Much to Alfred's disdain, Bruce left the house at exactly twelve noon, just two hours before his extravagant birthday party was set to begin. Bruce didn't care much for parties; most of the people he knew were either greedy barons who wanted money or old friends of his parents who just felt sorry for him.
"Being late to your own birthday party wouldn't be very appropriate, Master Wayne." Alfred had told him before he left.
"I can't make any promises, Alfred. Just tell them I have the flu or something." He had replied.
"Why you are so afraid of people I will never know."
Bruce drove his Buick LeSabre, a birthday gift from his father's trust fund, through the business district of Gotham. Even during the daytime, the area felt dilapidated. The formerly towering apartment complexes and office buildings had worn with time, and the once-thriving factories of the twenties were all but gone. What they left was crime and desperation in their footprints. Bruce pulled his car up along the Rivera Quad; it was the first sit-down movie theater ever built in Gotham. It was also where his parents were shot and killed.
He really hadn't thought of what to do next. Bruce wanted inspiration; he wanted something to pop out at him and grab him. But all he felt was a pain in his chest and a feeling of emptiness.
Bruce parked the car and shut off the engine. He stared out the passenger side window for a few minutes, staring at the spot on the pavement where he lied, waiting for the police. He was almost in a trance-like state when he was startled by a knock on the driver's side window.
Bruce turned to see a young Asian man, almost his age, knocking. He looked desperate and was pointing to his wrist, as if to inquire about a watch. Bruce, figuring that he needed the time, rolled down the window.
"Yes?" he asked the young man. He noticed how tall he was, especially for someone of Asian descent. Possibly a mixed race, he thought.
"Yessir. I need the time." He smiled a devious smile that curled up his face. The Asian teenager pulled a revolver out of his pocket and then pointed it into the car. "In fact, I'll just take your watch."
Bruce reacted before he could think, the result of a decade of training. He moved his left arm up and grabbed the man's hand that held the handgun. Moving his index and middle finger in a grab, he pushed the man's finger up against the trigger guard to prevent him from firing the gun. Then, he grabbed the back of his neck with his opposite hand and pulled him inwards, slamming his head against the metal roof of the car. The resulting slam rocked his hands, causing the weapon to discharge into the car window. The blast was deafening, and Bruce knew it was surely enough to attract attention.
Bruce kicked open the car door into the assailant's chest, knocking him over and scattering the gun to the ground beside him. He lifted the heavy revolver and pointed it at his attacker's face, which was running red with blood. He had cut his face against the car, and it was streaming into his eyes.
"Please, please don't kill me!" the man screamed. He raised his arms over his head to block out his view of Bruce.
Bruce leveled his options. If he shot him, he would never harm anyone else again. However, killing the man would be a crime, and it would only bring him down to his level.
"I'm not going to hurt you anymore." Bruce growled. He was surprised by how deep he could manipulate his voice. As if on cue, a Crown-Vic police car rounded the corner, sirens ablaze. "That's their job." Bruce emptied the revolver onto the man's head, and then tossed the empty weapon aside.
Before the officer could leave his car, Bruce was already gone. He had no intention of staying and complicating matters further, especially now. His mind was racing; thoughts what he had done and what he still had to do flooded his head. His parents had indeed sent him the sign he was looking for. Bruce Wayne was no longer going to sit around and wait for the world to change. In fact, he was going to do the changing.