Bruce lightly groaned himself out of unconsciousness. A bright white light suspended itself above him, greeting him with a painful awakening. He wanted to open, but his muscles were fighting against him. Whatever happened to get him in this state was a large impact. As his eyes modified, he found that the light was actually dimly lit. It was familiar to him. It was the same light as Wayne Manor's bedrooms.

"Master Bruce?"

Bruce danced his eyes around as every muscle in his body was on their way to recovery. The more he felt, the more sore he was becoming.

The beating. It was all coming back to him now.

With another groan, he tried lifting his head. He did see Alfred walking around towards the bedside, keeping himself a distance enough for Bruce to make out his surroundings.

"Alfred?" he croaked.

Alfred sighed. "How are you?"

Bruce released the grip in his neck and his head fell onto the soft pillow that had been placed below.

"I lost him," he grumbled.

"I know," Alfred hung his head.

Bruce could read that disappointed tone. "What time is it?"

"Nearly one o'clock in the morning. I've been awake getting you to safety."

"How'd you find me?"

Alfred grimaced. "Your homing device wasn't automatically triggered. That exquisite monitor you've constructed also programmed to have a tracking signal. Once I heard the police radio chatter about a shooting in the alleyways where you were located, I feared the worst. Lucky that you were too far away from the police the time I found you. More lucky that you weren't dead."

More groaning, but Bruce had the strength now to fully hoist himself upward and allow his eyes to modify his surroundings. Indeed, he was back in his bed. The familiarity of the air conditioning's soothing and cool air brought him solace, but not as much as previous nights.

His mind trailed back to what had happened before he awoke. Hobbs. That son of a bitch lawyer who got away with murder once again got away. The memories of the beatings he suffered surfaced. With that, he groaned more and lowered his eyes at himself. There were countless patches of bruises on his front.

"How bad?" Bruce asked.

"A few broken ribs," Alfred replied softly.

"Hobbs. Where is he?"

"After you were taken, police had him escorted back to his home with a night's watch after that stunt you pulled."

Oh, great. Now, he had to listen to Alfred's lectures. Lectures that wouldn't help in any way.

Bruce silently strained through the pain that his body informed him that getting up was a bad idea. He rested his feet onto the floor next to the bed and proceeded no further and only let out an exhale.

"Sir, please," Alfred said placing a hand near Bruce's shoulder. "You've only awakened and barely recovered."

Bruce remained unresponsive for a couple of seconds. No matter what he'd say, Alfred wouldn't be satisfied. Not that any kind of dissatisfaction would make a difference in the fact that Hobbs managed to slip through his little crusade. The effort hadn't killed Bruce, and if that was the case, then he had to try again. Somehow.

Then again, what was there to say? He had gone against Alfred's suggestion. He may have disagreed with Alfred's advice, but he had to make a choice. It was an attempt to know more and more about what this corrupt city was planning beneath its surface. He knew more now. All he had to do was be more careful. That was all it took. Next time, they wouldn't know what hit them. These scumbags are going to pay.

Alfred stiffened his expression and folded his arms. "What now?"

The frustration of not answering the first time snapped Bruce back into the moment. "I'm sorry, but we're not done. Mayor Cobblepot's involved in this. I don't know how, but he is. We need to go after him."

Alfred took in the shock briefly before saying, "Mayor Oswald Cobblepot?"

Bruce left the bed as the pain of the aftermath was catching up to him. But there was no time for that. He walked down the hallways. He entered his study room once more where his monitor had been sitting on his desk. As he sat, he immediately began typing away at the name "Tobias Hobbs" once again. Police reports have been flooding his news feed screen. The sneaky little rat really did request witness protection. Mayor Cobblepot probably granted it. It still struck him in awe that the mayor would be involved. He'd have to go after him too once he'd get Hobbs to talk. He'd keep an eye on Hobbs. Once the police left, and he'd let his guard down, he'd strike back at him.

Alfred remained at the doorway with a look that Bruce couldn't find himself to take notice. Hobbs was all that mattered. Though, it did bother him that Alfred remained where he was.

Bruce sighed. "Alfred, if there's something on your mind, please enlighten me."

"What is there to say, sir? What's there to say if you won't take what I say or think into account?"

"Try me."

"Bruce." He hung his head. "What you're trying to do is admirable, but the lack of humility to what you do is beyond me. I would suggest another strategy other than just simply ignoring me. This war you're fighting, sir, is turning you into a ghost. Bruce Wayne, the proud owner of the Wayne Foundation is rotting from the inside out."

Bruce made a face. "So, it's now my company you're worried about? The fact that I was rotting from the inside is exactly why I'm doing this. All my life, I've been told to move on and let it go. And look what it does."

"You know better that this has absolutely nothing to do with your company. It's you. You're throwing yourself out there with no plan, no consideration, and no regrets."

"These scumbags need to be stopped, Alfred," Bruce snarled. "And I'm not stopping until I'm taking down the mayor."

"That's the problem, Bruce. You don't know when to quit. There will be a time for you to know when there is a limit."

Oh, great. Bruce was in for more of his lectures. Nothing but homilies that would lead him nowhere and get him nowhere to where he needed to go. "Didn't you hear a word I just said? The mayor is involved."

"I know damn well what you said. Yes, it shocks me that Mayor Cobblepot would be engaged in such a nasty business. God knows how it disgusts me. But your own engagement is your weakness."

"What are you talking about?" Bruce squinted.

Alfred calmed himself before proceeding. "Master Wayne, for God's sake, look at yourself. You could barely get out of bed. I saw you struggling to even as much as move. But pain doesn't mean anything to you now. In my own experience, I've seen men disregard their limits to act upon those who preyed upon the innocent. Many of them never made it home. Tonight, you almost died. You went in unprepared with only one thing in mind, literally nothing else."

"I got careless," Bruce admitted. "My homing device—"

"Never activated," Alfred countered. "And would you ever have used it? No. You would've seen it through, fought to the death, and everything else be damned."

"Next time, I'll—"

"You're playing a dangerous game," Alfred interrupted sharply.

"This is no game, Alfred."

Alfred took a step closer. By now, they had each other's eyes locked onto each other in a dead calm and furious gaze. "If it's not, then you would truly know what this means. You're going behind enemy lines. You don't think I know what that means? I've been behind enemy lines, sir. You've never even had a close encounter with these lunatics up until tonight."

"I'm still alive, aren't I?"

Alfred took a step closer. "And if you're not lucky the next time? How long will you realize that you are not ready?"

"How long before it stops?" Bruce countered, now shouting. "Every time I flip a channel, a murder, a robbery, a rape. What's next, Alfred?"

"I know you're fighting a war. I've fought in a war less noble than this. It's not that you're fighting it. It's how you're fighting it. You're fighting an unwinnable battle."

"I'm losing, but I haven't lost yet."

"My point exactly, Bruce! If you lose, more Joe Chills will come. You're fighting like a coward. You're emotional, you're reckless—you're not ready! Your mother and father did their part in taking care of the city."

Bruce was now only inches away from his butler's face. "And they died for that! I was there! Were you? Where were you? Where were you when your friends really needed you? Huh? I'm the only one doing something while you're in this goddamn house, polishing silver! And you call me a coward?"

The war between the two men came to a halt when a wide-eyed scowl came from Alfred, who raised an arm and swung a stinging blow across Bruce's face.

The haunting silence that plagued the house had returned once more. Still looking away, Bruce held a soothing hand on his burning face. Alfred hadn't hit anywhere near his bruises or scars. He had been beaten to the point of death taking notice of his condition, but Alfred's strike felt much stronger. A few seconds followed, and he returned his face to Alfred, revealing shimmering angry red eyes.

Alfred wore a wide-eyed expression. His lip had dropped a sliver and stared with horror over what he had done.

"Get out," Bruce snarled in the softest tone he could utter to cement all the burning anger within.

Alfred tried to say something. The stunned silence was too awkward, and his lungs couldn't release a single syllable. In defeat and his eyes darting downward in lament, he left the room in an unenthusiastic posture.

Releasing several deep breaths, Bruce relaxed his tense built muscles that would've no doubt done worse had it not been for that physical intervention. It was horrifying. For a second, there was no thought or inhibition. That quick dark second took him to a place that, even after years of torment, he would never even think of. Perhaps that's what those criminals felt—nothing but harming. Did they lose something too, or do they do it for the thrill?

With his face still seething, Bruce remained in the same room. Everything had stopped around him. The ambiance around him faded to a distant-sounding dullness until nothing followed. The silence became so constant, he swore he could feel his ears ringing. Soon after, he strode out of the room and entered a hallway with large windows. The hallway was one of the side corridors of the manor. It was always well lit as it had large, wide windows for sunlight or moonlight to permeate through. It was the moonlight's turn.

All sensations were slowly drained from Bruce, who couldn't bring himself to look directly ahead. His eyes were frozen and locked with no fixation on anything. Nothing around him mattered. Nothing seemed to matter. There were no tears, no anger, no fear. No emotion. Whatever sensation he had left in him was vaporizing ever so slowly from his soul, leaving behind an empty shell that was once filled with life long ago. His parents are dead with no justice around those responsible, and there was no way of fighting back.

With all emotions cleared, what Alfred was telling him made sense. He was losing an unwinnable battle. He was losing the battle for Gotham and most of all, himself. The one time he wanted to do something about it, and it wouldn't work. None of this seemed possible anymore. He nearly met the same fate as his parents. Those thugs should've finished him off. At this point, it didn't seem like such a bad idea to go there. He'd be there with them once again, reunited in a place far away from this dark and unkind world that didn't care who died. His pain would go away, and there'd be nothing but happiness on the other side, and Alfred would be better off taking care of some other family. Maybe Alfred needed a much more suitable household.

Certainly not this one.

At the end of the corridor laid a large painting. The two figures within were a couple—a husband in his fancy, expensive tuxedo, and a wife, wearing an elegant black dress with wealthy pearls hanging around her neck. The Waynes' wedding day, just a year or so before Bruce was born. He wanted to see their faces again. He wanted to see their smiles again just like the night before it stopped when that bastard Chill came in. Faces that wouldn't be replicated on a large portrait to take up a large portion of space on a wall. Bruce approached the painting slowly like a humble worshipper to an ancient shrine.

I'm failing. I wanted to try, but I'm failing. I thought I knew how to do this. I thought I knew how to fight this battle without compromising. What you built—they're destroying it, brick by brick. I want to stop them, but it's not working. I don't know how. I can't do this alone. What do I need to do? Tell me. Show me. Please . . . Tell me! Please! Tell me! Answer me—

Everything around him was fading into insignificance. Hopelessness. Helplessness. Nothing. No transition. All were there, then they weren't, leaving nothing but pitch black darkness that indicated that no walls or even a floor were present. Coldness slammed into him, and he felt his whole body react from his ears to his toes. He no longer recognized the hard polished wooden flooring that Alfred worked hard on. Nothing was there to support him. There was nothing to do but fall and fail.

A light appeared as if the heavens were answering his prayers. It shined above him like the streetlight that gave him that gruesome nightmare. Only, there were no two still figures that represented his parents. There was nothing but him until his eyes caught something near the light. Another figure hovered above him. Whatever it was, it was quick and seemed to make unconnected flashing appearances. Staring harder, Bruce could deduce the flashing image that blinked in and out. He recognized the wave-like patterns of the wings. Its wingspan was angular and sharp like the edge of a razor that never sliced before. Inching more, Bruce could now see the beady soulless eyes—two white orbs that didn't seem to blacken. He then saw the opened mouth, exposing the glare on the daggers of teeth to kill. Seeing it again gave him the worst feeling of fear he had ever felt—that helpless feeling since that fall in the cave. This time, there was no Alfred waiting on the outside. Worse, there was no outside. With each rapid flap of its erratic wings, the image of the entire creature became more lucid. Soon, Bruce identified its ears, its bloodhungry cave-like mouth. From the mouth came a dull roar that was supplemented by a screech. A shrilling war cry that would stir even the blackest of souls.

Every nerve in Bruce's body told him to run and hide. His mind told him that running and hiding would be pointless, and there was nothing left to do but wait for it to sink its blood-hungry fangs in him or enrapture him with its all-reaching wings. But if there was nothing left to run to, what point would there be to try and stop it? He could feel the creature's presence more than ever before. It was the same sensation he had always dreaded since the nightmares started all those years ago.

Only one thing was different.

The wings closed around him. Bruce could feel a frightening power of ecstasy rising. He revered the creature's capacity to infuse fear without dropping blood despite its vicious nature. He wanted this power. The power to control the horrors—them and himself. A guide in the darkness. He wanted more.

Bruce stood up, his legs steadily giving him the strength to stand in slow-motion, staring up at the demon. It no longer gave him a reason to turn white like a ghost. The light above had vanished from his sight. The demon's shadow had offered a blanket of blackness for him, and it was soothing.

It was no longer about going after them with anger and vengeance. A mere man is capable of such things and would only lead him to nothing but a forgotten legacy of impulse. He had to be above it. Beyond it.

The bats in his dreams. The bat above the cemetery.

They have been calling on Bruce's ignorant ears to be more than a man. This time, he will answer.

A bat. Yes. Become a bat.

There was no sleep. The night seemed too young to waste. All was calm and quiet save for Bruce's mind, which was a silent, but vicious progression of thoughts. The epiphany he encountered felt much like a wakeup call, and there was so much to be done to obey that response.

A vicious creature stalking and lurking in the dark, attacking when least expected—very much like those scumbags that constantly made headlines for more names in the arbitrary. If those bats are what scared him, then those thugs should know what it means to be afraid. To know that there is a watcher among them to deliver consequences to their actions. None of them will be safe, and soon, he will find his parent's true killer. He will find them, and he will ki—

No!

Not that. Not a murderer. It would be a point of no return. That's exactly how they all start. That's how maybe Chill started. Bruce shifted his memories back to that night he felt the bat's enrapture around him. That insatiable bloodlust against anything that would stand in his way felt so powerful. It was exactly what would be needed to go out in the night, but if he needed to be a feared creature, he'd have to control the fear itself. It no longer had to be about anger and vengeance. A mere man is capable of such things that would turn him down a dark path due to a weak will. As something else, he could be so much more. This is what Alfred warned him. He had to be ready in the correct way that wouldn't get him killed, lest he be remembered for being a coward.

Bruce opened the door that led to the basement area. The monitor in the office was a start, but if this was going to continue, then it was time to adapt to a new environment. Something a little more discreet and bigger than only one room. Flicking a switch on, Bruce found himself surrounded by the massive sublevel that lay deep beneath his house. The entrance room of the basement was only one of many other rooms underground which lacked the presence of any kind of life. Long ago when Thomas and Martha were living here, they would have several guests come over, and the basement served as an excellent foundation of wine. As time progressed, he felt like the necessity of a wine cellar was not needed. Ever since, the basement had never been entered except for storage space. Already several boxes have been placed down there. Perhaps it was time for those boxes to find a more suitable home or the attic if needed. Alfred had never paid attention to the basement as he saw that only the upper floors needing tending, not to mention the welfare of Bruce himself. The same smell of dust and musk never left after all these years of vacancy and emptiness until tonight. Abandoned spider webs swayed softly from his presence as dust swirled from his feet. Bruce's descent on the wooden steps created long echoes that spread in a large radius that would eventually hit the faraway boundaries of the entire basement itself.

The first thing that caught his attention was a long table that was placed up against one wall. The table was empty save for the thick layer of dust that he dreaded about clearing. Blowing away the grey powder, the wood hadn't dented in the slightest touch, eliminating the possibility of rotting. Maybe it could use a little upgrade. A metal table, maybe. Something that would accommodate a project that would require a keen skill in crafting. The aptitude of constructing engines and components came back to him like a flood bursting through a weak wall.

The passage of time no longer seemed relevant in his time down there. It may have been several days from his own calculation, though it could've been longer. He no longer cared.

The whole night, Bruce returned to the monitor in the office and began laying out a 3D rendering of what his basement would become. He studied the plans closely from the entrance and his eyes scanned from room to room. Unlike his study room, there would be more than one monitor. Each and every one of them would serve as a different and individual function. Their networks are reflected and sourced by the large monitor that was placed at the back wall in the largest room. With all other monitors and hard drives in place, he created more safeguards in his systems to bypass any government and other DOD servers that might detect an unauthorized use in his Wayne Enterprises satellites. As the developer of said safeguards in technologically advanced weaponry, it would be a perfect disguise.

To begin with, the wooden table had been removed and was replaced with a much stronger metal surface. The ghostly dust that surrounded the rooms had been cleared after nearly an hour of vacuuming. Replacing the darkness and empty walls were large wide screens that had been mounted. The extra rooms would then be filled with several other stations that would be supplemented by other monitors. After Bruce moved the study room monitor that he constructed, he decided to reprogram it to interact with the monitor's holo-HUD while standing and multitasking. Lastly, he'd have to install a sophisticated security system that only he would have access to. A keycode was inaugurated, and the basement's access became purely his.

Soon, there was no longer a need for the basement light adjustment; the monitor's lights would illuminate, giving a conceivable sight. The holo-HUD would light the rooms even more. The smell of musk vanished gradually with each progression of the colossal sublevel that lay beneath the rest of the world.

Bruce toggled with the HUD, and the resources were listed nicely. He'd have to make something much more efficient than his other outfit the other night. He did have an idea in mind, but there had to be strong adjustments to accommodate for another potential night of violence. There had to be more than just black clothing and a ski mask. That kind of attire can be spotted almost anywhere at night if one were to stay outside long enough to be jumped. Pulling up the schematics, he read how the bulletproof material would be installed in the new body armor. The body armor would be expanded, but it would have to be leather in order to have more flexibility. The night had been peaceful and less restless than the previous terrors he suffered many sleeps. All had been quiet and more focused. All of it stopped and his concentration broke when a knocks tapped at the door to the ground level.

His focus shattering, Bruce turned. Alfred was wearing a look that very much mirrored his expression since that ordeal that neither of them wanted to bring up.

"I see you've been busy," Alfred said.

"One has to be to make Gotham a better place."

"Indeed." Alfred's eyes lowered. His eyes then looked around the room. It didn't surprise him that his master would continue to go to these lengths. Yet, it did bring a level of discomfort that they did not reconcile. "Sir, I wanted to say that I'm deeply sorry for earlier. I know you want to do everything you can to change what's happening out there, and it only seems impossible unless you start immediately."

Since Bruce had grown into his teenage years and following, Alfred's attitude towards him had changed from genuine concern to deadpan discipline. For the first time since his memories could allow, Bruce detected no sardonic tone. He knew Alfred enough that that arm wouldn't have struck him unless he truly was out of line, no matter how unjustifiable the action was. Truth was, he was out of line. If there was no one else to pull him back from the precipice, who would?

Bruce humbly nodded. "I have said some things I didn't mean myself. And for that, I'm sorry too."

"Master Wayne," Alfred said, "I have cared for you since you were a small boy. I hope to know that I have never let you down in your life. What you do, it's maddening. However, you do have the choice." He drew in a breath. "I just don't think what you're doing is right."

Bruce's muscles froze cold.

"Alfred," he said, "After everything I have seen, it comes down between one of two things: you can either turn around and walk while the fire burns, or you can put it out. But when you choose to put it out, you'll have to run into the inferno. No matter how big or small of a chance you have of putting it out, you always have a choice. Whether what I'm doing is right or wrong, so much is happening out there." Pausing, he then said, "I can't move on. I can't. I've tried."

Bruce abandoned his desk, finally loosening his tight labor induced arms. He paused for a breath. "I'm not stopping, Alfred. I can't stop."

Alfred didn't say anything for the longest time. He knew Bruce couldn't hold it in any longer if it meant giving up on what truly happened to the boy he took upon himself to look after. His parents were shot and the man who pulled the trigger got away with it. How was anyone supposed to let go of something like that?

At long last, Alfred said softly, "Yes. The other night would've been your death if I hadn't found you. You can't fight this war alone. It's not because I've been your legal guardian for a while, sir. It's because I made a promise to old friends that you wouldn't live your life without letting you know that you had someone with you. No matter how much we disagree with one another, you'll always have me, sir. And I can't stop that."

After a moment of hesitation and inner contemplation of remorse, Bruce then diminished his defense against the doorway, allowing Alfred to the steps that descended.

Alfred entered the basement, and his eyes met the metal table and then onto the blueprints that were displayed in clear view. Bruce had been quite busy. Alfred had to admit, this was unlike anything he had witnessed. He had seen the sophisticated military weaponry and government projects he had spent nearly sleepless hours on. Every time he had a glimpse of them, they were basic and something that would be used every day for security or something to be used behind enemy lines. This was vastly different.

"What do you think?" Bruce asked.

Alfred scanned over the urbane layout. "I think," he said, "you'll need a lot of extra hands, sir."

The following days were spent with nothing but sounds of monitors sending notifications and the uniform is constructed. Bruce soon found that Alfred was quite valuable when assembling other weapons when sharing tools as well as data files. For clarity, Bruce had hand-drawn several uniforms and suits that did look like a bat. Several were either too silly or not all that subtle. Thanks to Alfred, Bruce's first sketch—being the ears on top of the head was too long to be taken seriously. Eventually, Bruce and Alfred settled with one. The decided sketch had the ears far less obvious. The hands would be held in place by gauntlets that had sharp points for potential knives, which had been reported numerous times at random muggings in alleys. The length of the cape was decided to reach just at the calves.

Together, they constructed several small smoke bombs that were encased in glass balls. With a simple throw to the ground, a fog would disperse upon impact. A perfect kind of shroud-like escape for anyone stupid enough to try and impulsively run after Bruce. A grappling gun was also produced; that would've been a lot more useful to have if he wanted to retreat to a higher place or save the physical trauma of climbing in a hot spot. The grapple was tested numerous times with the length of the monofilament wire. Alfred's snarky comments weren't quite helpful when Bruce failed to bring himself up to a certain height and kept falling. Thankfully, the wire's hi-tech pulley system was strong to hold him, but the wire's endurance had to be tested to accommodate Bruce's weight in order to carry him fast enough if he wanted it. All these tools would be placed within a belt, where a secure holster would occupy the grapple gun and small pockets contain the smoke bombs and other devices.

Soon enough, on the metal slab, the hard leather was assembled. The leather was hard and the two made sure that it would be durable against gunfire. He'd also have to make a protective mask for facial assaults as well.

For that kind of headwear, he became more dramatic.

With the knowledge and resources, the material was hard enough to stop a bullet from permeating and breaking through the skin. The eyes had to look ferocious. The brow area on the mask had to be molded and shaped to make the eyes narrower for a malicious appearance. The thin eye sockets were programmed to feature a heads-up display of several different features. They included a night vision that would automatically adjust whenever there was a spontaneous exposure to a brightly lit environment. Lastly, the top of the helmet had two bumps, one on each side, that ended with sharp angular points. Within each, he inserted the audio enhancing equipment he used the other night when spying on Hobbs. Once he had finished the entire headgear, he looked into the eyes of what he had created and tried to empathize with what any common criminal would see when looking into the mask. What he saw was the emotionless face of something mindless, driven by nothing more than instinct.

"Just don't get shot in the face, sir," Alfred remarked.

The gauntlets had three razor-sharp points sticking outward like brutal thorns on a stem. With a few adjustments and careful eyeing on the sharpening, the blades were of perfect blackened carbon to accommodate for the rest of the wear. There was one addition he had in mind to complete the rest of this attire. Bruce experimented with different outcomes of what else could be used on the schematic interface. The cape would have to be equipped with a certain fabric to soften a hard landing like a parachute. Or something to glide.

Eventually, he stopped at the idea of having a large thick black cloak cut into the shape of bat wings at the bottom, creating angular wave-like patterns.

With the visual schematic on the monitor and the resources, he began constructing the fabric. The fabric was thick and felt like leather, though its material was secretly more formidable than what met the eye. Bullets would have a hard time penetrating it.

The one thing Bruce had the most focus on was that it was built with similar properties as shape memory polymers. With this in mind, he installed an electric charge in the suit's gloves that would produce a surge. If it made contact with the cloth, the fabric would respond by stiffening. On experimentation, Bruce was deeply ecstatic to see the fabric's angular wave-pattern stretch outward. Indeed, it really looked like wings that closed around him in that dream.

After careful hours and sweating, careful adjustments, the suit had been completed. Wiping away the perspiration from his dampened forehead, Bruce took a deep breath and scanned over the suit that lay before him on the table. The image of it was as perfect as the layouts were displayed on the monitors.

Alfred was rather impressed with their accomplishment. "If I may ask, sir. A bat—why?"

Studying the suit carefully, he said, "that night when I almost died, I remembered you telling me that my soul was rotting because of what I'd become. I was becoming the one emotion I couldn't control myself, and it would've led me to a dangerous path. This," he gestured, "controls it."

"And what emotion is that, Master Wayne?"

"Fear."

Bruce took the suit off the table and began to don it. The gloves fit on him with enough space between the layer and his skin for circulation. The cape that draped behind him swayed ever so slowly from the severe lack of wind and Bruce's motion. The hardened razors on the gauntlets curved outward as he had desired.

As Alfred witnessed the suit being worn, it was becoming more and more imposing. At least Bruce had that kind of mindset correct when they built it. Indeed, a lot of thought was put into this unlike other things.

All that remained now was the headgear. Straightening the leathered cowl, Bruce took it with both hands and placed it over his head. He could see through the whiteness. The night vision that was programmed to automatically activate in the absence of light switched on. The exposure of the night vision leveled immediately giving a clear and sharp image.

"Can you see alright in there, sir? Sir? Sir, are you—?"

Alfred's voice stopped dead cold. His eyes were paralyzed as they met his master, who turned to face towards him. What was supposed to be Bruce was no longer Bruce. It was no longer the man who grew from the boy he had raised. Instead, standing in his place was neither creature nor man. The figure stood tall and daunting. The monitors' lights were dimming as if they were consumed by this presence. The surroundings were clear except for the pitch-black figure that heralded two white slits for eyes that stared at Alfred.

He understood now. He did understand the use of the bat being an unshakable emotion of fear but couldn't comprehend why. It took him years and years back to the night when Bruce fell into that cave and became surrounded by hundreds of bats. For the first time, Alfred had felt what Bruce felt that night. The eyes, white and soulless, held no emotion but could only gave one emotion that it itself could not feel—fear.

"My God," Alfred whispered quietly.