master_bruce: (Young - Petulant)

We don’t need to see this.

I do.

Chill’s dead. He supposes he should be glad. But Chill’s dead and he didn’t kill him.

He doesn’t feel glad. He feels robbed.


Bruce was Prom King, of course. He didn’t want to be but knew it would happen about two years before it actually did. He was dutiful. He took the right girl. He acted surprised and pleased when they called his name. Inside, he just felt like asking whether he would have got it if his name wasn’t Wayne or if his parents hadn’t been murdered.

The day after graduation, he took up bungee jumping. He was only sorry when the band returned him to the applause of his friends and the girls telling him how brave he was. For a moment there, he forgot what it was like to be rich and popular.


In the car, he’s quiet. He ruminates on why Falcone should have done what he’s wanted to do all these years. How dare he? For Chill to die for something as stupid and petty as keeping his mouth shut – doesn’t Falcone know how killing that man was supposed to free him? How it was supposed to cleanse his soul of guilt. How he’d now, finally, be able to go to his parents graves and say, look Mom, Dad. I did it. He paid. And then it would all be alright. Finally, mercifully, it would all be alright.

I’m not one of your good people, Rachel.

What’s he supposed to do now?

Your father would be ashamed of you.

She’s right. He would.


He made sure to graduate top of his class. At least that was something that could never be attributed to his name. Nobody seemed surprised though. He’s Bruce Wayne. Of course he’d be the smartest kid in school.


No gun. I’m insulted.

His father would be ashamed of him.

He wishes he could be proud of himself. He’s walked into Falcone’s den with nothing but words. He hopes his father would approve. He wishes he could be proud of himself but really, he just knows he’s got nothing to lose.


He had hoped it would be different at Princeton. It isn’t. He’s popular before he’s even got there. Everyone knew he was going. Everyone was waiting. Ready-made friends, endless parties, never short of an invitation, never a chance to get bored. Some of them are even nice. He makes friends. He studies hard. He plays lacrosse and soccer and rugby. He skis. Summers on the water, at beach houses, abroad.

Christmas with Alfred. He’ll suffer Wayne Manor, for Alfred, at Christmas.

And all the time, they laugh around him and he smiles and shares the jokes and dates endless beautiful girls and in the back of his mind; I’m going to kill him.

                                                                                                                  (Your father would be ashamed of you.)


You’ve never tasted desperate. You’re Bruce Wayne, the prince of Gotham. You’d have to go a thousand miles to meet someone who didn’t know your name.

Bruce has spent a lot of years, thinking he knew a lot of things. All those friends who looked at him and he could see them thinking two things; one was billionaire and the other was orphan. And he would pretend to ignore it and feel stoic and feel strong and feel good that in this privileged world, he knew what Bad was. He knew about crime. He knew what it could do to you.

Today, he realises he knows nothing and all it took was being told. By Falcone, of all people.

This is a world that you’ll never understand - and you always fear what you don’t understand.

But he does know what fear can do to you.

                                                                                                                                     (If I hadn’t got scared, they’d still be alive.)

If he has to go a thousand miles to find a place where no one knows his name, then that’s what he’ll do. It’ll be a relief. He doesn’t want to be Bruce Wayne anymore.


master_bruce: (Default)
Bruce Wayne

July 2015

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