**January 28, 1989. Around 9 AM. The rear grounds of Wayne Manor, 12 miles west of Gotham City.**
It's usually light out by this hour, but since it's winter, the sun's rays were only now beginning to light up the earth. On the back lawn of his home, Bruce was smashing bricks, one after another, with a single kick of his foot. The fact he was doing it in regular street clothes made it all the more striking.
Bruce Wayne: "I spent the last 12 years in Purgatory. They say it's where you realize who you've been your whole life to understand what you deserve after it," a hard kick to a brick gives a temporary pause to his thoughts. "It's all bull. You can rethink your past as much as you want—it won't change the future. Purgatory is to prepare a man for his final stop. To make him understand what he deserves after death, independent of you, your desires, your thoughts," his train of thought halts as he glances at all the shattered bricks. "Purgatory gave me skills and knowledge. But only true hell can give me the methods to use them. I shouldn't delay. One man disapproves of it… Yes, Dad, I know I'm just disappointing you so far," he says before shattering the last brick.
**Later that evening. Around 11 PM. The South-East End, Gotham.**
In a parking lot, Bruce sits quietly in his Porsche, as if waiting for the right moment. In his hands are a false beard and light makeup on his face—a disguise. Sure, from a distance you might not recognize who's under it, but up close? Though, given the kind of inhabitants this neighborhood has? Distance probably doesn't change a thing. When Bruce apparently decides the time has come, he puts on the false beard and exits the empty lot—cars for people in that area were just a word, so there was no one to spot Bruce. A couple of minutes later, Bruce is strolling the junkie-ridden streets of the South-East End, observing the local 'fauna.'
Bruce Wayne: "The South-East End of Gotham. … Some prisons have special wings for the most dangerous and violent inmates. Comparing this neighborhood to the most brutal prisons is a compliment to this place."
Bruce quietly surveys the streets of the South-East End. Wherever you look, you won't see people here—just animals. Like an isolated ward with the most rabid monkeys, where instead of bananas, it's heroin. Every local has their own distinguishing feature, and together they form one big portrait of the area's inhabitants—rotten teeth, bald heads (obviously not natural balding), bruises and bags under their eyes, gnarled hands.
Bruce Wayne: "As a kid, Father forbade me from visiting this place. Though it's not like I often left the manor, and he knew that, he still told me how rotten this place was. Nothing's changed."
The people around Bruce passed by one after another, but the effect from each to the next didn't change. A single mother, maybe 20, with a son in a stroller, smoking a cigarette, needle marks visible on her forearms; a homeless man around 50, dressed in rags, holding a cup for handouts, a sign next to him saying 'I tried'; a garish crowd of junkies shaking down some poor bastard for his last pennies.
Bruce Wayne: "Our world is one big organism, with its lifeblood flowing through it. The way blood flows through our veins, water runs through pipes, electricity courses through wires… flows through this organism. This place is no exception. Only through its streets flows not blood… but fear—fear of what a man is capable of when nothing can restrain him. It's a virus poisoning the last cells of rational life. All organisms have a heart, pumping their blood. The heart of this place is my target. I just need to find its cure for the virus, and give it a precise injection in the right spot."
Bruce's thoughts are interrupted by his view of a scene unfolding before him—a man, surprisingly well-dressed. Standing before the man is a young girl, maybe 19, short, with light hair, dressed like a prostitute, clearly unhappy with the conversation.
Quickly figuring out what's happening, Bruce in his usual manner approaches the pair, pretending to just walk by, but suddenly delivers a clean, well-placed punch to the man's jaw. The blonde took a couple steps back in shock and fear—what Bruce saw as an act of help was confusion to her. Bruce didn't look her way, and was preparing to deliver another blow to the man, but is quickly stopped by another girl, slightly taller, with short black hair, who appeared as if from nowhere. Bruce was surprised by her noticeable fighting skill, but one kick to the jaw from Bruce was enough to subdue her. While Bruce was distracted by her, the man hadn't been idle—one stab with a knife right under Bruce's rib quickly knocked him off his game.
Hearing police sirens, Bruce hurried to get out of there—the knife in his body was slowing the bleeding. Bruce retreats to the other side of the street, where not far away he had pre-parked an inconspicuous Mercedes ('inconspicuous,' of course, relatively speaking) and wasted no time starting the car and heading home.
**A couple of hours later, around 1-2 AM, Bruce, not without difficulty, covered the 12 miles west from the Gotham City border. For the last twenty minutes, Bruce had been sitting in a chair while Alfred dealt with his wound—after all, the seemingly harmless butler had once served in British special forces and had experience as a combat medic.**
The wound wasn't too deep, though Bruce was lucky no organs were damaged—still, it wasn't a kitchen knife but a small street blade. While Alfred continued stitching the wound, Bruce was sketching something in a notebook. Though Bruce was right-handed, the knife had gone in under his right rib, forcing Bruce to use his left (which, surprisingly, didn't change much).
Alfred Pennyworth, finishing the stitching: "Well, that's that. Good as new, Master Bruce. By the way, settled on an alibi for the wound yet? Shall we say a cat sank its teeth in, or stick with the clawing idea?"
Bruce didn't answer, not particularly enthused by Alfred's sarcasm. His attention was focused on the drawings in his notebook.
Bruce Wayne, mulling over his evening walk through Gotham: "I was too overconfident. I managed to avoid the gaze of this place, the fear it instills… I need to learn to instill fear myself, learn to do it more powerfully than this city."
Bruce puts the notebook down on the nearby coffee table, leaning back in the chair, covering his eyes with his palm.
Bruce Wayne: "Dad… I know I rarely ask you for anything. Not because I'm afraid of seeming weak, … though that too… I don't want to trouble you unnecessarily. I'm not asking for much, Dad. You know everything I do… it's all for you. I'm not asking for help… just a clue. Just give me a hint, Dad, I'll understand… please."
As Alfred pours tea, and Bruce removes his hand from his face, a bat flies into the living room through an open window, catching the attention of both manor residents.
Alfred Pennyworth, in a not-very-surprised voice, almost to himself: "Hm. As usual."
Bruce Wayne: "Where did it come from?"
Alfred Pennyworth, in a slightly weary tone, handing Bruce a cup of tea. "From the caves beneath the manor. They have a nest there. Appeared right after you left, Master Bruce. Quite the coincidence," he says the last phrase with light sarcasm.
Bruce Wayne: "So that's what you've been up to for the last 12 years? Chasing bats?"
Alfred Pennyworth: "Yes, not easy work. If only I'd chased girls as diligently in my youth."
Bruce Wayne: "Hm. You still have your whole life ahead of you, Alfred."
The bat continues flying around the room for about ten more seconds.
Alfred Pennyworth: "Well, *slight pause*, I'll go fetch the net."
Alfred gets ready to put the tea service on the table.
Bruce Wayne: "Why? Just let it fly. It's not bothering anyone."
Alfred didn't argue with Bruce's words.
Alfred Pennyworth: "You know, Master Bruce. Read somewhere that a bat, in literature, symbolizes the death of the man inside oneself. Or maybe it was the death of the soul in a man…" he muses, then waves it off. "Can't remember now. … You know, this place really did feel… dead, somehow, while you were away."
Bruce Wayne, not very interested in Alfred's story: "Not that I'm interested."
The bat continues flying around the room for another minute or so. Alfred gets distracted and goes to fetch more tea. When Bruce is left alone, he watches the bat flitting around the room.
Bruce Wayne: "Yes, Dad. You're right. I must become a bat."