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Caped Crusader
Trick-or-Treat

October 30. Devil's Night. No date on the calendar had more resonance than that one. His parents had died at 10:47 PM that night. Sometimes, Bruce Wayne wondered what he would do to him if he ever caught up with their killer.

The cowl had some of Bruce's best stuff. It had night-vision lenses. It had audio processors that could extend the range of human hearing tenfold. Both served as flash defenses, allowing him to filter loud noises like gunfire and bright lights like those produced by flash grenades. He ordered both via dummy corporations in Central Asia.

He did however leave the chin exposed for good reason. His approach to fighting crime relied heavily on theatrics. The criminals needed to see his mouth in order to get an idea of his emotional state. In short, he needed at least part of his face to strike fear into the hearts of criminals. "How do I look, Alfred?"

Alfred Pennyworth, dedicated servant in more ways than butler and valet, looked over Bruce's get-up. "Like a grown man dressed up to go trick-or-treating." Despite his dry British wit, he had perfectly described the situation. He had a trick for the criminals and a treat for the good people of Gotham. Tonight, a legend would walk the streets.

As he descended into the Batcave, Alfred grabbed his arm. "Make sure you do this for the right reasons." In his selfishness, he had forgotten about Alfred's own tragedy. Alfred Pennyworth had lost his parents when the Irish Republic Army bombed their church. If Bruce left Wayne Manor tonight with vengeance in his heart, he would not only disrespect his own parents but Alfred's as well. "Don't worry. I will." If only he had truly believed that.

Unaccustomed to patrols, he went for the smallest fish first. Amidst the winding trails of Grant Park, he spotted a hooded man robbing a couple in front of their six-year-old daughter. To say it brought back some memories would not even begin to describe this feeling of déjà vu.

Thankfully, no one died from the encounter. Bruce followed the family from a safe distance. Another punk looked ready to jump them. Only in Gotham could someone run the risk of getting mugged twice in one night. The dude caught one look at their invisible escort and thought twice.

As soon as he saw the family off to safety, Bruce hunted down the hooded man that took their money. Contrary to pop culture notions of crooks, only real stupid ones stopped to count the money. The hooded man put the wallet in his Ford P.O.S. and walked into his apartment.

Bruce knew a dozen quiet ways to gain entrance to his apartment. He opted to break the door down. "Who's there?" He mimicked his question. "Don't mess with me, I've got a gun." Bruce stepped out of the shadows. "A little early for Halloween, don't you think?" Bruce mimicked his words right back at him. "Forget you!"

Bruce ducked back into the cover of darkness as the shot broke a lamp to his immediate left. Only someone with a severe eye problem of some sort could miss such an easy shot. Whatever the reason, Bruce had no desire to break in his body armor so early in the night. He still had a lot of work to do.

Like the haunted house all over again, the hooded man fired his piece at every noise. Before long, he had run out of bullets. Something about that gun seemed awfully familiar. Taking a dramatic pause for the fear to set in, Bruce rushed in. Glaring at a man with a glass eye laid siege by gruesome scar tissue, he remembered the night his parents died. How he gouged out of one of his eyes. It made karmic sense that he would meet him on his first outing.

Bruce pulled a wallet out from his pocket. His parents' murderer, though a monster in his eyes, had a human name. Joseph Chilton. "Listen up, Joe Chill, you took something from me. I intend to take it back." Hot fluid ran down the leg of his pants. "You'll lose more than bladder control when I finish with you."

As the memories surged into his mind, he blacked out. His grip tightened around his neck. Suddenly, something akin to a sledgehammer slammed into Bruce's back. Someone had shot him. He turned around to face his attacker.

A two-bit hood like Joe Chill couldn't afford muscle. A familiar face greeted Bruce. James Gordon, the man who questioned him the night of the murders. As a child, he hated him for the ordeal he put him though. Now, as an adult, he understood that he had only done his job, a rarity for a Gotham cop. "Stop or you'll shoot you in the face."

James Gordon possessed the ability to pinpoint the exposed parts of his cowl. Ex-military, he probably had flawless aim at this range. It would not have taken much for him to put a bullet through his eye. But like Bruce Wayne in that monastery six years ago, he spied a crisis of conscience, an unwillingness to pull the trigger a second time.

Bruce deployed a smoke pellet. Bruce slipped away with Jim's gun scoring one more direct hit. Bruce had experienced getting shot without a ballistic vest. Getting shot with one on did not change the degree of pain. Instead of something cutting through him, he felt like a crazed construction worker had bludgeoned him with a 2x4.

While Alfred questioned its logic, Bruce never doubted his earlier decision to create an intentional bull's-eye in the center of his chest. The smoke screen had left the yellow ellipse of his emblem and the white skin of his face the only visible targets. One shot to the head could have ended Bruce's crime-fighting career in a heartbeat.

Bruce Wayne would certainly luck out if he hadn't broken a rib from that bit of nonsense. Despite his incredible pain, his night had not ended yet. The Batmobile routed a message into his audio processors. The police scanner caught reports of a clown robbing a bank at the corner of Ellsworth Avenue and Veidt Street. Only in Gotham.