October 16, 1962
Wayne Manor, Gotham City
Bruce felt himself paralyzed, tears streaming down his face. He felt the crack of the bullet; he could smell the crisp powder. But he couldn't stop him; he couldn't save his father or mother.
Why am I so helpless! It was all he could think about as he hit the ground. Bruce stayed there, motionless, as the ambulance and police arrived.
Why didn't you take me too?
Bruce Wayne awoke with a start, almost jumping out of his bed. Morning light seeped through the Venetians, giving his spacious room an almost striped look. He reached over his body and picked up the alarm clock off of his dresser. It was almost five in the morning.
Bruce slid off his mattress and hit the ground with a thud. He always began his morning training with a few dozen push ups and sit ups to loosen him up, but he almost never woke up this late. Thirty seconds into his calisthenics, he heard a knock on the door.
"Come on in, Alfred." Across the room, wooden double doors opened and a slim, aging butler entered. Alfred had been the Wayne butler since after the Second World War, and had adopted the role of father figure for Bruce after his parents were killed. Bruce was much older now, and nobody knew it more than Alfred. The tired old man had seen his fair share of death and defeat in his life, and he wished for nothing more than peace of mind for his young master in his later years. Time wore across his face now more than ever, and his hair, though parted and combed, was white and thinning.
"Master Wayne," he said in his calm British accent. "Your morning tea, sir." Alfred placed the silver carafe on the dresser next to Bruce. "Today is a very special day, Master Wayne."
"Oh really?" Bruce pushed himself upright and thumbed his teacup. "What's the occasion?"
"Why sir, it's your birthday today." Bruce was honestly surprised. He had lost all sense of time recently, mostly due to his inability to sleep. Bruce leaned over and flicked on the television to check the date. Kennedy was speaking to the country again, commenting on the Soviet menace and the Cubans firing missiles.
"Well, it's the sixteenth alright. Might be the last sixteenth we ever see at this rate." Bruce commented.
"Well sir, personally I doubt the Russians will do anything. They just seem to be showboating, playing their intimidation card instead of opting for a real war. Quite cowardly, in my opinion."
"Alfred, I like to think that a coward is more dangerous than an honorable man. Especially when he is given an opportunity to strike first." Bruce's eyes seemed to glaze over, as he drifted off into his memories.
"Well, I will leave you be Master Wayne."
"Thank you, Alfred." Bruce stumbled over to his wall opposite the doorway. Dozens of framed newspaper clippings were hung like drapes, each outlining the events from his childhood, the fateful night from almost fifteen years ago.
His parents were public transportation moguls, running the Wayne Freight and Bus Empire. When they were killed, he inherited their massive fortune at age eighteen. However, even with all of the money he could ever want, and an entire city of women who would want to meet him, Bruce never really experienced happiness.
He wanted to save his parents so badly, but he knew how weak he was. His parents raised him sheltered, even though scum like their murderer walked the streets of Gotham unchecked.
It was there; at that moment that Bruce Wayne made a promise to his parents. He had trained his body and mind under the greatest teachers that money could buy. For that past decade, he had grown from a frail, weak child to a master martial artist and scholar. He promised to his father and mother that he, Bruce Wayne, would avenge their death and everyone else who died unjustly in Gotham City.
"I won't fail you this time." He mumbled. "I promise."