The year is 1950. A young Bruce Wayne has recently celebrated his twenty first birthday and the completion of his martial arts and weapons training. He has decided to return to Gotham City and tidy up some bitterly unfinished business. He has come home with the intent of finally avenging the deaths of his beloved parents, Thomas and Martha Wayne. He has patiently waited over a decade for this night.
Bruce has spent the previous fifteen years traveling the globe and training under various masters, learning various arts and mastering each one himself. The loss of his parents had thrown him into his studies in a way that it had become temporarily all that he had lived for. So compassionate and dedicated was his approach and determination to becoming the best, that he had picked up and honed new skills so quickly and so naturally that he had barely seemed human to those around him.
At the age of eighteen years old Bruce had had the foresight to seek out and employ a once private I and long time loyal friend of the now deceased Waynes, Alfred Pennyworth, and assigned him to the daunting task of hunting down the those responsible for his parents' early demise. The old man had been far from a disappointment, quickly picking up and following the trail of all those who had played a role in the murders.
Bruce revs the heavily modified 39' Indian Chief to full throttle, cape billowing out behind him and whipping in his tailwind, and flies down the darkened back streets of a run down and half abandoned section of Gotham's old Industrial neighborhood. He brings the flat black bike to a stop in front of a tall and looming old building that in its prime was once a booming blimp factory operated by none other than the Mafia boss called Lex Moxon.
Bruce puts out the kickstand of the motorcycle with the toe of one of his fireproof steel toed boots, and pulls a rebuilt Remington 11 out of a sheath and slides it into an open carry loop under his cape and inside of his suit. His hands automatically move to check his other pieces, they are all safely secured and resting in their places against his well chiseled body in their hidden holsters. Underneath his mask his face is cold and emotionless as a statue carved from granite. He looks to the sky, the full moon had passed only days ago and there are clouds blocking even the few faint stars typically able to be seen from these depths of Gotham's polluted innards.
Moving like a stealthy phantom on this moonless summer night, Bruce leaves the tricked-out Indian sitting in the shadows that are cast down from the colossus sized old building, and mounts the unkempt and crumbling but broad front steps that approaches the main set of doors. The front of the place is void of activity and left completely unguarded so he walks straight on through and into the place without breaking his stride. "Hmmm," he thinks to himself "Not a soul in sight, this is going to be too easy." Once inside he makes his way across the massive old lobby and reaches a stairwell located along the back wall of the building. He begins to climb.
He stops when he reaches the sixth floor, resting for a moment, not because he is tired but because his extremely well developed senses are picking up the tell-tale signs of people on the next floor. His nose is detecting the slight scent of a sickly sweet cigars smoke. "Cuban," he grunts under his breath. His hands absentmindedly ball into fists. The faint singsong laughter of a woman rings in his super trained bat-like ears. Underneath the mask the stone cold grimace give way to a chillingly cold and empty smile. He melds into the darkness of the unlit stairs and continues to silently make his way up.