Bruce was up early the next morning. After kissing a half-asleep Barbara
goodbye, he headed out to run some errands before making the painful trek
back home to the manor. He had tossed and turned the whole night, thinking
about his father and medical school.
From an early age, Thomas had molded Bruce to follow in his footsteps. For his tenth birthday, Bruce received a stethoscope and proudly wore it around his neck when he would go to the clinic with his father. The two were inseparable back then; Martha always joked that she couldn't tell the two apart except that Bruce was the short one.
As the boy grew older, things began to change. Bruce started to realize that there was a world of difference between playing doctor and actually being one. He often went to the clinic to watch his father work, noting how passionate the man was about helping people and making them well. Bruce tried for the life of him to feel the same fervor but, like his short- lived singing career, the more he tried the less successful he was.
"You're not trying!" Thomas used to scold when he would hand his son cases to pick apart. Bruce knew every disease in the book and every medication to treat them but put him in a room with a patient and his mind went blank. He was more fascinated by the circumstances behind the wound than the injury itself. By the time Bruce was fifteen, medicine ceased to be his focus on life and ultimately became a wedge between the two Wayne men.
After a long walk through Robinson Park, Bruce headed to the gym. He had gone through so many contingencies that short of obeying his father's wishes or facing excommunication, he was out of ideas. If anyone would know how to get him out of his current situation it would be his old Academy buddy and lawyer-in-training, Harvey Dent.
"Roll with it." Harvey said dismissively as he piled weights to the bar.
"What the hell does that mean?!" Bruce gestured wildly.
Harvey sighed, "You don't want to be a doctor do don't be a doctor. Simple." He grunted as he bench-pressed a couple hundred pounds. Bruce stood behind the bar to spot, staring down at his friend, his face a visage of frustrated agony.
"It's not that simple Harvey. I'm in serious danger of getting my ass kicked out of the Wayne family tree."
Harvey slammed the bar back into its supports and sat up, rubbing a towel to catch the sweat off his neck. "Get over it Bruce! You can't make him happy so live your life. Grow a beard, hug a tree, rob a bank. Do what you need to do." He answered with a shrug.
"Gee you're a big help." Bruce muttered.
Heading back to his car dejectedly, Bruce ignored the blatant points and whispers. He was somewhat of a celebrity in Gotham; his whole family was. "Hey look, it's Bruce Wayne. I wonder how big his trust fund is." They would say. Bruce had heard it all his life. Through school kids were nice to him because he had money. In college, some professors had the gall to ask him for grant-money to fund their research. Money was a collar that he felt cut off the air supply to his free will.
Bruce sighed and was about to get in his car when he heard a scream coming from somewhere nearby. He turned in time to see a woman being attacked by three thugs. They grabbed the woman's purse then hit her with such force that she was knocked roughly to the ground. Bruce snarled at the sight of the mugging not only in midday and plain sight but in the city he grew up in; a city that was now being taken over by criminals.
"Hey!" He yelled, rushing to the scene as quickly as his legs would carry him. The three guys took off running, heading into the alley. In a fit of blind rage, Bruce ran after the goons in hopes to at least get the woman's purse back.
The thugs ran as fast as they could through the darkened alleyways in hopes that their pursuer would give up but he was directly behind them at every turn. As soon as they hit a blind corner, Chucky, the leader of the group, pulled out his gun, tightly gripping it to his chest.
"Hey man!" One of the others hissed. "We can't kill nobody. That's serious shit."
"Shut up." Chucky ordered frantically. He stood tightly against the wall waiting for whoever was chasing them to round the corner.
An alarm went off inside Bruce's head the second he lost sight of them. The alarm was a moment too late because he turned the corner to find one of the guys aiming a gun at his chest. His heart raced and he slowly put up his hands.
"Look I don't want any trouble." He said, trying to sound as calm as possible.
"Well you just found some didn't you!" Chucky retorted as he waved the gun around erratically.
Bruce saw fear in the man's eyes. He had learned in his criminology courses that people do crazy things because of fear: they'll steal, main, and even kill. Bruce decided in that moment that he could not and would not be a victim and pounced suddenly on the gunman.
The two men wrestled to gain control of the situation but all grew still the second a shot rang out. Bruce and Chucky stared at each other in surprise. They say that when a person is shot they don't even realize it at first because of the shock. Bruce looked at Chucky and then down at himself. His shirt was covered in blood and he could feel his legs giving way underneath him. He sunk to the ground, a look of pure wonderment on his face.
Chucky shakily backed up and dropped the gun. He stood there, dazed by what he had just done. He had never shot someone before, always using the gun to instill fear rather than pain. He was frozen to the world until his friends pulled him reluctantly out of the ally.
Bruce laid there in pain for what seemed like forever. The world was growing dim around him and suddenly his problems didn't seem so real anymore. He thought of his mother, father, Alfred, and Barbara and wondered why he took their love for granted. With this he fell unconscious, only faintly sensing someone beside him.
"Oh my God." An older man stammered. He had heard the gunshot and came to investigate. He quickly knelt next to the young man. "Don't worry son. I'll call for help."
From an early age, Thomas had molded Bruce to follow in his footsteps. For his tenth birthday, Bruce received a stethoscope and proudly wore it around his neck when he would go to the clinic with his father. The two were inseparable back then; Martha always joked that she couldn't tell the two apart except that Bruce was the short one.
As the boy grew older, things began to change. Bruce started to realize that there was a world of difference between playing doctor and actually being one. He often went to the clinic to watch his father work, noting how passionate the man was about helping people and making them well. Bruce tried for the life of him to feel the same fervor but, like his short- lived singing career, the more he tried the less successful he was.
"You're not trying!" Thomas used to scold when he would hand his son cases to pick apart. Bruce knew every disease in the book and every medication to treat them but put him in a room with a patient and his mind went blank. He was more fascinated by the circumstances behind the wound than the injury itself. By the time Bruce was fifteen, medicine ceased to be his focus on life and ultimately became a wedge between the two Wayne men.
After a long walk through Robinson Park, Bruce headed to the gym. He had gone through so many contingencies that short of obeying his father's wishes or facing excommunication, he was out of ideas. If anyone would know how to get him out of his current situation it would be his old Academy buddy and lawyer-in-training, Harvey Dent.
"Roll with it." Harvey said dismissively as he piled weights to the bar.
"What the hell does that mean?!" Bruce gestured wildly.
Harvey sighed, "You don't want to be a doctor do don't be a doctor. Simple." He grunted as he bench-pressed a couple hundred pounds. Bruce stood behind the bar to spot, staring down at his friend, his face a visage of frustrated agony.
"It's not that simple Harvey. I'm in serious danger of getting my ass kicked out of the Wayne family tree."
Harvey slammed the bar back into its supports and sat up, rubbing a towel to catch the sweat off his neck. "Get over it Bruce! You can't make him happy so live your life. Grow a beard, hug a tree, rob a bank. Do what you need to do." He answered with a shrug.
"Gee you're a big help." Bruce muttered.
Heading back to his car dejectedly, Bruce ignored the blatant points and whispers. He was somewhat of a celebrity in Gotham; his whole family was. "Hey look, it's Bruce Wayne. I wonder how big his trust fund is." They would say. Bruce had heard it all his life. Through school kids were nice to him because he had money. In college, some professors had the gall to ask him for grant-money to fund their research. Money was a collar that he felt cut off the air supply to his free will.
Bruce sighed and was about to get in his car when he heard a scream coming from somewhere nearby. He turned in time to see a woman being attacked by three thugs. They grabbed the woman's purse then hit her with such force that she was knocked roughly to the ground. Bruce snarled at the sight of the mugging not only in midday and plain sight but in the city he grew up in; a city that was now being taken over by criminals.
"Hey!" He yelled, rushing to the scene as quickly as his legs would carry him. The three guys took off running, heading into the alley. In a fit of blind rage, Bruce ran after the goons in hopes to at least get the woman's purse back.
The thugs ran as fast as they could through the darkened alleyways in hopes that their pursuer would give up but he was directly behind them at every turn. As soon as they hit a blind corner, Chucky, the leader of the group, pulled out his gun, tightly gripping it to his chest.
"Hey man!" One of the others hissed. "We can't kill nobody. That's serious shit."
"Shut up." Chucky ordered frantically. He stood tightly against the wall waiting for whoever was chasing them to round the corner.
An alarm went off inside Bruce's head the second he lost sight of them. The alarm was a moment too late because he turned the corner to find one of the guys aiming a gun at his chest. His heart raced and he slowly put up his hands.
"Look I don't want any trouble." He said, trying to sound as calm as possible.
"Well you just found some didn't you!" Chucky retorted as he waved the gun around erratically.
Bruce saw fear in the man's eyes. He had learned in his criminology courses that people do crazy things because of fear: they'll steal, main, and even kill. Bruce decided in that moment that he could not and would not be a victim and pounced suddenly on the gunman.
The two men wrestled to gain control of the situation but all grew still the second a shot rang out. Bruce and Chucky stared at each other in surprise. They say that when a person is shot they don't even realize it at first because of the shock. Bruce looked at Chucky and then down at himself. His shirt was covered in blood and he could feel his legs giving way underneath him. He sunk to the ground, a look of pure wonderment on his face.
Chucky shakily backed up and dropped the gun. He stood there, dazed by what he had just done. He had never shot someone before, always using the gun to instill fear rather than pain. He was frozen to the world until his friends pulled him reluctantly out of the ally.
Bruce laid there in pain for what seemed like forever. The world was growing dim around him and suddenly his problems didn't seem so real anymore. He thought of his mother, father, Alfred, and Barbara and wondered why he took their love for granted. With this he fell unconscious, only faintly sensing someone beside him.
"Oh my God." An older man stammered. He had heard the gunshot and came to investigate. He quickly knelt next to the young man. "Don't worry son. I'll call for help."