Bruce Wayne kicked a rock across the cave beneath the Wayne family mansion. After the deaths of his parents, he'd decided to devote his life to fighting those who would threaten the people the way Zorro would've. He couldn't just become another Zorro however, seeing as the name and costume had already been taken, and everyone would just laugh if he said he was Zorro. He needed to be something that would strike fear into the hearts of the criminals of Gotham. He needed to be something everyone would recognize and know to run in fear from.

He needed to be...

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH! Get it out of my hair! Get it out of my hair! Get it out of my hair!"

"Hold still a second Master Bruce."

He needed to be a bat.

20 Years Later:

The woman whimpered in fear as she was dragged into the alley. The blade that was pressed against her throat kept her from running, and the hand across her mouth kept her from screaming.

"If you know what's good for you, you'll keep silent bitch!" the large man who'd grabbed her growled into her ear as he lowered his hand from her mouth, running it across her front before it reached the button of her jeans. As he was lowering her zipper, something bright gold and vaguely bat shaped sailed past her ear and hit him in the head. The knife fell from her throat as he fell backwards.

Suddenly, from the shadows, a bright figure whose costume put Superman's to shame when it came to utter tastelessness appeared.

"Are you alright miss?" the garishly dressed figure asked in an exceedingly campy voice.

Unable to formulate a reply, the woman stared at the bright orange figure in a bat costume that looked like it was made of satin and velvet.

A moment later there was a groan from the woman's would-be rapist and an exclamation of "Oh Shit! It's the Fruitbat!".

Still unable to move, she watched as the Fruitbat approached her would-be rapist with a red satin ribbon and said "Let's tie you up in a pretty little package!". The screams that followed as the Fruitbat tied her would-be rapist up in a manner that she'd once seen when she'd explored her father's bondage porn collection out of curiosity almost made her pity the man.

Almost.

As she watched in stunned horror, she felt a hand settle itself on her shoulder in a manner that was probably meant to be comforting, but caused her to flinch and jump back. Turning, she saw that the hand belonged to an adolescent boy who was dressed in clothing that was a drab brown, aside from the dull burnt orange front of his short-sleeved shirt.

"Before you ask," the boy sighed. "My name's Robin, I'm with him, and no, he doesn't molest me."