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Caped Crusader
Coward in Retreat

Bruce Smith, age 20, recalled a time when he had all the confidence in the world. He knew what he would do when he grew up. He learned the means by which to do it. Now, he had his confidence stolen from him. Rā's al Ghūl had turned Bruce from an avenging angel of death into a coward in retreat.

Bruce always knew he couldn't kill an innocent. Only a monster could do that. He had no idea he couldn't kill anyone. Rā's al Ghūl murdered the love of Bruce's life and he didn't have the guts to put him down.

Somewhere along the line, his hatred of his parents' murderer turned into something else. He could not inflict death or even touch a gun without turning into his parents' murderer. No matter the reason, this limitation placed him at a grave disadvantage in his crusade to rid Gotham of evil.

As a favor to Alfred, Bruce allowed him to return to Gotham. After nearly endangering his life with the League of Shadows, Alfred deserved a vacation from Bruce's vacation. Now more than ever, he needed to stay away from whatever reminded him of Gotham and his ill-fated promise.

For two years, he had abandoned that promise and lived with a traveling circus. As Bruce Smith, he made a lot of friends. The Flying Grayson had fallen in love with fellow acrobat, Mary Robinson. Pretty soon she would bear him a boy. The couple offered to name the child after Bruce if he served as the best man.

The conversation brought up horrible memories. The doctor operating on Martha Wayne saw early signs of pregnancy. According to Thomas' journal, the red book, dead certain Martha would have a boy; he even picked out a name. Richard. When Bruce told them this story, they insisted on naming the child Richard.

"Doesn't that mean the other kids will call him Dick?" That got a laugh from both of them. Ditching his life-long obsession with death had its advantages. Bruce laughed a little easier. He even told his first joke.

Like many children had dreamed, he had run away to the circus. Here, he had a family who loved him. The troop traveled throughout the Midwest, the West Coast and Great Lakes region. They no longer toured on the East Coast. Bruce would never have to see Gotham again. He could live a long happy life with these colorful folks.

Passing Waylon Jones, Bruce tossed him a raw fish. Though he found sideshow work degrading, Waylon had developed a taste for the raw fish they used to have to force-feed him. "Thanks a lot, Buddy. I owe you one." Waylon smiled as he scarfed down the mackerel.

Bruce had not even gotten to his best friend of the bunch. No one really knew his name. Everyone just called him Jack. Though only four years his senior, Jack had a checkered past. Also a native of Gotham, Jack ran away from an abusive father and a drug addict mother at the age of six.

In his travels, Jack learned things. Boomerangs, bolas, throwing knives, sleight-of-hand, escapology and magic tricks. Though he'd never admit it in mixed company, he knew far more dangerous stuff and considered the Anarchist Cookbook his Bible. Jack had more uses than a Swiss Army Knife.

Bruce witnessed Jack's latest trick. An avid fan of Harry Houdini, he had practiced his most celebrated trick, escaping from a straitjacket. Jack smiled. "I hope I never end up in one of these," he joked as he pulled it off. Jack loved teaching Bruce his tricks, his special way of showing off to him.

Bruce had built up enough trust that Jack showed him the contents of the lockbox under his bed. In a plastic cover, Jack held up a Red Hood #1. He loved the character. Unlike other superheroes, he had no powers. He couldn't fly or bounce bullets off his chest. He just used the gifts God gave him, nothing else.

Bruce always had the same comment. "I don't buy it. So Arthur Knight watched his aunt and uncle murdered. So what? People witness violent crimes all the time. None of them turned into superheroes."

Jack always had the same reply. "High time one of them did, don't you think? I mean you remember Gotham, right, Bruce? If you had the choice between Park Row and the Gaza Strip, where would you live?"

Bruce had actually lived in the Gaza Strip. Tough call. Bruce redirected the conversation. "Well, even if the witness to a violent crime could turn himself into a superhero, wouldn't he have started to doubt his mission after all those years?" Bruce looked at the Red Hood on the cover. "I mean, didn't he ever want to quit and lead a normal life? I bet his aunt and uncle would have wanted it that way."

In the early mornings, Bruce still practiced his martial arts. Though no longer needed to bash in the skulls of criminals, it did, as his father said it would, relieve the tension of daily life. It surprised him how many people had personal tragedies like his own. It surprised him how many people didn't realize that. Little by little, Bruce Smith won back the sanity Bruce Wayne had lost the night his parents died.

Tragedy though had a way of following people around. Tragedy knew where to find Bruce Wayne, even as Bruce Smith. It had zeroed in on his life and would not let go. Tragedy struck the day of the wedding. Jack, always the joker, wore his favorite clown make-up to the ceremony along with his purple tuxedo.

Anthony Zucco had wrestled control of the Chicago underworld from the Vitis. Even a traveling circus had to pay protection in case the Vitis beat him to it. People in the circus lived by a simple philosophy. Go along to get along. If the scary Godfather reject wanted his money, no one here would put up a fight.

Guess who hated the idea? Leeches like Zucco would always want more money. Normally, Bruce's opinion would not have counted for much. Then, the Flying Grayson backed him up. Before long, the owner, Jupiter Haley, had half his company threatening to leave if he paid. Like any good acrobat, John knew how to face down fear.

On an overcast day, two men in Armani suits appeared at the wedding. Bruce didn't need his training as a detective to pick them out of the crowd. He whispered in the ears of the Flying Grayson and Mary Robinson. Ever so carefully, they snuck out the back. First sign of trouble and these guys would open fire.

Then all hell broke loose. Two hired guns fired into the crowd. The bearded woman and the strongman died first, throwing themselves headlong into the fray. Jack grabbed hold of Bruce. "We need to get out of here." Bruce would love to, just one problem. Mary Robinson's water had broken. "Jesus H. Christ. What do you we do?"

What do we do, indeed? Old-fashioned in their ideas about childbirth, the Waynes had Alfred delivered Bruce at the Wayne Manor. A registered nurse, Alfred had taught Bruce the trade of a midwife. "When will I ever need to know this, Alfred?" Though a rhetoric question at the time, he realized the answer. Now.

With gunfire and the screams of the innocent around him, Bruce used the only skill he taught himself, how to stay calm amidst chaotic violence. He delivered a boy healthy as ever despite his eventful birth. He cut the umbilical cord with a Bowie knife. Bruce signaled the Flying Grayson to carry Mary Robinson to safety. He looked unsure. "Don't worry. I'll take good care of Dick. I won't let anything happen to him."

With Jack, Bruce made a dash for the haunted house with the baby in his arms. These guys would keep killing everyone in sight if they got the chance. Bruce would not give them that chance. Holding the Bowie knife in his mouth, he dove behind a coffin. Perhaps, the dark would give him the edge he needed.

The dynamic duo marched into the haunted house as Jack hid Bruce and the baby. The best training in the world and Bruce could not silence a crying child easier than anyone else. "Hey, clown," said the bigger of the two. He pointed his handgun at Jack. "I know I heard somebody. Show me or die."

Jack stared down the barrel of the gun. "Die." Jack reached for his throwing knives. The bullet struck Jack between the eyes. Dick started crying again. Forced to improvise, Bruce laid Dick in a nest of blankets.

Bruce killed the lights. With his Bowie knife, he triggered a couple of the scares. The two fired on a skeleton that swung down at them. The two riddled the pop-up witch with bullets. Bruce took Jack's throwing knives. He threw them, not to kill, just to distract. Before long, the pair of large hulking Italian-Americans ran out of bullets. Bruce shouldn't have waited this long. Too many people died.

As they reached for their clips of ammunition, Bruce went to work on Zucco's henchmen. Sensei Ken Watanabe's Karate, Haim Levine's Krav Maga and Rā's al Ghūl's Demon Fist had united into a very dangerous and unpredictable combatant fighting to protect a life he helped bring into the world.

Still glowing from his victory, he saw to the two men, now half-naked and hog-tied. The circus performers came out to stare at this glorious sight. In the rush of adrenaline, Bruce had forgotten about Jack. When he touched his wrist to lift the corpse onto his back, he felt something incredible.

Jack still had a weak pulse. Bruce screamed for an ambulance. In Chicago, he heard the news. The Mazzucchelli Brothers had killed seven and wounded twenty-one others. Waylon Jones, Gator Boy, had disappeared without a trace. The doctors said that Jack would survive but not without serious brain damage.

As for Anthony Zucco, he suffered a fate worse than death. The humiliating defeat of his henchmen rallied his enemies against him. He barely made it out of Chicago with his life. His empire usurped by his rivals, Tony Zucco had gone from a crime lord to a man marked for death.

In that hospital in Chicago, much like Gotham General Hospital before, Bruce Wayne renewed his promise to rid Gotham of evil. He had witnessed heroes who blindly faced down death. All without a single thought as to whether or not they could win. Bruce had almost forgotten that such heroes existed in the world.

After he aced his GED tests, Bruce Wayne would restart his education in a more formal setting. Bruce Wayne boarded a midnight train to the East Coast. He would not return to Gotham just yet. Instead, he would attend Miskatonic University, the country's leading authority on criminal psychology.