November 16, 1971. The recently rebuilt Gotham City elevated railway.
Gotham was experiencing its second Golden Age—though scarcely thirty years had passed since the first.
Staring out the window of the elevated train car, an eight-year-old boy couldn't tear his eyes away from the skyscrapers the car was rushing past. Nowadays, such buildings wouldn't surprise anyone (and even back then they weren't exactly new), but in the eyes of an eight-year-old child, these towers seemed like something beyond human possibility. The child reluctantly pulls his gaze from the window, slumping back against his seat, taking another look around the train car, then turns to his father sitting beside him.
Bruce Wayne: "You built this train, right, Dad?"
Thomas Wayne, smiling slightly at his son in reply: "Hmm, no, Bruce. It was built by the people running Wayne Enterprises."
Bruce Wayne, slightly confused: "But don't you work in that tower?"
Thomas Wayne: "No, Bruce. You know I work at the hospital. Company is ran by the other people."
Bruce Wayne: "Why, Dad? Why don't you want to run your own company? It's yours, it has your name! Wouldn't that be awesome?"
Thomas Wayne: "Hmm. Well, first, Bruce, the company doesn't have my name, it has my great-grandfather's name. He founded it, and it belongs to all of us. Second… *slight pause* I'm just not interested."
Bruce Wayne: "But, Dad…! Think what you could do if you ran it…!"
Thomas Wayne, allowing himself a slight smile at Bruce: "Bruce, the company's purpose is to help people, first and clean. And what do you think I do? I help people too, working at the hospital. Sure, maybe it's not as prestigious or 'cool,' but does that change the thing?"
Bruce Wayne, absorbing his father's words: "I guess not, Dad," he says, before his spirits rise again. "Still. Running a company like that would be cool."
Thomas Wayne: "I help as much as I understand I'm capable of. I can't run a company like that, Bruce, it's just not me. Remember, don't try to help people on a scale you can't handle. You won't help them, and you'll only make things worse for yourself."
Martha Wayne: "Thomaaas… don't overburden the boy."
Bruce Wayne, falling silent again for a few seconds: "You know, Dad. When I grow up, I'm going to do the same thing you do."
Thomas Wayne: "What do you mean, become a doctor?"
Bruce Wayne: "No. I'm going to help people. Just like you, Dad. And yes, I'm going to run your company."
Thomas Wayne, smiling again, kisses his son on the forehead: "Look at this little future savior we're raising here."
Evening of the same day. The Wayne family arrives at the Gotham Theater. The rich have their quirks. One of them is attending operas, plays, and ballets. The Wayne family was, of course, no exception. Bruce quietly watched the performance before him, which was surprising, as children his age are rarely interested in such drawn-out events—they want more of a show. But Bruce wasn't particularly bothered. It seemed he was watching the play just to occupy himself, because in truth, he was simply glad to have the chance to spend time with his parents, especially his father, who was often held up at work.
Bruce continues watching the performance until two large figures appear on stage—simple painted wooden shapes, resembling bats in form and color. You couldn't scare an adult with that, but for an eight-year-old child, it was a different story. Bruce grew uneasy, watching the stage. He wanted to cover his eyes with his hands, but stopped himself because of Thomas sitting next to him—Bruce didn't want to look scared, or rather, weak, in front of his father. Instead, Bruce just looked at Thomas, gently tugging at the sleeve of his jacket.
Bruce Wayne: "Dad… dad…? Can we go… please…?"
Thomas didn't ask Bruce anything more before saying 'Of course, of course' in a calm, soothing tone, then looks at his wife, and stands up, leading his family through the crowded rows of the opera house, saying 'excuse me' and 'pardon me' to everyone present.
The Wayne family exits onto the street through the rear alley. The front doors are usually locked during the performance. It was already night outside; they'd been inside for about two hours, and in the dark, unlit alley, the night seemed darker than usual.
Martha Wayne: "So… what was that about?"
Bruce is about to answer, but Thomas speaks before Bruce can open his mouth.
Thomas Wayne: "I needed some fresh air. You know, honey, all those rich folks wear such heavy perfume, makes you wanna puke. … Your perfume doesn't count, dear. … Alright, need to find a payphone and call Alfred to pick us up."
The Wayne family starts making their way out of the alley, spotting a man passing by in the distance. In the poor light, he might have seemed like just another homeless man, but the way he was moving toward them was unnerving. Thomas tried not to pay attention to the man, wanting to just walk past, but everything changes in an instant when the man gets a little closer and raises the gun he'd been holding all along—a small revolver—pointing it directly at Thomas's chest. Bruce immediately hides behind Martha, who had stepped back.
The Mugger, with clear intentions, tries to sound threatening, but there's something else in his voice: "Wallet! Gimme your wallet, you son of a bitch!"
Thomas simply raises his hands: "Easy, easy. Calm down," he says, trying to smooth things over, then reaches into the inner pocket of his jacket, pulls out his wallet, and tosses it on the ground in front of the mugger. "There it is, take it."
The mugger crouches for the wallet, keeping his eyes and the gun's barrel on Thomas. After picking it up, he shoves it in his pocket. Then, his attention is caught by something else—the diamond necklace around Martha's neck, a gift from Thomas for her last birthday.
The Mugger, still trying to sound threatening, but his tone more uncertain now: "Hey! The necklace too, gimme it!"
Martha Wayne, frightened and alarmed: "Thomas!"
Thomas Wayne, stepping in for his wife: "Hey, listen, we talked about just the wallet…"
At that moment, Thomas makes a mistake. He reaches a hand toward his collar to adjust it. But in the eyes of that mugger, especially under such pressure and in the poor light, it could look like anything—for example, Thomas reaching for a gun in his jacket pocket. The next second, only one thing happens—a bang. Loud. Loud enough to set off car alarms nearby, if they'd existed back then. The next second—Thomas falls to the ground. Martha lets out a piercing scream—"Thomas!"—coming from the deepest parts of her soul and heart. The mugger's face wore an expression as if he were about to scream like Martha himself. He clearly didn't realize what he'd just done. It was obvious he wasn't some hardened criminal, just a guy with a gun and a desperate need for money. Four seconds later—another bang. Just as loud. If any birds had been flying by, they'd have scattered instantly. This time, the shot hit Martha. Another second later, her body was already on the ground, touching her husband's body. The mugger, still reeling from shooting Thomas, seemed more deliberate with the shot at Martha. Another second later, the mugger bends down to rip the necklace from Martha's neck, which takes him another four seconds. A second after the necklace is in his hand, the mugger turns and runs off, not even looking back at what he'd done. For all those twelve seconds, Bruce was still trying to process what was happening right in front of him, before his legs give out and he falls to his knees, unable to support his weight under the weight of the scene before him. Thomas, in the last moments of his life, turns toward Bruce, who is sitting before him.
Thomas Wayne, with the last of his vocal strength: "B-Bruce… don't… don't be afraid…"
Thomas tries to turn toward Martha, but his head stops moving halfway toward her body. At the same moment, Thomas's breathing stops.
The sound of police sirens could be heard growing closer. Bruce simply continued sitting there before the corpses of his parents. The lack of light in the alley hid his face from any outside view.
January 29, 1989. Around 8 AM, the start of the workday for most decent people.
Gotham's elevated railway continued its morning routine of ferrying people to their jobs, a duty it had performed for nearly 20 years. Another principle of the railway, maintained throughout all this time, was its complete avoidance of Gotham's southern districts, where the local fauna still relied on the underground public transport—fitting for their status.
On the road passing directly beneath the railway tracks, right in the city center, Bruce Wayne was crossing the distance in his Ferrari. An inexperienced driver would have struggled to handle such a beast on winter roads slick with ice, but for Bruce, it was no problem.
Views of downtown Gotham's skyscrapers shot past him like bullets. Those very buildings Bruce once considered the pinnacle of human achievement now seemed almost like doghouses compared to modern high-rises. Dawn hadn't broken yet, and in the gray-blue morning sky, the acid-neon signs of the multistory buildings could be seen from miles away, but with sunrise, their light would only reflect more weakly against the fading stars.
Only one thing, besides the railway, remained completely true to itself. Or rather, to its status as the tallest building in all of Gotham for 66 years—Wayne Tower. Solomon Wayne began designing the tower as early as 1888, but it was completed by his son, Alan, Bruce's great-great-grandfather, years later. Since its completion in 1923, it had been the highest point not only for the Wayne family, but for all of Gotham.
Bruce arrives at his destination. He pulls into the parking lot adjacent to the tower. The cars in the lot were far from cheap, but compared to the Ferrari Bruce was driving, they weren't fit to lick its boots. Bruce calmly walks into the building. On the first floor, he's met by the receptionist. Bruce only needed to say his name to be waved through to the main part of the building—after all, he was the heir, and formally, already the owner of the entire Wayne Enterprises empire. Bruce's next move is to walk to the elevator, and as soon as he enters, he presses the button for the basement level, the storage area—strange for a man of his status.
Once in the storage area, Bruce first just slowly walks around, surveying the large warehouse space.
Lucius Fox, peeking slightly from behind a monitor: "Hm. I've been expecting you, Mr. Wayne."
Bruce Wayne, still surveying the room: "And how did you know I was coming?"
Lucius Fox: "Saw you on the cameras. Then heard you on the elevator. Next time, if you want to surprise me, enter through the ventilation shaft. It's over there *points a finger*, entrance from the roof, ladder on the north side."
Bruce Wayne, not commenting on Lucius's words, continues inspecting the warehouse: "So this is what your job is about. I remember they were calling you practically the brightest mind in all of Wayne Enterprises. And now you work down here in the basement, watching over some junk over here."
Lucius Fox, not taking Bruce's words as an insult: "Hm. No need to mock me, Mr. Wayne. Life did your work long before you ever could. So what's your business?"
Bruce Wayne: "Hm. At least your intellect hasn't fallen like your status," he says, handing Lucius his notebook with sketches of a bat-like costume concept.
Lucius Fox, picking up the notebook and examining the sketches: "Hm. Decided to get a job at the zoo where they're short on bats? Or heading to a children's party sponsored by Wayne Enterprises. I think the second option is closer, am I right?"
Bruce Wayne, unimpressed by Lucius's joke: "Missed twice. It's for business."
Lucius Fox: "Oh, of course. Business that I obviously have nothing to do with. You're still closer to the company's current owners than to your father."
Bruce Wayne, again not reacting to Lucius's comment: "You understand what I need of you?"
Lucius Fox: "Hm. We'll find something. Well, we sure will find something down here."
For the next thirty minutes, Lucius combs through the storage for materials to fulfill Bruce's order. Bruce himself continues quietly examining the contents of the room, looking for anything that might be useful. Lucius eventually finds what he thinks will suit Bruce.
Lucius Fox, presenting the find to Bruce: "Here, Mister Wayne, take a look. Kevlar. Triple-weave. Just as ordered."
Bruce Wayne: "How's the durability?"
Lucius Fox: "Well, it'll definitely hold it up against a dog bite."
Bruce Wayne: "What about a cat's?"
Lucius Fox: "Well, that depends on how feisty she is. Why, planning to get one?"
Bruce Wayne: "No. Got clawed by one yesterday, you know. Right in the rib, here."
Lucius Fox: "Hm. Adapting quickly after your return. Already attracting attention from the opposite sex, I see."
Bruce Wayne, unimpressed by Lucius's joke: "It'll do. How long do you need to whip up a suit from this? A couple of hours will do?"
Lucius Fox: "In a couple of hours, I could do it if I were working in my garage with my dad's tools. Here, we'll manage in about twenty minutes. You know, though I don't like the company's current upper management, at least under them the place is progressing."
Bruce Wayne: "What, was it stagnating under my father?"
Lucius Fox: "Well, just a little bit. He didn't like taking risks or getting into conflicts. As one wise man said: 'Not all conflicts lead to a change, but all change built upon a conflict.' Understand, Mr. Wayne?"
Bruce Wayne, again unimpressed by Lucius's phrase, as almost mocking him: "Yeah, yeah. Father was a weak-willed manager and was afraid extra risks and conflicts would destroy his empire. *slight pause* Listen, be a dear, Lucius, don't just stand there. Get to work."
Lucius Fox: "Hm. If I were a load-bearing beam in this basement, I wouldn't be able to support the weight of this building above me," with these words, Lucius gets down to business. He starts by approaching Bruce with a measuring tape in hand. "Mr. Wayne. Need to take your measurements."
Bruce Wayne, standing up and letting Lucius measure him: "You must have worked as a designer at some point."
Lucius Fox: "Hm. Yes. Measured so many meters of sheet metal, you could dress up as the Tin Woodman by now."
Lucius finishes taking Bruce's measurements. His substantial build, including a height of 6'2", a biceps circumference of 17 inches, and a chest width of 43 inches, already made Lucius think about the cost of making a suit for him. For the next fifteen minutes, Lucius worked full tilt on Bruce's order while Bruce wandered around the warehouse waiting.
Bruce Wayne: "Listen, aren't you afraid the suits upstairs will ask you about the missing materials?"
Lucius Fox: "I'm responsible for all the junk in this warehouse, Mr. Wayne. Management apparently never even reads my reports. They probably get lost on the way. It's a long way from the bottom to the top, three hundred meters after all."
Bruce Wayne: "I see. Every man is the president of his own house."
Lucius Fox: "Hm. Tell that to my wife."
Bruce Wayne, again unimpressed by Lucius's comment: "Will need to think about boots and gloves too."
Lucius Fox: "So, the idea is to make the Kevlar suit fully form-fitting and skin-tight, from heels to neck. As for boots," he says, pulling out a pre-prepared pair of boots. "Spiked mountain climbing boots. We'll trim the spikes, make them blunter. They won't lose traction but will be safer for anyone whose stomach or face gets acquainted with them. For gloves, I can offer," he produces pre-prepared gloves. "the same triple-weave Kevlar. We'll add a bit of lead over the knuckles, and they'll explain why your boots shouldn't be asked out on a date."
Bruce Wayne: "That'll do. And what about..."
Lucius Fox: "Yes, the mask. Listen, these little horns, are they for camouflage among a herd of bulls?", he says, receiving only silence from Bruce in response. "We'll make them from the same materials. The mask will overlap onto the main part of the suit so it doesn't fly off during your acrobatics. We'll add white lenses over the eyeholes so you won't be recognized by them. In case your enemies turn out to be your friends and recognize you?"
Bruce doesn't answer Lucius's comment. He simply takes measurements of Bruce's head for the mask, and after another ten minutes, finishes designing the suit. Handing it to Bruce, he prepares to leave the Wayne Enterprises storage area.
Lucius Fox: "Well, maybe you want to try it on now? See how it fits, where it chafes, if at all?"
Bruce Wayne: "No. I'll try it on tonight."
Lucius Fox: "Ah, I see. A night date with another beauty under the moonlight. Well, good luck to you, Mr. Wayne. Send her my regards."
Bruce Wayne: "I will. I appreciate it, Lucius," he says, leaving the room.
January 29, 1989. Around 10-11 AM.
East Gotham, about a mile or two from the Gotham City Police Department building, in some back alley by the dumpsters.
A ringing in his ears. Everything was double in his barely-opening eyes. His head was throbbing and spinning. After spending the last nearly 12 hours unconscious, Gordon finally woke from his excessively long blackout. Staggering to his feet, leaning on the nearby dumpsters, Gordon tried to keep his balance. His clothes were crumpled and filthy, his hair was disheveled as if he'd been electrocuted, the right lens of his glasses was shattered. Trying to collect his thoughts and at least understand what was happening, Gordon began to slowly walk from the alley into the open pedestrian area, his legs feeling like frozen jelly, his whole body shaking.
Emerging into a public space, Gordon looked at his watch—though its crystal was cracked, it showed the correct time—10:37 AM. Gordon realized he might have already missed his wife giving birth. His first action was to find the nearest payphone. He called Gotham General Hospital, relieved to hear the delivery went well, but learned he couldn't speak with his wife as she couldn't leave her room in her condition. Next, Gordon looked for a nearby bus stop, found one, examined the Gotham bus routes (still not knowing the city well enough), and, waiting for the right bus and taking a seat, Gordon felt a twinge of fear. It seemed strange, why now, when he'd faced three "muggers" just hours ago without any fear.
James Gordon: "God… what am I going to tell Barbara… got held up at work? She'll notice my clothes. I'll say it happened during an assignment. She'll definitely start worrying. I've already caused her enough trouble with the move, she doesn't need more."
Trying to distract himself from his thoughts, Gordon glanced at his fellow passengers. From his seat right in the middle of the bus, he could make out almost everyone in detail. The bus's clientele was quite predictable for Gordon—junkies, drunks, mothers with infants. Gordon was lucky the bus was moving from east to west in the city, so more civilized people were getting on.
Reaching his stop right by the hospital, Gordon made his way to the reception desk. He didn't have his ID on him, it was in the car, so he showed his police badge. After a call to the police to verify Gordon's identity, they let him through to the maternity ward. Making the not-long, but not-short walk through the corridors accompanied by an orderly, Gordon finally got a chance to see his child. It was a boy. He and Barbara hadn't thought much about a name yet, so Gordon didn't know what to call him for now.
James Gordon, to himself, looking at his son through the glass: "You're already so big. Listen, sorry I was late for your birthday. You know, kids don't always see their parents at the moment of birth either. You haven't done anything yet, and I'm already proud of you. Maybe because you managed to arrive in a world like this at all. I'm sure Barbara is happy for you too."
Gordon decided to go visit his wife in her room, still not having thought of an excuse for being late, but he was saved by a nurse who stopped him at the entrance to the room, and Gordon saw through the door's window that Barbara was asleep after the delivery. It had only happened recently, just 4-5 hours ago, and she hadn't slept at all before that.
For Gordon, this was only a small relief; he still needed to somehow justify missing the birth, and on top of that, he had another matter of urgent importance. Not wanting to delay it, Gordon, asking a staff member for a notepad and pen, decided to just write his wife a note.
"Darling, it's me, Jim. Sorry I missed our boy's first birthday. Don't know what to say for you to forgive me. Got held up on patrol, then there was a very long briefing, and all that paperwork nonsense, constantly signing twenty forms at a time. Anyway, as soon as our little guy wakes up, tell him his dad is very proud of him. I'm proud of you too. Okay, love you. I'm already late for my shift as it is."
The next thirty minutes Gordon spent on the same bus, heading back the other way. Before that, he'd managed to run into an optician's shop and buy new glasses, then wiped down his coat with wet wipes—the fact that those who beat him yesterday hadn't tried to rob him, since they didn't take his money. On the bus, he still couldn't get past his own letter.
James Gordon: "Why am I doing this. I don't want to make things worse for her, right? I've already done the unforgivable by bringing us to Gotham. If she found out I was beaten by my own colleagues, on purpose… I can't imagine what it would do to her. She'd definitely start worrying, asking me to quit the job… I've been following the oath I swore in Chicago for 15 years now. … Yeah, I swore it in the Chicago PD, not the GCPD. Here, I don't owe anyone anything."
Gordon arrives at the precinct. The time was almost two in the afternoon. He tried to act as if he didn't know about Flass's guilt in his beating yesterday. A couple of minutes later, Gordon got into the patrol car—his partner that day was, of course, Flass again. He, too, tried to act innocent regarding Gordon's condition. He just said, "What, you get run over by a steamroller?" after which they headed out to patrol the district. After about fifteen minutes, Flass, in his usual manner, pulls over for a snack, stopping by a food cart.
Arnold Flass: "What, gonna sit on your ass like usual? You need to eat something. At least take a walk."
James Gordon: "Yeah. Yeah, why not. I could use some fresh air."
Arnold Flass: "Hm. Now that's what I call progress. You need the fresh stuff like never before, you're stinking up the whole car."
After a while, Flass, holding the flatbread with meat and vegetables he'd ordered, and he and Gordon trudge back to the car. On the way, Gordon turns toward the nearest alley.
James Gordon: "You don't smell that? The smell's coming from there."
Arnold Flass: "Ha, didn't know a dumpster could smell bad."
James Gordon: "No, not the dumpster. Something else. Don't you want to check it out?"
Arnold Flass, reluctantly putting his food on the hood of the car: "Ugh, fine, let's go."
Gordon and Flass enter the alley; there's absolutely nothing supernatural there.
Arnold Flass, irritated: "See, just wasted our time. Listen, my food's not gonna stay hot forev—" His words are cut off by one, precise punch from Gordon right to the jaw. Flass falls to the ground, the back of his head hitting a dumpster.
Gordon follows up with another blow, and then another, and another. Flass was already halfway to unconsciousness at that point. Maybe Flass was physically bigger, but Gordon's Green Beret training hadn't gone anywhere. Gordon didn't seem to be trying very hard to hold back, stopping only when the first drop of blood from Flass's mouth appeared on his knuckle, which he wiped off unceremoniously on Flass's coat. Gordon didn't care about the consequences anymore; he wasn't scared of a future report to Commissioner Loeb, or even possible criminal charges. Gordon had sworn an oath to serve the law, but he'd sworn it to another place—an incomparably better place.
January 29, 1989. 11 PM, though the sky would suggest the dead of night.
In South Gotham, three local junkies are performing their nightly routine, robbing an apartment on the third floor of a multi-story building. Struggling to haul the stolen goods—including a toaster, a TV, and a ripped-out sink—down to the lower floor, all that comes from their mouths is cursing, "hurry up," "what are you, a rag?", and other examples of local vernacular. Reaching the landing between the second and third floors, already descending to the second, the two in front hear a shout from their partner behind, followed by the sound of something fragile breaking, and then the sound of a fall, but it was already coming from outside the building.
One of the remaining two, who was carrying the toaster, decides to check what those sounds from behind were. Walking forward a bit, he sees the sink lying on the floor, then notices the broken window. He decides to approach the window and look out, but just as he looks down and sees his partner lying on the dumpsters below, he hears a voice from behind him, which was impossible, because behind him was only the underside of the stairs: "You don't want to share his fate."
The burglar turns and sees two white points, shaped like eyes. The body was hard to make out, but it seemed to be hanging right on the vertical surface, and the light from a streetlamp outside reflected off the grime of the broken window, casting a shadow of a figure resembling bat wings. Just as the man's slow brain starts working, he doesn't even have time to scream before the figure leaps from the stairwell and in mid-air delivers a clean kick to his jaw, sending him flying a good distance, his back hitting the wall, and the toaster he was holding smacks him right in the face.
The third burglar, who had the TV, after a couple of seconds in shock, decides to use his television, and swings it at the black figure that had landed on the floor, hitting it right in the back, sending it flying out the window and landing on the same dumpsters. The burglar himself, because his scrawny arms were already barely carrying the TV, and now he'd somehow lifted it higher and mustered his last bit of strength for the swing, gets thrown back by the recoil and, stumbling, falls down the stairs to the second floor—the whole time the TV was falling after him, hitting him with its weight.
Outside, the bat-like figure gets up from the dumpsters, holding its back. Hearing police sirens, it slowly makes its way out of the alley. Knowing the police cars are coming from the east, it heads west through alleys and backyards.
A couple of hours later, around 3-4 AM, Gotham Police Department precinct.** The three burglars had already been picked up by the cops, and the last couple of hours had been an impeccable interrogation of the three junkies. Captain Howard Branden was overseeing it.
Captain Branden, to an officer approaching him: "Well, what?"
Officer: "Same story. Giant bat. We took their blood. Traces of heroin, taken about 8-9 hours ago. Experts say they're possibly side-effect hallucinations."
Captain Branden, annoyed: "No shit, I'd never have guessed they were high. For them, taking a hit is like Prayer for Arabs. Just wasted a syringe. None of them changed their sight? I would never believe three junkies got beat up by a giant bat. You sure there wasn't, like, a fourth guy who jumped them?"
Officer: "No, sir. Sightings all the same. One just couldn't decide if he had a sink or a toaster. Nothing serious."
In the same building, Gordon was sitting nearby, observing the interrogation of the poor bastards. He still didn't care about the consequences of his actions earlier that day. He was even surprised Commissioner Loeb hadn't called him in for a talk. But right now, his thoughts were occupied by what was happening before his eyes.
James Gordon: "A bat… what the stuff with this city's happening? What next? A psycho with clown makeup on his face?... Do I believe in the bat-thing? … I don't know. I only know that in this place, a giant bat isn't the strangest thing yet. … It came for criminals in the act of a robbery, right? That means it'll come for any of us here. The whole police force is one big ball of corruption. … I'm no exception, am I?"
Meanwhile, on the upper floor of the precinct, in Commissioner Loeb's office, there's a knock on the door, and Flass enters, creaking with pain, holding an ice pack to the back of his head.
Commissioner Loeb, noticing but not overly concerned with Flass's condition: "Ooh. Got yourself roughed up good. What, a steamroller get you?"
Arnold Flass: "Ugh, no… Gordon."
Commissioner Loeb, being openly mock: "Gordon was driving the steamroller?" Followed by a slight pause. "Remember I told you you'd be cleaning up any mess you started yourself?"
Arnold Flass: "Yeah, yeah… I remember." He says, momentarily removing the ice from his head, but immediately reapplying it after a second of pained groaning.
Commissioner Loeb: "Keep it, keep it on, don't you dare move it. And I knew your idea would fail. Gordon may be a righteous moralist, but he's not spineless."
Arnold Flass: "A-and remember I told you he'd be a pain in the ass. N-nothing's changed there. Now he'll be more like a… a whole branch up our asses, since he's not scared of us."
Commissioner Loeb, with involuntary approval of Flass's words: "Mmm, yes. Yes, maybe you're right. Fear isn't an obstacle for him. Alright… as they say, if you want something done right, do it yourself."
Arnold Flass: "Y-you got ideas?"
Commissioner Loeb: "I do. The first is that you'll keep your pig ass as far away from my affairs as possible," his tone becomes slightly threatening as he leans toward Flass. "Keep in mind, Arnold. We don't have enough ice for your whole sow."
He says this, then leaves the office. Flass tries once more to remove the ice from his head, but after a second, puts it right back on.
January 30, 1989. Around 9 AM, approaching the height of the noon.
Just like yesterday, Bruce once again covers the 15 miles from his home to Wayne Tower. Again flying past the elevated railway rushing through the central streets of Gotham, again pulling into the parking lot next to the city's main building, and again passing the receptionist who had no questions about the presence of the de facto owner of Wayne Enterprises in the building, Bruce once again enters the elevator and descends to the basement level—the only difference is, Bruce, though trying not to show it, was subtly supporting his back with his hands after the previous night.
Lucius Fox, seeing Bruce enter: "Still didn't take my advice to come through the vent, I see?" he says before noticing Bruce's posture. "Hm, looks like you had quite a night. Care to share a few tips?" Hearing only a couple of inward 'hmphs' from Bruce, Lucius gets up from his desk and approaches him. "Alright then, from words to action. How's the suit?"
Bruce Wayne: "Not bad. I'm keeping it."
Lucius Fox: "Never doubted it. I take it your nighttime companion liked it too, huh?"
Bruce Wayne, unimpressed by Lucius's comment: "Needs more mobility."
Lucius Fox: "Hm, lacked agility during your adventures?"
Bruce Wayne, slightly irritated now: "Not inside the suit. On the outside."
Lucius Fox: "Hm, naturally. Various situations can arise, right?"
Bruce Wayne: "Listen, if you have ideas, I'm listening."
Lucius Fox: "No problem, we sure will find something."
After about ten minutes of rummaging through the warehouse, Lucius presents Bruce with a piece of black fabric.
Lucius Fox: "Nylon. They make paragliders from it. Perfect if you suddenly change your mind about your nighttime friend."
Bruce Wayne, still unimpressed by Lucius's remarks: "That's not enough. I need a way to go up quickly too, not just down."
Lucius Fox: "Then… allow me to present you with this." Lucius retrieves something resembling a grappling hook, but smaller, housed inside a launcher.
Bruce Wayne, taking the hook in hand: "A hook?"
Lucius Fox: "Slightly modified. Instead of, well, a hook, it has three blades."
Bruce Wayne: "Lucius, I don't need anything sharp or cutting."
Lucius Fox: "Hm, afraid of damaging your companion's nerves? Give it a try."
Bruce aims the launcher at the wall and, pulling the trigger, three blades on a rope shoot out, reach the wall, simply strike it, and fall to the floor.
Lucius Fox: "The rope is made from a Nomex-Kevlar blend. In other words, neither fire nor excessive weight is a problem for it."
Bruce Wayne, even more irritated: "So what? This thing can't even pierce a concrete wall. And you were so proud of it?"
Lucius Fox: "Still proud. You're just using it incorrectly."
Bruce Wayne, reluctantly aims the launcher at the wall again: "And now what."
Lucius Fox: "Press the trigger twice. Quickly."
This time, Bruce gives the trigger a quick double press, just like Lucius said, and when at first it seemed nothing had changed, the moment the blades contact the wall, four smaller blades extend from them, driving deep into the concrete.
Lucius Fox: "There, as requested. Deadly grip. One press to ascend to the hook, two to retract it."
Bruce Wayne, pressing the launcher once, and the hook returns to the launching device: "Couldn't have said that earlier?"
Lucius Fox, lightly teasing Bruce: "Well, I thought you'd figure it out. And I hope you prepered the found to fix all the wall holes?"
Bruce Wayne, trying not to show his irritation: "I'll take both things."
Lucius Fox: "Of course. I'll go package them in a box with a nice bow."
Later, around noon, at his manor, Bruce sits in an armchair in the living room, scribbling something in his notebook. In the same room sits Alfred, reading a newspaper.
Alfred Pennyworth: "Seen the paper yet? The police had appointed Lieutenant James Gordon to head the task force for catching the big bat that's terrifying local criminals?"
Bruce Wayne: "I don't read the papers, you know that."
Alfred Pennyworth: "Hm, probably for the best. All the crosswords come to me. Listen, you wouldn't happen to know what could be 'the highest point of a trip to Sicily,' four letters."
Bruce Wayne, thinking for a moment: "I don't know. Try Etna, maybe? It's a mountain, in Sicily."
Alfred Pennyworth, entering the word in the newspaper: "E-t-n-a… yes, that fits. You're just in time."
Bruce Wayne: "Yeah, any time."
Alfred Pennyworth, after a pause: "Quite. Mr. Fox has been quite generous with gifts lately. Strange. Christmas was, I believe, a month ago."
Bruce Wayne, not looking up from his notebook: "If the gift is good, you don't need an occasion for it."
Alfred Pennyworth: "Perhaps. You might want to think about where to store all these gifts away from prying eyes. The wine cellar isn't your best idea, Master Bruce. They take up a fair amount of extra space."
Bruce Wayne: "What's wrong with it? It's not customary to take guests to the wine cellar, and besides us, no one else goes down there."
Alfred Pennyworth: "Hm, as if we have guests. Still. You know, the suit retains a very distinct aroma. Or is that your secret tactic, defeating opponents with the smell of thirty-year-old wine?"
Bruce Wayne, slightly annoyed: "You and Lucius are definitely from the same factory. But yeah, fine, you're right."
Alfred Pennyworth: "Right about the wine cellar being small? Planning to expand it? Your father wouldn't have approved of that, it was his favorite room after all."
Bruce Wayne, still annoyed. "No, about needing to store my things in a good place." Bruce gets up from the chair and walks to the window, looking at the slightly open windowpane. "Listen, Alfred. What do you know about the caves under the house?"
Alfred Pennyworth: "Well, that they're large?" He says in a tone as if that fully describes their geography.
Bruce Wayne: "it will do"
Alfred Pennyworth: "Isn't a whole cave a bit much for a wine cellar?"
A couple of hours later, closer to evening, Alfred and Bruce stand a few dozen yards from the manor's fence, next to the entrance to the cave. Bruce is wearing a construction helmet with a flashlight on his belt. Alfred stands next to a winch with a cable.
Bruce Wayne: "It's about sixty feet deep here."
Alfred Pennyworth: "Just right for a wine cellar. I'm taking my words back that your father wouldn't approve it expansion."
Bruce Wayne, securing the winch cable to his belt: "Listen. Remember you told me once that the bat nest appeared almost right after I left?"
Alfred Pennyworth: "Well, yes, remember something like that."
Bruce Wayne: "And after that you said bats can mean the death of the man inside him."
Alfred Pennyworth: "Aaaaand that was also said, yes. Though It was more about the death of the soul in a living body."
Bruce Wayne: "That's where I'm going with this. What was that about? You never left the manor, did you?"
Alfred Pennyworth, after a small pause of recognition: "Because I am not part of the soul of this place, Master Bruce."
Bruce Wayne: "Don't lie to yourself. You are the part of this place, Alfred."
Alfred Pennyworth, still resigned: "Part of this place? Maybe I am. But not part of its soul. The soul is you, Master Bruce. And before you, it was your father and mother."
Bruce Wayne, after another pause: "You know, if you were the part of organism of this place, you'd be the heart I think."
Alfred Pennyworth, following another pause, then smiles: "You know, thank you that not kidneys at least, Master Bruce. In my age, you know."
At these words, a strange expression appears on Bruce's face. As if he wanted to smile, but something stopped him. To look at him, it still seemed he really did smile, but only inwardly; outwardly, his mouth was almost motionless.
Bruce Wayne: "Alright. You ready?"
Alfred Pennyworth: "As I could ever be. Mind you don't get lost."
Securing the winch cable firmly to his belt, Bruce begins to slowly descend the sheer walls of the cave into its depths. On the surface, Alfred monitored the winch to ensure everything went smoothly. After about a minute or two of descent to the visible bottom of the cave, Bruce takes the flashlight from his belt, shining it in different directions. When the light hits a flock of bats, they fly off into another tunnel. Bruce turns the flashlight toward that tunnel, and the bats fly into another. Bruce continues to catch the bats with his flashlight until they start flying toward him. When the bats fly through him, Bruce simply closes his eyes with his hand, then watches as the flock circles around him.
Bruce Wayne, looking at the bats: "So. We've known each other for a long time. Almost eighteen years ago, I let my parents die because of you. After which I promised my father I would continue his work to make Gotham a better place than it is now. I already failed my parents once because of you, and I don't want to repeat that. I cannot allow you that. For me to be sure of that, you can help me fulfill the promise I made to my father. This is not a request and not even an order. It's an agreement. … You are creatures that rule the night. And I intend to rule over you. But for that, you must teach me to control the darkness as you do."
The bats seem to start circling Bruce even faster, then scatter into the nothingness of cave's tunnels.