Bruce pulled the LeSabre into the expansive driveway to Wayne Manor. To his surprise, there were already ten or twelve cars already parked in his parking garage.
"Oh shit." He cursed under his breath. He had forgotten completely about his birthday, and the little clock in the dashboard of the Buick read a quarter to one. Bruce found an empty spot and parked the car. As he exited the vehicle, he was met by Alfred.
"Master Bruce, you are almost an hour late to your own birthday party." He commented dryly. Bruce ran past him, fixing his collar and adjusting his suit. Luckily, it wasn't too badly scuffed during his brawl with the mugger an hour earlier.
"Sorry Alfred, I appear to have lost track of time!" He yelled back, smiling. Bruce knew he would have to begin his acting now; all smiles and cheer for the local socialites of Gotham. It was his birthday, after all. As he entered the huge front doors to Wayne Manor, he could hear a voice behind him.
"And what in the hell did you do to the car?"
After hours of socializing and bullshitting with his fake friends, Bruce Wayne felt exhausted. He knew, however, that his work was far from done. All day the only thought on his mind was the attempted mugging, and the sign that his parents had sent him. At almost midnight, Bruce managed to coax everyone away from his house. Finally, he slipped away to the Manor basement, his own personal 'cave'.
Bruce's ideas turned to the day's events. He knew that it was his destiny to avenge those who could not protect themselves; that part of his mission was clear. But how he would go about it still eluded him. He played with the idea of joining the police force of Gotham, but he knew that they were too corrupt. He would spend most of his time fighting mobsters in the Gotham P.D. than fighting for the weak.
Bruce then remembered a specific story from his childhood. His mother used to tell him of the Regulators, a group of vigilantes that fought unjust white settlers in colonial South Carolina. They worked around the laws that allowed the slaughter of their people, and fought without end for the end of their persecution.
To fight injustice, and to protect those without protection. That is the true mission of the vigilante.
Bruce's mother's words came to him, beckoning him to visit his memories again. His fist clenched, crushing the pencil between his fingers.
"Mother…father. I see now what you wanted from me. I'm trying my best, but…" Bruce was too preoccupied to notice his stoic butler enter the basement.
"Showing up late to your birthday party, destroying the car, and now talking to yourself? Careful, sir. The neighbors may think you've gone downright batty."
Bruce's eyes widened. He flashed back to the fear he saw in the eyes of his mugger, the same alert terror that he felt that night so many years ago. Fear is universal.
"Alfred, you are a genius."
"You can't get off this subject with simple flattery, sir. I would at least like to know exactly why you are acting so strangely." Bruce nodded; it was only fair. He figured that his behavior would seem strange to anybody who wasn't him. He went on to explain the entire ordeal of the mugging, the flashbacks, the promise, and the vision he received from his parents.
"Why…sir. You plan on becoming a vigilante? I supported martial arts classes and your new-age yoga, but…"
"I realize it may be hard to understand, Alfred. But realize that I, Bruce Wayne, can't be a vigilante."
"I'm glad you're coming to your senses!"
"No, you see it is much more complicated my friend. Bruce Wayne is a socialite, a rich playboy with a large mansion and a trust fund. He is no longer me; in fact he never was me. The vigilante is a symbol, more immortal than a man, and capable of striking fear, as using it as a weapon in a way no human being can."
"But Master Bruce, you must know the plight of the vigilante. He is feared by everyone, as he has no respect for the law…or life. You will be hurting as well as helping." Bruce sighed. He hadn't overlooked what Alfred had said, but it was still hard to think about.
"I'm still planning this, but I think I know what I'm about to do." He turned to face his old friend. "I'm willing to take the risk, Alfred. I'm not in this for fame or to be a hero; I think Bruce Wayne has enough of a reputation. But I want to make this city a better place for everyone; and I think that goes beyond what money and fame can do."
Alfred's eyes brimmed with tears. He had raised this boy since the day his parents died, and had come to see him almost as a grandson. While his plan was surely ridiculous, he also felt an overwhelming sense of pride.
"Well, sir." He said, brushing away a stray tear. "What do you plan to use as your symbol? Surely a suit and tie would not frighten a criminal.
"I'm glad you asked, Alfred. In fact, you inspired me." Bruce held up a piece of paper that he had been scribbling on while they were talking. It was a futuristic drawing of a sleek one piece suit adorned with pointed ears and spiked appendages, and a butterfly-cut, curved cape in the shape of wings.
"The bat, Alfred. The symbol of blind justice; a knight in the darkness. I will become a bat."