Chapter Two: A District of Devils
Every few months, the Vale News Network will put out a column in each of Vale's seven major districts asking for citizens to describe their representing district in one simple word. A sort of slice-of-life piece meant for lighthearted fun. In most districts, the answers vary wildly depending on who you ask. Central Vale usually being described as anywhere from lavish, to excessive, loud, exciting, but most commonly; hopeful. Patch has the same idea, the words describing it ranging from quiet, to boring, or peaceful. A simple island with simple problems.
Gotham, however, is different.
The answers for Gotham have rarely strayed from one word: damned.
Gotham is damned.
These days, Bruce can't help but agree.
His father would have reprimanded him for such thoughts. He always believed in Gotham, believed that it could be saved from itself. Saved from the festering sickness growing deep within.
His father died in Gotham, died alongside his mother in the dark alleyway now dubbed as Crime Alley by the locals. Killed by the very place he believed he could save.
So, Bruce knew better now; Gotham was a district of devils. A personal hell made just for him by the Brother Gods themselves. His family's famous mansion, perched on a hill in the outskirts of Gotham, was proof enough of that. It overlooked the twisted skyline of gothic skyscrapers, an almost beautiful view with the right mindset, like something out of a painting.
It mocked him.
Forced him to view the place that killed his parents every time he looked out his windows, a front row seat to the decay he knew lay just beneath the skyline's surface.
It has been three years since the death of his parents, three years since the night that tore his world apart.
The memory has not faded, neither has the rage. The boiling anger bubbling under his skin that he's come to know since the day after the tragedy, after all his tears had been shed and the numbness deep inside his heart turned into a festering wound; unable to be healed. He knows it never will be healed. The last memory of his parents, the people he had loved more than anyone in the world, now ate at his soul every second of every day. How could fate be so cruel?
Fate. He's grown to hate the concept.
The lone mugger who had shot his parents still had not been found, investigators believed it to be a random act of violence. Simply, wrong place, wrong time. Nothing more than cruel fate.
"Damn fate," he muttered to himself, his words dripping with malice.
"Master Bruce? Did you say something?" Alfred asks, having just entered the room moments before.
"No. It's nothing, Alfred."
Alfred hums softly.
"Well, unless you are content with sitting alone in this dark room all day, perhaps you'd like to join me for some tea?"
"No thanks, Alfred."
Alfred lightly smiles. "It was a rhetorical question, Master Bruce."
The room Alfred led him to wasn't one he had set-foot in recently, he had been avoiding it since the tragedy. The loft where his family portrait resides, hanging gallantly over an absurdly large fireplace. It's visage stirring emotions in him he'd been too afraid to face, his father's arm on his shoulder, his mother's dazzling smile and white pearl necklace to match it. The faunus trait he shared with her, small bat ears standing proudly atop both their heads, unafraid of ridicule or scorn by any who gaze upon them. A cruel reflection of the life he once had.
It was too much, he turns back towards Alfred, a pleading look forming on his face. He wants to leave, to avoid any further pain and continue hiding in his room, where he can wallow in his misery alone, away from the loving faces of his family.
Alfred smiles softly down upon him, gently placing his hand on the young boy's shoulder.
"Bruce, we all have to face our demons someday."
Bruce grits his teeth.
Angrily, he knocks Alfred's hand off his shoulder, shoves past him, and leaves the room. His feet stomping heavily on the hardwood floor.
Alfred sighs and looks up to the portrait.
"But I suppose not today."
This house is haunted.
Haunted by the echoes of his parents, the future they could have shared. Every inch of it is cluttered in painful memories.
A ghost in his heart whispers.
They took them from you.
His breathing quickens.
Gotham took them from you.
He runs.
This house is a monument to their sins.
His pace fastens. He must escape, to leave this haunted house, to be anywhere but here. The sound of his own heartbeat rings in his ears. Farther and farther down the long hallway he runs. The hallway where he rode his first tricycle, he recalls in sudden recollection. His mother's encouraging words pushing him forward. The memory makes him stumble. He falls to the ground, clenching his teeth, and tightening his fists to the point of pain. He looks up.
A large window greets him, with a view that haunts his heart.
The Gotham District skyline.
He rises from the carpeted floor and walks forward. His fist meets the glass, shattering it. His knuckles bleed, but he can hardly feel it. He can hardly feel anything. His heartbeat grows louder and louder, it is deafening.
He jumps through the window.
...and now you are too.
He lets the momentum carry him forward as he breaks into a roll to soften the impact of the hard ground, a trick he had seen years before in old adventure films his father used to love. Bruce had grown to love them too. Visions of him and his father sitting together on a large couch, his father's arm around his shoulder and the buttery scent of freshly made popcorn in the air, invade his mind as he breaks into a run. With no destination in mind, he continues forward, desperate to get away from the mansion and the memories that accompany it.
Gotham, he realizes numbly, he's running towards Gotham. The thought does nothing to slow his pace.
Some time later, after the soles of his feet have all but blistered, he enters the city fully. The sun has fallen low in the sky and dark clouds have taken its place. He continues walking through the streets, fellow faunus looking at his scuffed appearance in slight concern, while a few humans scoff and mutter to themselves quietly, with words of malice no doubt. No one attempts to stop him.
His feet continue forward, unconsciously, bringing him somewhere he never imagined he'd set foot in again. Crime Alley. The realization almost stops his heart. His eyes widen and his breathing slows, his exhaustion forgotten. He stumbles as he takes a step backward, cursing his traitorous legs for taking him here. His eyes snap closed as tears begin to gather.
Damnit, he thinks to himself, not again.
Suddenly, his faunus ears pick up the sound of a struggle.
What?
His ears twitch as the sound increases, the struggle clearly growing more intense.
His feet move on their own.
Further into the alley he sees it; a young girl with tan skin and mint green hair getting attacked by a much larger man. His gut is large and gluttonous, carrying a disgusting stench that is almost sickening to his sensitive senses, even from this distance. The man raises his hand to smack her again. The girl cowers beneath him on the grimy pavement, bruises already forming from his previous attacks on her face.
"You thought you could steal from me? Nobody steals from me! I'll fucking kill you, you little shit!" the man bellows, a level of wrath in his voice that Bruce can almost relate to.
Suddenly, a familiar memory clouds Bruce's head. One that haunts his dreams every single night.
A dark alley. A loving family.
Bruce begins walking forward, quiet in his steps.
A man with a gun, demanding his mother's pearls.
A rusted pipe lays upon the ground, leaning against a nearby dumpster.
His father shielding his family with his arms, pleading.
Bruce grabs the pipe, its rusted metal rubbing off on his rapidly tightening grip.
A single gunshot.
Bruce lashes out at the larger man, with all the force he can muster, rage clouding his vision.
A body falls. His mother screams.
A body falls. Bruce continues beating him. The man has no aura.
A second gunshot. A handful of pearls is ripped away. The man runs.
The young thief stands on shaking legs, she walks forward, almost stumbling.
The remaining pearls fall along with his mother. Dark clouds part from the sky.
She reaches out and lightly places her hand on Bruce's shoulder.
Bruce is alone, under a pale moonlight.
Bruce flinches from the contact and stops his assault. The man lays beneath him, broken, but alive. Bruce doesn't know if he should be thankful for the fact. He drops the now bloodied pipe. His hands shake.
He turns, his pale blue eyes meet the girl's red. Her face is bruised from abuse and thin from obvious malnourishment. Her clothes are worn and torn with age, holes lining the fabric. A stark contrast to Bruce's dirty but otherwise new and expensive clothing.
"Thank you," she says suddenly, the words fall out in a tone of disbelief, as if she could hardly imagine someone helping her. Tears quickly form in her eyes.
"Thank you, so much, he would have killed me."
Bruce just stares at her, his mouth slightly hanging open.
"You saved me," the tears fall from her eyes as she speaks, running down her bruised cheeks. She falls to her knees.
The words echo in his soul, awakening a memory that was long forgotten in his grief.
His hand reaches out to her unconsciously.
Why do we fall Bruce? His father's words ring in his head. Years ago, he had fallen into a dark pit near the family's garden, the ground unstable, into a cave resting below his home. A bat cave. His father had found him, cowering in the dark, the echoes of bats reaching his ears, and spoke these words. Words that hold more meaning to him now than he could have ever imagined. His father's hand reaching down to meet his.
The girl's hand reaches up to meet his.
So that we can learn to pick ourselves up.
Their hands clasp.
Moments later, he helps the young thief named Emerald to a local clinic, operated by a woman named Leslie Thompkins, an old friend of his father's, to get treatment for her wounds. After an almost tearful reunion with the older woman, who he has not seen since before the tragedy, he leaves Emerald in her care and begins the long trek back to his family mansion. The thought of doing so no longer as painful. Light rainfall begins to drip down from the sky along the way, drenching his clothes and damping his hair. The sound of thunder echoes far in the distance.
By the time he reaches the front gates, a masterfully crafted piece of metal decorated with his family's emblem, the light rain has turned heavy and lightning litters the sky with its ethereal glow. Bruce continues forward, pushing the gates open and walking up the long road to the building.
Suddenly, his footsteps stop, his legs no longer moving. Bruce turns his head away from the warm, comforting glow of his home and looks towards the hallowed ground he had before, dare not set foot in. His family cemetery, decorated with tombstones, some centuries old. Again, his feet move on his own before he can process any thoughts, leading him up the winding path. The rain continues to fall.
He marches through the rainfall, through the rising mud and past the old tombstones, until he finally reaches it. The final resting place of his parents, the newest addition to a graveyard of memories.
His mother and father's shared tombstone. He has not visited this place since the funeral, he couldn't.
He still can hardly believe he's doing so now.
Lightning flashes and thunder echoes around him. The rain continues to fall.
Inscribed upon its surface, the tombstone reads, In Loving Memory, Thomas and Martha Wayne.
"Mother, father, I saved someone today."
The rain continues to fall.
"I saved her… but where was my savior when I needed one?" Bruce cries out.
The rain continues to fall.
"Where were the heroes you used to tell me about, the huntsmen and huntresses that protect the innocent? Where were they?" Bruce's voice rises to meet his growing emotions.
"Where was anyone when I needed them, when you needed them?"
The rain continues to fall. Lightning flashes in the sky.
The distant sound of screeching fills the air. Bruce's ears twitch.
"What am I supposed to do? I want to be free of this pain, free of this anger, please help me," he cries out.
Lightning flashes sporadically, the echoing sound of screeching grows louder.
"Help me understand, what am I supposed to do?" Bruce falls to knees, his hand clenching his chest.
Suddenly, as if answering his calls, a swarm of bats shoots out into the sky behind his parent's grave. The sound of their cries drowning out the falling rain. The melody plays in Bruce's ears like music.
A single large bat lands on top of the tombstone looking down upon Bruce. A kind of kinship between the two is immediately felt, their ears twitch in unison. The bat screeches.
Bruce looks up, and in a moment of absolute clarity, knows what he must do.
"I understand, father."
Lightning flashes, showering the scene in a beautiful golden glow.
The rain continues to fall.
Elsewhere
The sound of wood meeting wood echoes in the small training room. Two training swords clashing against one another in a fury of blows.
Faster.
The speed of his attacks increase, in a desperate attempt to land any form of strike. The wooden swords move in a blur.
I need to be faster.
Wood clashes against wood, neither side giving a clear opening.
Faster, faster, faster. There!
An opening against his larger opponent finally presents itself, and like a ravenous wolf he strikes through it with all his might.
A stunned silence fills the room as his sword flies through the air, knocked cleanly out of his hand. Suddenly, his back meets the mat, and the match is ended.
"You have to be more aware of feints like that, Adam. Your enemies won't just wait for openings, they'll use every opportunity to make their own if you allow them to."
Adam growls as he rises from the floor.
"I need to be faster."
"No, you need to be better."
Adam sighs as the anger drains from his body. "I know."
He looks up towards the mountainous man, Ghira Belladonna. His teacher. For the last 3 years he's been living with the Belladonna family in Menagerie, a small desert continent in the southeast of Remnant. The man was kind enough to take him into his large home after-
A phantom pain races through Adam as he reaches up to touch his face. The scar hidden beneath bandages.
-after the incident.
The anger previously felt returns in full force, never truly leaving his body for long.
"Adam!" the excited voice of a young girl echoes through the training room.
That is, it never leaves for long when she isn't around. Blake Belladonna, Ghira's only child. In the time since the incident, she's become his rock, his source of comfort in an otherwise cruel world.
"Wait, are you training without me again?" she asks with a small pout.
"Ah, sorry Blake, you were still asleep, and I wanted to get started early," he replies with a sheepish grin. Only she could make him feel like this after all.
"Blake," Ghira speaks up from behind Adam, having watched the short interaction with a look of peaceful content on his face, his lips resting into a small smile.
"You just missed seeing Adam's butt meet the training mat," he jokes good-naturedly.
"Again?" She replies, her pout forgotten and replaced with a grin.
Adam sighs. "Yes, again."
The Belladonnas laugh and a small smile graces Adam's lips.
"Can we start my training now, dad? I can't let Adam hog all of it."
Ghira snorts. "He wouldn't be able to if you'd actually wake up on time."
Her pout returns.
"But, yes, we can. Show me how your stances are coming along."
"What?" she yells out, "but Adam got to train with the swords!"
"We've been over this, Blake, Adam mastered the basics of his stances months ago. You're not ready to progress to until you do the same," the older man chides.
The girl's pout grows even deeper, "hmph," she childishly rebukes, unable to counter his point.
"Now come, show me your stances, and we'll go from there."
Blakes releases a sigh and with a nod, moves onto the training mat.
"Hey, cheer up, maybe after training we can continue designing your weapon, hmm?"
Blake's cat ears immediately perks up as she gives a small, excited cheer.
Adam watches the scene, the smile never leaving his face.
Hours later, after separating from the pair, Adam returns to his room alone. It's small but spacious, with nothing but his bed, a dresser, and a small desk to occupy it. Lining the walls are dozens of newspaper clippings, some old, some less-so, along with a massive blue flag of the white fang's emblem. A stylized head of a white wolfdog surrounded by a thin white circle.
This flag represents everything he believes in, everything Ghira Belladonna, the current leader, stands for. A rising force for change. A second chance for his people. After the deadly conflict between protestors and police three years ago, an incident leaving over 30 faunus dead and even more injured, support for the white fang has grown exponentially. Ghira's speech having inspired countless others.
It inspired him. Lit a fire inside his heart that he previously thought had blown out long ago.
In the years since, that fire has only grown and along with it, his anger. The man who inspired him, the man he respected above all else, was doing nothing with that newfound support, or at least, not nearly enough. The protests continued, with numbers previously unheard of, Ghira's powerful voice working as a guiding light for faunus everywhere, but with that, came disparity. Anti-protests rising just as quickly, criticism and downright mockery from those in power, doing everything they can to prevent their voices from being heard.
Shutting down protests, violently if necessary, news coverage censorship across Atlas, and absolute refusal to bring about any meaningful change through legislation in any of the four major Kingdoms. It was simply infuriating to the boy, and yet still Ghira refused to change his methods, refused to resort to doing anything unsavory with the power he's been given.
It would be admirable if it weren't so frustrating.
Ghira Belladonna still believed that true change can only come through peace.
Adam believed otherwise.
The grotesque scar hidden away beneath his bandages was a stark reminder of why.
The young man releases a sigh, his face hardening into a look well beyond his years.
Not long later, after a quick shower and a change of clothes, Adam exits his room to meet up with Blake and Ghira, having promised to help design her weapon. A mechashift-type that would form some kind of sword, a bit too complicated for his tastes. He much preferred the basics, an idea for a simple sword and sheathe combo already taking shape in his mind. The thought almost makes him smile. Almost.
Suddenly, incoherent shouting can be heard from down the hall.
Ghira's office? What-
The door slams opens and an angry tiger-faunus with dark skin, even darker stripes running across both of her arms, and large cat-like ears poking out from beneath short black hair, stomps out. Her footsteps heavy on the hardwood floor.
Sienna Khan, family friend, and third in command of the White Fang organization.
What are they arguing about now? Adam thinks to himself. Friction between the two wasn't exactly uncommon, but with the way Sienna's golden eyes seemed to flash dangerously, her lips forming a tight snarl with teeth gritting against each other, he knew this was something different.
"Damn him," Sienna mutters hatefully to herself, just barely within earshot, as she continues further down the hall.
Curious on the circumstances of such anger, Adam moves towards Ghira's office to survey the scene.
Inside, Ghira sits behind his desk, a tired look forming on his face as he sighs.
Adam makes his entrance, surprising Ghira with his appearance.
"Adam? I thought you were helping Blake with her weapon..."
"I thought you were doing the same, what was that about?" Adam questions.
Ghira looks down towards his desk and shuffles his papers, attempting to appear somewhat nonchalant.
"Yes, well unfortunately some business came up with Sienna and…" he titters off, unable to form an excuse. "Well, I'm sure you heard what became of that," he finishes.
Adam hums then surveys the room, a chair sits knocked over onto the ground in front of Ghira's desk with papers throw about and laying across the carpet messily.
"I think I get the idea, yeah."
"We were discussing how the White Fang have been operating as of late."
"Oh?" Adam asks, his interest peaked.
"Yes," Ghira sighs, "Sienna is of the opinion that we aren't doing enough."
Just as Adam begins to speak, another faunus woman enters the room, this one much more resembling his companion Blake, with short black hair and long cat ears.
Kali Belladonna, Ghira's wife, and second in command of the White Fang, for obvious reasons.
"Ghira? What's going on?" She asks, clear concern for her husband written across her face.
"It's nothing Kali, just the usual argument with Sienna."
Kali's eyes survey the room, drawing the same conclusions as Adam before her.
"It doesn't look like the usual kind of argument, Ghira," Kali responds with a light glare towards her husband.
She turns toward Adam and asks kindly, "Adam, could you please leave us the room? I think my husband and I need to have an important discussion."
Ghira's face grows worried and turns toward Adam with an almost pleading look.
It goes unnoticed.
"Of course, Kali," he responds.
Ghira's face switches to one of resignation in an instant. He sighs yet again.
"Sienna," Adam calls out from a short distance away, having finally tracked her down.
Her anger having somewhat cooled after the previous heated argument, she turns towards the younger boy and responds calmly, if somewhat confused, "Adam? What are you doing?"
"Looking for you," he replies, as if that answered everything.
She rolls her eyes. "Why?"
"I want to know more about your argument with Ghira."
Her confusion only grows. "Why?" she asks again.
Adam closes his eye, and remains silent for a moment, as if lost in thought before replying, "because I think you and I might have some common ground on the topic."
A/N: Second chapter completed, let's goooo. Got to say, I'm much prouder of this one than the first, hopefully you guys can feel why. So, we got to take a peek at Bruce's psyche and how he's been handling his loss, along with a hint towards what he'll do to cope with it. Spoiler: it's probably exactly how you expect him to, cape and all. Adam, meanwhile, has been managing somewhat better with the support of Blake, though we'll see how long that lasts. Thank you, guys, for the nice comments, hope you enjoy this chapter and future ones just as much.