Can a man truly ever lose oneself to such an extent that he no longer is the man he once was, or in the very least claimed be? If you would or could lose sight of an identity that had been yours ever since your birth, then what exactly would you presume to be? A Figment? A shadow? A testament that stands before all who have the memories the prove the existence of a better time in your life, or in retrospect a better you at a worse time in life? There is oh so much more to the details regarding what makes us in this life then the concept of a name or briefing by those who may see you frequently, so then again can you really ever lose yourself? Is it the dull tone in your voice as you speak words in defense that perhaps had at one point been used to crucify others, or maybe the uneven feeling in your chest as the night comes to greet you each day and you realize that the past may have forgotten about you...but yet you haven't forgotten it? You could spend the precious time and energy you have to try and reclaim a past you had once taken all to yourself, but yet when given the necessary hindsight to do what is best and move on, instead of letting go of the trophies of yesterday you would swat at the hands of faith and grand intent. When the last rays of the sun have been cast against your chest, and should you be of such mal-mannered poise to take up your mantle once again, you may just find yourself a mere foil of your own intentions. You might just become a man who stands to lose all that you hold dear, or be left a pawn in the schemes of others who know you far better then perhaps you even know yourself, and your failure to choose the appropriate action when the need arises might just be the last thing you ever do. Over-stimulated, over-saturated, overly obsessed, completely unwilling to listen to reason and stubborn as an ox, you might just find yourself to be Bruce Wayne.
"Master Wayne, as much as I do adore taking your dates home in the wee hours of the morning, perhaps from now on you could...at least...speak with them beforehand, perhaps?" An elderly man in a finely and crisply ironed suit spoke to the thirty-something year old man, who had been held up in the somewhat hidden level of his estate for the last four hours, and the task of taking the somewhat displeased and barely dressed younger woman home had been left up to him.
The crippling nature of age, even when it hasn't yet set in for the long haul, is in the minds own fluidity in remembering a more suitable time which has since been stripped away from them. For instance, the presence of a lover who has made themselves scarce for any number of reasons, the once unfazed and well manicured rationale which now has given way to a shaky hand and a slouched vertebrae, our own class and self imposed better nature now a sarcastic cocktail of bitterness and resentment with a line of envy in place of the salt around the glasses rim. Bruce Wayne hadn't been the type for egregious indulgences or even the one to partake in social etiquette of any regard, but now as he got older he was beginning to form a rather dangerous line of thinking in his approach to things, thinking less and acting more as the elder years of his fleshy vessel steadily came towards him he clung to the inner mentality of a much younger person. This disconcerting pattern of behavior hadn't gone unnoticed by his faithful and devoted butler and lifelong friend Alfred Pennyworth, who had taken up the nasty habit of hanging about just out of sight so that he could keep an eye on the man he had practically raised single handedly since the age of eight.
"Well, perhaps you might be able to get one of them to find you someone nice, i'm sure they have lovely mothers?" He jested, half raising a glass in toast to his own proposition before toddling his head from side to side as he saw his old friend scoff in a half baked and self inflicted ignorance as he further entered the dimly lit scenery of the Wayne manor common room. Downing the cinnamon colored fluid which had all the while been resting in the abbreviated glass, his mental mantra of "one more sip" being proven all the more false as he took the liberty of breaking the seal off of another bottle which had been patiently placed on a finely lacquered nightstand by the side of the armchair upon which he sat. His head had remained just as clammy as it had been most of the night, his hands freely and forcefully gripping the sides of his seat as if there had been a question of whether or not he would be able to maintain his place atop of the furniture, but easily enough Bruce had been keenly observant enough to draw attention to Alfred's eyes straining over the sight of the now somewhat pilfered container. As if the blood had failed to circulate fast enough to comply with his prompt decision to return to his feet, he staggered momentarily but kept his hand outstretched so that he wouldn't end up causing concern, meaning to shrug off the misstep and claim to as no more than his foot being asleep.
"Master Wayne, if you choose to spend you're afternoons spilling a five hundred thousand dollar bottle of scotch, might I suggest investing in some breathe mints? Your breath smells like a brewery." He told him in a chastising manner.
"I'll look into it..." He replied, absentmindedly looking forward in a trace-like state at a slender seventy inch television that had been on before, but yet only seconds earlier had its volume been raised to the point where one could make out the audio. "It's getting worse out there, Alfred."
"Then, might I suggest we request to have the jet prepared, sir? I'm sure Las Vegas or Metropolis would be lovely this time of year?" He remarked without the slightest trace of trickery or cruel intent.
"This isn't going to get better by me running away...this...this is different. Have you seen the latest reports? They're calling him Invictus, they're saying he is a homegrown solution to a homegrown issue with the gangs, and he's leaving behind more then a few bruises." He coldly spat as he tossed a folded newspaper in his direction of which he caught just as swiftly as it was thrown, the headline on the front page reading 'Masked Man Strikes Again, Leaving Seven Dead.'
"Do you really think that this is a productive way to spend your time, sir? You were the one who told me that you wanted to fight crime with a face, wasn't that right? Then perhaps the solution lies in the hands of Bruce Wayne?" He suggested with an earnest smile.
"believe it or not, old friend, even I have my limits..." He trailed off.
"It never stopped you before, even when you were a young boy, you were quite capable when you put your mind to it. I will say this, though, there are other things in this life then trying to do the job of the police force single handedly." He confessed to Bruce, a warm and heartfelt forewarning intertwined within the words of encouragement.
"Are you afraid I'll be become obsessed and lose myself to a whale?" He asked, his eyebrows sent skyward as he let out a brief and pained laugh.
"Perhaps, master Wayne, i'm just trying to start you off with a smaller fish?" Alfred answered.
"Don't worry, I have a plan...I always do..." He spoke exasperatingly as the news coverage on screen had turned away from reports of the gang violence plaguing the city and to the face of a young man, the pictures on screen showing a matching set of dark circles underneath his eyes as he had been attempting to get out of the sight of paparazzi.
"Somebody you know?" Alfred inquired, his head turning to the side to watch the television with him.
"No...but I plan on making it my top priority." He responded without taking his eyes away from the topic at hand.
"Right...will you be inviting him to tea, or strapping him the hood of your car, then?" He said, inquisitively.
"Alfred...Gotham can't take another power struggle, no matter who or what is involved, when you give someone a small fortune straight out of arkham you create a threat." He explained, further.
"Then, might i suggest...looking to his past and his candor instead of his pocketbook? Perhaps, the two of you have more in common then you may think?" He offered the idea forward freely, but yet Bruce turned away and slowly walked through the doorway and out of his sight by the time he was finished with his thought.
"...we're nothing alike." He obstinently finished the conversation as he paused for a second a few feet out from the door before leaving his caretaker all to himself, Alfred simply shaking his head and letting out a heavy sigh.
"Perhaps you're right...your inheritance was bigger." He sarcastically quipped, his own body moments later leaving the room to the stillness that left only the memories of time since passed to linger forever onward.