GOTHAM CITY - 1988
The summer air hung heavy over the grounds of Wayne Manor. Even in the shade of the immaculately kept gardens, sweat beaded on eight-year-old Bruce Wayne's forehead as he moved cautiously between the hedges. His icy blue eyes scanned the area, searching for any movement that might betray his quarry.
"Kate? Rachel?" he called out, trying to sound casual while his eyes darted to every potential hiding spot.
No answer came. Bruce smiled to himself. He knew they were out here somewhere. His father had taught him to be observant, to pay attention to the details others missed. A small footprint in the soil caught his attention—too small to be Kate's. That was Rachel's shoe. And it was heading toward the greenhouse.
Moving silently, Bruce followed the trail. The glass structure gleamed in the afternoon sun, housing some of his mother's prized orchids. As he approached, he slowed his pace, listening. The faintest sound of suppressed giggles reached his ears from inside.
"Gotcha," he whispered to himself.
Bruce entered the greenhouse, pretending not to know where they were hiding. The warm, humid air inside smelled of earth and growing things. He made a show of looking behind large potted plants and under tables.
"Rachel? Kate? Come on, guys, I give up!"
Another stifled giggle, quickly hushed. Bruce smiled and walked directly to a workbench near the back. In one swift motion, he dropped to his knees and peered underneath.
"Found you!" he declared triumphantly.
Huddled together beneath the table were seven-year-old Rachel Dawes and six-year-old Kate Kane. Rachel's dark hair was pulled back in a ponytail, while Kate's bright red curls framed her face like fire. Both girls wore expressions of mock disappointment at being discovered.
"How'd you find us so fast?" Kate demanded, her blue eyes narrowing with suspicion.
"I'm just that good," Bruce replied, unable to keep the smugness from his voice. A true Wayne if anyone were to hear him in such a moment.
Rachel quickly covered her hands together, hiding something. "Well, too bad for you. We found treasure, and finders keepers!"
"What'd you find?" Bruce asked, interest piqued. "Come on, show me!"
"Nope," Rachel said, popping the 'p' sound. "We found it, so it's ours."
"But it's my garden," Bruce countered, leaning forward. "If you found something here, it belongs to Wayne Manor, which means it belongs to me."
Rachel glanced at Kate, who nodded after a moment's consideration. Rachel slowly opened her palms, revealing a small, triangular object. An arrowhead, weathered by time but still unmistakable in its purpose.
"Wow," Bruce breathed, reaching out. "That's—"
Before he could finish, his fingers closed around the arrowhead and he snatched it away, leaping to his feet.
"Finders keepers!" he shouted, echoing Rachel's words with a mischievous grin.
"Hey!" Rachel cried, scrambling to her feet. "That's not fair!"
"Bruce Wayne, give it back!" Kate demanded, her small face flushed with indignation as she crawled out from under the table.
"You have to catch me first!" Bruce taunted, already backing toward the door.
The girls exchanged a look, then both lunged. Bruce turned and ran, their outraged cries following him as he burst out of the greenhouse and into the sunlight. He ran across the manicured lawn, the arrowhead clutched tightly in his hand, feeling the adrenaline of the chase.
"That's mean!" Kate's voice called after him.
Bruce glanced over his shoulder to see both girls in pursuit. Rachel was faster, her longer legs giving her an advantage, but Kate was more determined, her face set in a look of fierce concentration that made Bruce laugh despite himself.
He veered off the path, heading toward an area of the grounds that was less tended. Ancient oak trees provided dappled shade, and undergrowth threatened to reclaim what had once been a formal garden. Here, hidden among overgrown bushes, was an old well. The wooden cover had rotted in places, but it still seemed mostly intact.
Bruce ducked behind it, crouching low, his breath coming in excited gasps. He heard Rachel's voice calling his name, but it was moving in the wrong direction. He grinned. He'd lost her.
"Bruce!"
The voice came from right in front of him. Kate stood there, not even breathing hard, her blue eyes triumphant.
"How do you always find me?" Bruce asked, genuinely amazed. It was a pattern that repeated itself every time they played together.
Kate shrugged, a small smile playing on her lips. "I just know where to look."
Bruce laughed and stood up quickly, preparing to run again. "Well, you still have to catch me!"
As he moved, his foot came down hard on the edge of the well cover. The rotted wood, which had seemed sturdy enough, suddenly gave way with a sickening crack. Bruce felt his stomach lurch as the ground disappeared beneath him.
"Bruce!" Kate screamed, lunging forward to grab him.
Instead of saving him, her momentum carried her forward, and she tumbled after him into the darkness. They fell together in a tangle of limbs, Bruce's scream joining Kate's as they plummeted.
The impact drove the air from Bruce's lungs. Pain shot through his left arm, a searing agony that told him something was very wrong. Kate had landed on top of him, her small body cushioned by his.
Above, he could hear Rachel's panicked voice. "Bruce! Kate! Oh my god!"
"Go... get help!" Bruce managed to call back, his voice strained by the agony that no kid his age should ever have to endure.
Rachel's face disappeared from the circle of light above as she ran toward the house.
"Bruce, I'm sorry," Kate whispered, rolling off him carefully. "I was just trying to help."
"It's okay," he gasped, cradling his injured arm. "Are you hurt?"
"No, I... I fell on you." Her voice was small with guilt.
Bruce tried to sit up, gritting his teeth against the pain. That's when he noticed the opening in the wall of the well. It was a narrow gap, perhaps once a drainage pipe, now eroded and rusted away to reveal a dark void beyond.
"What's that?" Kate asked, following his gaze.
"I don't know," Bruce replied, trying to sound brave despite the fear creeping up his spine. "Probably nothing."
As if in response to his words, a rustling sound emanated from the darkness. Kate instinctively edged closer to Bruce.
"There's something in there," she whispered, her eyes wide.
"It's probably just a—"
The rest of his words were lost as a high-pitched squeaking erupted from the hole. Suddenly, the air was filled with flapping wings and leathery bodies as bats—dozens of them—poured out of the opening.
Kate screamed, a sound of pure terror that Bruce had never heard from his usually fearless cousin before. He tried to shield her with his body, but the bats swarmed around them, their wings brushing against his skin, their shrieks deafening in the confined space.
Bruce's own scream joined Kate's as primal fear took hold. He had never been afraid of animals before—Alfred kept talking about how he was always bringing home wounded birds and squirrels—but this was different. The bats seemed to be everywhere at once, an undulating mass of darkness, noise and fear.
They huddled together, Bruce and Kate, crying out in terror as the bats circled around them, trapped in the well just as they were. Bruce squeezed his eyes shut, unable to look at the creatures that seemed to be attacking them, though in reality, they were simply trying to escape the well themselves.
It felt like hours, though it couldn't have been more than minutes, before Bruce heard a new sound—a human voice calling his name.
"Bruce! Kate! Hold on!"
Opening his eyes, Bruce looked up to see a figure being lowered down the shaft. The silhouette was unmistakable—the broad shoulders, the confident posture. His father.
"Dad!" Bruce called, relief washing over him.
Thomas Wayne reached the bottom of the well and immediately took in the situation. The bats were still circling, but his presence seemed to calm the children.
"It's all right," he said, his voice steady and reassuring. "They're more afraid of you than you are of them."
Bruce didn't believe that for a second, but his father's presence made the fear recede somewhat. Thomas carefully examined Bruce's arm, his trained doctor's hands gentle but thorough.
"Broken," he pronounced. "But a clean break. We'll get it set."
He turned to Kate. "Are you hurt, sweetheart?"
Kate shook her head, though tears still streamed down her face. "The bats," she whispered.
"They won't hurt you," Thomas assured her. "They're just trying to find their way out, just like us."
He secured a harness around Kate first, calling up to Alfred to pull her up. As she was lifted away, Thomas turned back to Bruce.
"Now, let's get you out of here."
Bruce winced as his father secured the harness around him, careful of his injured arm.
"Why were you playing near the old well?" Thomas asked, his tone curious rather than accusatory. "You know that area is off-limits."
"I was hiding," Bruce admitted. "From Rachel and Kate."
Thomas smiled slightly. "And how did that work out for you?"
Despite his pain and lingering fear, Bruce managed a small smile in return. "Not great."
As Alfred began to pull him up, Bruce looked back at the hole in the well wall, still echoing with the sounds of the remaining bats. Something about them—their darkness, their fury—had imprinted itself on his mind in a way he couldn't articulate.
Later, as Thomas set Bruce's arm in his study, Martha Wayne hovered nearby, her face lined with worry.
"He could have been killed, Thomas," she said, not for the first time.
"But he wasn't," Thomas replied calmly. "Kids get hurt, Martha. It's part of growing up."
"Getting into a few scrapes is one thing. Falling down a well is quite another."
Bruce sat quietly, watching his parents, the pain in his arm dulled by the medication his father had given him. Kate had been picked up by her father, Colonel Jacob Kane, who had been stern but relieved. Bruce had noticed how his uncle's hands shook slightly as he checked Kate over, though he tried to hide it.
"The well should have been properly sealed years ago," Martha continued. "I told you—"
"And you were right," Thomas conceded, finishing the cast on Bruce's arm. "I'll have it filled in tomorrow." He looked at Bruce. "There. Good as new. You'll need to wear this for about six weeks."
Bruce nodded, examining the white plaster encasing his arm from elbow to wrist. "Will I be able to go to the movie on Friday?"
Thomas and Martha exchanged a glance, a silent conversation passing between them.
"I don't see why not," Thomas said finally. "As long as you promise to be more careful about where you play."
"I promise," Bruce said solemnly.
Martha sighed but smiled. "Alright. But your bedtime is earlier tonight. You've had quite an adventure for one day."
As Bruce was tucked into bed that night, he couldn't shake the memory of the bats. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw them swarming, felt their wings brushing against his skin. Alfred found him still awake when he came to check on him.
"Trouble sleeping, Master Bruce?" the butler asked, his British accent somehow comforting in the darkness.
"I keep thinking about the bats," Bruce admitted.
Alfred sat on the edge of the bed. "Ah, yes. Nasty little things, aren't they? But, you know, they serve their purpose."
"What purpose?"
"They eat insects, for one thing. Thousands of them every night. Without bats, we'd be overrun with mosquitoes."
Bruce considered this. "So they're... helpful?"
"In their way, yes. Most things in nature are, if you look at them properly." Alfred adjusted Bruce's blanket. "The key is not to let fear cloud your judgment."
"I'm not afraid," Bruce insisted automatically.
Alfred's knowing smile told Bruce he wasn't fooled. "There's no shame in fear, Master Bruce. We all fear something. The question is what we do with that fear."
"What do you mean?"
"Well, fear can paralyze us, keep us from moving forward. Or it can motivate us, push us to overcome obstacles." Alfred stood. "It's not the fear itself that defines us, but how we respond to it."
Bruce thought about this as Alfred moved to the door.
"Alfred?" he called just as the butler was about to leave.
"Yes, Master Bruce?"
"Why do we fall?"
Alfred smiled, a gentle expression that crinkled the corners of his eyes. "So that we can learn to pick ourselves up."
With that bit of wisdom, he closed the door, leaving Bruce to ponder his words in the darkness.
—
The week passed quickly, Bruce's arm aching less each day as he became accustomed to the cast. Rachel had signed it with a purple marker, drawing small flowers around her name. Kate had signed her name in large, bold letters, adding a small bat drawing that made Bruce shiver despite himself.
By Friday evening, the well incident had faded somewhat in Bruce's mind, though a lingering unease remained whenever he thought of bats. He stood in the foyer of Wayne Manor, dressed in his good clothes, waiting for his parents to take him to the theater.
"Are you excited about the movie, Bruce?" Martha asked, adjusting her pearl necklace. She looked beautiful in her evening dress, her dark hair swept up elegantly.
"Yes!" Bruce responded enthusiastically. They were going to see "Die Hard," the new action film everyone was talking about. His mother had been reluctant at first—it was rated R after all—but Bruce had assured her he could handle it. His father had sided with him, remembering how his own father had never shielded him from the realities of the world.
"I still think it might be too violent," Martha murmured, though her tone had softened from outright opposition to concerned acceptance.
"He'll be fine," Thomas said, descending the stairs in his dark suit, looking distinguished as always. "Besides, I'll cover his eyes during the worst parts."
Bruce made a face. "Dad, I'm eight. I can handle it."
Thomas laughed, ruffling Bruce's hair. "We'll see, sport. Ready to go?"
Bruce nodded eagerly, his broken arm momentarily forgotten in his excitement. Alfred brought Thomas's overcoat and Martha's wrap, helping them into their outerwear with practiced efficiency.
"Will you be requiring anything else tonight, sir?" Alfred asked.
"No, thank you, Alfred. We'll be back around ten, I expect."
"Very good, sir. Enjoy your evening."
The Waynes took their Rolls-Royce into the city, Thomas driving himself rather than having Alfred chauffeur them. As they headed toward Gotham, Bruce stared out the window, watching the landscape gradually transform from the manicured estates of the Bristol Township to the urban sprawl of the city proper.
"Dad," Bruce said suddenly, breaking the comfortable silence. "Can you tell me more about Grandfather Patrick?"
Thomas glanced at Bruce in the rearview mirror. Patrick Wayne had passed away earlier that year, and though Bruce had attended the funeral, he'd been too young to truly know the man.
"What would you like to know?" Thomas asked.
Bruce shrugged. "Some kid at school said he worked for the government doing secret stuff. Is that true?"
Thomas exchanged a look with Martha, who gave him a small nod.
"Your grandfather worked in military intelligence during World War II," Thomas explained carefully. "After the war, he continued working with the government on international security matters, though he never talked much about the details. It was all very classified."
"Was he like a spy?" Bruce asked, eyes wide with excitement.
Thomas chuckled. "Not exactly. He helped establish specialized departments that monitored potential threats to America. He worked with some remarkable people—Howard Stark was one of his closest colleagues and friends."
"The guy who makes all the cool inventions?" Bruce had seen Stark Industries showcased in his science textbooks.
"That's right. Howard is a brilliant inventor and businessman. He and your grandfather worked together for many years. Howard was practically family to us—he used to visit Wayne Manor when I was growing up, always bringing some new gadget he was working on."
"How come we never see him now?" Bruce asked.
A shadow crossed Thomas's face. "After your grandfather retired, he wanted to distance our family from that world. He'd seen too many dark things, too many good people hurt. He wanted something different for me." Thomas smiled slightly. "And I wanted something different too."
"That's why you became a doctor instead?"
"Partly," Thomas nodded. "I wanted to heal people, not... well, the kind of work your grandfather did was necessary, but it came with heavy costs. He understood my choice, even supported it, though some of his colleagues were disappointed."
"Is that how you met Mom?" Bruce asked.
Martha smiled. "It is, in a way. I was working at Gotham General as a nurse when your father started his residency there."
"She was the most beautiful woman I'd ever seen," Thomas said, reaching over to take Martha's hand. "And the kindest. I knew from our first conversation that she was special."
"Your father was quite persistent," Martha said, her eyes twinkling with the memory. "Asked me out three times before I said yes."
"Best decision you ever made," Thomas quipped.
"Second best," Martha corrected. "The best was saying yes when you proposed."
Bruce made a gagging sound from the back seat, and both his parents laughed.
"You'll understand when you're older," Thomas said, a standard parental phrase that made Bruce roll his eyes.
"So why is our company still called Wayne Enterprises if Grandfather wanted to move away from all that government stuff?" Bruce asked.
"The company had already diversified by then," Thomas explained. "Your great-grandfather started in steel and railroads, but by the time your grandfather took over, Wayne Enterprises had expanded into dozens of industries—manufacturing, shipping, technology, pharmaceuticals. Your grandfather maintained those divisions but gradually shifted away from government contracts."
"Which didn't make him popular in certain circles," Martha added.
"No, it didn't," Thomas agreed. "But he stood firm. He believed Wayne Enterprises should be about building things that improved people's lives."
"Is that why we have the Foundation?" Bruce asked. The Wayne Foundation was his mother's primary focus, a charitable organization that funded hospitals, schools, and social programs throughout Gotham.
"Exactly," Martha smiled back at him. "Your grandfather started it, but we've expanded it considerably. Gotham has so many needs."
As they spoke, the Gotham skyline had grown larger in the windshield, Wayne Tower still the tallest building, its illuminated 'W' a beacon in the night sky. Bruce always felt a mixture of pride and awe seeing it—knowing his family had built not just the tower but much of the city around it.
"Will I run the company someday?" Bruce asked.
"If you want to," Thomas replied. "But there's no pressure, Bruce. You can be whatever you want to be. A doctor, an engineer, a businessman—or something else entirely. What matters is that you find your own way, just like I did."
They parked near the Monarch Theater and walked the short distance, Thomas's hand on Bruce's shoulder, Martha holding his other hand. The theater was an older building, ornate in a way that modern structures weren't. Bruce had always found it slightly intimidating but exciting, like stepping into another world.
"Now remember," Martha said as they approached the ticket counter, "if anything in the movie frightens you or makes you uncomfortable, just say so, and we can leave."
"I'll be fine, Mom," Bruce insisted, though he appreciated her concern.
The movie was everything Bruce had expected—thrilling, suspenseful, with Bruce Willis's character John McClane fighting terrorists in a Los Angeles skyscraper. There were moments when Martha covered Bruce's eyes—during the more violent scenes—but for the most part, he watched with rapt attention, caught up in the hero's struggle against overwhelming odds.
When they emerged from the theater, the night had grown cooler. Thomas draped his coat over Bruce's shoulders.
"So, what did you think?" Thomas asked, his arm around Martha's waist.
"It was awesome!" Bruce exclaimed. "John McClane was so cool, the way he took down all those bad guys even though he was hurt and outnumbered!"
Martha shook her head, but she was smiling. "I still think it was too violent for an eight-year-old."
"Ah, but our eight-year-old handled it just fine," Thomas replied, giving Bruce a wink. "Though I hope you didn't learn too many new words from Mr. McClane."
Bruce grinned. He had, in fact, heard several words he'd never heard before, but he knew better than to repeat them, especially in front of his mother.
"Can we get it on video when it comes out?" he asked instead.
"We'll see," Thomas replied, which Bruce knew usually meant yes.
They walked back toward where they had parked, but Thomas suddenly stopped.
"Let's take a shortcut," he suggested, nodding toward an alley. "The car's just on the other side."
Martha hesitated. "I don't know, Thomas. It's pretty dark down there."
"It'll be fine," Thomas assured her. "It's barely a block."
Bruce didn't mind either way. He was still riding the high of the movie, replaying his favorite scenes in his mind as they turned into Park Row, a narrow alley between two buildings.
They were halfway through when a figure stepped out of the shadows ahead of them. A man, his face partially hidden by the pulled-up collar of his jacket, but his eyes visible—shifty, desperate eyes.
And in his hand, a gun.
"Wallet, jewelry! Fast!" the man demanded, his voice rough with tension.
Bruce felt his father's hand tighten on his shoulder. Thomas's voice, when he spoke, was calm and steady.
"That's fine, just take it easy."
Thomas handed Bruce his coat, then reached for his wallet. The man jerked the gun at Thomas, his eyes darting nervously. Bruce stared at the gun, transfixed by the way it trembled in the man's unsteady hand.
"Here you go," Thomas said, his tone still even, reassuring.
The man grabbed at the wallet but fumbled it. It fell to the ground between them. The man glanced down at the wallet, then back to Thomas, fear evident in his expression.
"It's fine, it's fine," Thomas continued, his voice still controlled. "Just take it and go."
The man crouched to retrieve the wallet, his eyes never leaving Thomas. Bruce watched, frozen in place, as his father continued to speak in that same calming tone.
"Just take it and go."
The man's gaze shifted to Martha, to the pearl necklace gleaming at her throat. "I said jewelry!"
Martha began pulling off her rings, her hands shaking. The man jerked the gun toward her neck. Thomas immediately stepped protectively in front of his wife.
"Hey, just—"
The sound was deafening in the narrow alley. Bruce flinched, his ears ringing from the gunshot. Thomas looked down at his chest, where a dark stain was spreading across his shirt. Then he looked back at the man, a sadness in his eyes that Bruce would remember for the rest of his life.
Thomas crumpled to the ground, blood spreading across his shirt. Martha screamed, a sound of pure anguish that echoed off the brick walls.
"THOMAS! THOMAS!"
She lunged toward her fallen husband, seemingly forgetting the gunman, who still stood there, his face a mask of panic and desperation.
"Gimme the damn—"
Martha's flailing arms struck him as she tried to reach Thomas. The gun went off again. Martha jerked, then fell beside her husband, blood blooming on her pale dress like a terrible flower.
The man stared at them for a moment, then turned to Bruce. Bruce looked up at him, unable to process what had just happened. The man's face twisted, as if he couldn't bear the boy's gaze. He reached out and yanked at Martha's necklace, breaking the strand. Pearls scattered across the pavement like tears.
And then he ran, disappearing into the shadows at the end of the alley.
Bruce stood frozen for a heartbeat, then dropped to his knees beside his parents. "Mom? Dad?"
To his shock, his father's eyes fluttered open. Thomas Wayne was still alive, though the spreading crimson stain told Bruce it wouldn't be for long.
"Bruce..." Thomas gasped, his voice barely audible.
"Dad!" Bruce grabbed his father's hand, tears already streaming down his face. "Please, don't—"
Martha stirred beside them, her breath coming in ragged gasps. She reached weakly for Thomas's other hand.
"Thomas..." she whispered.
"I'm here," Thomas managed, squeezing her hand. Then he turned his gaze back to Bruce, his eyes filled with pain but also with a desperate need to communicate something important.
"Bruce... don't be afraid..." Each word seemed to cost him tremendous effort. "Whatever happens... don't let fear... define you..."
"Dad, please," Bruce sobbed, gripping his father's hand tighter. "Just hold on. Someone will come."
Martha's last breath left her body in a soft sigh, her hand going limp in Thomas's.
"Martha..." Thomas murmured, a tear sliding down his cheek. Then he looked at Bruce one final time. "I love you, son... be brave..."
His eyes lost focus, staring up at the night sky as the life drained from them.
Bruce sat there, still holding his father's hand, unable to comprehend the horror that had unfolded in mere seconds. Around him, Martha's pearls dotted the asphalt. Some of them were streaked with blood.
He began to shiver, a deep, bone-rattling tremor that had nothing to do with the cool night air. The shivering turned to sobs, quiet at first, then growing in intensity until they tore from his throat in raw, animal sounds of grief.
In the distance, sirens began to wail, but Bruce barely heard them. All he could hear was the echo of the gunshot, all he could see was his father's final gaze, all he could feel was a vast, yawning emptiness opening up inside him.
Park Row would soon have a new name in Gotham: Crime Alley. And Bruce Wayne would never be the same.
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
Please give your review and comments.
Also read 'Superman: Man of Steel' , 'Green Lantern: First Flight' & 'Captain America & Wonder Woman: The First Avengers' on my profile and give it your review and ratings.