Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Bruce Wayne let out a muffled sob.

The six-year old child clutched his hands close to his mouth, terrified to let a sound slip. The cave was dark, cold, and terrifying.

A ray of light shone above him, but it did little to assuage his fears. Because it was a long way down from the place that he fell. From the well and into this deep, gloomy cave. What little light he could see, he could spy and gleam from reflections of rock. And what others, he could see from snatches of eyes boring holes into his skin, rustling wings that made him flinch with every sound, and the hiss and crackles of bats.

Bruce didn’t mean to run too fast. He didn’t mean to trip and fall down a well. And now his knees were scraped up and hurting, Bruce thinks he’s bleeding pretty badly. Oh dear, Bruce wants his mama and papa and Alfie to come and hug him and kiss his boo-boos away. He hated this adventure.

What can Bruce do? If he yells, he doubts Mama and Papa could hear him. Least of all Alfie who is still doing spring cleaning in the Manor when he sneaked out. Bruce just wanted to run around in the grass instead of cooped up in his room all day because his maid Nelly was out all day. And if Bruce yells for Alfie to save him, he would wake up the swarm of bats. Terrifying bats with vicious eyes, snarling teeth, and sharp talons that could hurt and kill him. And if he waits here, surely someone could come find him. Surely.

But what if they didn’t? The thought occurred to him with a whisper. What if they don’t know little Brucie is stuck down in the bottom of a well, shaking and waiting for their help? 

Oh, what can Bruce Wayne do? 

He stuffed down a sob, failing miserably. The bats chittered and he flinched violently. Surely there has to be a way up. There has to be. Why build a well without an entrance to the bottom? Especially in a big huge cave like this. Bruce didn’t know there was a cave underneath his house. Now he knew now. 

With this goal in mind, Bruce tried his best to pull up to his feet, a task that didn’t take a couple of minutes, no way it did, even as he tried his best to swallow his pain and stay silent. Stumbling over and tripping over himself, adding to his collection of injuries as he attempted to gather his bearings. The bats, he didn’t want to wake the bats. He whimpered. With a hand on his soaked red knees, he hobbled his way through the dark cave, trying so hard, trying so desperately to find a glimpse of daylight, of a crack or opening in this too big and too pitch-black cave. Because if he can't find a way out, Bruce might collapse and sob a whole lake to fill this scary cave. 

He used the wet and rough walls for support, hobbling along and cautious to not hopefully brush against a sleeping bat. He hoped bats didn’t sleep from the walls sideways. Bruce knew they slept upside down from the ceiling. Hopefully it stays sleeping on just the ceiling. 

The boy sniveled, bumbling his way through the winding tunnels and open clearings. Constantly aware of the liquid running down his legs, socks, and shoes and the pain throbbing through them. But he can’t give up, his parents always told him not to give up even if he really wanted to, especially when he was tired and wanted to lay down and sleep. Bruce really wanted to lay down and sleep right now though. But he knows that’s bad. He can’t do that.

Then, light.

A faint light but it was enough to grab Bruce’s attention and have him walk in the direction the faint red light was coming from, mesmerized by the radiant glow. Because that must be the exit, it has to be.

Until he finally stumbled onto the source of the light in a small clearing of the cave, Bruce was left disappointed. There was an exit, but it was again, at the top of a ceiling instead of in the wall. Instead the source of that red light came from a-

“A pocket watch?” Bruce mumbled in confusion, tilting his head. At first, he thought it was on fire!

But… looking at it closely, it didn’t look like it was actually on fire. Somehow, some way it just gave off the illusion of it. Especially with the flames projecting from the top half of this strange pocket watch, disconnected from it. Like a weird magic trick. He picked up the odd watch, entranced by the sight. Why did someone leave a pocket watch in the middle of a cave?

It was a hefty piece, surprising Bruce with its weight. Until a strange energy coursed through him at first touch. It was electric, sending a weird shiver down his spine like he had poked at a outlet with a fork. Did he get shocked? Wait, isn’t he supposed to be burnt instead?

How odd.

Poking at the crackling flames, to Bruce’s surprise he didn’t get burnt. It wasn't on fire. They weren’t real flames. Instead it gave off a soft warmth like he was holding a hot stone wrapped up in layers of wet towels, a type of muted warmth. It was hot and he instinctively knew it could be really hot if it wanted to be.

Bruce knew it was a bad idea but he couldn’t help it, he brought the pocket watch close to his face and cradled it to his cheek. He was soggy, he was wet, and he was, most of all, miserable. Holding this unbelievably warm watch felt like he was being given a warm hug by his mother and father, a comforting embrace that he couldn’t help but relished in. 

Dropping down to his knees, he lay against the cold floor, absorbing every bit of heat from the magical pocket watch that he clutched close to his heart. Curling up around it, terrified that the heat would run out at any moment. The sniffles poured out of him, followed by the hiccupping sobs that he tried to muffle lest he alerted the bats to attack him. He wanted his mom. Bruce wanted his dad. He wanted anyone to come and save him from this cave.

Wiping at his eyes with his sleeve, Bruce looked up into the intimidating rocky ceiling where pointy rocks infested by bats glared down at him. Bruce will find a way out. He has to. But how?

And -

What was with this strange watch? Bruce examined the pocket watch that he had used as a heating rock, squinting as he brushed a finger against the red metal. Was it bronze? Copper? No, it seemed too red to be either of two. Either way, it was a red metal outlined with golden trims. The watch was etched with a strange drawing that reminded him of the statues at the local church that his parents take him every Christmas to celebrate with his more religious relatives. Christian iconography of a winged angel holding out her arms while hands outstretched from the frames, multitudes of hands reaching out to grasp onto the angel but failing to do so, lined the outer rims of the casing. It looked scary.

Clicking the button at its side, the pocket watch flipped open to reveal- 

Stars. So many stars. Bruce Wayne was transported into an endless night sky. A curtain of stars of different colors, types, and sizes that had replaced the dark cave around him. It was awe-inspiring. He felt like he was at the movies, but somehow more, it was like he was actually in outer space as the stars circled and raced around him like mischievous fairies giggling and poking at him. 

The young boy oddly felt like a bug under the stars’ visage, crushed under the pressure of such gigantic and powerful beings that could squash him if he were noticed by their gaze. He was so… powerless. Yet despite that, despite this existential fear, he was enraptured in this philosophical awakening of stars that held so much power in the orbit of their nebulae.

But none of those stars mattered, instead he stared at the largest one looming in front of him. It was massive. How could Bruce have missed it? It shines an incandescent brilliant gold, luminous and all-consuming. It demanded all of his attention. Bruce scrambled up to his feet, keeping a death grip on his pocket watch.

In fact it has noticed his voyeuristic gaze from the start. It welcomed Bruce with its radiant rays.

A gentle voice, similar to his Mother but without the warmth and love but all the power and distance, commanded his attention inside of his head:

‘Art thou ready to share the burden?’ 

It gave Bruce a choice with an inevitable answer. Pressure built behind his eyes, demanding him to comply.

And what else but Bruce can do beyond nod?

Inhaling, a rush of power flooded his system, a euphoria unlike no other. Bruce could hear the sounds of a mirror shattering into pieces in the distance — and just as suddenly Bruce was ripped out of the space-time corridor and back into where he was before, a dark cave of reality.

But… it wasn’t exactly dark.

In fact, to his surprise, Bruce could see through the dark like he flipped a switch and the lights came on. But there wasn’t exactly no lightbulb or switch. Simply put, he could see through the dark like it was day time. It was strange. Thinking about it let a woozy feeling replaced the ecstasy in his veins and suddenly Bruce did not feel like he was in his own body.

No. He wasn’t in his body at all as Bruce instinctively unsheathed his blade strapped to his belt and speared it through a bat nearby. Killing it instantly when it shrieked at his sudden appearance.

With the sounds of its dying screech, the cave became alive with a swarm of chittering bats that flew anywhere and everywhere.

His training from the years of being employed by the Shi Association kicked in as Bruce launched himself away from his previous position with a roll. Throwing off the bat carcass from his sword and into the swarm as a distraction, he repositioned himself into a better vantage point. A spot where he could duck behind cover and cover his back and worry about his sides and front.

Body on autopilot, Bruce— Ishmael cut through a bloody swath of the bats. She cursed, she was so close to her target when she had to get separated from the others. And now the target is aware of her appearance. The target has probably alerted his Zwei guards and is guaranteed to be in hiding. There goes this week’s contract and months of preparation down the drain. She might kiss her promotion to Section 4 and Hamhampangpang dinner goodbye.

Now she has to find her way out of this cave—  Bruce crumpled to his knees, curling up in his too big, too strange and alien body as he tried to shield himself from the swarm of bats.

His sword— don’t think about that.

Don’t you dare think about that.

Fear coursed through his veins, begging him to do something but he couldn’t. He shouldn’t. Lest he drowns in his own head where Ishmael is yelling at him, ranging from repeated: “What are you doing?!” to complaints like “Getting unnecessarily injured in my body?". So all Bruce could do was huddle up, cover his head, tune everything out, and wait for the storm to pass.

And when it did, when his/her senses told me that the room was clear of all hostiles, that he was wounded with scratches and cuts that should be-

He winced again, snipping that thought process before he could be submerged within the waves. 

And when Bruce could finally think, think and not feel like someone was speaking through his head, speaking in his head, Bruce allowed himself to exist.

Because what was that?

What just happened?

Bruce pulled himself to his feet, his bigger feet, he stopped. Staring at his shoes, his shoes that were replaced from his previous brown flats to tough and scary-looking black and red combat boots that he didn’t wear before. His entire wardrobe had changed, he realized, he no longer wore his regular outside play outfit but instead… Kevlar-threaded, resistant to weaponry below Grade 7, armor vest, typical wear and fit for an assa—

Fixer. A Shi Association Fixer. She corrected himself.

Ishma— Bruce clutched at his pounding forehead. Two different sets of memories from two different worlds fought for control, Bruce wanted to go home, Ishmael— 

Was banished to the back of his head. Dragged kicking and screaming, Bruce could feel the faint impression of her mind in the corners of his mind, stray thoughts and memories ready to be listened if he focused on it. Ready to pull back into the forefront at his leisure. Control. He had control. Because if he didn't, Bruce would sink.

And finally it was silent.

Bruce stared up at the ceiling, eyes wide and luminous. But it was still him, it was still Bruce. He was Bruce Wayne, 6 years old, son of Martha and Thomas Wayne.

Not… not Ishmael, struggling assassin for hire.

He was Bruce Wayne, Bruce Wayne, 6 years old and still a kid. That mantra repeated in his head, to lift himself amongst the restless waves of his mind.

And Bruce wanted his parents. He wanted his parents, his mother and his father, and his butler Alfie and his maid Nelly who would scold him and kiss his cuts and bruises and scrapes. And he wanted most of all, is to get out of this cave. But he can’t cry right now, no matter how much he wants to.

Because big boys like Bruce don’t wait around for someone to save him. Focus. He has to focus.

Unconsciously, he secured his Katana (his parents told him to never play with knives and sharp objects) back into his sheath. Pushing his long, too long (he never had hair too long. It was too heavy on his head. So much weight. How do girls handle this type of hair?), too orange wavy hair to the side lest it gets cut. A brief thought came to him: Maybe he should cut it right now?

And then Ishmael, in the back of his head, started screaming. The sound was too sharp, too loud. It overwhelmed him. 

He winced. Maybe not. Later. Ow... Okay, he shouldn’t cut people’s hair if it’s not his hair. 

Find a way out. He told himself, unsure but wanting. Find a way out and see his parents and Alfie. They can fix this. They can know exactly what happened to him, explain it to Bruce and fix this.

Bruce, on autopilot, had snuck back inside his home. He did not go through the front nor the back door. No, somehow, his instincts told him the best way to get back inside the house was to scale the columns of the side of the Manor, shimmy and crawl onto the ledge, careful about any weak points that could lead to his plunging demise, jump onto various parts of the architecture, and sneak through an opened window that led in one of the unused guest rooms at the side of his house.

Right before he slid inside, Ishmael told him to check the room before him and see if anyone was watching. Peeking through, he saw a busy maid, one of the many people he never talked to but always saw dusting or cleaning the rooms, was preoccupied with cleaning underneath the bed. A task that will take more than the 20 seconds it took to climb inside, roll to his feet into a silent sprint past, his feet distributing enough weight to feel light and not make a sound, crack open the door and enter the house with no one the wiser that someone broke inside. 

Now Bruce Wayne is back home. Inside. In the hallways. But also in a stranger’s body. He bit his lip. How can he prove his identity to anyone who sees him? Especially Alfred? They'll surely freak out to see a random woman wandering around and wearing non-servant clothing since no one was visiting today. 

Maybe he can sneak his way to his bedroom and show Alfred his diary and do a game where he tell him one of the diary entries he wrote. Surely he can believe him!

Good idea, Bruce. Bruce told himself, giving himself a metaphorical pat on the back for his genius. Once he can convince Alfred, Alfred can convince his parents, and his parents will help fix this, especially his smart genius doctor Dad can figure a way to unmagic him out of this body and back to his old self. It was neat being a tall adult. But he is a tall adult that is the wrong gender. And a tall female adult who is also a bad person who kills people for money. Which is very bad indeed. 

Bruce didn’t want to be this Ishmael, this assassin or She Fixer as she calls herself. (“Shi Association South Section 5 Fixer.” She corrected him) 

So Bruce had to sneak through the halls, taking the hidden passageways of the Wayne Manor inside of the walls that the most trusted people of the Waynes knew about, like him Bruce Wayne. Because he is a Wayne and he knew all about the huge maze that he hasn’t fully mapped out all of its secrets. Using it to sneak his way back to his room. Making sure to avoid any of the servants that were scurrying around  to clean the house before his parents got home.

It was a familiar sight being back in his room. But also odd too because he’s way bigger. Taller too. So everything in his normal sized room looked… tiny in his eyes. He didn’t know that despite his huge bed, in his current tall form it looked like it could barely fit him if he curled up a little. Bruce felt giant.

Either way, he has to find his diary. Of which he hid in his drawers in a secret glove compartment that his mom showed and gave him if he wanted to keep his little secrets too. With a grin on his face as he gripped the thick, leather-bound journal. Bruce was ready to find Alfred and prove his identity as Bruce Wayne.

Until the hair at the back of his neck raised, a warning too late when he heard the distinct sound of a gun being cocked.

“No sudden movements. You have ten seconds to tell me who sent you and why.” Alfred growled behind him.

Bruce whipped his head around to face Alfred, the man he was just looking for, with a bright smile on his face. “Alfred!”

Bang!

The sound echoed through his head. It didn't register completely what happened to him until Ishmael, louder than she ever was before, was yelling at him. And then the pain hit.

Bruce gasped, dropping the notebook and crumpling down to his feet. He clutched at his abdomen, his stomach that was screaming in agony, his palms sticky and wet. Bruce looked down to see blood gushing out from the holes in his chest. Not even his armor-like clothing could stop the shotgun pellet from rupturing through him. He’s been shot. Bruce has been shot. Alfred just shot him. The words repeated in his head. The undeniable truth that Alfred, his beloved butler and trusted friend and babysitter, just shot him.

Alfred glared down at him, a 12-gauge shotgun aimed right at Bruce’s head. His gaze was venomous, filled with a deep unbridled hatred, there was no spark of recognition in his eyes. Like he didn’t realize that he just shot at his six year old charge, Bruce Wayne. 

“I told you Assassin. No sudden movements. Who sent you?” He growled, pumping the shotgun with a mighty click. Bruce’s lip wobbled, terrified beyond belief. Because couldn’t Alfred recognize him? That it’s him Bruce. It’s his young charge, Bruce. Not an Assassin. He might look like one, in a different body, but he isn’t an Assassin. “How did you break in? And why are you in Master Bruce’s room?”

“N-no one, i-it’s me,” Bruce stammered, tears streaming down his cheeks. He held up both hands in surrender, praying that Alfred would put down the gun and listen to him. “Bruce. I-I’m Bruce. A-Alfie. Please tell me you recognize-" Alfred let out a derisive scoff.

“Insanity is not a good look for you and your master. You have 5 seconds. 5-”

“I’m Bruce, please believe me-” His eyes flickered back and forth, trying to find out what he could do to convince him. The journal was tossed to the side and-

“4.” Tap.

“Please, please, please, I didn’t mean to sneak out-” Bruce didn’t want to attack Alfred. Ishmael was yelling at him to unsheathe his sword and stab Alfred through and convince him there when he has the upper hand but Bruce refused. Violence isn’t the solution. Dad told him. It wasn't. 

“3.” Tap.

“I-I fell down the well. There was a c-cave. W-with s-so many bats. Th-there w-was a weird watch-” Bruce babbled out frantically, confessing the truth. But it wasn’t enough. Alfred looks unimpressed. The sweat poured down his head.

“2.” Tap. Alfred’s finger pressed close to the trigger. Maybe he should attack.

“S-stop please, Alfie, it’s me. D-don’t tell me you recognize-” He pleaded. No. He didn’t want to hurt Alfred.

“1.”

Bruce took a shuddering breath. Time slowed down as he watched Alfred press down on the trigger, the bullets flying towards his head. Bruce staring in the eyes of impending doom. Watching as his butler, his Alfie pulls the trigger to end his life. All of his memories flashed before his eyes, and all he could think is: Why him?

What did Bruce do wrong to deserve this? If only he hadn’t snuck out and gotten in this situation…

With the sound of glass shattering, Bruce curled up in a ball to clutch at his non-bleeding head. He was back in his regular child self, small, so woefully small in comparison to his bigger form. Now, he was dressed back in his dirtied and scuffed clothes yet to be changed out from his excursions in the cave. Bruce begged Alfred with fat, wet tears falling down from his face. “S-stop, stop Alfie! Don’t shoot me!” He cried, his high-pitched voice cracked, hands splayed out. “P-please, s-stop!:

The gun dropped out of Alfred’s hands.

“My god.”

Chapter Text

“Y-you… you shot me.” Bruce repeated, shell shocked. 

He was sitting on his bed, normal sized and Bruce-shaped. He was his old self again. A six year old child, no longer in the form of a female tall adult assassin named Ishmael. The sheets were torn off, having been stained by his blood, by his… other self’s death, leaving the mattress underneath bare. (He died.)

Bruce wasn’t bleeding anymore. His whole body didn’t have bullet wounds in him. Just scrapes and bruises and cuts and all the bad things from his fall in the cave. His body was still the same after he had gotten the pocket watch and turned into someone else, like it was in stasis the whole time, never having gotten shot.

Yet either way… Alfred shot him. It was an undeniable truth. His bed and floor were stained by the crimson liquid. 

His butler shot him. Twice. Even after Bruce tried to explain himself, a terrible explanation now that he thought about it. Because how would knowing the entries of a journal help better his case? Either way, Bruce died. Murdered by his butler. He could still feel the phantom pain of the bullets piercing through his body and the blood rising up and clogging his throat. 

The gun was gone. Alfred had taken it away. Well, first he kicked it under the bed out of sight when Bruce became hysterical, having a whole sobbing fit that embarrassed him thinking about it now. He clutched tight to Alfred's clothes and made it more of a mess than it already is with his snivelling and snotting whilst Alfred had rubbed soothing circles onto his pack, whispering apologies and comforting words that could make Bruce forget. Alfred wasn’t his mother or father but he was a close substitute, almost akin to family. Especially when he muttered: “Oh, if I knew it was you, I would have never pulled the trigger.” 

When Bruce calmed down enough to speak, he separated from him. Finding it… uncomfortable and gross that he was covered in his… other self’s blood that stained Alfred and the floor and sheets.  

“I did,” Alfred spoke after a long silence, his voice cracking, quivering yet regardless always answering his questions, jokes, statements. Bruce didn’t see him cry but he knew he did when he wasn’t looking. “Yes, I did Master Bruce. I… It was… was my mistake. But you…” You had transformed into a different person. An assassin. I thought you were an assassin coming to hurt you. That went unspoken and Bruce knew it.

The pocketwatch, yes, that pocketwatch, it was still with him somehow, was warm and heavy in the pockets of his shorts. The cause of everything that went wrong. Of what led Bruce to become an entirely different person altogether, a hitman, and was shot for his troubles.

Bruce pulled it out in its cold yet burning metallic beauty. The flames didn’t hurt him, they soothed him, asking him if it was to be used again. And something in his head, yes in his head, had popped up. If he closed his eyes, he could imagine he was in that star-filled expanse. 

But it was different. That space there was oddly more quiet, smaller, and sparse. Too little stars. But stars nonetheless with... chains? connected to several of them. Strange. Omnious. The watch whispered to him that all Bruce had to do was choose and tug on those chains, pulling upon those stars, those worlds where the chains have attached to people inside of them, and become them. All he had to do was focus on whichever chain he wanted and just… click the button on the watch.

Bruce snapped out of that trance, his finger itching away from the tantalizing button and suppressed the urge to use its magic power. 

‘Not now.’ He told himself. 

Instead he gave it to Alfred who was recovering from his shock of a burning yet nonharmful pocketwatch. “It’s magic. If you press this button you can… turn into another person.” Bruce explained from what he knew. Maybe it did something more. Maybe. But that’s all Bruce knew, he could transform into a different person with metahuman abilities like seeing through the dark. Unless all assassins could see in the dark. Hmmmm…

Alfred hesitantly took the watch from, cautious that the flames would turn on him. When he deemed it to be as docile as it treated his ward, he fully examined it. A look of distaste flickered over his expression when he looked at the engravings. Maybe he didn’t like what it represented?

When he clicked the button, Bruce braced himself to see that female Assassin flicker and replace Alfred. But to his surprise, nothing… happened. Alfred raised an eyebrow as he pressed the button one, two, three, a couple of times yet it had the same result. It made a noise of the button being clicked but no magical powers kicked in. 

“Master Bruce, this is a very magical pocket watch but, where did you find this?” Alfred asked, studying the pocketwatch, tracing its nonharmful but warm red flames.

“I fell down a well and found it in a cave!” Bruce replied. Though shouldn’t Alfred remember him telling him this?

“You- what.” Bruce flinched. He could hear the sheer disappointment in his voice. He cringed but nodded albeit slowly this time, looking down to fiddle with his hands.

“I-I didn’t mean to, I just… ran too fast and tripped. And fell down the well. I didn’t break my ankle this time.” Bruce kicked his feet. “But I found out there’s a huge cave underneath my house. And there was this weird pocketwatch there. Sitting on a rock. Maybe it fell down? There was a hole in the ceiling so it must have. Do you think the owners are coming back?” Alfred looked like he was still processing the mountain of information that Bruce was spilling, regardless he recomposed himself and shook his head.

“If they did then they would’ve come back already,” He said dryly. And then handed it back to Bruce gently. “How about you… try it, Master Bruce. Use the watch’s powers. It must be bound to you if it doesn’t work for me.”

Bruce bit his lip. “You won’t… you won’t s-shoot me right?” Alfred looked horrified by the thought. He shook his head rapidly. 

“Heavens no, that was… that was, I… I didn’t know you were yourself Master Bruce. I thought you were… someone else who wanted to hurt you. Listen,” Alfred knelt down to grab both of Bruce’s hands and stared at him in the eyes. “I would never, in all years of my life, intentionally pull the trigger on you. Never. If I knew it was you, I would rather die than harm you.”

And Bruce stared back, seeing the blazing love and determination within his butler’s eyes and felt overwhelmed. All of that raw emotion he compared with the cold, killing intent Alfred exhibited in the past when he didn’t know Bruce was Bruce and instead a person hellbent on hurting his ward. Bruce’s eyes dropped instead to look at the flaming pocketwatch clutched in his grip. His fingers traced the etchings of the drawn hands stretching outwards towards the angel, a few had feathers clutched in their grips while there were some that were gripping parts of its wings. It was… more gruesome than he thought. Maybe that’s why Alfred didn’t like it. Bruce didn’t like it now. 

“Just don’t… don’t hurt me… please?” He mumbled, as the scenery of stars washed over his head, sensing his intent to use it.

In his mindscape of a lonelier night sky, it was populated with cracks in reality. There were a multitude of them, some that were distant and far away, unable to be reached, while those that could, had chains dangling from them. The rusty metal swayed in the nonexistent wind that Bruce could reach out and use. It was a curtain of chains, most of them came from the same hole in reality, while others had their own individual worlds, lone chains, lone worlds. Bruce was attracted to the chains with the most vibrant color, especially the lone gold amongst the sea of browns with reds mixed in. The strongest... Identities… the watch whispered to him.

Bruce didn’t want to be the Assassin named Ishmael, so he dismissed that red-hued chain. There were others instead, less flashy but hopefully more harmless. Out of the few, there was a lone golden world, the identity that rested inside, scared him. There was a distinct feeling of grittiness, iron-strict discipline, with the heavy scent of gunpowder even if it was subdued by feathers and wings. Not that one, not that one. It was too... dangerous to show to Alfred unless he wanted to get shot again. So it left the only red glowing world of the three, it was more lax, whimsical than its brethren but also… a bit dead. How could he explain to a chain what senses it evoked within him that felt almost wrong, like Bruce was staring at someone who was on the edge, or perhaps over it. Flowing water, shocking electricity, and the deep taste of blue. The blue was painfully vibrant that Bruce didn’t know what to make sense of it but knew it held something a little sinister. However, compared to the others it wasn’t as bad.

And the more normal cracks, chains, they felt… incomplete, filled with potential but not yet finished. So it left Bruce with this one, mentally yanking on the chain, Bruce pressed the button and-

The glass shattered, Bruce opened his eyes to see the world was smaller and brighter than before. Ouch. He blinked his eyes, feeling a bit strange in his left eye. Like it was itching. 

Alfred stepped back, and he was shorter than him by a little bit. Shorter! Wow. “Master Bruce?” He asked cautiously. Bruce nodded. And wow his head feels heavy. He has long hair again, Bruce noted at the black bangs framing his face. Is he a girl too?

“Am I a girl, Alfie?” Bruce asked, his voice was different, maybe not as girlish but definitely an adult. It was kinda high-pitched but also low pitched, more like a man, just one who liked to sing-song a lot.

“I don’t believe so. You are fairly… masculine. But I can assure you that this… transformation has let you stay as the same gender as before.” Phew, that’s a relief. Bruce didn’t want to be a girl again, being one is weird. Too long hair, weird heavy weight in his chest, and other girl stuff that he knew girls like to complain about but he had no clue about like… cooties. At least there’s no voice yelling at him for not doing this or not knowing that and - wait… 

And thinking about it, Bruce didn’t feel the confusing disorientation like from before. Like there was another person overlapping over him, thinking he wasn’t Bruce but someone else, another person fighting to take control over his body. He could feel them in the back of his mind, their presence heavy but also not, just less prominent. 

“Mnnn~ So you’re the boss of my body,” Hong Lu (How did he know that?) cheerfully chimed in his head. The identity, it was - W Corp L2 Cleanup Agent Hong Lu. His head pounded. W Corp? What is a cleanup agent? Is that a janitor? A butler but for a company? “Something like that, maybe? It’s in the name. I’m just a train cleaner agent.”

Train cleaner agent? That sounds… way less scary than an Assassin mercenary. And way better. 

“I’m a train cleaner agent!” Bruce boasted, knocking a fist against his chestplate. Chestplate?

Bruce looked down. Huh, wicked uniform. 

Hong Lu wore a uniform that was all blacks and blues, blacks that were colored like blue and other types of bright blues. So much blue. It would’ve looked similar to Alfred’s outfit if it weren’t for the metal vest and numerous protective padding over his elbows and arms. Bruce wondered what kind of clean up job required wearing a uniform like this? Is it a battle-janitor? 

“Does a train cleaner agent need a guando?” Alfred gestured towards the weapon that he didn’t realize he held in his grip. Bruce jumped a little, stumbling but caught himself with his… long futuristic and flat-looking weapon which steadily vibrated under his grip. 

And now that he is more aware of his changed appearance, changed self, Bruce noticed there was a restless energy thrumming through him, not coming from the weapon but himself. Building up and up, not having yet reached critical mass, and ready to be unleashed at his command. Like Bruce had snuck in and ate 50 buckets of candy without Alfred noticing. It was an intense version of a sugar rush that made Bruce want to go out and do something now. Until his guando began to ominously glow, laces of blue electricity sparking near the tip.

That freaked Bruce out, terrified of being shocked, Bruce jumped up and let go of the sparking weapon. Of which Alfred, wow he’s quick, jumped into gear. He grabbed the rubber handle and set it down onto his wooden nightstand in a smooth motion. Separated from Bruce, the Guando which lit up like a lightsaber, turned off without a source powering it.

Is Bruce some sort of battery-powered battle janitor? That’s a weird job. Why? He directed his question to Hong Lu, the passenger in his head. However Hong Lu remained silent, any memories that would leak from the other just like Ishmael to answer his questions didn’t appear in his head. In fact, Hong Lu somehow created a mental barrier between the two that left Bruce flailing in the dark. Was his job that bad? “I try not to think about my job if I can. It’s… hah… really grueling~” Was the only response offered to him. 

Something about that answer seemed strange. Too strange. It left more questions than answers. 

Alfred grounded Bruce into reality, because as interesting as listening to voices in his head and experimenting with his new body, a new dilemma has occurred as a result from playing with strange magical forces beyond human comprehension.

“Can you revert this… magic?” Alfred seemed unsettled by the prospect that his ward has access to powers that can allow him to shapeshift into different people. Which Bruce had promised that he won’t abuse and sneak out. Maybe… (He might break this promise. Sorry, Alfred… forgive him and not ground Bruce pleeeease?)

Bruce shrugged. The watch that he held prior had disappeared. And digging into his pockets and belt, he didn’t find it. Just basic medical supplies, some weird devices that he had no clue the function of, and a… worn and almost falling apart sack whose colors have been bleached out from numerous laundry trips.

 “This is… concerning.” Alfred stated, even though his expression, as tightly-lipped and restrained as it was, screamed that it was more than just concerning. It was maddening. “Can you imagine yourself turning back to your old form? Or turn it off?”

Bruce tried. He tried thinking about his true self but that got nothing to show up or indicate it was working. Nor did trying to imagine that he was turning off a magical switch, because there wasn’t. And Bruce was worried that this form might be permanent the longer his failed attempts of reverting back became, even with the help of Alfred giving him suggestions and covering him.

There was a moment where a concerned Nelly had knocked on the door, and asked if everything was alright since she heard a few gunshots go off earlier. Alfred had taken to distracting her, telling her that everything was alright and under control, he had to deal with a few unwanted pests. Even though Alfred was lying, Bruce felt his stomach drop out hearing the lie, knowing that it was him that Alfred had shot. (and killed.)

By the time Nelly had walked away, a distinct sound of glass shattering had echoed through the room and Bruce was back to his old self.

“I’m me again!” Bruce celebrated with a cheer. He was very smart because the sound of glass shattering was common with his transformations. So since it has connections towards mirrors because people like to break them all the time in tv shows, Bruce imagined himself walking away from a mirror. Which seems to be the right trigger for him to be his old self again. (Well, that was after he imagined breaking the mirror beforehand which failed) Bruce looked to Alfred to be praised for his genius.

“Oh thank the heavens,” Alfred sighed in relief. And the door slammed open, a frazzled-looking Nelly burst into the room. The maid looked around to see if any intruders had come in but found Bruce and Alfred staring back at her. 

“Oh, I could’ve sworn… did you hear that?” The brunette questioned, finding no broken window or shattered glass anywhere. 

“It may have been Miss Sarah again. Let’s hope it’s not a window that’s broken this time.” Alfred lied. Nelly swore and then turned red when she realized her mistake. 

“I- my apologies, Master Bruce. You didn’t hear me say that. That’s a bad word.” Bruce blinked at her, knowing full well that she did say a very bad word.

“What does ‘bloody hells, that woman’ mean?" Bruce asked innocently. 

Alfred sighed. “I’ll take care of this, Miss Nelly.” Nelly wisely took that moment to leave to check on ‘Miss Sarah’.

It was unfortunate the clumsy woman had to be dragged under the bus but he can’t quite reveal to his employers that their son had gained a magical pocketwatch that lets him transform into different people (all of which seemed to be equipped with weapons worriedly enough). If  it were any other situation, he would’ve told them directly but… with his hands tied after fatally injuring Bruce, thankfully his powers prevented such a death, Alfred was resigned to help his young ward hide the truth from his parents.

“You’re not going to tell mom and dad about this?” Bruce piped up, this question having ruminated itself into making a bed in his head. 

Another sigh. “No, I will not, Master Bruce,” Bruce started to cheer until he was cut off by a loud, “But,” Bruce groaned. There’s always a but. “You have to give me your… watch. I need to know if it’s truly safe for you or not.”

“But it only works for me.” Bruce pointed out. Keeping the watch close to his heart. 

Alfred raised an eyebrow. “From what we know, yes. But it does not mean it’s reliable information. If you are concerned about it being given back to you, I will return it to you in the morning if you’re anxious.” He held out a hand.

“Fineeee…” Bruce grumbled, handing his magical pocketwatch with powers over. He didn’t want to. But he had to.

But a sudden thought came to him, and he glanced at the nightstand to find it bare of any weapon on top of it. It disappeared. Huh. Strange.

Bruce did not sleep that night. Well, he didn’t sleep normally. For some strange reason that night, he just couldn’t go to sleep, no matter how long he told himself, “Okay Bruce, now this time you’re going to sleep!” while closing his eyes and trying to count sheep. And it wasn’t until that the birds started chirping and the sun started rising, he passed out into lala land. 

By the time he woke up, shaken awake by Nelly who was concerned that he was going to sleep through breakfast AND lunch, Bruce found his watch returned to him on his nightstand in the afternoon. His room went through a deep cleaning while he was asleep, and any bloodstains were removed with his parents none the wiser ignorant about the whole ordeal.

It felt uncomfortable to lie about it when he shuffled into the dining room where his parents were eating lunch. That his day went as normal, oh, he snuck out and ended up with a rolled ankle but it’s a small tumble. A tumble he did take, but also, he had a fake-death. The fake death that was real, it was serious, yet he and Alfred knew how his parents would blow a gasket if they heard about how Alfred threatened Bruce with a 12-gauge shotgun and blew his brains out. Or well, his mother will with a hollywood-esque smile plastered on her face while her eyes screamed that she was plotting murder and his father would be unlocking his gun cabinet that Bruce isn’t sure if it’s real or not.

Speaking of Alfred, he couldn’t find the butler anywhere.

“Where’s Alfred?” Bruce asked one of the maids that was cleaning up the dining table. The woman flinched, taking a few steps back while the mass stack of plates in her hands precariously clattered against one on another. On the verge of falling down. 

“Oh, you scared me. I’m so sorry Master Bruce but I’m currently busy right now-” She stacked another dirty plate onto her current pile.

“Where’s Alfred?” Bruce repeated. 

“I-, I don’t know where Alfred is, he must be busy running errands outside, now if you excuse me-” She hastened, right before she tripped and the whole mass came tumbling down, shattering with a loud noise that reminded him of his watch. 

Nelly came running, “Sarah! How many times have I told you-” Bruce decided lingering would be bad and he didn’t want to explain that maybe it was his fault that Sarah tripped. 

In the privacy of his personal bathroom, Bruce stared at himself in the mirror. He was standing on a stool that his parents bought when he complained and wanted to brush his teeth by himself and not having it brushed by either Nelly or Alfred in the morning because it was embarrassing when everyone else in school could but he didn’t. (And not because the others kept teasing him that he was a baby.) 

Black hair, blue eyes, still looks like a kid. He is a kid. A six year old. Not four or five years that people like to guess. He’s older than just four or five, if you ask him. He’s six! 

But… not for long. Holding up the watch, into the mindscape where time slows to a standstill, he pulled onto the singular golden chain, and- 

That same glass shatter, and -

Bruce felt a heavy presence weigh down on him, rules, priorities, hierarchy attacked him. So much strange information overwhelmed him, before it was pulled back as a soft voice spoke.

“I’m so sorry for my incompetence, Master Bruce Wayne.” The Thumb East Soldato II Sinclair apologized. And then for some reason, unable to lift his own eyes to face the mirror, Bruce could feel his hands turn and lift the handle of what he knew instinctively to be a gun, pointing the sharp head of the musket to his face. His heart dropped. Not again. “For my ignorance as a Soldato Secondo for disrespecting you, a superior on the equivalent of a sottocapo, I must pay for my inadequacies-"

Bruce wrested control and forced himself to drop the musket before he could pull the trigger. Shutting Sinclair permanently into the corner, Bruce promised to himself in the mirror, eyes wide and green, that he will always take and have control. Never again. Heart pounded through his ears, Bruce realized he was a trigger finger’s distance away from death. And he didn’t want to die again.

This power is dangerous. These people, these identities are dangerous.

“It’s dangerous…” Bruce muttered to himself in his voice. Staring at his new visage where a pale-faced blond criminal stares back. Even if he looked young, younger than the other Identities he worn, and dressed in fine red and gold threads that are worth a fortune and could deflect bullets, Bruce knew Sinclair had taken many lives with cold blood and would not hesitate to take his own to serve the purposes of this mysterious organization called the Thumb.

There were too many rules, so many rules, with gross and terrible punishments in that organization he was apart of. Many of which involve cutting off your tongue, removing a limb, or taking your own life. And Sinclair, this… Soldato was going to kill himself (and Bruce too) because he ‘disrespected’ him. 

It felt like a relief when Bruce removed the identity off himself. Like he had taken a shower after wading through a pool of mud. Maybe later, he’ll test out his new powers. Maybe later, he told himself when his hands won’t stop shaking. 

Acting like an adult was awesome!

Especially when you look like an adult with nobody knowing that you’re really a six year old. Having powers is awesome, Bruce determined to himself. He had done the impossible and snuck out of his house, grabbing some of his allowance money to wander around Gotham City without the supervision of either his parents and his butlers. 

He was truly alone. And this was the help of utilizing his pocketwatch, wearing this identity called… LCB Sinner Yi Sang? He didn’t know, the moment he equipped and cycled through the rest of the identities at his disposal, he immediately shut the person into the corner of his mind, putting them in a little cage, tossed the key away, and ran, not wanting to listen to their complaints.

Maybe any one of the identities were nice people and not crazy people like the others he equipped before. But Bruce didn’t want to take his chances. 

So he picked this Yi Sang guy because he looked kinda similar to Bruce if he was an adult and not scary. Maybe really sick like he could die after a sneeze, but Yi Sang looked adult enough. There was this other guy named Meursault that was kinda similar but he kinda felt creepy and scary with his tall and bulky stature, even if he put him in the timeout corner like the others. And not knowing anything about his personality, Bruce knew that Meursault was a creepy person. There was something about his dead-looking eyes that made the hair on the back of his neck stand up even if Bruce was controlling his body and owned said dead eyes.

“So what type of Asian are you?” Bruce was hit by this question from the cashier. Bruce stared dumbfoundedly. Huh. He didn’t know really, what kind of nationality was Yi Sang from? Hmmm, judging from his name, he must be-

“Chinese.” Bruce replied confidently. He could hear the sound of a hand meeting its forehead slap in his head.

“Neat. ID please?” The cashier asked. 

Bruce stared back again. Oh. Right. He needs an ID to purchase alcohol. Dang. He pulled out a handful of cash. “Would you take a $100?” He bribed. 

The cashier stared back at him. And then nudged his head behind him. 

Bruce turned around to see a cop waiting in line behind him, of whom had an unimpressed look on his face.  

He coughed and shoved the money back into his pocket. “Sorry for wasting your time…” He mumbled sullenly and left the store.

Well there goes the plan: buying alcohol and drinking it because that’s what all adults do, failed. Now what can Bruce do and buy. He needs an ID and Bruce knows that there was no ID for Yi Sang in his pockets. Or one that the cashier would accept because all of the identities came from a setting where countries don’t exist. Or maybe they did, but don’t exist any more. 

Set out to try to buy a car from a car store because surely $500 is enough to buy a car, Bruce was about to ask for directions from a random stranger (He hoped they were nice. Last time he tried to ask a group of teenagers, they laughed at him and called him a ‘chink’ which Bruce didn’t know the meaning of. Asking them what’s a ‘chink’ got them to laugh harder and point towards the gas station where he can buy alcohol.) when he was alerted by a sharp scream from an alleyway. 

Running into the crime scene, Bruce saw a teenager boy being robbed at gunpoint by a mugger wearing a black mask. 

“Stop right there, criminal scum!” Bruce echoed his iconic line from his favorite tv show, unsheathing out Yi Sang’s dagger weapon. It looked kinda pretty, it was oddly dull and had constellations, not words, engraved into it. If they were words, even chinese-looking words, Bruce innately knew he could translate and read them in English. 

“The fuck you say?” Bruce frowned. 

“Those are bad words, you can’t say bad words like that. Alfred would scold you.” The robber scoffed and pointed the gun at him. ("Insanity is not a good look for you and your master. You have 5 seconds.")

The sight made him stiffen, Alfred was standing in front of him, a shotgun pointed straight at him. Bruce felt the tears gather at the side of his eyes while he mouthed out apologies. Preparing for the bullet to hit him, Bruce shut his eyes as he pleaded to Alfred to not shoot. Until the sound of barking laughter forced him to open it. Instead of Alfred, his butler ready to end his life for the 2nd time, it was the robber, the victim in his grip, and the alleyway surrounding him. Focus.  

“Stop fucking playing hero, I’m going to pretend I didn’t see you since I’m feeling nice today. You’re new to town and retarded, we get it. Now I better see your squinty-eyed fuck run outta here-” Glass shattering, Bruce rushed at him with a musket, wearing the skin of The Thumb East Soldato II Sinclair.

Bang!

Bruce hesitated which was his folly, the bullet… hit him but bounced off his bulletproof clothing? Huh… neat. 

“What the fuck?” Were the last words the bad guy spoke when Bruce ran up to him impossibly quick, bearing his musket like it was a club and smacked him hard enough with the side that he dropped like a bag of rocks. 

Bruce 1, Bad Guys 0. 

Bruce posed triumphantly. “Don’t rob people, because that’s bad.” He stated as a new hero in Gotham, ignoring the way how his body felt clammy and shivered. Because that’s what heroes do, they look brave and Bruce has to act brave because Bruce is a hero.

Bruce turned to his audience, “Are you okay?”

The teenager who was going to be robbed but wasn’t, stared back at him flabbergasted. Now thinking about it, he kinda looked familiar. Hmmmm… 

“You… weren’t you the Asian guy I called…” The guy hesitated then shook his head, walking over to pilfer back his wallet from the unconscious robber’s hands. “Uh… thanks, dude. Jesus, the hell are you?”

That was a question Bruce could answer. “I’m a superhero.” 

The other guy stopped, giving him a slightly disgusted look. “A hero… don’t superheroes wear masks and hide their identity? I know what your real identity looks like, you know?”

“Nu-uh, you don’t. Because that’s not my real identity.” Bruce continues to watch this victim then… dig more into the other guy’s pockets. Is he robbing the robber? “You shouldn’t do that. That’s bad.”

The teenager scoffed. “I think I’m owed for it. I was going to get robbed. This is karma, and why are you saying that? That’s weird. Are you retarded like that guy said?” Bruce frowned. That definitely sounds like a really bad word. 

“No. I don’t know what that means but that sounds like a cuss word.” The teen sighed. 

“Fine, whatever. I won’t rob him.” Yet that somehow felt like a lie. “Speaking of, what’s your superhero name?”

Oh! Superhero name! Bruce never thought about anything like that. Or being a hero in general. Well Bruce wanted to be a hero, every kid his age wants to be a superhero or be a metahuman with cool powers and save the world like Green Lantern before he retired. Or from the comics and tv shows that popped up every Sunday morning, right before the serial reruns of Gray Ghost. 

Bruce knew there were different types of heroes, not just strictly superheroes like from the Justice Society of America but regular people can be heroes too. His dad is a hero that he was proud of, a doctor who saves people’s lives on a hospital bed. Bruce didn’t know if he could grow up to follow his dad’s footsteps in becoming a doctor, but what he did know was that he really wanted to become a hero, fight injustice, and help Gotham become a better place. Because it is struggling and needs healing, that’s what his parents told him, that all of their efforts are to make Gotham a better, safer place. And what else could Bruce do but join in the fight? And now with superpowers, how could Bruce not become a superhero immediately?

So what would be a good superhero name? He can’t say his own name nor could he say the identities’ name… wait…

“Identity.” He declared. 

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

“Who?”

“Identity.”

“Yea, that’s what I’m asking. What’s your name?”

“Identity. Isn’t that what you’re asking?”

“No, I… dude I’m actually gonna ditch robbing this guy.”

“I thought I told you that robbing is bad.”

“You know what, I’m not gonna end the day being beaten up by a crazy superhero wannabe. Thanks for saving my life. Fuck you though. You’re a bit bat shit.”