Hey all. Before we get started here, I wanted to take a moment to explain what the goal of this story is. I've wanted to do a good Batman story for a long time, but could never decide on what depiction of him to go with. Should I base it on the comics, the live action films, the animated series, the videogames? Then it occurred to me; why chose just one?

My goal here is to draw on what I think are the best elements of my favorite depictions of Batman from across various media and attempt to blend them into a unified narrative that will explore (eventually) not just Bruce Wayne, but the stories of his supporting characters, villains, sidekicks, and Gotham itself, as well as the Batman's relationship with the larger DC Universe. Ambitious? Perhaps, but really at the end of the day all it is is an excuse for me to go geek–out on all things Batman in the name of "research", so I say onwards!

This first arc here is going to involve itself with the origins of the Batman and his core supporting characters; that is to say Alfred, Jim Gordon, and (maybe) Dick Grayson and Lucius Fox. As such, I'm going to be drawing heavily on the classic Batman: Year One, as well as Scott Snyder's more recent Zero Year from DC's relaunched New 52. The game Arkham Origins may be drawn in as well eventually. Now before anyone goes and starts pointing fingers at me, I'll be the first to admit that many scenes are going to be drawn directly from source material, dialogue included. More original content will come in as time goes on, but it'll be especially obvious in this first arc since, well, there's really only so many good versions of Batman's origins to draw on. I'm not trying to reinvent the wheel here; just perhaps smooth a few bumps out in it, that's all. Familiarity with the sources won't be required, though, and I'll do my best to do justice to them in a novelization.

Anyways, enough of me rambling. Please let me know what you think, good or bad, in the reviews and comments, because I do hope you guys enjoy this. I certainly enjoyed immersing myself in the Batman mythos once more as I wrote this.

Cheers

-jschneids

The dream was always the same. He was happy, giddy even, excitably chattering his parents' ears off as they made their way through the alleyway, leaving the glittering lights of the Monarch Theater behind them.

"Its just a quick shortcut", his father had promised his mother soothingly. "Alfred will meet us with the car on the other side, and besides," he added with a laugh, "should we run into to trouble we've got Zorro to protect us!"

Visions of the masked hero fighting for love, honor, and justice swam through his younger self's mind; a man in black striking fear into the hearts of his foes and hope in the hearts of their victims. The alley darkened as they went, shadows seeming to stretch into infinity as the walls of the apartment buildings grew around them like a canyon. He drew closer to his parents, the gloom banishing all thoughts of daring heroes and mighty triumphs from his mind. His mother too seemed to grow uneasy, as if sensing doom.

Like a ghost, the man peeled out from the shadows his eyes wide his face peppered with dirty whiskers and chapped skin. He raised the revolver in his right hand and made his demands in a quick, jittery voice, eyes wildly flicking back and forth. With a cool confidence his father had gently raised his hands and placed himself between the mugger and his family.

Coolly, Thomas Wayne had spoke to his killer, calmly removing his wallet and watch before tossing them on the ground before the man, patiently telling him that there was no need for rash action, that they would cooperate. Then the wild-eyed gunman had turned his attentions to his mother, to the heirloom string of pearls she had decided to wear on a whim. He wanted them, wanted them enough to kill for them. She had panicked; three generations had worn those pearls, the young boy knew they had value beyond a price tag. Her fingers flew to the necklace, and the quick motion was enough. The mugger's finger twitched.

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

The young man awoke with a start as the buzzer that served as the brownstone's doorbell sounded once more. Rubbing the vestiges of the unintended nap from his eyes, he quickly rose from the moldering couch that had served as his resting place and donned the Gotham Knights baseball cap and windbreaker that had served as the crux of his daily disguise since his return. He slipped on his shoes in case a quick departure proved necessary as the rain of the early summer storm pattered down against the townhouse's windows. The buzzer sounded once again and when at last he reached the entry hall to open it, his breath caught in his chest.

Alfred Pennyworth stood upon his front stoop, immaculately dressed as always, a black umbrella sheltering him from the rain.

"Master Bruce," he said, his stoic voice and face quavering. "May…may I come in, sir?"

Bruce would vaguely recall mumbling some response in the affirmative later on, his mind and heart still racing. He had planned for this, played it out in his head over and over again, and yet with the man who had raised him standing before him, all words failed him.

"Alfred, he began, stumbling over his own tongue, "I-"

A harsh gloved slap top the face cut him off. He had seen the strike coming, could have stopped it if he wished, but he knew in his heart that he had deserved it. The tight hug that followed it was unexpected and succinct; a heartbeat later the British butler had stepped back and reclaimed most, but not all, of his composure. Bruce struggled to do the same, casting an eye at his guest. The years had left their mark, to be sure; the tall and whipcord lean man's black hair had faded to a thinning salt-and-pepper crown that nonetheless gave him an air of distinction, his thin moustache still gracing his chronically stiff upper lip.

"Eight years, sir?" the man said at last, his voice quiet, eyes trying so desperately to project anger but only succeeding at showing sorrow. "You couldn't be bothered to write?"

His young master looked away, ashamed. "I…I'm sorry, Alfred." Finally he found the strength to meet the older man's gaze. "I couldn't risk contact, though. It would have jeopardized everything I've worked for." He paused, frowning. "How did you find me?"

The butler's gaze softened. "I never stopped looking for you, sir," he replied crisply. "After you disappeared from Oxford, I put that trust fund you left in my care to work." A mournful smile played across his lips. "That, and the fact that I know of exactly one person in Gotham who shares my precise order at the Finnegan Ice Cream Parlor."

A slight color spread across the younger man's cheeks. "So that was you there this afternoon. I…it was a moment of weakness. Nostalgia I suppose." He looked away once more, until the familiar weight of gentle hand fell on his shoulder.

"Master Bruce-"

"Please, Alfred," he answered him quietly, meeting his guardian's eyes once more. "Just Bruce."

"Don't be preposterous, sir. Master Bruce, why this secrecy? Why hide here in this slum so close to where your parents-"

"Where my parents were murdered, Alfred," the younger man snarled. "Where I watched them get gunned down for a few bucks and a string of pearls. I came back to make sure that no child in this city ever goes through that again." Closing his eyes and taking a deep breath, Bruce composed himself. "I came back because this city is eating itself alive. Every day innocent people are preyed upon, and the justice system is a sham. The police and the city government are just puppets for the mafia, and its only getting worse each day."

He balled his hands into fists, biting down on the old rage and sorrow that threatened to bubble free. "I swore to them, Alfred," he added quietly. "Swore to them on their graves that I would make a difference. That I would change this city, and this is the only way I can see how. I didn't want the consequences of this coming back on the people I cared about, on my parents' legacy." He fixed the man with a somber gaze. "For that, it was better if Bruce Wayne stayed dead."

The two men walked together, entering into the dingy townhouse's excuse for a kitchen. "I left Oxford because I had learned all I could from it. To keep that promise I needed the skills…the knowledge to execute this, and I scoured the world to find it, but now I finally think I'm ready."

"Ready for what?" the exasperated Brit finally cried. "To what ends, Master Bruce? A one-man crusade? This is a farce! You'll get yourself killed and I, I…"

Alfred sighed, and for a moment Bruce could see the weight of the years on his shoulders. The years of love and kindness the man had given him, and the years of grief he had given him in return.

"I can't lose you, my boy. Not again. Not after I've just found you."

The two embraced in earnest this time. "You won't," Bruce answered him at last. The next words were almost painful. Emotions swirled within him, pangs of guilt, anxiety, and desperate fleeting hope flickering. "Not if you help me."

Alfred recoiled, weary eyes surveying his former charge. Built chewed at Bruce's soul; had he pushed him too far, asked him too much too soon?

The pregnant pause that sat between them chilled the younger man to his soul. "I've known you long enough to know when your mind is made up, Master Bruce," the butler finally answered, crisply. "Until you come to your senses on you own time, there'll be no dissuading you, will there?"

"I'm afraid not."

The older man shook his head and pursed his lips. "Fine," he answered at last. "I'll join you in this madness, if only to keep you from getting your head blown off."

Shaking his head wistfully, the butler moved back towards the entry hall.

"I'll be back soon," he called, brusquely. "I'll bring you something proper to eat and you can fill me in on what precisely I've just signed up for."

"Alfred that won't be necessary," Bruce called after him as he followed his butler's wake, only to abruptly halt as the man whirled to face him by the door.

"Bollocks, Master Bruce," the man replied tartly. "You look like you'd be hard pressed to prepare toast in this hovel. I'll get a decent meal in you if it kills me, and then, young man, we are going to talk."

With a flourish, Alfred Pennyworth retook his umbrella from the coat rack, swung wide the door and stormed back into the rain. Bruce caught the reflection of the tears forming at he corners of his eyes in the glass, and as the man closed to door behind him, Bruce Wayne could only pray that he had done the right thing.

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Two weeks later, Bruce Wayne sat on the eve of his 24th birthday hunched over a sea of files and photographs spread across the kitchen table. He had spent his days and nights out in the seedier parts of the city watching, waiting, and listening. The East End, the Narrows, Oldtown; all of them had painted an unsettling picture.

The old news wasn't what worried him. The Falcone family still ruled the roost of Gotham's underworld, the police still firmly in their pockets. Carmine "The Roman" Falcone was largely regarded as the most powerful man in the city, and for good reason. Their long time rivals the Maronis had been largely subdued, though word on the street was Sal Maroni was simply biding his time, sharpening his knives. Roman Sionis rounded out the mafia trinity, his Black Mask gang having absorbed the remnants of Gotham's notorious Irish mob and a dozen other smaller gangs when they established themselves seven years prior. Sionis was a sadist by all accounts, wearing the gang's namesake ebony skull mask to intimidate his playthings. Between the three of them, the organizations controlled the vast majority of criminal turf in the city, with a few small pockets of independent crews carving out their petty kingdoms on the kingpins' scraps. Relative newcomer Oswald Cobblepot, the last scion of one of Gotham's fallen first families, had been making waves as a masterful smuggler and black market merchant, though his exact base of operations remained difficult to pin down. His diminutive stature and unfortunate appearance had earned him the derisive nickname of the Penguin from his competitors, but Cobblepot himself seemed to revel in his infamy, adopting the bird as his sigil. All four men were untouchable by the law, protected by veneers of legitimate businesses and packs of lawyers. Grimly, Bruce looked upon the reconnaissance photos he had taken of them, memorizing their faces; their times would come.

No, what concerned him more immediately was a scourge that had emerged in only the past few months. The Red Hood Gang, as they were called, was the product of a single man, their illusive leader known only as Red Hood One. Through blackmail and extortion, the mystery man had managed to build himself a crew of sleeper agents that stretched citywide, from the police and city government to the other mafias. His "recruits" were typically members of the upper and middle class; men and women with something to lose, Bruce thought as he scowled. The city's spike in the murder rate suggested a grim fate to those who refused this recruitment. Over the past four months, Red Hood One had managed to terrorize the city through kidnappings, blackmail, and robberies, all while keeping his own identity anonymous. Everyone from Falcone to the Penguin wanted him dead, but even with a target on his back a mile wide, Red Hood One's reign of terror was continuing.

"Not for long," the young man growled as his eyes flew over every report and photo he had managed to scrounge up; he had found his first target.

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

The white van's tires screeched like a banshee as the vehicle careened wildly through the city's streets, hooking turns and wild mergers that left many of its pursuers in the dust. Black sedans pursued it doggedly, hails of bullets flying forth from their passengers, glimpses of red masks and black suits peering out from tinted windows.

Hands locked in a white-knuckled grip to the wheel, a man with the shredded remains of a latex mask for a face worked the vehicle artfully. When the traffic lights ahead turned red and mired the streets in gridlock he mounted patches of the curb bare of pedestrians, pushing the machine to its limits as the battered shock absorbers and tortured suspension groaned their protests. He lighted down alleyways, the van's sides scraping buildings with the scream of battered metal and a shower of sparks. He left his pursuers trapped in traffic, stranded in backstreets, and crashing into buildings, but still they came.

You wanted to make an impression, the driver thought to himself with a dark humor. I'd say you have Red Hood One's attention. They're pulling out all the stops for this.

Banking another corner, Bruce Wayne cursed silently; the police, finally wise to the chase, had set up a roadblock at the end of the street. Time seemed to slow as his adrenaline rushed and his eyes flit wildly about his surroundings, searching for an escape. It was a one-way street, no alleys or cross streets in sight. The street had nothing but a coffee shop, a department store, some apartments and-

That will do, he thought as he spied the form of the aboveground parking complex. The bullets that shattered his driver's side mirror and the van's rear door shook him back to reality, though, and he spared a glance back at the four men huddled in the van's back, their eyes wild and panicked; men who had refused Red Hood One's "invitation" and had been in the process of being prepared for execution when he intervened.

"Hang on," he barked back at them before pitching the speeding van into a sharp right turn. "Thing's are going to get a bit bumpy!"

The van screeched in protest as he aimed it towards the parking complex's entrance and floored it. Smashing through the toll booth's guard arm like kindling, Bruce deftly steered the wobbling van towards the complex's ramp, his ascent at blistering speeds peppered with the kind of hairpin turns that left streaks on pavement as they reached each new floor, shaking stomachs and burning rubber.

"Master Bruce!" Alfred hollered at him via his earpiece. "What in God's name do you think you're-"

"Not now, base," came the growled reply as the younger man made tires squeal once more and rounded the final bend to the complex's rooftop level. In a heartbeat he took stock of his surroundings, their exit route chosen. He steered the speeding van towards the rooftop's far edge, a harbor-side construction site complete with a tower crane across the street from it. Slamming on the tortured brakes and working the wheel like an artist, he sent the skidding vehicle into a hard spin until at last it came to rest with a mighty thump. Its rear bumper scraped against the concrete barrier that separated it from open sky and the street below, its windshield facing the ramp the had just exited, and as Bruce dug through the loaded duffel bag that sat on the passenger side seat he could hear the cars of his pursuers climbing ever closer. Not much time, he thought, plan crystallizing in his mind's eye. Have to be quick.

Finding his prize, the would-be vigilante tossed a modified climber's harness and carabineers back to the dazed men in the van's rear.

"Strap in if you want to live," he commanded darkly, and not waiting for a response he set back to work, precious seconds ticking by. A small grey capsule was lobbed at the van's rear door, where it stuck with a metallic thump. Driver's window already shattered, he tossed a handful of black spheres out, blanketing the hood of the vehicle and the pavement around it. As the echoes of the Red Hood Gang's cars grew ever closer, he took two final items from the bag before zipping it tight, tossing it in the back, and ordering his passengers to clip it to the harness as well. He held the detonator in one hand, and the fruits of his latest tinkering project in the other. With a silent prayer, he hoped that the device would hold up under this unplanned field test, and then he waited.

He didn't have to wait long. Moments later a quartet of black sedans tore up the ramp and surrounded in a rough semi-circle, men and women in pristine black suits and shining red masks poring out from them. Weapons drawn, they trained them on the van. Fifteen blank red faces stared at him, a mix of high caliber pistols and, to his surprise, what looked like full assault rifles pointed straight at him. Red Hood is upping his game, Bruce thought grimly, but where is the bastard…

With a flourish a door on the final sedan opened, and the young man narrowed his brow as he laid eyes on his target. Compared to the more form fitting masks of his underlings, Red Hood One's own helm was a gaudy, tubular piece of work that glimmered in the dying sunlight, obscuring all but the wearer's mouth. His suit was pristine, white gloves gracing hands that were currently pulling an Uzi from his jacket. Bruce spared a glance back; the men were still strapping in, he needed more time.

"You know," the gang leader called out as he too trained his weapon on the offending van, "I've got to admit, you've got style, kid. That flip move back at the yard, stealing our van. Woo! Quite the rush." His exposed mouth pulled into a toothy grin. "I don't know where the hell you learned to drive, kiddo, but kudos! You've managed to throw a real wrench into our operations these past weeks, you know. You put up quite the chase, but you're at the end of the line now."

The mirth faded soon though, a sour smirk showing off crooked teeth. "I'm going to kill those men in there with all manner of creativity, and then, then I'm going to deal with you. And there's not a damn thing you can do about it. Want to know why?"

The masked man stepped forward, flinging his arms wide. "Because this city belongs to the Red Hood!"

Bruce spared a glance back; the former prisoners were as ready as they'd ever be. His grit his teeth. "Oh does it now," he whispered, before his thumb flicked the detonator.

With a sharp crack, the smoke bombs he'd scattered erupted into a thick black cloud before him and the charge he'd placed on the rear door threw it wide open.

"Open fire!" he heard Red Hood One scream, but by that point he was already in motion. Bullets whizzed through the black cloud and glass shattered as the young man dove to the back of the van, his final trick in one hand and the other working frantically to attach the other men's harness to the one he had worn beneath his jacket. A few seconds later, practically dragging the men with him, they were out of the van and standing at the building's edge. Another second later they were over it.

Alfred screamed through his earpiece, his passengers screamed, and the mind shrieked as it rushed past his ears, but he paid them no mind. Instead, he raised the grapnel gun he had spent the past few days perfecting, clipped it to the harness, aimed, and let it fly with a prayer. The claw struck true, latching tight to the crane's hook and all too soon the cable it had trailed behind it ran taut. Bruce struggled to keep himself and his passengers stable as the wide arc of the grapnel swung them away from the Hood's gunmen, out over the neighboring construction site, and then over the churned waters of the harbor itself. And then the cable snapped.

Plummeting once more, the young man could only watch as the darkened waters of the mouth of the Gotham River loomed ever closer.

This is going to hurt.

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Interlude: The Past

Rio de Janeiro

"This is insane, Miguel!"

Even over the roar of the engine and the blare of the sirens, the Brazilian bandit's laughter could be heard.

"Yes my boy, that is it precisely!" the man in the passenger's seat answered between cackles. "Precisely! Now hang left here!"

Bruce grit his teeth and obeyed, turning the steering wheel hard. The hotrod obeyed. The young man could feel his whole body leaning with the turn, and one of the police cruisers tailing them couldn't keep up, flipping into an out of control barrel roll.

"Miguel the cars we practiced with were-"

"Dull and plain, boy, I know! Gray pigeons!"

Bruce swerved hard to avoid a divider and grunted as he felt the force jolt up through his spine. "I was going to say inconspicuous," he shouted back at last, "but this monster…"

The young man caught a glimpse of their vehicle's reflection in the waterways next to the road, the rippling image travelling just as fast as they were; a hot pink sports car, its rear seats loaded with military hardware. He felt his throat grow dry, but he found his voice again even over the roar of Rio.

"All the tricks you've taught me over the past six weeks, color cover, crowd ducking; how do you expect me to lose them in this thing. The Brazilian cackled once again, and this time Bruce spared a glance to take in his teacher. Don Miguel's weathered brown face was peeled in a wide grin, his gold tooth glinting in the setting sun. Tinted sunglasses the same color as his tooth protected his eyes from dust as well as stray rays, and his curly mess of dark hair was thoroughly windswept.

"That's just it, Bruce! That is the lesson, the final one! I don't expect you to lose them, I expect you to thrill them!"

The young man couldn't believe his ears, but he glued his eyes back to the road; at these speeds, the slightest distraction could prove deadly.

"Thrill them," he screamed back, hands clinging to the wheel as if his life depended on it. "Don Miguel, they're policia! They're not here to be thrilled!"

Migeul reached forward from his languorous pose in the passenger's seat to flip a switch on the dashboard of his custom hotrod. Bruce tensed and prepared for what would come next; he had seen the man pull this trick several times before.

"Bruce," he started, his accent flavoring his English, " I once drove through the national gallery of Peru. Made off with fourteen million dollars in Incan artifacts with that dial," he punctuated his sentence by jabbing one grimy finger towards the speedometer, "never dropping below 30. My car was like a gold-plated mirror and a I had a statue of the sun god, Initi, in the passenger seat!" The man worked another dial on the dashboard, and the pressure gauge he had added a few nights prior began to rise. "Yet why did they not catch me, Bruce? Why? Because when they see a car like this, a car out of dreams, with a touch of magic to it…"

The pressure gauge fully filled, Don Miguel cracked his fingers, gave a wild grin, and pressed a red button. With a crack, the grappling hook mounted to the car's underside launched and latched on to a telephone pole at a street corner, swinging the speeding car into a turn that would have been impossible unaided, tires screeching and rubber burning. Don Miguel howled in triumph, raising his pistol and firing into the air as he laughed. At the last minute he pressed the switch again and the cable released, and it was all Bruce could do to swing the car back onto a straight path after the harrowing curve. Another police cruiser met its end as it attempted to follow them, only to careen wildly into the highway divider.

"They won't catch you," the bandit began, manic grin still plastering his face. "They won't catch you because deep down, they don't want to! Oh they'll chase you, to be sure, but they don't want to catch you. They want to believe."

As Bruce peered down the promenade ahead, a police blockade straddled the wide street with officers armed to the teeth.

"Could've fooled me," the student grunted back. Don Miguel simply laughed. Bruce had only known the man for a brief time, but it was plain to see that the infamous crook was an unrepentant adrenaline junkie; the man was actually enjoying this.

"Oh, don't be fooled by that, boy. They want you to break their little line, to keep the legend growing."

Smoothly the mocha-skinned man reached back into the car's rear seats and withdrew a rocket launcher from their pile of stolen weaponry. "Now," he said with a dark humor, tooth and glasses glinting in the sun as he shouldered the weapon and took aim. "Let us see if this little toy was worth stealing in the first place."

Internally, Bruce cursed; this had gone on long enough. With quick, agile motions his hands and feet worked in concert, shifting gears and throwing the car into a tight turn with a sudden lurch. The bump was enough to throw Don Miguel's new toy from his hands and out the side of the car.

"Idiot boy!" he exclaimed, his mouth twisted into a wild snarl. "Do you know how much that cost?! This is not the plan!"

Bruce couldn't help but give a slight smirk as he worked the wheel into another graceless tire-skidding turn, his path chosen.

"Yeah," his student answered him, aiming his vehicle towards the wide glass façade of the hotel ballroom, "afraid I'm more of an improviser."

The car's tires rumbled over the low steps of the terraced courtyard, thrumming up through the vehicle's frame and into its passengers.

"Slow down!" Miguel screamed, bullets of sweat beading on his brow. "You'll kill us both!"

He got no reply, and as the latticework window wall loomed ever closer he lapsed into a rapid mumbled prayer in Portuguese. The screaming hotrod met the glass with an almighty crash, piercing through the crystalline wall like a bullet, a hail of glimmering shards trailing in their wake. With every trick he had learned over the past few weeks, Bruce steered the car through the panicked ballroom as Rio's high society scrambled to get out of the way, pristine suits and evening gowns torn in their haste. He aimed towards the chamber's wide doors and gunned it.

"No," Don Miguel started, his dislodged glasses revealing wide eyes. "No, I have never been caught! I will never be caught! You idiot schoolboy I knew I should have-"

His rant was cut short by a right hook to the jaw, and the man crumpled like a doll. The student trained his hands back on the wheel immediately after, and cutting the wheel hard to the left and working the pedals like a madman he sent the vehicle into a wild screeching spin, burnt rubber staining pristine tile floors. Even skidding the final length of the way as it was, the car still struck the doors with enough force to shatter them like kindling, and the monstrous pink car roared into the hotel's lobby before slamming into a gilded faux Greco-Roman fountain.

When at last his head stopped ringing and he was able to disentangle himself from the airbag, Bruce spared a glance for Don Miguel even as his busy hands worked and unbuckling the seat belt.

"Thank you for your tutelage," he told the unconscious man in a low voice, finally free of the gaudy vehicle. "But you've killed twenty three police officers all across the continent over the past three years alone, and there are some things you don't get to run away from."

With that, on shaky feet a young Bruce Wayne ran past the hotel's shocked patrons and into the streets of Rio de Janeiro, disappearing into its growing shadows. Later, from a safe distance, he'd watch as the police walked the infamous Don Miguel out in handcuffs. The man had taught him much, but justice would be served, and it was with no small measure of pride that he watched as a maniac like Miguel was taken off the streets.

He left the city the next day.

And there's Chapter 1. Please let me know what you guys think, and see you next time.