Chapter Text
It was a cold, damp night in Gotham. The city’s streets stood eerily quiet in the wee hours of the morning, as if even the rats and cockroaches were afraid of catching a glimpse of the city’s dark protector. Wayne Manor loomed in the distance; its old and esteemed presence contrasting the modern slums of downtown Gotham.
Beneath the Manor in a decrepit, dingy cave, sat Bruce Wayne, his eyes glossed over as he stared at his computer. He had just returned from patrol, trying to piece together a case that had been puzzling him for months. A man by the name of Basil Karlo had recently gone missing. He was an actor who starred in some older low budget horror films, and lived a relatively quiet life in Gotham until recently, when his name grazed the front page of last month’s issue of The Gotham Gazette boasting a return to the film industry.
However, Karlo had only been seen a couple times since, and it was rumored he was undergoing plastic surgery in an attempt to look younger for his new film. Then, Karlo’s alleged surgeon, Dr. Morrison, was found dead inside Karlo’s apartment, with Karlo nowhere to be found. The police have issued a warrant for his arrest, but curiously could not find Basil Karlo’s fingerprints or DNA anywhere at the scene. They did, however, find traces of silicates–clay–which were unusual in Karlo’s otherwise pristine apartment.
Through the use of the Batcave’s array of scientific tech, Bruce carefully analyzed the samples he collected from his most recent outing. It was a simple bank robbery with a strikingly unusual catch–the building and safe had been breached with what the police considered to be gelignite, a gelatinous but very powerful explosive. Bruce felt that the robbery might be connected to Karlo’s disappearance, having occurred only a few days later in a nearby location. As he studied his sample of this alleged gelignite, he was shocked that the substance contained no trace of nitroglycerin. Upon further inspection, the substance itself had no explosive properties. What Bruce did find, however, was silicates–a match for the clay found in Karlo’s apartment. “Interesting,” thought Bruce, “But how does Karlo’s clay have enough force to destroy a safe?”
“Good morning, Master Bruce.”
Bruce suddenly snapped back to reality, brought out of his hyper focused state by the voice of Alfred, his butler, bringing him his morning tea. All at once, he returned to the present. He could suddenly feel the cold, damp air on his clammy, pale skin. He could hardly feel his ice cold fingers which only moments ago had been so carefully maneuvering his microscope. He became aware of each bruise and scrape on his body as they stung, not overshadowed by the ache and fatigue in his muscles. His eyes burned with each blink, and his throat begged him for a cool glass of water. The bright blue light of his computer pierced through his vision, and the whirring of his equipment became obnoxiously jarring. He grimaced, aggravated by the intensity of every sensation.
“I’ve just identified a key piece in Karlo’s case,” he mumbled, reaching over to the water on his tea tray.
“Very good, Master Bruce,” replied Alfred in his usual tone. Alfred, an older British man, had been the Wayne family’s butler for several years, and became Bruce’s primary caretaker after his parents were killed. As a retired spy for the British government, he had developed specialized skills ranging from hand-to-hand combat, investigation and interrogation techniques, manipulation and disguises, and ranged-weapons proficiency. However, one task he was not prepared for was raising an orphaned eight-year old boy, though he certainly tried his best. Alfred sought to provide as much stability and care for Bruce as he needed, preparing his meals, helping him with his schedule, and assisting him as needed with his vigilante work. Despite being his employee, Alfred considered Bruce family. “Perhaps you should take a break for the night. After all, you do have an investors meeting with Wayne Industries later this morning.”
Bruce was unphased by Alfred’s suggestion. “Let Lucius take care of it,” he insisted. “He’s responsible for the most of Wanye Enterprises' finances anyway. I’m not needed there.”
“I think it’d be good for you to make an appearance; rumors are circulating that the investors are uneasy due to the likelihood of another financial recession. I think having the head of the company would help ease their concerns and keep their interest with us, sir,” Alfred replied matter of factly.
Bruce stood quietly staring at his computer, seemingly indifferent to Alfred’s justification. He was exhausted, but couldn’t let go of Karlo’s case. Alfred sighed, and looked over at a display case in the cave, where Batman’s suit sat neatly on a mannequin. Just next to it stood another proudly displayed suit, this one with a brightly colored red vest and a glistening gold cape. This was Robin’s costume, given to Bruce’s ward Dick Grayson when he was a teenager. Bruce and Dick used to fight crime side by side as an unstoppable duo, curbing Gotham’s crime problem immensely. However, as Dick reached adulthood, he became increasingly critical of Bruce’s methods and ideology towards deterring crime. Dick saw Bruce’s tactics as too harsh, unempathetic, and severe. Bruce believed that his actions were justified, and thought Dick was too naive and idealistic about the world. After a fight, Dick Grayson left Bruce and his Robin persona behind, donning a new vigilante identity, Nightwing, in the next town over.
Alfred knew Bruce was struggling to maintain order and justice in Gotham after losing Robin. Bruce was spending more nights awake trying to keep peace in the city, and it was taking a toll on him mentally and physically. He made one final plea, “If I may be so bold–I know you are working hard on this case, but you have not slept in nearly twenty-four hours, and you should at least eat something to keep up your strength.”
After a pause, Bruce reluctantly gave in, acknowledged Alfred with a quick nod, and stumbled upstairs and into the main house. As much as it pained him to admit it, Alfred was right–Bruce was reaching his limit. His joints cracked and his muscles shook as he undressed for a shower. An array of expensive soaps, cologne, and haircare decorated the elegant marble countertops of his bathroom. He stared at his reflection in the gold-framed bathroom mirror as it slowly fogged up with steam, unable to recognize himself without the mask. The warm water of the shower felt dangerously hot against his cold skin, but soothed his tired body.
As he slipped under the silk sheets of his bed, he sighed with discontent. Bruce knew he needed rest, but always struggled to relax. He was always focused on whatever case ate away Batman’s time, unable to slow his mind and wind down. He lied in bed and stared at the ceiling of his room, listening to an old clock obnoxiously ticking, as if it were mocking every second he could not fall asleep.
Bruce thought about Karlo’s disappearance, Dr. Morrison’s death, and the bank robbery, wondering how they are all connected by clay. If Karlo did murder Morrison, why is his DNA nowhere to be found? And what motive would he have to kill? And what does that have to do with the bank? Bruce was eager to jump out of bed and pursue the case more, but instead, rolled over onto his side, frustrated.
Bruce sought to change Gotham from a dangerous place where pearl necklaces are ripped from necks and families are destroyed to a place with order, where people are kept in line and crime is reduced. Bruce believed that, deep down, people were inherently selfish, and would choose to serve themselves at the expense of others. People needed to be served justice to correct their selfish behavior, and to maintain order, and Bruce thought it was his responsibility to help them.
However, Bruce also believed that morality was a spectrum of gray, not black and white. People were not “good” or “bad”; he considered everyone to be a product of their circumstances and experiences. Bruce also thought it was his responsibility to help rehabilitate those who were victims of systemic oppression and abuse. For example, while on patrol one night, Batman caught and stopped a man who was attempting to burglarize a home. While restraining him for the police, the burglar began crying, explaining that he was let go from his job, behind on his rent and facing eviction, and felt like he had no choice–he just needed money. The next day, the burglar was released from jail, and Wayne Technologies provided him with a job as desk clerk in one of their offices. Whenever he could, Bruce tried to use his privilege to help others.
As his mind continued to race, Bruce’s body began to shut down, ready for sleep. He grasped his bedding and pulled it in close as his body temperature dropped. His eyes grew heavy as he stared at the sunlight peeking through the long, dark curtains that draped over his bedroom window. For a second, he considered what it would be like to have someone beside him in his roomy king-size bed, another body to keep him warm on mornings like these, or gently rub his back when his body aches the way it does. He longed for the comfort of physical affection from someone who cared for him, but quickly chased away the feeling as he knew it could only be a fantasy. Not only were the emotional walls Bruce had built around his heart impossibly tall, but he could never build a relationship with someone as Bruce Wayne without exposing them to the danger and instability that comes with being Batman. Being Batman meant that he couldn’t have a normal life or build a family–his falling out with Dick proved that.
Eventually, Bruce’s body could no longer keep up with his mind, and he finally succumbed to sleep.