anything. Well, I was pretty much done with the portion I was doing, so I decided to stare him down for a bit, eating more of my big Hershey's bar. It went on, and on, and on, and the more it went on the more I ate and ate, until there was no more left, and that's the moment I started squeaking, laughing ever so quietly so not to make any loud noise.
"What are you doing?" the boy grumbled with rage, his fists clenched and his body trembling. He looked like he was going to erupt. Why the whole thing was hilarious! I had to clasp my free hand to my big fat mouth in order to hold back the keels of laughter. I had to kneel down it was too funny! The boy must've really hated that, because he sort of ran up the wall and grabbed my orange sweatpants and dragged me down. Ok, somebody get this kid an agent, because I'm about to pee my pants in joy. He didn't really think that through, you see. Now I was on top of him, with spray paint in one hand and his neck in the other. What a delightful night this was turning out to be! I wanted to ask him so many questions, like who the hell WAS he, and what he thought I should do to him first, since he had so many other great ideas. But he seemed to want to talk first, so I let him.
"Who—are—you?" He wrestled, but it was no use really. I had him totally pinned. Scrawny piece of work he was. Then again, who was I to talk? I really only wore such baggy clothing to cover up what a SKELETON I really was. But I was bigger than him, so that was that. It dawned on me he could only see my mouth, I usually hid the top half of my face under my green cap like a mask, so I decided to give the poor boy some breath as I released my disguise. He wouldn't have recognized me anyway, the green hair and dark circles and all. "Friends call me Joker, 'cause I'm WILD!" I roared, cackling with what my own prideful ego could produce. That shook him up a bit. A bit cheesy I admit, but it makes sense, doesn't it? I panted like a dog waiting for a retort, but got nothing but frightened silence, as usual. So I asked, "You don't look familiar. You freshie?" Brief moment, then, "I'll take that as a yes then." I grew bored of him, he looked like he was going to faint as is, so I gave him one last scare. "Well, from one student of GSU to another, WELCOME. This really is where ALL your journeys—begin!" Whack, out like a cigarette. I decided I'd leave him alone here for the night, nobody would think it was him who vandalized the school again. They all knew it was me. Before I left though, I was tempted to look through his wallet and see who this poor sap was. But at the last second, I decided not to. I had had way too much fun to know who he really was now. Who knows? Perhaps I'd see him again. Maybe he'd treat me to some more fun. I would hate to ruin it knowing who he was, that'd be too much power over him, and then it wouldn't be any fun anymore.
This is Bruce Wayne. He is alone.