Alternative Options

An AU story--What if Bruce Wayne had succeeded in his attempt to kill Joe Chill? (Combines movieverse with a bit of comicsverse.)
I love "What if" type stories, and yeah, don't kill me for blaspheming the Bat, okay? XD It's just something I wanted to explore. So thus...it is explored...Perhaps there's no escaping destiny after all, in the end. Wink

Disclaimers: I don't own Bruce or Batman. I shall have to ask Selina to steal them both for me someday, as long as she doesn't keep them for herself.
All the Bat-related stuff belongs to DC. The cops are mine. Sadly, I really don't have a good grasp of their hierarchy/chain of command so I just opted for the 'Lieutenant' and the 'Detective,' hoping it sounds like I know what I'm talking about. And it probably doesn't...

There were lights. And loud noises. Flashing lights, people chattering, yammering at one another, bodies all congregating around one person, microphones pushed up against faces and the pleading eyes of a reporter wanting to make his big break.

The police escort, with impassive eyes, simply dragged the one person through the melee, though the crowd simply followed along like an amoeba.

"Joe! Joe Chill, what do you think? Are you glad you're a free man?"

Cold eyes fell upon the small frame of the murderer. They were brown eyes, ones that could be soft and cheerful. They hadn't been that way for more than a decade now. Nothing of the old was left in them, now all was the icy hardness that had finally consumed the man within. He wasn't old at all, but what he endured aged him considerably. The equally cold metal of the gun within his hand felt as impassive as he was, and his eyes widened, knowing that this was the moment. It was now. Not never.

He felt his throat go dry, seeing his task before him. The man, the man in the middle of the media circus was responsible for ruining his life. Killing the two people who were most dear to him in the entire world. He was responsible for making a little boy wonder why the world treated him so. He may have killed his parents, but he had also killed off the hopes and dreams of one little boy.

He hid the gun up his sleeve a bit, just in case. He had to get close without the massive police force seeing his intentions. The shouts and calls of the reporters grew nearer with each step. His hands started to shake a bit, not in fear, but in rage. His eyes grew even wider. The small man with the scruffy hair was now clearly visible.

"Joe Chill," was all he said before he stretched out his arm in front of him.

"What the—"

BAAAANG!

The shot reverberated and half the people behind them flew backwards as the body of the criminal collapsed. The police were in a frenzy as the looked around frantically for the perpetrator, but the man in the tan coat was fast on his feet and he flew past the reporters with not even a second to spare.

"Who was that?" A reporter shrieked.

"Bruce Wayne!"

He ran, ran faster than he ever thought was possible, knowing that it was a miracle indeed that the police hadn't caught him as soon as he did it. He was half-expecting that they would. Was he prepared to go to jail for the horror that he just did? That was barely on his mind, as shots flew off behind him. The police were catching up—they would soon tackle him and it would be the end of it, he did not want to shoot back at them.

A maintenance stairway to the roof—no, it would cut off his escape. What could he do, fly off the roof?

A side door to an alleyway. Bruce took it, slamming his body into the door and it opened. His feet pounded the pavement as he raced towards the back alleys, hearing the wail of sirens behind him. He could lose them if he could just get to the Narrows, or even one of the slummier parts. His breath came in short gasps; he was trying to calm himself down at the same time. It wasn't helpful if one's emotions were spiraling out of control; he had been trained in various martial arts at college and knew how to control his movements. It hadn't been much more than a passing interest to him, but he found that he liked being able to fight back.

There were more and more homeless people in sight in the dank alleyways between the old buildings, and he knew he was getting to a safer haven, if that could be called one. He had been running in a weaving pattern of alleyways, not even daring to come out on a busy street. The walls were scrawled with gang tags and the smell of sewage was wafting up from the very concrete itself. He slowed down, the sound of sirens fading, the footsteps he had heard behind him of police had faded and their shouts turned to silence.

He looked at a particularly nasty edifice that was seemingly being held up by nothing more than sludge itself, and he took off his fine tan coat and threw it into a pile of dirty clothes that was resting on the side of a dumpster. He knew that in fact it was some old homeless person sleeping.

Bruce entered the crud-covered building and found an ancient room that was not occupied by a vagrant. There was a few old pieces of furniture, a chair and a moldy sofa, but he didn't care and collapsed in it, a horrid stink rising up out of the decrepit cloth.

He buried his head within his hands, feeling the tears come through his clenched fingers. It was supposed to feel good; he was supposed to feel happy, that his parents had finally been avenged.

He did feel satisfied in a way, but there was a strange hollow feeling building up within him. It wasn't right, revenge was supposed to be sweet, wasn't it? Instead he simply felt deadened, knowing that he had taken a life. In cold blood. The same thing that happened to his parents. But this was all wrong; he wasn't supposed to feel sorry, or even sad. The sicko deserved it! He had ruined his life, he had taken his parents, and now he was taken himself. Deserved it. But there was still an insatiable greed within Bruce. Those who had let this madman run rampant also were at fault for his parents' death. The mob was at fault for bringing this kind of criminal activity to Gotham. It was silly, what was he gonna do? Blow everyone away that didn't capture the criminal before he could do more harm? It would never end if he didn't let it end now.

In another sense, Bruce felt that Chill had deserved more than just being killed like that, he deserved to rot in jail and deserved the Chair.

His life was even more ruined now by Chill, by the fact that Bruce was drove to this. He would never be able to go back home, ever. He would be doomed to live in this squalid fashion as a criminal himself or to be thrown in jail. Would this madness never end?

He punched the seat in anger, a growl rising out of him. It wasn't supposed to be this way! Somehow, he knew, this wasn't what was meant for him. But he had a choice, and he had taken it. He had planned it for so long and now he must accept the consequence.

At least one thing was at peace. His parents were avenged, avenged by their own blood, and there was something primeval about that that kind of stuck with him, poetic in a way. Chill got what he deserved.

But somehow, in doing so, he had ended up making his own life worse. This would haunt him for the rest of his life, and he knew it. It would never leave him. What was he doing, playing vigilante, anyway? He got up, pacing back and forth, listening for sirens or sounds that he was found. The many homeless would no doubt recognize a young man with clothing like his running around where he shouldn't. He had no idea how to survive in a world like this, and he knew he wouldn't until he got some plans into place.

How would Alfred take this? He wasn't sure if he could ever face the old man ever again. His face was plastered all over television by now, cameras everywhere had most undoubtedly caught that one horrible moment. First things first. What was that they always said? Find shelter, find food. He had to be mobile, he knew that, the police were everywhere and his face was very recognizable. He needed a mask. Bruce took one more look outside through a cracked window at the fast fading twilight, before heading out to begin his new life.