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The first time, Bruce had still been young.
At the time, he was just learning himself, finding the limits of what he could and could not do. He learned that blood is not an option, but that human blood is; he made do with animals, and tried his best not to kill them. He learned that while the sun is not deadly, it does make him weak, dizzy, and he stays out too long, occasionally nauseous. The nights are preferable.
He learned that while he can usually tell when he's being watched, it's not always a sure thing. This was what ruined him.
Her name was Chastity, he remembers. He'd thought himself in love, he really had, and for six glorious months they'd been happy. It was all very innocent, their life together, nearly comically so. Trouble started when the preacher's son saw Bruce slipping back into the house early one morning.
Bats are not uncommon in the countryside, of course. Bats trailing into a house, unfortunately, is very uncommon.
There were lights one night, too low and bright to be the sun, coming from the direction of their house. Most of the town was there, and they'd dragged her from their bed. Witch had been the cry on their tongues. "Bruce," she had screamed when she saw him, "Help me!" Sometimes when he sleeps now, he can still hear her.
He'd seen red.
And then he remembers looking at her, as though down from a great height, and she'd stared at him, eyes wide and frightened. She'd stared at him like she didn't know him. Around them were bodies of townspeople, bloody and mangled as if mauled by a great beast. Bruce had reached for her and she'd grabbed for the cross around her neck. "Monster," she'd declared him, voice shaking high and terrified. "Monster!"
Bruce doesn't remember much else of the night, only the undisguised horror in her eyes as she looked at him.
The second time had been a few decades shy of a century later. The Colonies had revolted against English rule and while Bruce didn't have particularly strong opinions either way, he was rather fond of that George fellow he'd gotten to know. He joined his forces, gave George a bit of an edge that way.
By now, he'd learnt that he doesn't age as any normal human does--something he'd guessed at back when he'd been Hunting, but only now knew for certain. It makes him cautious, never daring to stay too long in one place. He'd visited parts of Virginia about thirty, forty years ago, long enough that he could pass himself off as his own son if recognized.
George had seen right through him in a way that only someone intimately familiar with the supernatural could.
Bruce never found out how it was that George knew him, he'd never asked. But when he'd been caught and pressed for information, he remembered the way George had willingly offered him a wrist to his teeth, a shoulder to lean his head on, and an ear to listen to his concerns with--and Bruce stayed silent. Three weeks they held him, even when the camps moved; Bruce's ears could hear the worries of the British army and he knew George was searching for him.
It turned out to be unnecessary.
They'd bled Bruce through blades and whips, blow after blow in an attempt to use him for both information and as leverage. They'd bled Bruce when he'd already been running low, not having had the time to hunt in the bitterly cold winters when most all the animals were skittish and thin.
Bruce had felt as though his skin was too tight for him, hot and itching and himself quite incapable of properly drawing breath. It was terrible, stifling, and he wondered if he was about to pass out. There was a tearing sound, an indescribable pain, and Bruce knew no more.
When he'd come to his senses, he was still in the same small room, drafty and cold, or so he supposed. He doesn't feel cold quite the same way anymore. George was standing in the doorway, pale, and when Bruce turned towards him, he stepped back, his musket raising slightly. "Bruce?" he had said, and his voice was terrible.
The look in his eyes was a familiar one, exactly the same as Chastity's had been: shock, horror, disgust.
Bruce couldn't stand it.
The reputation he'd once gained as a Hunter had suffered greatly when he'd vanished after being Changed, but it slowly began to make itself known again once more as Bruce took himself to task yet again. It's different, hunting when he himself had become one of the creatures he so loathed, but he took advantage of it, utilizing his heightened senses and abilities to their best.
He'd moved to London not too long ago, and already there is word out among the streets about a man-bat-something that protected the innocent and weak. Among his peers, Bruce heard tell of of the tale as well, many of the men pursing their lips around their cigarettes in disapproval as they discussed the taking of the law into ones own hands. He stayed quiet, of course, listening as the discussion grew more and more heated, all but agreeing to condemning the Bat-man to the gallows.
"I think it's quite commendable," he'd suddenly heard, and Bruce had lifted his head in surprise. Across the smoking room was a young man about the age Bruce appears. He had a strong jaw and an aquiline nose, clean-cut and held himself with confidence and grace. Though he hadn't spoken loudly, his voice was smooth and it had cut through the noise, everyone turning to look at him. "He's keeping the streets safer than the constables have managed, after all."
Very few agreed, of course, but Bruce made a point to stop and speak with the young man before leaving. He became fast friends with Harvey and, for the first time in a long while, honestly regretted knowing that he'd have to leave in a few years. Each night, he'd join Harvey for dinner and a drink and the two would talk until Harvey excused himself and retired for the evening. Then, Bruce would go hunting.
He'd learned long ago, though, that nothing ever lasts.
One night, when he'd been flying over the rooftops of London, he'd heard a voice that he knew intimately. Harvey was already a well-respected attorney, despite his youth. It had earned him friends and foes alike, no more one than the other. But working with both the poor and affluent of London means his enemies were more dangerous than his friends were helpful.
Bruce flew faster than he ever had before, pouring himself into a human skin as he burst through the window. He was too late. Of course he was, Harvey was not the sort of man to cry out unnecessarily. There was no time to spare for the culprit; Harvey was on the floor, writhing and screaming as he clawed at his face. Bruce grabbed for his wrists, holding them away and fought not to recoil when he saw what had happened.
Some sort of chemical combination had created a powerful acid that had destroyed half of Harvey's lovely face. Bruce didn't know what his own expression was, as he struggled to keep himself stoic and calm, but through Harvey's doubtlessly overwhelming pain, Bruce could see on his face what could only be betrayal.
"Why didn't you come sooner?" Harvey had gasped out, glaring at him. "I defended you, trusted you. Why weren't you here?"
Bruce didn't know what to say, what he could say. The rest of the night was hectic. He'd rushed Harvey to the hospital, waited anxiously until they assured him that Mr. Dent is fine, but that the damage to his face is irreparable.
The next few months are horrible. Harvey and Bruce did not meet again and, thankfully, Harvey never spoke of what Bruce was. He did, however, start changing. It was as though the half of his face that had gone twisted and mangled had done the same to his very soul. It destroyed Bruce to see him like that, his once noble friend so two-faced. It wasn't long before Bruce left the city entirely.