Old_BenKenobi
09-08-2009, 08:44 PM
So yeah, this is a fanfic I'm writing that's sort of an Elseworld's take on Batman. Rather than write within the status quo, I'm writing a story that will (hopefully) stretch from 1970 to 1979, focusing on the career of "a" Batman. It's Batman reimagined of much more of a Cowboy Cop and playing with the various cliches of 70s cop movies, especially Dirty Harry. I'm writing it in a series of shorter stories instead of a big long one, with this entry being the first chapter of the first story.
It's neither psychopathic dark Batman or Brave and the Bold. He's serious and cynical, but does have a bit of a sense of humour (just not on the job). He's not afraid to smile. If that turns you off and you want depressing, dark, grim, gritty, urban vigilitante detective psychopath, don't bother reading. I don't know how often I'll update, it depends on my mood, but I'm hoping to flex my writing muscle more and get back into form, so it may be semi-regularly. Feel free to comment in the thread, critique is welcome and encouraged. Enjoy!
Dark Justice
Chapter 1
The cave. It was dark, lit only by a few stray fluorescent lights overhead. Bruce Wayne stood alone in these vast caverns, on a plateau he carved from the rock himself. Behind him was a stone staircase winding up and out of side, an amalgamation of stone and steel leading to a bright light. Around him was nothing. A vast, empty expanse that carried on through the caverns for miles. The only other objects on the platform with him were a table and a bench. Beneath him he could hear the trickling of an underground stream, perhaps the stream that had carved this cave long before he had existed. Before his parents had existed. Before Gotham had existed. Above him, bats squeaked and flapped, an orchestra playing the score to his life. Ahead of him, a bridge of stone leading into darkness. Leading to his fate.
"Ahem." A voice. Bruce turned and looked into the face of his only friend, Alfred Pennyworth. His weathered face appeared gaunt in the minimal lighting.
"Sir, if you are considering stepping out tonight to begin your hunt for an agonizing death, might I recommend you minimize your shame by wearing the costume you had me tailor for you?"
Bruce looked down and realized that he was naked. He had almost forgotten. The cave felt so natural to him, a place where he could shed the human concepts of shame and humility. He grabbed the grey leggings from the top of the bundle and began to dress himself.
As he pulled the dark grey trousers up his legs, Alfred asked "May I ask why you chose grey instead of the more discreet black?" Bruce snapped the waistband, a perfect fit.
"Because I don't want to be discreet, I want them to see me and what I am," he answered. “Shirt, please.”
As his master pulled the grey shirt over his head, Alfred queried "Why did you not select a more suitable material? Kevlar has the capacity to stop bullets, to say nothing of a knife..."
"Flexibility, Alfred," Bruce replied as he pulled the shirt down to meet the trousers. "The fabric I chose was engineered specifically for this and grants a surprising amount of protection considering how light it is. Besides..." He locked the protective gauntlets over his wrists and pulled the thick, leather gloves over them, disguising the metal underneath. "I don't want them to think I'm wearing armour. If I appear to be wearing an acrobat's tights and shrug off a knife it will do more to protect me than any amount of Kevlar possibly could."
"And sir...?"
Bruce smirked.
"Yes, Alfred?"
"I just have to ask... why in the world would you wear your undershorts on the outside?" he asked as he passed him the leather briefs.
Bruce's grin widened.
"To keep my pants up, of course," he retorted as he pulled the black briefs up his legs and secured them over his pelvis. "It's an added bonus that they contain a rather important piece of armour." Alfred got the hint.
Bruce buckled on his sturdy, rugged boots, tightening them until he was sure they wouldn't slip and stood up. He was already becoming himself. He could feel it. He walked over to the table, noticing how the springs in his heels neither limited his range of motion or weighed him down. A perfect fit.
On the table laid a leather belt, a deep bronze in colour. Attached were pouches and clips of various sizes. Nothing was loose, everything was secure and restrained. He didn't need the clinking of a loose clip giving away his position. Even the steel buckle was tarnished to reduce the chance of a reflection. He strapped the belt on and loaded his supplies: Mace; smoke pellets; batarangs; noise makers; bola; evidence bags; spy camera; flashlight; nightstick; restraints; spare cable; spare charges; spare barb. He felt slightly off balanced. Too much gear on his right side. He strapped on a leather holster, tied it to his leg and loaded his final piece of equipment: the grapple gun. Modified from the revolver he carried during his time with the GCPD, the gun was capable of firing a barb up fifteen stories, locking in place and securing a line. It had the power to pull him straight up several times before requiring a battery swap, an invaluable tool in scaling buildings. With the grappel secured in it's holster the balance was perfect. A success.
He grabbed the only remaining item on the table: his badge. A large copper oval, aside from a raised edge running around the perimeter the only engraving was of a stylized bat, painted black. He clipped it onto his chest. Magnets woven into the cloth held it secure.
"Why a badge, Master Bruce? As I understood it you're doing this because of your dissatisfaction with the police. Why associate with them?"
"Every officer requires a badge, Alfred," Bruce replied. "Even an officer working outside the law. My cape, please."
Alfred handed him the voluminous cloak, manufactured with the clever engineering that was applied to the rest of his master's uniform. It shimmered with a faint blue hue under the lights as Bruce swept it over his shoulders and fastened it securely under his neck. The cloak flowed easily, sliding and quivering with every movement. Reaching behind his head, Bruce grasped thecowl and pulled it over his face. It fit snug, as did the cape, and it projected his every emotion, every facial expression. More clever craftsmanship granted the mask eyes, stark white slits that narrowed and widened with the eyes underneath. Through the mask, everything was visible to Bruce. The dark cave was lit up by the enhanced vision the cowl's lenses provided. Nothing was invisible to him. The path ahead was no longer vague. It was clear, the fog of mystery dissipated. He was the night.
"Master Bruce?" Alfred's voice snapped him out of his stupor.
"There is no Bruce Wayne, Alfred," Batman replied with a glance back at his old friend. Was it fear that he saw in his surrogate father's eyes? "Bruce Wayne was a child who died twenty five years ago. Bruce Wayne is a mask. I am the Batman."
He turned from Alfred and stepped forward into the abyss, into his fate, into the night.
It's neither psychopathic dark Batman or Brave and the Bold. He's serious and cynical, but does have a bit of a sense of humour (just not on the job). He's not afraid to smile. If that turns you off and you want depressing, dark, grim, gritty, urban vigilitante detective psychopath, don't bother reading. I don't know how often I'll update, it depends on my mood, but I'm hoping to flex my writing muscle more and get back into form, so it may be semi-regularly. Feel free to comment in the thread, critique is welcome and encouraged. Enjoy!
Dark Justice
Chapter 1
The cave. It was dark, lit only by a few stray fluorescent lights overhead. Bruce Wayne stood alone in these vast caverns, on a plateau he carved from the rock himself. Behind him was a stone staircase winding up and out of side, an amalgamation of stone and steel leading to a bright light. Around him was nothing. A vast, empty expanse that carried on through the caverns for miles. The only other objects on the platform with him were a table and a bench. Beneath him he could hear the trickling of an underground stream, perhaps the stream that had carved this cave long before he had existed. Before his parents had existed. Before Gotham had existed. Above him, bats squeaked and flapped, an orchestra playing the score to his life. Ahead of him, a bridge of stone leading into darkness. Leading to his fate.
"Ahem." A voice. Bruce turned and looked into the face of his only friend, Alfred Pennyworth. His weathered face appeared gaunt in the minimal lighting.
"Sir, if you are considering stepping out tonight to begin your hunt for an agonizing death, might I recommend you minimize your shame by wearing the costume you had me tailor for you?"
Bruce looked down and realized that he was naked. He had almost forgotten. The cave felt so natural to him, a place where he could shed the human concepts of shame and humility. He grabbed the grey leggings from the top of the bundle and began to dress himself.
As he pulled the dark grey trousers up his legs, Alfred asked "May I ask why you chose grey instead of the more discreet black?" Bruce snapped the waistband, a perfect fit.
"Because I don't want to be discreet, I want them to see me and what I am," he answered. “Shirt, please.”
As his master pulled the grey shirt over his head, Alfred queried "Why did you not select a more suitable material? Kevlar has the capacity to stop bullets, to say nothing of a knife..."
"Flexibility, Alfred," Bruce replied as he pulled the shirt down to meet the trousers. "The fabric I chose was engineered specifically for this and grants a surprising amount of protection considering how light it is. Besides..." He locked the protective gauntlets over his wrists and pulled the thick, leather gloves over them, disguising the metal underneath. "I don't want them to think I'm wearing armour. If I appear to be wearing an acrobat's tights and shrug off a knife it will do more to protect me than any amount of Kevlar possibly could."
"And sir...?"
Bruce smirked.
"Yes, Alfred?"
"I just have to ask... why in the world would you wear your undershorts on the outside?" he asked as he passed him the leather briefs.
Bruce's grin widened.
"To keep my pants up, of course," he retorted as he pulled the black briefs up his legs and secured them over his pelvis. "It's an added bonus that they contain a rather important piece of armour." Alfred got the hint.
Bruce buckled on his sturdy, rugged boots, tightening them until he was sure they wouldn't slip and stood up. He was already becoming himself. He could feel it. He walked over to the table, noticing how the springs in his heels neither limited his range of motion or weighed him down. A perfect fit.
On the table laid a leather belt, a deep bronze in colour. Attached were pouches and clips of various sizes. Nothing was loose, everything was secure and restrained. He didn't need the clinking of a loose clip giving away his position. Even the steel buckle was tarnished to reduce the chance of a reflection. He strapped the belt on and loaded his supplies: Mace; smoke pellets; batarangs; noise makers; bola; evidence bags; spy camera; flashlight; nightstick; restraints; spare cable; spare charges; spare barb. He felt slightly off balanced. Too much gear on his right side. He strapped on a leather holster, tied it to his leg and loaded his final piece of equipment: the grapple gun. Modified from the revolver he carried during his time with the GCPD, the gun was capable of firing a barb up fifteen stories, locking in place and securing a line. It had the power to pull him straight up several times before requiring a battery swap, an invaluable tool in scaling buildings. With the grappel secured in it's holster the balance was perfect. A success.
He grabbed the only remaining item on the table: his badge. A large copper oval, aside from a raised edge running around the perimeter the only engraving was of a stylized bat, painted black. He clipped it onto his chest. Magnets woven into the cloth held it secure.
"Why a badge, Master Bruce? As I understood it you're doing this because of your dissatisfaction with the police. Why associate with them?"
"Every officer requires a badge, Alfred," Bruce replied. "Even an officer working outside the law. My cape, please."
Alfred handed him the voluminous cloak, manufactured with the clever engineering that was applied to the rest of his master's uniform. It shimmered with a faint blue hue under the lights as Bruce swept it over his shoulders and fastened it securely under his neck. The cloak flowed easily, sliding and quivering with every movement. Reaching behind his head, Bruce grasped thecowl and pulled it over his face. It fit snug, as did the cape, and it projected his every emotion, every facial expression. More clever craftsmanship granted the mask eyes, stark white slits that narrowed and widened with the eyes underneath. Through the mask, everything was visible to Bruce. The dark cave was lit up by the enhanced vision the cowl's lenses provided. Nothing was invisible to him. The path ahead was no longer vague. It was clear, the fog of mystery dissipated. He was the night.
"Master Bruce?" Alfred's voice snapped him out of his stupor.
"There is no Bruce Wayne, Alfred," Batman replied with a glance back at his old friend. Was it fear that he saw in his surrogate father's eyes? "Bruce Wayne was a child who died twenty five years ago. Bruce Wayne is a mask. I am the Batman."
He turned from Alfred and stepped forward into the abyss, into his fate, into the night.