Chapter Text
Bruce Wayne’s parents were optimists to say the least, having willingly lived in a brooding city where the rain never quite seemed to rest and the winter chill pervaded the even colder cracks of abandoned penitentiaries through to the passion of penthouse fireplaces. That chill; however, was what promised the soon-to-be well-documented demise of the two prominent philanthropists. Albeit, whilst the forehead kissing and coddling that Bruce had merely tolerated, was all in good spirits, he had come to recognise the distinct lack of the notion entirely throughout Gotham streets upon entering his later stages of life. In fact, it had become but a pathetic spark that failed to keep even the squalor of the Gothamite rats warm.
Of course, this comes as a surprise to no one– inside or out of the city. For they have all heard the stories of those who fester and seep from the shadows like the puss from a perennial cyst. The inherent fear that consumes the streets when the weather station predicts an overcast day à la Scarecrow, and the proposed Penguin revolution, and the ever looming knowledge that Joker is right around the corner.
Scarecrow. Penguin. Joker. One big fucking joke.
Bruce use to believe that it was some sort of fucked up coping mechanism that allowed Gotham’s children to sleep at night. Give them a goofy name that’s straight out of a cartoon, so that way– maybe, just maybe, when a kid wakes up to their entire family strewn across the living room floor like a carefully designed Jackson Pollock, they won’t wake up screaming every night after because you know? It was only the handy-dandy Joker! Not just some psychotic freak who should’ve been put six-feet under years ago so all of this chaos could have been avoided. Not at all.
Bruce was a smart kid, reading novels way beyond his years, maintaining an iron-stomach when some of the subject matter was arguably a bit too intense for his little 7 year old mind. However, he could admit now, at least, that some of it he just could not understand in the first place, taking to his mother, never his father, and she would always tell him the same thing.
“The devil is in the details, sweetheart.” She would say with a soft smile, brushing a well-manicured thumb across his plush cheek then twisted and sauntered deeper into the mansion.
At the time, it hadn’t really made too much sense. Why would a composer leave things unsaid when there is infinite opportunity to explore their ideas, verbose or otherwise? Why force the reader to leave so much to interpretation when there is an obvious trajectory of the story? In the end, young Bruce Wayne simply acknowledged it as bad writing.
Yet, as time turned and people changed, Bruce had found time to reflect, especially over the past few years, which have been an uphill battle to say the least. What were the finite details that revered master detective Batman had been missing from this trajectory? The Joker continued to dance about, in and out of the shadows of crime, never remaining in the light of Justice for longer than he needed to. The reign of terror had yet to end and Bruce only wondered if things could have been different. How many lives could have been saved? Tens? Hundreds? Jason’s? How many children would not have had to suffer the same fate as Bruce Wayne, the pathetic son of late elite Gothamite’s Thomas and Martha Wayne? Pathetic, really.
All this chaos, all this heartache, all this pain, and it could have come to an end if he hadn’t been so desperate to maintain the expectations of distant memories. Yet, as Bruce sat on the velvet exterior of the manor’s main living room, wine glass in hand, staring despondently at the flickering flame of the fireplace, he questioned the legitimacy of his thought. His parents’ love of humanity, despite all the suffering perpetuated by their dwelling, was the only thing that has kept him from devolving into the one thing he swore to rid humanity of. If he did not have this unbearable itch to protect those around him, who would he be?
Who would he be? Bruce’s shoulders rolled in a taunting drawl as he shifted his legs to a more accommodating position on the sofa, finally letting out a guttural humph. Well, he would be Batman, another goofy cartoon-like character that helps dull the cutting edge of reality so the children could finally rest soundly. Whether or not it was in the name of justice or simply a silly name bestowed upon him by Gothamite media, he was yet to know.