**January 27, 1989.** 26,000 feet above the ground. Kathmandu-Gotham City flight.
Bruce Wayne: "There it is…," he says, beginning with a soft, inward 'hmph', "Gotham… no turning back now… From up here it looks different. You could almost believe there's some kind of ecosystem, a civilization here. Might've worked on some poor bastard… a while ago I would have said I wished it would work on me."
Bruce looks through the small window by his seat. From the plane's height, Gotham blends with the land around it. Only the Delaware Bay, spreading northeast of the city, marks its boundaries. No emotion plays on Bruce's face; it's neither relaxed nor tense—it's an empty space.
Bruce Wayne: "Should've taken the train," he says, again with that same soft, inward 'hmph', "can't see the place as well from here. Not precisely what I need. I need to be closer. I need to look the enemy in the eye. … This place is hell. Once, I had an angel who led me through hell, back when I didn't even realize it myself. Pity that tour was only the surface of hell, its very first circle. That angel didn't get to show me hell. Maybe he didn't have time, maybe he didn't want to. A demon killed that angel. Demons are afraid to ask anything of demons higher up. Pity that angels occasionally turn out to have what those demons need, too."
Bruce turns away from the window, leaning back slightly in his seat, looking at the empty seat opposite him. His face remains unchanged.
Bruce Wayne: "Hi, Dad," this time without the 'hmph', "I'm back here. I missed you, you know. It's been 12 years, after all. Don't know if you missed me. If not—that's fine. Would've been one less thing for you to worry about. You shouldn't be worrying about anything, especially concerning me. Dad,… I want to say… everything I've been doing lately, I've been doing for you. You already know. I just want you to understand… I'm not asking for your approval… just understanding. It's all for you, Dad. I've come home to make this place a home for many… like you once did. I can't ask more of you… don't want to shatter your paradise by dragging you down into hell with me."
The plane is already approaching the runway. Lightly falling snow blends with the stars. Stepping off the plane, just inside the airport terminal, Bruce couldn't go any further. The entire passage was crammed with journalists and reporters—from their mouths came only questions about rumors and gossip concerning the returning star's life over the last 12 years. Bruce didn't even look at them before moving through the crowd toward the other side of the airport.
Bruce Wayne, finally throwing one glance of contempt at the crowd with microphones and cameras, again emitting a soft, inward 'hmph': "Never liked journalists. People without a purpose in life, digging into the purpose of others' lives. Though it's hard for me to blame them. In a place like this, many are ready to do anything just to stop their own lives from looking back at them with contempt."
Continuing through the crowd, Bruce hears a familiar voice coming toward him. The voice of an old man, calling out "I say! Master Bruce! Hm, over here!" with rare, light pauses and audible 'oh, damn its' under his breath.
Alfred Pennyworth: "Good lord, Master Bruce," he says when there are no more obstructing people between him and Bruce. "Let's get out of here. Preferably with haste," he says before he and Bruce put a little distance between themselves and the journalists, approaching the exit. Alfred casts a glance at the reporters, more simple disapproval than contempt. "These jackals. Ghouls, the lot of them. All teeth where the pen meets the paper," he says, his pace slightly quicker than usual, most likely from catching his breath at the same time.
Bruce Wayne, again emitting an inward 'hmph', his face unchanged: "Don't blame them, Alfred. Who knows what you'd do in their place," he says, trying to divert Alfred's attention from the journalists.
Alfred Pennyworth: "I know, Master Bruce. I wouldn't be in their place. Let's get out of here before the air runs out. One journalist breathes like five men."
Bruce Wayne, again emitting a 'hmph': "That's not an answer, Alfred, you know that," he says, though mentally agreeing with Alfred's idea to get out of the airport quickly.
Each 'hmph' was akin to something like an 'I heard you,' only in a drier, more affectless tone.
Exiting the airport, Alfred takes the driver's seat of their Porsche. Bruce gets in the passenger seat beside him as Alfred starts the car.
Alfred Pennyworth: "So, *light cough*, where to now? Straight to the manor?"
Bruce Wayne: "If you have other ideas, feel free to lay them out," he says, after another initial 'hmph'. His response was obviously sarcastic, though delivered in a completely flat tone.
Alfred Pennyworth: "Well, *slight pause* who knows with you, Master Bruce. Perhaps you'd like to, oh I don't know, refresh some warm memories of this place," he replies, matching sarcasm with sarcasm, his expression perfectly aligned with his own, though equally dry tone.
Bruce Wayne: "You know, Alfred, this isn't the kind of place you're left with good memories of."
Alfred Pennyworth: "Indeed. Not like the places you've been these last 12 years, there on your, what, Maldives and Hawaiis," he says, with a note of mockery in his tone, before putting the car in gear. "You know what, Master Bruce," he continues his unfinished thought. "It seems to me all those good memories you have of this place… you've simply tucked them into the same box, right next to all the bad ones, and you *slight pause* have stopped distinguishing them. All your memories now, even the good ones, seem bad to you," the last sentence spoken with that same light mockery, though Alfred's attempt to cheer Bruce up was obvious. Bruce himself said nothing in reply, merely emitting another inward 'hmph', showing he'd heard Alfred's words.
The next twenty minutes of the drive passed in silence. It's about a forty, maybe forty-five minute drive from the airport to the manor. Alfred decides to attempt conversation again.
Alfred Pennyworth: "You know, Master Bruce. We did miss you."
Bruce Wayne: "Hmph. We?", his tone not so much curious as simply interested in what Alfred will say.
Alfred Pennyworth: "Naturally, Master Bruce. The entire city awaited your return, after all."
Bruce Wayne: "Hmph. They shouldn't have. And that includes you, Alfred," his tone as if pre-determined, regardless of Alfred's answer.
Alfred Pennyworth: "Hm. Perhaps so. But you know what? The feeling of loss comes not from our minds, but from our hearts, Master Wayne," he says, again attempting to lift Bruce's spirits. Alfred's eyes occasionally glanced at Bruce's face, as if trying to discern his thoughts so he could tailor his response.
Bruce Wayne: "Hmph. Don't let the shine of your heart blind you, Alfred," he says in his same dry, assertive tone.
No reply, nor any other attempt at conversation, followed from Alfred. He seemed to already regret trying to find a ray of sunshine in the middle of the night. For the first time, Alfred didn't know what to say to his charge—a rare occurrence for him; apparently, he wasn't prepared for Bruce's philosophy. As if he'd known their dialogue was over before it began, but tried anyway. Bruce himself simply stared out the window, surveying the streets of his, once and now again, home, as the views filled his head.
Bruce Wayne: "Hmph. Nothing's changed. As if I expected anything different. I've heard evolution always wins, but this place refutes that thought. It's completely cut off from the rest of the world… Alcohol, drugs, cigarettes… quick dopamine. Primitive happiness, not real, just like animals. Like one big zoo, whose inhabitants believe they have human civilization here. I know people are animals too, but we were the first animals to reject instinct in favor of our minds. … Empty words, in this place. People should live, not just survive."
After driving about twelve miles, their Porsche stops at the gates of a huge mansion, built in the style of European Gothic manors from two centuries ago. Bruce gets out of the car. Alfred does too, but only to open the gates, after which he gets back in the car and drives it into the garage. Bruce simply looks at his home. His face becomes something resembling a smile, yet still manages to be just as empty.
Bruce Wayne: "Mom. Dad. Yes. I'm home."