The red headed Doctor, signature white coat, weaved along the maze of busy corridors that was Wayne Memorial Hospital. Another concrete and steel legacy of the 1960s. Dwarfing the Chicago Board of Trade Building where the industrial leviathan that was Wayne Enterprises stocks had traded since the 1930s. She carried with her a chart marked Murdoch-Wayne, Bruce Mathew. With over five million square feet of floor space, the tallest building in the world for more than decade, this sky scraper didn't just house the most advanced teaching hospital in country. The modular design that was in effect nine buildings bundled together, seven rising to different heights, the eighth and ninth, were conjoined twin towers rose and rose 111 floors. One hundred of which housed the university hospital, topped by the Wayne foundation spanning 9 floors, and crowned by Penthouse suite belonging to Thomas and Martha Murdoch-Wayne.
It was said that the Wayne family true genius and the foundation of their fortune was their ability to recognise genius in others and employ them.
Three towers served different divisions of Murdoch Pharmaceuticals. The remaining four towers served the many diverse arms of Wayne Enterprises, born from Steel, diversifying into construction and heavy engineering, the component manufacture for the auto and aviation industries, and most recently, what the newspaper pundits referred to as Thomas' folly; Wayne Electronics and Computing. Water-cooler scuttlebutt said WEC was more than a metaphorical sink hole, but also a literal one, whispers were of extensive sub basements existed below the three shown on the public plan; housing the the Wayne Enterprises Division no one talked about; Special Projects.
The Doctor entered her patients room. His parents were at the child's beside.
Bruce Matthew Murdoch-Wayne was unconscious, his eyes and much of his face bandaged, what skin could be seen was red and inflamed. Bruce was dreaming.
Everything was dark, there was noise, bestial sounds of scratching, growling, snarling, and snapping. The blackness had an edge to it, sharp teeth, murderous intention.
He saw his parents dead, killed by an dirty desperate thief, he saw them gunned down by assassins with assualt weapons. Nightmares, that past because in the darkness of sleep he saw that these things hadn't happened.
Bruce dreamed on, seeing in his minds eye a bullet strike the dark blue steel drum. From this burst the green-yellow liquid; bright like antifreeze, glowing in the dark as if on fire. It splattered across his field of vision. It felt cold against his skin, but burning him all the same. Pain and then everything was brilliant, hot and frightful, his mind was on fire, it was as if he were staring into the sun.
His dream shifted once more. The sound of gunfire filled the darkness. Echoing around the run down warehousing. Backwards in time, but just a minute, and Bruce stood in fear, rigid, pinned to the spot. He stared down the barrel of the muggers gun as the theifs dirty broken nails grasped for his mothers oh so white and pristine pearls.
Then he appeared, dark wings above them, as if born from the night. Falling amidst a rain of shattered glass. This angel of the night had struck the robber, driven him away and down. Terror had filled the fallen man's features. Fear that had almost consumed the young Bruce Matthew Murdoch-Wayne had gone, leaping like a spark of electrical current and to the thief. His gun had fired, but it had not killed, and Bruce was sure it would have, had it not being for this brave hero. Then there was a second protector, a child no older than him, a boy without fear, who had deflected bullets from the chattering guns of yet more thieves in the night, so many men baring arms, each seeking to kill, his mother, his father and him.
Failing because of the Dark Knight and the boy in yellow and red.
Bruce's dreams could have been all nightmares, they could have been all about pain and fear, all about profound loss. but in the darkness of drug induced sleep, the youth instead dreamt of heroes and like any boy might he dreamt being a hero.
Unbeknown to him his father stood by his bedside.
-8-
Medical Ethics demanded that Thomas delegate Bruce's care to another professional; and Doctor Wayne had chosen her. This was in every way a big deal. His kind eyes were filled with trouble and they were looking to her for answers. She self consciously flicked back her red hair. Wayne's medical degree was just the beginning of his expertise, there was no sugar coating the results of her tests.
His wife Martha sat, her hands gripping the hospital linen, as she listened. Their son would never see again.
Thomas' dark moustached lip twitched. His eyes told her that he was not surprised. Of course the brilliant Doctor Wayne had already concluded the worst. His wife wept.
"Perhaps given times, the damage, the burns, they might heal?"
"The chemical burns are only part of the story." She explained for Martha's benefit in her gentle Scots brogue . "There is secondary radioactive isotope of undetermined origin, but one which favours intravitreal administration."
"I beg your pardon." Martha stated wiping her tears. Her posture stiffening.
"She means it passes through the eye." Thomas replied.
"Yes, and from the eye, via the optic nerve into the brain." From her notes she passed x-ray images of the child to his father. The presence of the radioactive isotope was visible as a tell tale fluorescence. "These were taken immediately following the patients admission to our trauma centre."
She passed a second image across to Doctor Wayne. "As you see from this most recent x-ray, the radioactive element has already decayed."
"Yes it's barely visible."
A tall dark man entered the room, recognising her he nodded.
Thomas turned and greeted James Lucius Fox. The younger man was his right hand, his eyes and ears in Wayne Enterprises. It was no secret that Fox's business acumen freed Wayne to pursue his calling, as a doctor and as a philanthropist.
"I believe you know Doctor MacTaggert." Thomas said introducing her as the attendant physician.
"Yes.." Fox began. "Hello Moira."
"Rohdy and I go back a long way Mr Wayne." Moira replied.
"Oxford." Fox noted.
"Yes, of course." Thomas said to Fox. His voice tired and strained. "You were a Rhodes Scholar." Doctor Murdoch-Wayne frowned pinching the brow of his nose. The stress of the last hours showing in his posture. "I asked Mr Fox to identify the chemical compound that burned Bruce's eyes."
"Of course any information, even at this stage, may prove helpful." Moira responded.
Fox frowned; an unspoken question.
"My son is blind Mr Fox." Martha said in a hoarse angry whisper, her voice growing louder with each word. Tear filled she looked up at her husbands aide. "Who is responsible?"
"Blind.. I'm so very sorry, Mr and Mrs Wayne." Rhody stated. Then he opened a manilla folder in his hand. "The test results." He stated with confidence. Passing them to Thomas. "I traced the viscous substrate that was being used to contain the trace amounts of radioactive isotope. The results were conclusive."
Thomas Wayne's hand shook as he read the document. His mouth mouthed a single word, a name.
"Luthor."