The Batman: Episode 1

If you ask those who know the story how the Batman came to be they'd tell you that a child witnessed his parents killed before his eyes. That's not the truth, though. That's why the Batman came to be, the how is different. The Batman was conceived that night, the Batman became a nameless, faceless idea. Incubating in the back of Bruce's mind as a bringer of justice, his own brand, bother above and compliant with the law. 

How he became that idea is a different story, maybe one that isn't as tragic. A story that wasn't of glory, but a great man torn between becoming everything he hated. A story of the first of the great shame that this man would shoulder for there would be more. This is the story of the beginning of an empire, a franchise, a symbol of counter-culture and justice. 

This is the story of the Batman.

EPISODE 1: Happy Birthday
The day of his eighteenth birthday was spent on the side of a snow capped Korean mountain, it was also coincidentally the end of the first part of his quest. The snow under his boots crunched, the black muffler he wore was pulled tight over the bottom half of his face, the remainder of it caught the wind as did the fur along the brim of the hood that fended Bruce from being buffeted with hail and snowflakes. The winter outside of his coat was enough to kill the average man in a matter of hours if he weren't properly clothed and prepared to weather it.

Bruce Wayne was no average man, though, and such was not the circumstance.

Gripping the goggles over his eyes, he pulled them back as he rounded the narrow ridge, what his eyes beheld on the other side of the mountain was uncanny and astounding all at once. Built within the mountainside was a mansion, the sun setting on the other side of the mountain allowed Bruce to see that there were lights on in the mansion, meaning there was electricity. Sliding down the slope and onto the small plateau that was about ten yards wide that went around the front of the mansion that stuck out from the mountainside, he peeled back his hood.

Bruce couldn't lie to himself, when he was asked here by a mysterious benefactor that sent David Cain and a small lot of assassins after him as a 'test', he was expecting an almost stereotypical log cabin in the middle of nowhere. The man's eyes winced to a pinch at the frigid winds hitting him in the face. Lumbering sluggishly through the snow, he approached the almost eerily misplaced mansion and pressed the doorbell.

Beside the door frame were two long windows, a figure looked through the one to Bruce's left, then opened the door. A short man stood there of Asian descent, the smell Bruce noted as teriyaki suggested that he was Japanese. The wrinkles around his eyes and forehead placed him at about fifty or sixty years old, he could tell by the loafer slippers, his slacks and designer v-neck that he was living rather lavishly and not only did he have a large home hidden in the side of a mountain but he had the finest things within.

"Can I help you?" The old man asked, his eyes narrowing behind the glasses he had on. 

"<I am looking for Kirigi. Does he reside here?>" Bruce asked in fluent Korean. 

"<You think I lived in South Korea over ten years and haven't bothered to learn the language? You should figure out new and more creative ways of finding out what you want to know.>" The old man responded in Korean, showing how sharp he was. He didn't wait for "<I don't enjoy speaking in mutt's tongue, though. You know Japanese, I'm sure.>"

"...Hai." The baffled young Bruce replied. "<I take it you're Kirigi.>"

"<One of many names I've gone by.>" The old man's body language became stiff, adamant, Bruce could tell just by looking at his hands and posture that this man could kill him within the blink of an eye. Bruce didn't show it, though. 

"<About three weeks ago I was advised that I should come see you...that I should learn from you-->"

"You climbed this peak, found my home that's hidden in seclusion at another man's whim. Begone, I do not teach followers." Kirigi went to close the door when Bruce placed his hand against it, keeping it open.

"I came here for me, Kirigi-sama."

"What did they offer you to come here?" Asked the old man. Bruce paused and remained silent, the howling wind clawed at his face which was reddened by the breeze. "We are done here." Kirigi went to close the door again.

"The killer." Bruce spoke out just as the door was swinging shut. The latch didn't clasp shut like Bruce was certain it would, the door slowly opened again. "My parents were murdered. They promised me they'd help find the killer. They said they were close."

"And this is what you seek to sell your soul for?"

"No," Bruce pulled back his hood, his brow creased. "I came to prepare to deny them." 

"Come in." Kirigi said, opening the door. "Take off your coat." 

Bruce stepped inside, unzipping his coat and stepping inside the lavish home. In the background there was Enka music playing in surround sound speakers that ran throughout the house. The architecture was a mixture of Edo period Japan and modernism, the sliding doors were tiled, windowed off with paper, but operated on motion sensors. The design was crisp, straight, patterned in squares and circles from the Tatami matting. 

Once his coat was removed, Kirigi struck--

His arm lanced out, grasping the coat, ripping it from the unsuspecting young man's grip--

Bruce went to defend himself, in his heart he believed these were his final moments, he would never see Alfred again--

His second hand came as quick as lightning, Bruce narrowly evaded it and quite possibly head trauma--

Like a orchestrated and complex dance, Bruce tried to gain his footing, but Kirigi was much too fast, he wouldn't allow the young man to move a step further into his home. It was a feint that cost Bruce this skirmish, Kirigi moved in with his left, used the momentum to swing downward. His heel struck like a scorpion's tail, moving backward and up and over his inclined body.

The stunned Bruce staggered out the door--

"Go home." Kirigi demanded in a droned tone, as if he was uninterested in the fight and Bruce altogether. Bruce didn't even have a chance to regain himself, the door slammed shut in his face and he was left out in the cold without his coat. Night was quickly approaching, even if it were daybreak, he wouldn't make it down the mountain without his coat. He didn't panic, he knelt on the ground, crossed his arms and began meditating.

His only hope was that this stranger change his mind, take him in, or at least give him his coat back.


Three Weeks Ago
London, England
Bruce Wayne's flat was silent save for the sounds of a duffle being unzipped and stuffed, bacon sizzling in the kitchen downstairs. Outside his window the morning sun peered over the skyline of London. Bruce was in his room, folding and placing articles of clothing into his sack.

"You're packing." Alfred stated callously from the doorway of Bruce's bedroom, watching the closest thing he had to a son fold clothing into a his bag. "Am I allowed to ask where you're going or will I receive another vague answer?"

"I'm not sure." Bruce replied, being completely truthful with his butler. "London has gotten tiresome."

"Paris, then?" Alfred casually mocked, lifting the shirt Bruce tossed into the hamper to properly place it inside when he noticed the horrifying stains spattered across it.

"You're going back to Gotham." Bruce bluntly said, pulling the straps on his sack before lifting it off the bed and placing it on the floor. "I ran into an old friend, they say they're sniffing around for the guy who shot mother and father. You remember David, right?"

Alfred's eyes widened, his blood came to a boil at the mention of David's name.

"Listen, master Bruce--" Alfred's voice suddenly became strong, "I will no longer put up with these---shenanigans, young man! I accompany you on this journey halfway across the world, I follow you around Europe--for what? For you to fall in with killers and criminals?! It's nothing less than tragic what happened to your parents, I know, but you have to let go, my boy..."

"I can't." Bruce looked to Alfred, a pained expression washed over the young man's face. Alfred placed his gloved hands upon Bruce's shoulders, pulling the young man into an embrace, squeezing him tight. Every time Bruce got into trouble as a child, he'd kneel before the young man and hold him, even before his parents were gunned down. Thomas Wayne was far from affectionate, he loved Bruce with a firm voice, at arms length. Alfred was always there to console Bruce after getting in trouble when his mother wasn't.

Now he looked up at the young man who he used to kneel before to embrace. He'd grown taller than Alfred when he wasn't looking. He'd raised the boy since the death of his parents, doing the best he could, and now Bruce was making the decision to run with death dealers. He couldn't help but wonder where he went wrong, if there was something he could have done to have prevented this course for Bruce.

"They would not want this for you."

"They're not here." 

"I don't want this for you." Alfred shook Bruce, clenching his teeth. What Bruce was looking to dive into was a life of killing and Alfred had taken a life or two in his day. It wasn't something one could come back from, it wasn't something that one could simply shrug off in the morning. It kept Alfred up some nights.

"I need this, Alfred." 


Now
Undisclosed Location, South Korea
Bruce felt a warmth at his back that brought him from his meditation, he wasn't sure exactly how much time had passed but his internal clock told him he'd been sitting there in that same spot a week or so. The only reason he hadn't starved or keeled over was the meditation techniques he'd picked up on a trip to India over summer break. 

"Stand." Kirigi said, Bruce turned his head, looking at the old man through the corner of his eye. He was wearing Bruce's coat, standing there with his hands in the pockets. Bruce sighed, his breath visible on the air, melting the flakes of snow that happened across his miraculously warm breath. The famished young Bruce made his way to his feet, pulling the muffler down from his face to speak. 

Before he could even get a word out, Kirigi attacked--

A blow to the stomach knocked the wind from Bruce's lungs--

Kirigi kicked his leg up, driving his knee into his hunched over opponent's chest, delivering him sliding toward the ledge. Below was an endless plummet, the clouds that were gathered and the snowfall obscured any sort of 'bottom' to it.

"Hh--!!" Bruce hung halfway off the edge of the cliff, the snow at his neck made him realize he'd lost his muffler. Turning, he saw Kirigi heading back inside with the muffler wrapped around his neck. The latch clicked shut behind him and Bruce was yet again facing death. He returned to meditating, this time he sat before the door, facing the home. 

Two days passed and Kirigi emerged from his home, wearing Bruce's coat and muffler. The meditating man stood, he suspected that this was another attack, and he was correct in thinking so. They danced a deadly dance on the ledge, their punches were so fast that any unsuspecting onlooker would miss it. Bruce was weak, though. He hadn't eaten a proper meal in over a week, he'd been surviving on nuts and rations and meditation, he was freezing. Also, to put it simply this man was better at fighting. He stood no chance like this. So when the fight was over and Bruce was flat on his back, Kirigi retreated back to his home, this time with the young man's gloves, backpack and the thinner coat he had on underneath the larger one.

Now down to nothing but his boots, slacks and an undershirt, he clenched his teeth, dropped to his knees and began meditating once more. This time he clasped his hands together, he hadn't prayed in so long, not since he was a child, but he did so now. In two days, Kirigi returned, and the dying Bruce put up his best fight, but it wasn't enough, this time Kirigi, who was wearing the backpack, the coats, the gloves and everything else he'd taken from Bruce left Bruce with nothing. He took every scrap of clothing he had and retreated to his mansion, leaving Bruce in the buff, face down in the snow. 

This was how Bruce Wayne was going to die.

Slowly.

In Korea.

Alone.

He'd fought off hypothermia for far too long, He could feel the painful numbness in his extremities, creeping, claiming him. There was no breaking into the home, it was fortified, the windows were bulletproof, there wasn't a fault or flaw in the home, no way in or out but that door. That door that he retreated to every time. Beyond that door was warmth and life, Bruce stared at the door, longing, almost lustfully.

Succumbing to delirium. 

Dying.

Slowly.

Kirigi awoke two days later, flicking on the light to his bedroom. On the floor were Bruce's belongings, his backpack, his coats and pants. The nude old man slipped each article of clothing on one by one, a smile painted across his wrinkled lips. Trotting down the stairs and to the front lobby of his expansive home, he went for the door, opening it, but for the first time since he's been coming out here, taunting Bruce by wearing his belongings he came to find that Bruce wasn't just sitting there. 

He stepped forward a few steps, figuring Bruce curled up and died against one of the rocks on the ledge--

A figure dropped down behind him--

The sound of bare feet in cold snow alerted Kirigi--

It was far too late, the desperate Bruce wrapped an arm around Kirigi's neck, a sharpened icicle was pressed against the old man's throat.

"Ah...aaahhh." Kirigi's smile was that of a father laying eyes on the fruit of his labor. Proud of what he created; a man driven mad by desperation.

"No sudden moves." His voice was that of grinding gravel, haunting, made raw by the freezing cold air that he'd been breathing these two weeks. 

"Kill me." Said Kirigi, "Do it."

"I don't kill." Bruce whispered in a growl. 

"You have a weapon to my neck and you just told me you don't kill? I've given you your greatest weapon and still you have so much to learn." Kirigi laughed, he suddenly craned his neck, bashing the back of his skull into Bruce's nose. Bruce's body disobeyed him, went limp. Weakness in his limbs allowed Kirigi to knock him off his feet, he landed in the doorway, flat on his back. 

"Greatest weapon?" Blood trickled from Bruce's nostrils. He watched Kirigi approach, unstrapping and pulling the gloves from his fingers.

"Preparation, boy." Kirigi offered his hand, Bruce was unsure as to whether this was another trap. His head was spinning, he could barely feel anything. The numbness hurt too much for him to move, he reached for the hand and Kirigi took it. He helped Bruce too his feet, hoisting the young man's arm around his neck, supporting him as he guided him into the large den area. "You think that they sent you here to be trained to kill, but the truth is...they sent you here to be killed." 

Bruce's eyes fell shamefully onto the tatami mats below his heels. Kirigi helped Bruce sit in front of a fireplace, flipping the switch, the fake logs behind the screen were lit aflame. 

"You lasted a week on meditation. You were most persistent...I will not lie, when I went and took your clothing the first two or so times I actually meant to speed along the process..." Kirigi said, he took a thick comforter blanket and draped it over Bruce's shoulders. "Then I realize why exactly you were sent to die here by a man you've probably never met."

"I have and haven't." The half-dead young man replied.

Two Weeks Ago,
Undisclosed Location, Saudi Arabia
Before Korea he was in Saudi Arabia. He was taken to a camp out in the desert, secluded from society. A camp of men and women that wielded swords and guns and answered to a man that they blindly followed. They called themselves the League of Assassins, at least that's what it loosely translated from Arabic. The leader of this cell of killers was aptly named "Darrk", a man who sat upon a throne carved of rock deep inside a cave where light refused to reach.

"Why me?" Bruce asked, the torchlight flickered, a cabal of death dealers stood around Darrk's throne in a half circle. "Why is there such interest in my parents and their murders?"

"I'm American, if you couldn't tell." Darrk replied, "Out here in this desert, news that isn't relevant doesn't reach this far out. I was a doctor back in America...I attended school with your father. He was an old friend." Darrk admitted, the man's features were submerged in darkness. Bruce couldn't make out who Darrk was or if he'd ever met him before. "He made efforts to bring Western medicine here to Saudi Arabia at my behest. It's how I eventually wound up here." 

"Running a den of murderers."

"Terrorist, murderers, killers. Why label things, Mr. Wayne?" Darrk asked, "Because we don't adhere to your idea of morality?"

"Why was I asked here? What is it you want from me?"

"I see potential in you, Bruce. Learned, capable of handling some of my finest men...but still so much potential." Darrk stroked his shadowy chin, "I want to bring you into the fold. There's people I want you to see, first, though."

His first assignment was to see Kirigi, a Japanese man who served in a secret ninja unit during the Korean war and stayed behind, defecting from Japan and becoming a teacher of sorts. Bruce left that cave knowing the man he had just spoken to wasn't the one that had interest in him, Darrk was merely a figurehead, a mouthpiece of sorts for someone who didn't want to be seen.