AN: I reimagined Bruce Wayne's background, but kept his iconic origins. Batman I almost totally changed. Kinda got bored with the original.
"Hey! That's my bed you're sleepin' in!" the coarse voice bellowed. Its owner was a skinny, toothless man, whose head carried only a few wisps of brown hair. A muffled groan answered him, but the body in front of the man showed no signs of moving.
Infuriated, the man grabbed on to the pile of rags at his feet, dragging the body it held across the slightly damp pavement. Without warning, the pile of rags stood up, revealing another equally annoyed man.
"What's wrong with you? I'm trying to catch som-" before the black-haired man could finish, a fist planted itself in his cheekbones, flooring him. Rubbing his aching jaw, the man sprung back up to his feet, smashing his own fist into the face of his assailant.
"You hit hard, but I can hit harder." Boasted the taller man.
"Damn ya'! You took ma' place an' ya' hit me!" The downed man sputtered, his accent becoming more pronounced. Wiping blood from his split lip, the man got to his feet and angrily glared at the trespasser.
"Get outta' ere'. This is mah' place!" He ordered.
The dark-haired man sighed and looked up; to his sides, concrete buildings loomed five storeys high. He could still see the night sky though; the sky without stars, the sky which seemed to glare down at him with a single baleful white eye.
Not wanting to waste his energy in another fight, the man spoke, voice hoarse, "How about we share this place. No police comes around here right? You take that place, and I'll take this; this way, we can find more food."
The brown-haired man seemed to deliberate for a moment, eyes narrowing in suspicion. "You jus' want ta' steal mah' food don'cha?" In truth, he had no wish to fight the bigger man again; he was tired from a long day of scavenging from the rubbish dumps, and he wanted nothing more than to collapse into his pile of rags.
"No. I just want to share food." The man rasped.
"… 'kay. I'm keepin' some leftover burger there. You be sure ta' get some more tomorrow." The man relented. He could see the hunger gnawing at the stomach of his fellow man, and he could not in good conscience turn him away. 'The burger's rotted anyway…'
The taller man shuffled toward the small box, opening it to find a foul-smelling lump of… something. He was, however, too hungry to care. He hadn't eaten in days, and he had eaten worse whenever the hunger got this bad.
The toothless man stared at the soul before him, noting his gaunt cheeks and sunken eyes; his face was heavily scarred, and it looked like somebody cut open his left cheek sometime in the past. The moonlight was just bright enough for him to take in the rags hanging over a prominent ribcage; he could empathise with the starving man. After all, he was often starving himself.
Just as the man had wolfed down the less-than-savoury meal, the brown-haired man spoke, "You gotta name?"
"Yes."
With an exasperated sigh, the man pressed, "What is it?"
"Bruce Wayne." The man replied.
"Hmm. I'm Pen'worth."
He wasn't sure if this… Wayne heard him, because the light snores of the exhausted man filled the alley soon after. Thinking that it had been a tiring enough day already, Pennyworth decided not to prolong it.
The sky was too bright. Wayne always hated the sun, hated that it allowed himself to see his own horrible visage.
Perhaps because it also reminded him of what might have been.
Ironically, the sun always seemed dark, allowing him no peace of mind, withholding the shelter the night gave him from his personal demons. Wayne was reminded of that painful incident so long ago, the night that took his parents, and another more recent one; there had been a time when Wayne thought that there was still hope that the world might be saved – that time had long past.
With a groan, he got to his feet, walking out of the alley amidst the snores of his acquaintance. First, he had to find food.
After that… Wayne mused, eyes flashing dangerously. His scarred face took on a snarl, and his fists clenched unconsciously.
After that, there would be time enough for vengeance.
The sun blazed overhead, the oppressive heat washing over Gotham city. There were those who said Gotham was worst at night, but the light hardly helped it. The streets were littered and rust covered any metal in plain sight; under the sun, Gotham stank of rot and decay, as if it were but a corpse of a once great city.
But this was a city.
A city infested with all the vices of America; it was like a haven to criminal-kind, where they went if they were trying to hide from the Law, where they preyed without fear of reprise.
To the innocent citizens, most of which inhabited the slums, it was like their greatest Nightmare. There weren't very many of them here; most good citizens left, others who could not afford the luxury simply turned to the Mob.
Bruce trudged into the café, the same one he had frequented for years. The smell of tobacco clung to him, as it often did; although the man did not smoke, his acquaintances in his… 'nightly dealings' often did. He took a seat by the corner, basking in the smell of freshly-brewed coffee, and waved for the waitress to take his order.
The woman had freckles on her cheeks, and though she might not have been counted among the most beautiful of women, she never failed to crack a small smile and look pretty when Bruce came in. As the days past, familiar faces often warped from their original kindliness, but the waitress had always stayed homely and enjoyed the infrequent conversations with him.
Today, a small boy that looked barely seven clung to the waitress' skirt, staring at him shyly.
"What'll it be today Mr. Wayne?" The woman asked, smile broadening.
"The usual coffee with eggs. Brought your son today I see, Margaret." Bruce replied. He did not return Margaret's kind smile – he never did. Still, he respected the woman's strength of mind.
"Yeah… Jason's turning eight next week! Mind if I let him sit here for a bit?"
Bruce merely nodded, staring at the boy who seemed bent on hiding behind his mother's legs.
Jason eventually took a seat before Bruce, albeit uncomfortably. Seeing no need to intimidate a child, Bruce addressed the boy, "How's your mother?"
Jason did not answer, flinching instead at the man's words. Bruce simply continued to stare the boy down.
"… S-she's okay… just sometimes she screams at the man next door…" Jason managed weakly.
"What do you want to do when you grow up?" Bruce inquired. Even as he asked this, he knew that the boy would likely turn toward crime if his mother did not take him away from Gotham sometime soon. Bruce knew the city has had such a capacity for corruption.
"I wanna… get rich and… buy mom a new house…" Jason replied, twiddling his fingers.
Even Bruce had to admit, he looked cute doing that.
"It's a good dream." Bruce said as Margaret came to him with a cup of coffee.
Out of the corner of his eye, Bruce suddenly saw three black-shirted men walk into the café, their features covered by plastic masks.
'That's never a good sign.'
Just as he completed that thought, the men produced several submachine guns and inserted fully loaded magazines into them.
Tables were upturned and people were scrambling for cover in a mad dash. A single shot resonated and quiet descended upon the café; a middle-aged man fell to the ground, coughing blood and spasming into the floor.
"Shut up and stay still." Came the disgustingly calm voice of the murderer.
Bruce was still seated upright, watching the scene with nary a change in his demeanour.
He heard the three conversing among themselves, and looked over to Margaret and Jason cowering under the table.
"Which one is it?" one of them spoke.
The one who had gunned down the hapless middle-aged man surveyed the room, only to look straight in the eye of Bruce Wayne.
For a moment, Bruce's heart skipped a beat.
"He doesn't seem to be here. Falcone must've lied to the boss." The tallest man in the group drawled.
"Hey you see that fucker there? He's pissing me off staring like that." The masked hitman said, staring straight at Bruce.
"Let's just kill everyone and get outta here. Boss told us he'd cover us anyway."
'Now would be a good time to run.' Adrenalin pumping, Bruce Wayne leapt from his seat, surprising the gunmen, and burst through the window on the opposite side of the café. Pumping his thighs, Bruce sped away as fast as he could.
He could hear the enraged cries of the men in the café, as well as the soul-rending retort of firearms. He could hear the screams, and the impact of bullet upon flesh, but yet he kept running.
As always, he kept his mind focused, his emotions safely stowed away. Still, he could not help but feel guilty for not being able to prevent the daily cycle of violence from claiming more innocent lives.
AN: Please review!