Chapter Text
Gotham felt the weight of his grief; it simmered in his anger, watching the birth of a monster. Every dark, heinous thing ever committed was trapped in his body spilling over the sides and coating him in a thick, slimy armor, leaving only an empty shell of the man he once was.
His heart darkened as the red lines began blurring into a flurry of black and red… everything was red. He could feel as his fist landed harder, watched the terror turn red in the remains of a face, heard the screams die in their throats as they choked … but all he saw was red.
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“Billionaire Bruce Wayne’s Ward Dead at 15!”
All the headlines screamed the same everywhere Bruce looked, he was reminded of his failures, of a life too young and bright to die, his light snuffed out of existence from a world too dark for his brilliance.
Bruce was 8 when he first tasted death, just a small, innocent boy smiling too brightly for a world to dark. He was 28 when a small flame sparked to life from the long-cooled embers; he hid the flame, burying it under layers of armor, not wanting the world to see that precious little light, not again, but at 38, the flame grew too great to hide, as it was ripped from his dying heart as a sick joke.
-
He attends social events out of obligation quickly growing numb to the fake consoling of his “friends”, already use to the hushed whispers spoken behind his back as he passes.
“It’s like watching a dead man walk.”
“I heard the kid actually just left like the first.”
“When is he going to get out of his head; I mean, who fucking cares about that damn street rat.”
His body reacted before his mind as he grabbed the man by the fabric of his suit jacket, he was a plump, little… thing, balding before he grayed. “What was it you just said?” His voice didn’t sound like his own, it was dripping slick with venom as the anger bubbled deep within the pits of his gut.
“Mr. … Mr. Wayne, I don’t… I don’t know what you’re talking about.” The man’s lip’s curled into a quivering reluctant smile as he spoke, his eyes flicking between him and the crowd.
“I don’t think you understand, I heard you.” His voice rumbled dangerously low.
“What… What do you mean?” he let out a shaky laugh.
“I heard what you said, now I want you to repeat it to my face.” The last part came out like a growl as the little man’s face twisted in fear while he sputtered out nonsense, the world turning redder after each sputter.
He heard screaming as someone grabbed him, dragging him off the pudgy thing. His fists were shining with a sickening red, as the ringing began to die in his ears, he found the screams to be his own — the room was silent, everyone staring in horror at the monster before them. The screams wouldn’t stop… he couldn’t stop.
He could feel as the needle pierced his skin, watching as the world grew slower, darker until it was nothing, but a slurry of red and black.
-
When Bruce woke, the room was dark, save for the small slivers of the evening sun peeking through the curtains. His head was a swirling, pounding mess as tears flooded his eyes; his throat was raw, the taste of copper lingered in his mouth. His memories of the gala returning as tears spilled down his cheeks, burning the skin.
“You stupid son of a-!” His voice was barely a whisper as he yelled, pulling at his hair as the tears kept coming fast and hard. “Couldn’t keep up the act for one night!” His throat screamed for him to stop, but his mind couldn’t think of the pain, only the anger, only red.
He screamed until his throat tore, until his knuckles shined a sickening red once more, until the room was nothing but a blur of broken furniture and glass, as he was sat with his head between his knees, crying until the world turned dark once again.
The manor’s library was peaceful as the rays of evening light flooded through the windows, turning everything, it touched a golden orange. Bruce sat basking in the golden warmth, carefully skimming the daily paper, his son lazily sprawled across his lap reading a well-loved copy of Pride and Prejudice. The silence never felt so calm.
“Bruce?”
“Hmm?” He hummed
“Why didn’t you save me?”
“What do you mean, Jason?” The boy’s piercing blue eyes stared up at him.
“Was I not… good enough?” The boy’s face contorted as his pale, smooth skin gave way to an array of purples and blues, “did you not care!” his eyes swelling shut — the smell of burning flesh crawled up Bruce’s nose, churning his already heavy stomach.
“Jason, of course I care, I’ve… I’ve always cared!” His voice cried at the boy.
“If you truly cared, it would have been you!” He was screaming now as flames crept around them, blood and ash covering their hair and clothes. “It should have been you!” The boy’s small frigid hands crept closely around his throat, squeezing harder.
“I’m... sorry-”
“I’m so sorry!” His voice hitched in his throat, acid like bile clawing its way up, burning and biting at the rawness; he scrambled for the trash can throwing up the remains of dinner. A pit sat at the bottom of his gut, his breaths ragged and torn, shuddering in his chest. His clothes clinging to his clammy skin; it was all too much.
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“Last night 4 men were found brutally beaten on the docks of Gotham harbor after presumably trying to rob a local storage facility; police believe the assailant is none other than the Dark Knight himself, after police recorded a recent spike in his brutality. You really should ask yourself is the Caped Crusader truly trying to protect the citizens of Gotham?” Tim could hardly believe what he was hearing, “In latest news billionaire Bruce Wayne is being sued for recently attacking one of the patrons attending a recent charity gala hosted by the Wayne Foundation. Footage of the incident shows Mr. Wayne repeatedly hitting the man while incoherently screaming until authorities arrived on scene, dragging the larger man off him. After attempts to calm the hysterical man, they later resorted to the use of sedatives.”
“Holy hell Bruce, what the fuck happened to you?” Tim knew the logistics of what happened to Bruce, but he could still hardly believe that this drastic of a change was the outcome. Tim knew Bruce, well he didn’t know Bruce, not personally at least, but he knew that this wasn’t him.
He had thought of every logical reason: clones, body swapping, mind control, even alternate realities (as crazy as that sounds), but for every reason he found, he found an even better reason for why not: the butler would know (Tim would know), and that was it that was his full logical reasoning for why Bruce Wayne is in fact Bruce Wayne. but it still didn’t add up, what.. was the man trying to get himself killed-
“Damnit he is trying to get himself killed!” Tim whispered under his breath.