Chapter Text
"Kill the Id, foster the Superego," Bruce whispered, his breath ragged, sweat running down his face. "Kill the Id, foster the Superego," he repeated.
He heard a stick snap behind where he was. In a matter of seconds, he positioned the arrow on the bow and fired at the target, not thinking straight. He heard the sound of something falling, and lifted the ribbon covering his eyes.
The invader was immobilized on the ground, a trickle of blood running from the arrow hole.
He looked up and smiled at Haj, who was waiting for him at the top of the hill. Haj nodded.
"Much better, isn't it?" Bruce said, slightly happy. It was his best performance.
"Mister Wayne, I don't think you understand what we're doing here." Haj replied as he led him back to the monastery.
"What do you mean by that? Shooting arrows blindly is amazing, that's why I'm here. You taught me." Bruce tried to contain his smug smile. He felt that finally, after years, he was ready to go back.
"Yes, you got better, you learned the art." Haj looked at him seriously. "But do you understand what it works for?"
"Defend, never attack. I've heard it a million times." he replied bored.
"And even so, I wonder if you know what it means. You're a weapon, Bruce. A living weapon. I don't think it's safe for you to go back to where you came from before you mastered it."
"I do. You don't need to worry." Bruce threw him his most comforting look.
"Knowing how to use it, Mister Wayne, is not mastering it. The domination is here" Haj pointed at Bruce's head.
Bruce, uncomfortable, stopped, watching Haj going without him.
"I'm leaving today. You know that, don't you?"
"I know," Haj replied. "That's what worries me."
"One day I will come back and on that day the world will be a better place."
"It's hard to trust you" Haj turned to look at him. "When you just hurted a man."
Bruce rolled his eyes but followed the monk. It was as cold as Pedrang could be, at the foot of the Himalayas. He could see his own breath in mist.
Upon arriving at the monastery, he went straight to his room, a small lodging that barely fit the single bed. He pulled the suitcase out from under the bed and put the few clothes there, setting aside a social outfit to wear.
He didn't say goodbye to the archer monks, he knew they didn't approve of his presence there. He wasn't like one of them. They were dignified, with solid and unshakeable morals, grew up with little and were used to splitting even the last crumb of bread. Bruce was just the rich American learning how to fight.
So he left as quietly as he arrived, the footsteps barely making a sound against the wooden floor. He went that way to the end of the property, where he waited to get on the train that would take him to the airport.
There, he took out his documents and credit card for the first time in months.
Bruce T. Wayne
He ran his thumb over the spelled letters, he had forgotten what life was like when that surname mattered. Not just politically or out of respect for fortune, but because of what the past brought. He remembered each time he had introduced himself or been called and the person's gaze would change, instantly recognizing the orphan who had lost his murdered parents.
No more.
Now Bruce could be someone else. It was his opportunity.
He bought the ticket for the next flight. It was hours of travel, two stops, watching the small towns through the plane's window. Gotham, he thought. The place he left six years ago, in search of something bigger than himself that, at the time, he didn't even know what it was.
After all this time, he was coming back to deal with problems face-to-face, alone. What had to be done, what had to be taken back.
He tried not to get upset when he walked out into the arrivals hall and found no one waiting for him. Why would there be anyone? No one even knew if he was alive, much less that he was coming back that day.
Bruce then got into a cab and told him the address of the Wayne Manor.
"Wayne House, huh?" the driver said, a playful smile on his face. "I heard that place is full of ghosts."
Bruce's angry, uninviting face closed even more. He didn't answer, just looking through the window at the nostalgic landscape of his childhood.
"Ghosts and bats," the driver added.
Bruce smiled sarcastically.
"Like a haunted house," Bruce said vacanly.
"Yes," the taxi driver agreed. "What are you going there for?"
Bruce studied the man. Middle-aged, overweight, gray hair, wrinkles. Married, the picture of the children hanging in the rearview mirror. Small children smiling happily.
"I'm the gardener."
"You don't look much like a gardener," the man commented, looking at Bruce's expensive clothes in the rearview mirror.
"And I thought talking while driving was not recommended."
The man coughed, his face red and visibly offended. He didn't say anything else the entire way, and Bruce's heart warmed with victory.
When the car stopped, Bruce got out and stood for long minutes in front of the mansion, watching. It hurt. He was pulling something very bitter deep in his chest. It was the place where his parents were buried. After six years, he still vividly remembered endless nights, yelling with Alfred, his anger and running away from boarding schools, and the last time when, without warning, he'd packed a few clothes in a small suitcase and left, leaving no traces.
He strode to the front gate, took a deep breath and pressed the doorbell. The guardhouse was empty, but the property was clean and tidy, the garden full of flowers and the grass cut.
A few minutes passed before someone came slowly, face down.
Bruce couldn't help but grin and wave enthusiastically.
"Alfred!" he yelled.
Alfred looked confused, tilting his head. He was old, white hair combed and trimmed, round glasses, shoes clean and shined, his suit and tie black in mourning.
"Alfred!" he yelled again. "It's me, Bruce!"
Alfred hurried on, startled. He looked at him closely and, with a frown, opened the gate.
"Master Bruce!" he said, his voice a mixture of surprise, sadness and joy.
Bruce couldn't remember the last time he'd been hugged, he hated any physical contact or approach, but he felt relieved when the butler's arms tightened around him. He smiled, hugging him back awkwardly.
As they pulled away, Bruce could see a few tears rolling down Alfred's face.
"Christ, Bruce." he said, breaking several butler protocols. "I… do you even know what I thought that had happened?"
"I…" Bruce had been rehearsing what he would say since the night he left. Now, no words seemed adequate. "I don't ask you to understand, Alfred, I know it's too much. But I needed it. I needed to find myself to survive and to be a better man."
Alfred, still dismayed, folded his arms.
"You could have at least told me."
"I'm sorry, Alfred." Bruce stared at his feet, unable to meet the butler's eyes.
Alfred didn't say anything for several long minutes, still staring at him.
"I'm glad you're back, Master Wayne."
Bruce just smiled miserably, the wind causing his hair to fall over his face. He crossed his arms.
"Come in, sir. The house has been too empty without you."
Alfred put a hand on his shoulder and guided him to the mansion, the path Bruce had taken since he was a child, when his parents were still alive and they were just a rich, happy couple, not a martyr for a confused man.
Bruce let the butler hand him a cup of hot tea and waited for him to prepare dinner sitting in an armchair in one of the rooms. It would be the first time in years that he ate something like what he was used to: Alfred's home cooking.
It was warm, the fireplace burning, the tea in his hands and the television on in the background, the volume turned down. However, a desperate reporter caught Bruce's attention. She was in a dark place, hair disheveled, wide eyes.
Bruce took the remote and turned up the volume.
"This is the fourth attack by the man who calls himself the Joker. So far, nine have been counted dead by him, but the body count is not yet over. The police estimate there are at least twenty bodies."
"Alfred" Bruce called out loud. "Who is the Joker?"
"Joker?" Alfred appeared at the door, with bread, jam and a pie on a tray. "He is a mad man. He dresses himself as a clown and goes out to haunt the city, sir."
"Does he kill people?"
"Yes, sir." Alfred looked at him analyzing, the way he did when Bruce, still a teenager, told him he wasn't going back to school anymore. "What are you thinking, Master Bruce?"
"Today a taxi driver told me that there are only ghosts and bats here."
"Some don't think before speaking."
"Alfred, could you walk me down to the basement?"
The butler frowned but nodded. They walked through the house, the furniture intact from the time his parents had decorated. They went down the stairs at the end, a long stone staircase, into a dank, dark corridor.
The basement was as wide as a cave. Icy water dripped from the ceiling, Bruce looked in awe. Bats nestled in clumps in the corners, the lighting sparse. No way out or contact with the outside world.
"Thank you, Alfred. We can go back now."
The butler nodded, still confused, and they headed back upstairs.
Back in the living room, the television no longer showed the Joker, but a big, strong man, his short black hair neatly combed back, looking down at the camera and… was that a pair of underwear over his pants?
The Superman. Of course Bruce had heard of him, he had spent sleepless nights researching who this man was and what he was doing. It was like an obsession. An alien able to destroy the world, with laser eyes, super strength, super speed and x-ray vision. It was… pure worry. It's not like Bruce admired him, it was fear of the questionable morals of a man who could pass for God.
Gotham didn't need another costumed maniac. There had to be a way… for someone like Bruce to do something. After six years getting ready.
And well, if someone could wear an outfit, name themselves, and go out and save the world like Superman did, then why not?
He had money, knowledge, strategy, fighting, an empty cave full of bats and Alfred.
"Alfred" Bruce called. "I have a plan. I mean, I don't have it yet, but I'll do it. The world will be a better and more contained place. It just needs someone serious and sober. Will you help me?"
"I'm afraid I'll lose you again if I say no, Master Bruce."