Some Years Earlier: Gotham City

They called him Bruce Wayne and that was fascinating. He could have been named something even more pretentious like Charles, or William, or Henry, but instead he was called Bruce.

Bruce Wayne.

It is a name that sent shivers up his spine for no reason; a name that signaled the start for a mental breakdown. Perhaps, it was a name that carried the weight of an always dying world.

Bruce didn't want his name, yet it was given to him by powers outside of his control.

He didn't want his parents to die, and yet it was carved into his destiny.

Years passed of course, and with the seasons changing, so did the temperament of those tending the Wayne legacy. Many called him an overlord even though Bruce was only fourteen. Eventually, that was something that he partially believed. Those around him told him he was a crook; he was trouble. Though in reality his worst enemy became himself. He liked to fight. He liked to set fire to the smallest things and watch them scream. He liked it, and that drove him to the edge of insanity.

Another year passed, and all of the burdens he had seen, all the ugly memories, the ugliest scars, and the ugliest of poison capsules, all crept their way into his shaky hands. Leaving marks on perfectly round forearms and on his bruised mind. They all found a way to break his delicate psyche into millions of glass shards that flashed over and over again to to black and gray and red. More and more red. All of the torture ruined is perfect inheritance. All of it was ruined by Bruce's stupid mental capacity for his own self doubt and deprecation.

But most importantly he was everything everyone had said and he believed it too.

With the years and years that had passed, his tendencies only grew worse. In secret he kept cutting and laughing at his pain and the slow disease of insanity only crept into his eyes slower and slower.

It wasn't wrong what he was doing. It wasn't wrong to him. The pain he inflicted on himself and on the animals was merely science after all. It was an experiment of will and strength and patience. They were all tests to feel something. Anything at all like he knew the little animals did.

However, it was something that Alfred disagreed with. He saw the changes in Bruce. He saw the very essence of the boy's core. He saw the demons pushing Bruce to danger and some kind of adventure. Aflred had witnessed this craze in a boy before during his army days, and he knew how it would end.

But the boy was his own now and so he remained confined to his maddening silence.

But time was relentless. and as it moved into the future, Bruce only grew more and more out of control. Bruce knew he was crazy for liking to hurt his pets. He was sixteen and he knew how insane he was. They would wail as he pulled their limbs and studied them. He knew that it was wrong to like to feel fire burn and tingle at his fingertips, but its orange and blue colors attracted more curiosities.

Something was wrong, but it was also so right.

There was a slight guilt for his actions. Guilt about Alfred watching him grow up this way and guilt about hurting innocent creatures, but the fun times always out weighed his guilt. The fun times always made him joyous and crave more of it. The sickness was unstoppable.

And then time froze for one evening. It paused for one night as Alfred finally approached the oncoming hurricane.

It was just another rainy day outside of the Wayne Manor and what a sad day it was. The clouds were an ashy gray as the rain pushed itself from the clouds. There was an occasional flash of lightning here and there and the thunder rumbled through the house and shook the fragile windows, but the most sad thing of all, was that it was the day that Bruce turned twenty two.

It was also day his parents were brutally murdered in cold blood.

Bruce sat on his bed as his bare feet touched the chill wood floor. His shirt and jeans hung loosely on his body, making him shiver, but Bruce didn't notice the cold. His eyes were fixed on the window pain, watching the rain splatter and run wild everywhere. He reflected on the moments of his day and his life.

He supposed that it wasn't a bad day. As gray as it was, the court had finally given him custody for the whole company of Wayne Enterprises because they couldn't prove that he was insane. I showed them. I was smarter than them. Alfred also said that he was finished renovating the basement for him. He didn't care what that meant. Apparently Alfred said that it would help develop his skills. What skills? I'm just born a mastermind. I don't need any help.

Bruce's thoughts only grew darker as his gaze grew fixed on a single drop of rain. It was also the day a horrible man murdered his parents. He remembered the blood spilling out of them after the man ran away from the distant sirens. He remembered touching them and feeling their life leave them as their blood pooled and soaked into his jeans. He remembered the feeling of them staring into his eyes, wanting him to run away, but he couldn't just leave them. He couldn't just leave them.

Bruce swallowed as his stomach ached with a slight pleasure from his recollections. He remembered looking into his mother's eyes and wondering what it was like to feel the pain. He remembered sticking his fingers into her wounded side. He told the police it was just, "to get the bullet out." They were all too dumb to see through his fake innocence. Most importantly, he remembered his mother's eyes widening and her mouth giving a soft high pitched moan and then her eyes closed and her body went limp.

The EMTs could have saved her, but Bruce made sure they couldn't.

Bruce's memories of his mother flashed over and over again in his mind. They never caught the man who killed his parents. A small smile appeared at the corner of his mouth at all of the repetitive flashes. Why did it feel so good to do something so awful?

A light knock appeared on Bruce's door. He cleared his throat.

"Come in, Alfred."

"Sir, the kitchen staff has made you a cake." Alfred stood silent in the door frame as he carefully held his hands behind his back.

"I don't need a cake."

"They thought it could cheer you up."

"I don't need any cheering." Bruce slowly moved his eyes to meet Alfred's and kept his stare firm. He wanted to see Alfred squirm under his predator-like gaze, but Alfred didn't even flinch. In a whisper, Bruce repeated himself, "I don't need any cheering."

"May I sit, sir?" Bruce tilted his head and then nodded. Alfred slowly moved next to Bruce on his bed. There was a long pause before anyone spoke. Alfred lowered his voice to speak so that only Bruce could hear him. "I know what day it is for you."

"Everyone knows that." Bruce fixated on the rain drop again. It exploded as another drop crashed on top of it.

"But only I know all of it." The two sat in silence again.

Bruce was the one to speak, "Are you ever going to tell anyone?"

"Should I?"

Bruce stared at the floor and tapped his fingers on his leg. "You know Alfred, I can't help but to think that you just can't see what I do or are just too ignorant to believe it and see what's wrong with me."

"Sure, I can see it, but maybe I don't believe it."

Bruce stood up and turned to face Alfred, a sudden rage coursing through him. "You should!" His teeth were clenched as he squeezed his fists tight. He wanted Alfred to feel afraid enough to leave him alone. "What if I hurt you, Alfred!? I can't control it." He sat down again, but on the wood floor. "And I'm too tired to fight it." Bruce put his hands on his head and crumpled his head.

Alfred moved closer and reached into his pocket. He sat down on the floor across from him. "Maybe this will help." Alfred's hand shot out of his pocket and onto Bruce's leg. In his hand, there was a syringe with a clear liquid.

Bruce flinched and soon his senses began to heighten. His vision became more in tune with his surroundings and he could smell the cake from the downstairs kitchen as the cooks all shuffled to get it frosted. Bruce turned his head side to side and he felt his muscles tense and relax over and over. His eyes settled on Alfred. "What did you do to me?

Alfred stood up. "I've been doing some research," he paused, "about your condition." Alfred extended his hand and helped Bruce up. Alfred began to walk to the door and Bruce followed him. "And I found out more about your psychology." Alfred went down the stairs and continued to walk, Bruce close on his heels. "I found out how your brain releases certain chemicals when you think about hurting people. How it formed in a way so that your Hippocampus is built to have the opposite reaction when you see danger. The serum I've been working on in the basement is supposed to help suppress your urges, help make your brain normal again."

Bruce swallowed, and kept quiet. "So you've fixed me?"

"It's only temporary for now. I still have to work out the kinks, but yes, this serum should help you." He turned to Bruce, his short height making him feel inferior to Bruce. He let out a fatherly chuckle. "Happy birthday, Bruce." Alfred was stopped at a bookcase in the most secluded part of the manor. No sound could be heard but silence.

"How long does it last?" Bruce stared at the bookcase.

"Two hours at most. At least, for now." Alfred shuffled his hands on the different books and pulled one down like a lever. The bookcase glided to one side and led to an open staircase spiraling down.

Bruce's intelligent eyes looked intrigued. "What is this?"

"The basement." Alfred moved down the stairs and Bruce followed him. "I made some renovations."

When the two got to the bottom of the stairs, there was a wide opening that extended beyond sight. There was a giant computer on one wall and shelves right next to it. There was a golden light cast from the small lights that hung from the ceiling. Everything looked so shiny and new.

Bruce gave a laugh of disbelief. "Alfred, what have you made?"

"All of this," he gestured to the room, "is to help you."

"Help me?"

"Look, Bruce, it's clear that your mind is one of the most intelligent ones I have ever known. Your mind works differently than the rest of the world, and knowing you, you can't just sit around and do nothing for a long period of time. This, all of this, is for you."

"I don't think you understand-" Alfred cut him off and began walking to the center of the room. It was a large circular space and when Alfred tapped his foot, a glass case rose from the floor. Inside of it, there was a suit; a black suit with armor and a spiked helmet. It resembled a monster. A black goblin in a way.

Bruce stood speechless. Part of him was clinging onto his normality.

"Alfred, I'll hurt people. It's what I do."

"It's only what you do because you can't control it. You can now. I believe you can."

Bruce stared at his reflection in the glass, his outline fitting to the suit. It matched his strong and prominent features. Bruce let out a sigh.

"Alfred," he turned to him, "what do I do with this?"

******

On the night of Bruce Wayne's twenty second birthday a new figure emerged in the streets of Gotham City. Some thought that the new figure was evil, and some thought that it was a sign of new beginnings. Overall, the city needed a hero, and one who wasn't afraid to cross lines to get justice. The city called him a miracle. They called him Batman, and he was the real villain. The real mastermind. The darkness of humanity.

For it was on the same night, that a young man named Joe Chill got brutally tortured and thrown into a chemical vat by a shadowy figure. It was the same night that the Joker was created. The night a new monster roamed the streets.

And to this day, it remains unknown who threw Joe Chill into the deadly chemical vat.