TWENTY-FIVE YEARS LATER
Damn nightmares . . .
The bats again.
Only this time, there was only one, a novelty that deviated from the usual swarm that haunted him since the day he had fallen. This one unique bat was larger than the others, almost as if it deemed itself more important than its underlings. The demonic-like creature that flapped its wings wildly at him like a frenzied predator, emerging from the shade without warning. Its face was riddled with rage, screeching crazily as it closed on him. The eyes were a dull red as if rage and vengeance were fueling it.
Bruce woke up feeling wet all over, feeling a relief of cooling sensation as air brushed on his muscular body. His bedroom window breathed very early morning light into the room. The back of his head was damp, making him feel a slight sensation of lightheadedness. Thankfully, the lack of clothing was making it easier for him to refrain from burning and regain a sense of where he was.
The woman sleeping peacefully next to him hadn't stirred. He worried for a moment that he may have startled her, but her soft snoring told him otherwise. They were having plenty of drinks the evening before. It had been a rather casual evening prior. It had been the same as every other night out. A woman who was lucky enough to come over to Bruce Wayne's manor and have a glass of wine, getting to know his charms one way or another. He hoped it would've remained that way, but the nightmares have been occurring for so long. Not even a one-night stand would ease it.
He gazed around his bedroom. His sanctuary for so many years was illuminated with a pale gaze from the moonlight that hung above the sky, looking down upon a cold winter night. The window depicted a rain of flurries that would soon crystalize the glass unless Alfred did remember to adjust the appropriate chemicals to prevent that.
Glancing over, Bruce read that the clock was a little past five o'clock in the morning. Another time too early in the morning to return to sleep before waking up. He longed for seeing a bright and sunny morning instead of the darkened dusk that cast shadows where he rested. It was the fifth rainy day in a row. The wetness was accompanied by a dark gray sky that refused to make way for the sun. There was never a moment where lightness appeared.
Bruce started ahead of him, his environment full of dread and gloom. Last night, it was the opposite—the evening before was a brightly lit fancy restaurant with expensive wine and food. It followed to Bruce and the woman making love that turned to futility. It always turned that way in the past. The next morning would be followed by emptiness. Another day to wake up and remember that there was no one truly waiting.
Finding the strength, Bruce tossed the covers off his body and removed himself from the overly warm bed. His body turned frigid, but the tireless hours of exercise on a daily basis gave him the proper shield against shivering.
As he reached the door, he looked behind him. The woman remained sleeping and remained still as he saw when he woke up. Maybe she had more wine than he remembered.
He proceeded out of his bedroom. The hallways of Wayne Manor were a tomb. It was once a wonder when he was a child. When his mother and father would fill it with life. The memories of the Waynes' fundraising parties flooded his mind. The parties and other gatherings were also moments to cherish. He knew his parents' partners at work. Bruce was given attention at times—the kind of attention that made him feel special. The paintings were never removed by Bruce's request, only to be polished by Alfred.
The familiar sound of sizzling echoed in the seemingly empty house. That at least was something good to look forward to. Alfred's breakfast never failed in all of Bruce's years. There was never a time when it was overly cooked or undercooked. The scent of bacon carried Bruce down the staircase and eventually the kitchen was reached.
"Morning Master Wayne," Alfred said, his tone sounding deadpan but at least trying to lift Bruce's spirit. He noticed that Bruce was still in his underwear. Another woman. "Still asleep, isn't she?"
"She'll leave," Bruce replied. "They always do."
Alfred made an admitting face. Indeed, they all do leave. Though it wouldn't kill Bruce to at least give her a courtesy. "Should I make arrangements to drop her somewhere?"
"She'll call a cab. Besides, you're busy."
"Billionaire playboys are always busy, sir. I think you might need a new habit."
Bruce didn't say anything, but Alfred might be right. Or was he? Last night was like all the other nights. Bruce Wayne, Gotham's enlightened son can't have a night with not a worry in the world? The nights were repetitive, but they did give him a sense of joy, no matter how small it might have been. With all the reoccurring nightmares, it would be more than enough reason. Then again, those nights did lack an end goal. It was an endless loop. A fantasy that acted as a temporary band-aid. There was no escaping the mornings. The mornings would be a reminder that reality and dreams are not identical.
"I'll drive her home," Bruce conceded.
"I'm making you breakfast, sir," Alfred reminded.
Bruce smirked. "Butlers are always busy, Alfred."
Without taking his eyes off his usual impeccable meal-making process, Alfred raised his brows. "Shall I place your breakfast in the fridge?"
"She lives on 89th Street," Bruce said.
Alfred's brows raised again. 89th Street wasn't too far away from Wayne Manor. "Do you at least remember her name, sir? Think there was a time when you got a name wrong, courtesy of the champagne."
Bruce smirked, rolling his eyes as he exited the kitchen, returning to his bedroom above. "Vicki Vale. Gotham Gazette."
When Bruce returned to his bedroom after a series of long walks, he stopped at the doorway. Vicki was already up. Apparently, she must've been in a hurry. Through the dimness that the outside sky would allow, he could see that she had her long coat put on sloppily. Her bra was visible thanks to the lack of buttoning on the top. She was frantically putting her phone in her pocket while searching through her purse that had been on the floor.
Bruce was startled but made a calming tone. "I can drop you off."
She sighed. "I've already called a cab. I'm late."
Bruce smirked awkwardly. See, Alfred?
Vicki stuffed her shirt and pants as much as she could within her coat, hiding it along with her body.
"You sure you want to . . .?" Bruce's voice trailed as she was already past him.
Seconds followed, and she was out of sight. Soon, the sound of the front door would echo, leaving behind the only sound of the sizzling bacon that would inevitably be done as Alfred intended. With his head hanging, Bruce returned to the kitchen. This time, he was wearing a t-shirt along with his underwear.
Alfred never changed his position. He kept eyeing the food that he strived perfection for. "Your bacon will be done in a minute, sir," he said casually.
It was probably best for Ms. Vale to not have any more delays before her next day working for the Gotham Gazette. It would be another series of columns that would explain why Gotham was such a nightmare to live in, the Waynes' parents' death being only part of a series of unfortunate events. With nearly every beginning of the Gazette would feature two very well-known words before starting a tirade. "Gotham is . . ." The following words would be nothing but similar words. "Gotham is diseased. Gotham is a plague. Gotham is doomed." Every new scoop would often say who may or may not have ties to the crime families that reached out to everyone, whether it would be a cop, prosecutor or even a judge. The more it said such things, the more ordinary it became.
Bruce abruptly dropped the paper. The night before, he had personally sworn to himself that he'd never take a glance at what Vicki wrote down in her next column inch for whatever happens in Gotham.
"Need coffee?" Alfred said, gently placing the finished breakfast on the table.
Bruce answered with a more friendly face than what he was feeling only moments ago. "Also, you know I can cook my own breakfasts now, right?"
"Never stopped me from cleaning up after," Alfred mumbled as dozens of images of dirty plates and halfway cleaned dishes came flooding his mind.
"Besides, your board meeting will be starting in a couple of hours. I figured that an early morning breakfast would be most useful to you. Bright side of waking up is that you'll have plenty of hours before your meeting with Daggett this morning."
In the time of Bruce enjoying his morning meal, Bruce saw the newest update on the newspaper. He lost most interest in the Gazette. Police stations would be plagued with corruption and blood money. It even gave the epiphany that maybe his parents were murdered because of money. It would've made sense. Contract killings were no strangers in this city. Then again, there were no strangers. To Bruce, it made perfect sense. The Waynes were rich, sure. Though Thomas Wayne was only a physician; it couldn't have been that personal. Martha was a respected woman due to her charity work. Maybe Thomas messed with someone that wasn't worth being messed with. Maybe Martha didn't provide enough welfare for one cause.
Bruce had been told ever since the incident happened that Joe Chill was an unaffiliated street peddler who was in the wrong place at the wrong time. As much as Bruce wanted to believe that, a paining anguish in his stomach told him that there was more to the story other than just Chill wanting money from random citizens. Yet, everyone had told him to move on. There was nothing to it, and the Waynes were unfortunate victims in Gotham's criminal epidemic. Don't obsess over it, just get on with your life and make a difference.
Bruce, however, did find a way to make a difference. He supposed it was a difference by utilizing Wayne Enterprises' resources to help those in need, especially orphanages. The Wayne Foundation was a massive collective charity program that supported orphanages and other programs. The biggest cause of the Foundation was the Victims Inc., Program—an establishment downtown where those that have suffered the anguish of having a near-death experience from Gotham's criminal underworld. Bruce decided that there would've been more like him out there, and now that there were, it was time to take action. If his parents served noble causes of health and the arts, then all that was missing was assistance upon the aftermath of tragedies. Bruce wouldn't be the last, and there were hundreds more to come. The program grew in numbers once he came of age and got a personal grip and overwatch.
The biggest curse, however, was that there was no kind of cure for what those people faced. The only advice one can give was the same when someone was dying. The guidance is to stay with them or be there for them. What that translated to was there was nothing anyone can do—only endure.
For Bruce, the biggest endurance was for him to stay in the city and serve one of the largest corporations in the country and even the world. He was against it, but the more he read about it, the more he came to realize that there would be good to serve for Gotham and the world alike.
The tower seemed like a shining oasis in an otherwise bleak desert. It was ultimately the biggest form of hope for what's left of Gotham.
He had a planned meeting with Roland Daggett, one of the largest pharmaceutical companies in the world. Thomas Wayne had several dealings with them in the past. Their agreements expanded Daggett Industries' stocks and reliability in medical science. A noble cause, but quite demanding for what it is. Bruce had figured that the power of changing the world or making a difference can have that effect on anyone. Roland had called plenty of meetings and agreements between Wayne Enterprises and Daggett Industries to see if Bruce's medical division would be able corporations It took brilliant minds to come to an agreement when there would be equitable terms on how much each company would be willing to contribute to advance their funding and research.
The road to the building was a long process. The journey towards his destination would've taken a long time to complete. Thankfully, he had planned to leave at a certain time to make sure the inevitable traffic wouldn't impede his punctuality. Driving across the downtown area was maddening. The construction sites caused delays and detours that nobody asked for. Ramps were too narrow to find comfort to know where and when the next turn would be. For Bruce, everything came naturally to him. He had grown familiar with the unpredictability. Every now and then a car would speed past him with a cop car trailing far behind. But that was never the most significant part of the trip. Every time he got a glimpse of the outside, he would see what Gotham truly was on the inside—a rotting house that was crumbling, set to collapse. Ironically, the only thing that kept it alive were the ones who ran the freak show. There wasn't a circus to run if there is no circus.
The streets were riddled with filth. No matter the alleyway, there was trash that had blown away from their containers. Figures would be looming around, searching for any means of survival. This created skepticism and paranoia in taking a stroll through alleyways. Someone could be asking for money like a kind-hearted modest human being. It wouldn't have been so bad if they turned out to be live bait for anyone willing to expose their wallets out in the open. And just like that, three men would jump on that unsuspecting caregiver, and he'd end up dead. It started with mugging, leaving them bruised and beaten. Now, they would go even further and have you shot. It was a sloppy job, but none more clean and quick like the crime lords that had this town by the neck, like a horse rider constantly kicking the spurs in.
The mafias ran Gotham like a piggy bank. They take what they need without equivocation, and nothing would stop it. Even if the police were to know, who knows if the police force were on their payrolls. When a crime was committed, it depended on who did who. Chances are, it had something to do with whoever was in charge of the streets or it was influenced by someone who was in charge of the streets.
The area where Bruce made the next turn took him off ground level and elevated him onto the ramps that got him a closer look at the skyscrapers. By now, he could see his destination—one of the buildings held the establishment for Daggett Industries. It was a mighty tower that couldn't compare to Wayne Enterprises, but it still remained as one of the city's biggest companies that dealt with medicine. Thanks to Wayne Enterprises, they had all the support they need. The meeting that was supposed to happen this morning was more of a proposal that required for Bruce's presence. Apparently, the discussion was going to cover several proposals with projects going forward. With every discussion made between him and Roland was a little different, but it was never to a point when either one was asking too much. Even if there was, Bruce had the confidence due to how many donations he was already having in progress.
The final destination took Bruce into a parking garage that was a couple of blocks away from the building. Even during the beginning of dawn, the parking garages weren't any less reliable. Bruce never had such known encounters in a garage, but he had heard multiple times certain activities that took an ugly turn. Typically, it was for a deal that involved money or drugs. Sometimes, it was a low-life peddler that looking for trouble by messing with other people's cars. Even if Bruce's was damaged, it would've been covered, thanks to his finances.
When he stopped at the most convenient parking space, he did a quick scan around him. All was clear and all was silent. He half-expected to see that someone was waiting for him on the outside and jump on him for money. Being a billionaire would make him an acceptable target, but Bruce's stocks would be nowhere near him. Even as he exited his vehicle, he continued looking all around him for anything suspicious. There wasn't any, but that didn't mean anything.
Upon exiting the building, the rest of the walk was easy. People were piling onto the streets once a light changed. Like water being released, they poured out onto the crosswalks once they had the chance. For Bruce, he kept a keen eye and proceeded until he got to the main building. The front desk clerks noticed Bruce immediately, so they went back to work immediately once he had been greeted. Bruce then noticed a man in a sharp-looking suit sitting coolly.
Roland Daggett was sitting in one of the lounge chairs that were placed near the front door. Roland rose from his chair and extended his hand towards Bruce and the two men exchanged smiles.
"Morning, Bruce."
"Roland."
Roland tilted his head. "You look like hell. Everything alright?"
"Yeah. Had a night terror, but I'm doing better now." As casually as he put it, that was close enough to the truth.
"Good," Roland said. "Well, let's take this further into my office."
"Of course."
"Need any coffee? Get further away from whatever happened last night."
"No, thanks." Like Bruce really needed it at this time after a stressful awakening.
The two men proceeded further away from the main entrance on their way to the elevators to ascend them to the upper floors. The higher offices gave a view that looked down upon the rest of the city. It wasn't as large as the views that Bruce was used to when working at Wayne Enterprises, but it was admittedly still impressive. Anyone lucky enough to be a part of a large corporation would have the kind of sight, except one has to remember to not look down too much. Owning a company meant taking responsibility that would affect other people and being able to not mount the high horse—something that he had seen plenty of other industries takes advantage of.
At long last, they entered Roland's office. In the middle was a massive table, which held Roland's seat near the wall where any visitors or those who had appointments would be facing the director's chair. Roland sat in his chair and Bruce comfortably tried to rock back and forth in his. The chair was at least built for a little leaning, so it was easy.
"Glad to see your comfortable."
Bruce smirked and ceased rocking but didn't give up his legs outward pose.
"Couple of things. First off, I wanted to offer my congratulations to the cybersecurity project the Pentagon has been requesting."
"Thank you." Bruce didn't bother changing his expression. Cybersecurity was absolutely irrelevant to someone like Roland had in mind. Besides, while that kind of accomplishment was imperative that it needed to be passed, he would never quite leach the landmark that made LexCorp the Pentagon's golden boy, let alone the DOD. Then again, the military branches did ask for Bruce's insights on several weapons that were developed from LexCorp, even if their notorious CEO had his doubts if Bruce was able to provide some edits and modifications.
"I'm sorry that the DOD and Homeland Security turned a blind eye towards your proposals."
Bruce shrugged. "They want my two-cents from time to time. So, why am I here?"
Roland shifted in his seat. "I'm guessing you've seen the memo concerning our dealings with the recent state health committee?"
"I have. And I've already spoken with the mayor yesterday about this meeting. He also told me that you had an idea on where to start with the idea of involving the Wayne Medicine department to the table."
"Good. Because I'm thinking of moving our proposal forward."
Bruce's brows popped up. "You've been given everything you needed?"
"Well, I've already spoken to the state medical board, and they've given me the green light. The catch is that it's going to take both of our hands to push this boulder on the mountain. But that's a given, due to our high success statuses in the advanced medical science field."
Bruce shrugged casually. "I'm always welcome to lend a hand."
Roland smirked cautiously. "Though, what I'm trying to say is that it's going to make a few adjustments in funding. I've already dedicated my entire company to producing results the medical field has required. Now, we need some on your end."
Bruce's curved lips flattened. "I'm not sure what you're saying."
Roland was reaching beneath his seat where his suitcase was already propped open. Inside was a folder and was handed to Bruce. The folder had documented proposals regarding to the deal between the Wayne Foundation and Daggett Industries' support and funds for pharmaceuticals and other antibiotics. Bruce had seen these proposals before, and he knew that they meant well. The health board committees had been a great asset in listening to Wayne Enterprises' collaborations with Daggett Industries. Only this time, there couldn't be an agreement.
"You're cutting a few funds?"
"A relatively small amount," Roland explained coolly. "But with this amount where we're directing, we should be able to break the mold in modern-day medicine."
It would be a serious mistake to miss out on a medicinal discovery that we're close in breaking ground in."
Bruce grimaced. "I'm sorry, Roland. We're still staying firm in the Foundation's track of helping those who were devastated in felonies that destroy lives."
"You're saying you want less contribution to the VIP," Bruce said.
"Bruce, it's a small cut. You'll still have your money towards those who have already been through a lot in this town, but it'll be insignificant to what modern-day medicine will provide. This includes as much as cancer research."
Along with the new words, Bruce read over the proposals again. The other cuts didn't bother him as much. Sure, there were cuts in military projects, cybersecurity, and electronics, but LexCorp was already ahead in that game. As long as the military was happy with their pet, they couldn't care less about the charitable causes that Wayne Enterprises were about. And that's exactly what Wayne Enterprises and Wayne Foundation was going to be. Always.
"My answer's the same. I can't sign off on this."
Roland's expression turned to shock. "Bruce, I can't back down from the state board."
"Then you're going to have to step on toes. I can't, in good conscience, sign off a document that puts any more impediments on the VIP, let alone the Wayne Foundation."
Roland's brows clenched. "You're still funding that place, Bruce? This is Gotham. Crime's inevitable. There's nothing we can do about that."
"That's exactly why I'm refusing. That program needs as much as it can to make sure those survivors are given every resource at our disposal. I've worked my entire life to make sure that everyone who has seen the worst of this city gets the best kind of treatment and attention they need."
Roland's eyes darted downward and slightly ducked his head. "You should see the last page."
Bruce did as suggested and took a good long read.
"Some people and the board feels that you've been holding onto that program for too long."
"And by 'some people', do you mean yourself?" Bruce made a stone-cold gaze.
Roland sensed it and tried to soften his tone. "I understand this program is important to you, and even sentimental, but the bigger picture is staring at you in the face. The point is that the board may override you."
Bruce decided it was time for him to alleviate his tone. "If they try, I'm still staying firm. Wayne Enterprises already had a tight leash on the VIP, let alone the Foundation. And I'm not giving that up as long as I'm here."
Roland decided to go on the offensive. "I thought you said you'd lend a hand in any way you can."
Bruce reciprocated. "I'm lending a hand to those in need. I don't make trades."
"We're asking for some time away from what you're doing."
"And further condemn those who were hurt in this already crime-ridden city?"
"Look, Bruce, I know you care for these people so much, but if you're going to really help them out, then you're going to have to drop a few hands to save the bigger crowd. And having part of that experience is no excuse to back out."
As if the words had a magical jinx to them, the memory of facing the glare of the gun's barrel rim flashed before Bruce. His pulse spiked and his heart felt like it was going to burst through his chest. That helplessness swept over him and heat rose in his body. It almost felt as if he had taken all of the same feelings of those who lost their loved ones.
Bruce jumped out of his chair, which rolled away. Bruce fast approached the director of Daggett Industries. Roland clenched every muscle in his body as he saw fury fully stored in an enforcing man, who was hurriedly approaching him. Bruce slammed his arm onto the polished wooden table, enabling him to lean in close to Roland's pale face.
"I told you I am not canceling any funds for the Wayne Foundation. If you think that not doing anything and not giving a damn about those who saw their lives being torn, then you don't deserve to be in office!"
Bruce couldn't break his hardened glare. The rage-induced adrenaline shook his fist that was pressed hard against the desk's surface. The pain of the pressure was great, but the fury was too strong for him to even feel the pain. A part of him wanted the sensation to take control and have it reach for Roland's neck and strangle it.
Roland's eyes were wide and felt the white hot anger from Bruce. He swallowed gently and said, "Perhaps I can reconvene this another time."
As if he had returned from a nightmare, Bruce's expression loosened. The wrinkles in his brows filled as he let out a barely audible exhale. The anguishing memory was now tugging at the back of his mind while his eyes adjusted to what was now happening. Before he could make any amends, he saw that Roland was already putting the last of his papers back in his briefcase, immediately snapping it closed. Bruce watched as Roland left the room in a hurried pace, leaving him alone in the room.
The clouds from the outside office shielded the sun's rays from shining down through the office window. It was only in the morning, yet the sky was dark as the coming night. Bruce could feel the sun's lethargic attempts lighten his emotion.
The rest of the day had been a complete blur. No matter the occurrence, he couldn't shake the earlier incident out of his mind. The conversation kept replaying and the burning adrenaline of pure rage made him wince. There were other board meetings that occurred at Wayne Enterprises and there was the monthly assessment of WayneTech. Bruce tried his hardest to hide whatever anger was left over since the incident with Roland this morning. Already, Roland had seen a distraught and irrationally angry Bruce Wayne. The inevitable of what would happen if his own workers and associates saw him this way.
He couldn't be like those other typical madmen that had a company by the throat and wanted to do whatever they pleased with a swift motion of an arm. Power brought out the worst in people, no matter where they came from. The privileged wouldn't believe in such a thing, and that made them more dangerous. Some people thought Bruce to be something more along those lines despite the charitable contributions that were made on behalf of the Wayne Foundation. Bruce kept focusing on the greater good of the Wayne Foundation, yet every time he tried that day, it brought him back to how he faced Roland. It wasn't right how Roland asked him to do anything that would've made negative alterations to the VIP, no matter how small the price. If the greater good was at the expense of an already great-good, then what good was it at all?
The evening had come abruptly. The day fell into a blur that wouldn't wake Bruce from the agony. No matter where he was and what he was speaking, he couldn't bring out the enthusiasm that people expected out of the billionaire playboy of Wayne Enterprises. It was all a façade to hide the ugly candor. Like all those victims that take shelter under the Wayne Foundation's protection, he had seen what happens when everything dear to him was taken by an unseen force of fate that had no right or business being his path. The two gunshots rang in his head again for a time he couldn't bring himself to try and count. It was a maddening loop that dragged him to an everlasting despair without exit. The console's projected holograms that appeared before him were unseen by him. In front of him on his desk were the proposals that he was supposed to go over with one of his best associates. But the only thing he could see was what his eight-year-old self had seen. It was not just see it. He also felt it. The helplessness, the fear . . . and the rage.
Just let it go. He's dead. He committed suicide. It's over.
"You're still here?"
Bruce jolted and he saw a dark-skinned man with glasses leaning over to Bruce's shoulder. Lucius Fox reacted with surprise and eventually returned a brief chuckle.
"You scared the hell out of me."
"Ditto. What are you still doing here?"
Lucius raised a brow. "You don't remember?"
"Oh, right. Going over the software. Yes." Bruce shuffled his thoughts. The cybersecurity update had to be released today. That's what the holograms were.
Lucius carefully watched his boss mentally scrambling. Then, he noticed that he hadn't even opened up the debugs that were still in the file, unopened. "Bruce, are you okay?"
Today was too much. It had to end. "I, uh . . . hate to cut this short, but I think I'll take another look at it another time." He never bothered taking attention to Lucius's confused face before saying, "I just remembered something that needed to be taken care of. I can do a raincheck on this proposal." Already, Bruce was locking the briefcase and stood from his chair. "But I'll give you a call later."
October was a long month, but it would also be a long Halloween. The chill of the autumn breeze brought down the temperatures to leave an impression that Christmas would be soon, despite the two-month delay. Anyone who'd live here would be used to that. The silent night was blanketed by the dark blue sky. The moon was rising a scintillating white glow. It had to reach its full status, but it made noticeable shadows in its wake. Soft hollow winds breezed by and the naked gnarled trees swayed in their path. Wayne Manor had grown silent from its windows. The mansion was quiet except for the large window on the first floor. The room was illuminated by a cozy glow of orange.
The fireplace glowed a warm fire that had been burning for ten minutes. Bruce sat in his study, comfortable in the couch, feeling the flames bring peace to his skin that had been in a chill from the outside. He stared intensely at one bookshelf that belonged to a massive group that covered nearly every square inch of the room. The law book that had belonged to his great-grandfather was perfectly placed back where he had grabbed it. Its black shimmering leather spine was perfectly brushed off while the other spines were greying with dust. The book had told him many things. Such literature wouldn't belong in a hellhole like this. The law—what a joke. It never brought anyone who lived here any peace.
The city held the darkest pits for the underworld creatures to come out and stalk their prey. Crime rates were beyond anyone's capacity. Murders, burglaries, sexual assaults, drugs, and money laundering would always make the headlines before any other type of national news around the country or world. It was never recommended for anyone to go out at night, especially in quieter areas. Gotham University initiated a curfew for students who were on their way out of evening classes back to their dorms. Several small businesses were given more surveillance cameras to cover any homicide that would inevitably occur.
District Attorneys tried their hardest to put away those who started the fires, but it was always easier said than done to light a torch in the murky streets. With a simple flick of their arms, the judges would declare a judgment notwithstanding the verdict. The attorneys would get pissed off in court for this decision, and later, they'd be found dead with "suicide" attached to the autopsy reports. Some might say the judge had been slipped a few grands in his pocket for saying such things. The attorneys might as well have been onto that notion. But now, they'll never know. The number of crime families was unknown, yet there were common rumors that they were closer than anyone would think. Trust was extremely fragile around here. For all anyone knew, they were next-door neighbors, friends, or maybe even a spouse, whose income relied on someone outside of their career. When the perpetrator of the Waynes' killer was found, the man was revealed to be Joe Chill—a small name. A nobody in Gotham. No ties to anybody, no connection to any mob or mafia that dwelled in the shadows. He was arrested for their murder, but the defense attorney was tough as nails. Tobias Hobbs tried his hardest to make Chill seem like he was never there, to begin with. Hobbs' argument was that the night was too dark to make out a clear facial recognition. A streetlight can't illuminate enough for a clear face. Bruce was too young to clearly identify. That frightened face on the gunman wasn't something you can forget, no matter how young, frightened, and confused you are.
Chill was cleared of all charges. It burned Bruce's soul when he watched the same man who pulled the trigger on that dreadful night shaking hands with Hobbs, knowing that his freedom was guaranteed, and another murder was promised. The following day, Bruce received justice in a way he didn't anticipate. Chill was found dead in his apartment. Next to his body was an empty wine bottle and a spilled Advil container. Regardless of what was found, it was still astonishing he'd take the coward's way out. He was exonerated, and he was too relieved to give it all up. The autopsy reports didn't explain it either as it was indeed ruled as a suicide, seeing how his body was loaded with the effects of Advil. The detectives deduced that the poor bastard was going to have his life ruined because of his murder of Gotham's proudest family. It wouldn't matter if he'd be exonerated. The murder of one of the most powerful men in Gotham would be a devastating blow to one's record.
Bruce avoided the tabloids and news that depicted how much of an irreversible mess the city was. Vicki Vale was a column writer, but she at least was one who was willing to drag out the truth. It was amazing how she was able to stay alive for so long before she would end up sticking her nose in places where it shouldn't. Maybe if she worked for the Gazette at the time of the Waynes' murder, maybe she'd find a way to expose those truly responsible while Chill got what he deserved. All he could think about was the two distinctive gunshots that took his world away from him. Today had only dragged it from the darkest pit of Hell where it was supposed to be. No amount of years would ever bury it.
Upon the news, Bruce did feel satisfaction, but it would never close the wound. His parents were avenged by Chill's cowardly undoing. Regardless, the city had failed him. He didn't want to hear the prosecutor offer his personal apology for not being credible enough. It wasn't fair. Commissioner Gillian B. Loeb promised him that the man would be given a life sentence. He wanted that man to be thrown away. He wanted justice to have its way with him. He wanted. . .
Maybe he wanted him dead. Then again, maybe that was asking too much . . . Was it natural for a boy that young to have such vicious thoughts? It wasn't hard thinking about it today, but he's already dead. His soul was spared while the pain burned further. Either way, the law wasn't any more reliable in Gotham than it was that day when Chill was exonerated. The rest of Gotham's scumbags would be off the hook while its citizens would be constantly looking over their shoulder, night or day. The streets were diseased with crime and drugs. A cop car would be patrolling every now and then, but they could only see so far. Chances are that their paygrades were lower than whatever they were already offered. Gotham was a place where one can make one hell of a deal with the devil. Once they have you, your soul would be damned for a lifetime of sin.
If Chill was just like any other small-time mugger in Gotham, then he wouldn't be alone. "Suicide" was too staggering to accept, even if he was just some petty guy. The murder of Thomas and Martha Wayne would've made a big score in Gotham's underworld. If he was truly affiliated with any syndicate, he'd be congratulated like a hero.
Bruce had to know. He had to know why. Why someone would go to the lengths of taking away people he loved dearly. The harshest lesson of that night was that if the murder of a family can make someone feel so empty and lonely, then it would happen again. And it would happen again without anything done about it. The incompetent, dirty cops, the bribed lawyers, the corrupt judges who made a living off slapping rapists on the wrist—it all had to stop. Somehow.
The soft clopping of footsteps broke his concentration.
"Still up, I see," Alfred said, making his way across the hallway to stop at the threshold where Bruce was.
Alfred was expecting him to give another excuse or a snarky remark, but it wasn't returned. "Master Wayne?"
Bruce remained silent.
Alfred could see that it was the same kind of face that deeply reflected the days that followed the Waynes' murder.
"Are you alright?"
"I just . . . Alfred. Can I ask you something?"
"Yes, sir."
Bruce wanted to say the question, yet it seemed even more puzzling to get it out. It wasn't an easy question, yet he kept asking himself the same thing for a couple of decades, and the lack of an answer was a plague with no cure.
"If there was a way . . . If you knew there was something bad happening, and you knew there was one way to stop it, and it went against everything moral and decent . . . would you do it?"
Alfred entered the room and sat next to the man he personally swore he'd protect until now. "I don't understand."
"For a long time, I've been thinking about ways to put a stop to all this. The murders. Rapes. Everything. Every time a murder happens, the police department won't or can't solve anything. They lack the proper procedures, and their carelessness is only costing more lives every day."
"Sir, if I may, your contributions to law enforcement agencies have been quite a fortune. Your thoughtful donations to suicide hotlines and rehabilitation gurus have been hailed as one of the most generous gestures in Gotham in many years, sir. I consider that to be quite an accomplishment."
Bruce impatiently shook his head. "I'm not talking about charities and funding, Alfred. Even then, they haven't been that much help, either. The suicide hotlines have fallen on deaf ears."
"Then, what are you suggesting?"
Bruce paused.
"You're not suggesting you take matters into your own hands?" Alfred said softly.
"I don't see any other way," Bruce said hopelessly. "Nothing's getting done. My parents' killer wasn't put away, and he was one of many alike. How many more? When does it stop?"
Alfred sighed. "Young man," he began. Bruce couldn't believe he called him that. He was far beyond that age to be labeled that. "You have been through so much. For that, I deeply regret that your mother and father weren't there to see you graduate from high school or be a part of the programs they worked so hard to achieve being brought to life by you. But taking the law into your own hands isn't something I would condone."
Bruce turned his head. He raised his voice only a little. If this idea was going to be heard, then it had to be said calmly and lucidly. "I'm not talking about breaking the law."
"Then what exactly are you suggesting, sir?"
"Tobias Hobbs," Bruce explained. "You remember him, don't you?"
Alfred immediately recollected that name for a moment. "The lawyer who defended Joe Chill."
"Yeah, him. He was on the scene of my parents' deaths. Chill was cleared, and days later, they found him dead. Just like that, and he had no history of having psychological anomalies, let alone a diagnosis. The autopsy says it was one thing, but the whole thing is saying something else. Alfred . . ." Bruce sat himself up. Now, he was desperate, pacing himself in front of the butler. "My parents' killer is dead, yes. But there is more. Why would Chill murder himself just after he got off the hook? Hobbs was there on the scene that very same night, Alfred. I remember that. Word of mouth has been saying that he had been paid by other people to defend Chill. And not just this case. It was many other cases where Hobbs defended someone, and they wind up dead. If there's even the slightest chance that any of this is true. . ."
Bruce forced himself to tranquil himself after unleashing that tangent.
Alfred's face awakened. "And he had something to do with your parents."
"That's the thing—I don't know. But I know that he knows something. If he's even guilty of anything, we need to find a way to catch him off guard. And with any luck, I might find out more information about my parents' deaths."
Alfred tensed his brows. "Are you saying you wish to spy on him?"
There wasn't an easy answer to that. "Alfred, I can't live like this anymore, don't you understand? For the past twenty-five years, I've been told that it was over, and I needed to move on in life. I already tried that, but I can't. And every time I think I have, I'm reminded that there's another Joe Chill. I can't just sit here and let this whole thing go away."
"That is dangerous. If this Hobbs is as corrupt as you claim, then you might want to let someone else handle this."
"By whom? The police can't do anything. You and I have lived here long enough to know that. And with all due respect, Alfred, you're no stranger to this. I've read your file closely. You've been through a lot in your lifetime. The things you had to go through to take down those who were guilty."
Alfred stood up slowly. "I've been through many things, yes. But that was a time and place where those monsters were worse."
Bruce raised his eyebrows. "And that's not happening now?"
Alfred sharpened his tone. "What is happening, sir, is that you are speaking of getting justice for your parents because of one man. Hobbs is only a bad cell inside a much larger body. This is Gotham City. If you go out there, it won't be just Hobbs you'll run into. You'll be stepping into the underworld of Gotham—behind enemy lines. A man who crosses that boundary won't find his way back as the same. If this is a one-man war you are pursuing, that'll require something more than yourself."
"Are you saying that you don't want closure for what really happened to my parents? They were your friends."
"I'm saying don't make any decisions that you'll deeply regret. Sir, this won't be some investigation. You'll be going to war. You're going after one man, then all his close associates will be joining him. I want justice for what happened to your parents as much as you do. It was a horrible thing, and God knows how mortified I was to see their killer walk out of that courtroom without handcuffs. And then, he ends up dead by circumstances that no one could make sense out of."
Bruce's stomach turned white cold from the curious insinuation. "And what does that tell you?"
"It says that these men aren't just shoplifters, sir. They've evolved. They've adapted. They've learned. If they are to be stopped, you must do the same."
Alfred carried himself away and out towards the door. Looking back, he added, "And that's all to be said tonight. We'll talk later. It's getting late. I suggest some rest."
Alfred left.
Bruce collapsed on the couch, and he buried his face into his hardened hands. So much for that proposal. What more was there than just himself? If he was the only willing to act on something that seemed impossible or foolish for the most passionate dreamer in the city, what more was there to a billionaire philanthropist? On one hand, it felt more refreshing that someone like Alfred also shared his doubt of Chill's unlikely cause of death. For the longest time Bruce had fantasized of ways of getting back at those who took everything from him with no outcome that satisfied him. But Alfred's words also spoke of a truth that kept jabbing into Bruce's sides. Another world to endeavor would be maddening. Sitting by and not taking action to know the truth was maddening also. Both alternatives pulled at him like two predators tearing at a helpless animal. And neither seemed to be winning.
The following day was a blackened gray sky, accompanied by rain. No thunder or lightning made appearances as the dark clouds cascaded. The water droplets lightly fell in gentle sprinkles that barely made a forceful impact on their blind targets, bringing more dampness to the already wet fog. It was only noon, and the sun wouldn't show itself behind the blackened clouds that wouldn't allow it to permeate. Bruce trudged through Wayne Manor's colossal front yard. seemingly mile-long road, with an umbrella shielding him from the wetness. The gravel was barely adjusted to be a smooth walk. He could hear the wet blades of grass scrape among each other loudly with every step he took. None of the pathways were even, showing how much people cared about those who were no longer part of this world. Then again, the place never got that many visitors anyway. There may have been one time it was highly populated, and it would've been the time the cemetery was constructed. The tall tombstones were the only markers within the lost and confusing maze the fog created. The barriers that surrounded the entire graveyard were black iron gates that have been around longer than anyone who lived in the city. There were barely any other visitors around him. On one hand, he preferred it that way. He loathed the media attention of Gotham's prince visiting his parents' grave. "Prince". How he hated that word. It was a name that was given to him and yet all it ever told him is that he earned it for being an orphan. All he ever considered himself to be, and what he wanted to be, was a bright-smiling billionaire with a reputation to uphold. Some small-time tabloid writer blogging something like this would give him more questions he tried avoiding. On the other hand, he somewhat wished that he wasn't alone. He told Alfred that he wanted to be alone at times. Other times, he wanted to be accompanied. For the times he wanted a solo moment, he secretly regretted it. Maybe he was used to being alone for a while. Or maybe he was alone all along, and this was the realization.
Reaching into his long coat, Bruce drew the fresh roses that still filled his nostrils with life. He solemnly walked over to the two marble structures that were huddled close together—the same tombs he never stopped visiting. The age that passed by never affected the fine printing that clearly said his parents' names.
Taking a deep breath, Bruce crouched and carefully stuck the roses into the damp green foam that laid before the graves. Back on his feet and his blank eyes gazing mournfully, he placed his gloved hands into his thick pockets and the sting of the cold vanished slowly. His interminable stare into the print burned into his mind.
Mom . . . Dad . . . I miss you both. So much. And I'm sorry. I just can't stop thinking about you. I think about you every day. Alfred is taking good care of me. You made the right choice for him to be my guardian after all these years. You don't have to worry about that. As for me . . . I know you'd want me to be happy. To have a life that you'd hope to see one day. I've been running this organization that helps those in need. You would be proud. But they happen after the crime rather than prevent them. My efforts have loopholes that have been exploited too many times. They keep telling me to move on. I want to. I'm trying. I'm really trying. But I can't let it go anymore. I'm failing. Every time I walk around the hallways at home, I keep waiting to hear your voices.
What they did . . . It's just not fair. It isn't right. I know that it isn't. It's not right for you both to not be here without reason. I want to know if I have the right to do something. But I'm afraid. I'm afraid that if I do that . . . I'd become something I'm not. But I'm asking you now, is that still the right thing to do? Please . . . Tell me . . .
Bruce fell to his knees, hanging his head even further. His eyes burned with sorrow as he grasped the grass tightly until the blades popped out.
Help me . . .
A high-pitched squeak radiated. From above, a lone bat circled above him, flapping its wings violently. Its squeak turned into erratic screeches. Its silhouette was lonely against the cloud-ridden sky. The flap of its wings was so staccato-like; it was as if the wings were rapid as fire dancing. Beyond the bat was nothing but grey ridges where the seams of the clouds would meet in uneven positions.
The animal above him continued making excited shrieks as if it had found what it had always been looking for. Bruce tensed his muscles, readying for any kind of defense against whatever it would do next. The bat was a reminder of what he had been through on the worst day of his life. It had been the same all over again. He was helpless, and the bat was watching.