Chapter Text
25 years earlier
bRuCE. wAKe UP. iT Is TiMe.
Confused and a little disoriented, Bruce blinks his eyes open. "Alfred?"
He looks around and frowns. There's no one here. But he thought he heard someone call his name… and if not Alfred, then who - or what - woke him up? As Bruce looks around his room a second time, more slowly, he still finds nothing unusual waiting for him in the darkness. It all looks the same. Same desk, same dresser, same collection of books.
The house is quiet around Bruce, except for the rain prattling against the window. Nothing is out of place as the full moon shines bright through the clouds and onto his desk in the corner, illuminating the mountains of homework he's been ignoring for the past few months.
Sighing, Bruce sits up, rubbing his eyes. Confronted with this reminder of his daily life, he's suddenly not so tired anymore. The ever present anger is burning in his gut again, making him restless. He stares at his desk and the voice of his teacher echoes in his ears, talking about how he needs to apply himself and stop fighting with the other students so much. How it’s been years since his parent’s death, how he's throwing away his future and that his parents wouldn't have wanted that for him.
Bruce's lip curls in disgust, fists gripping his sheets tightly. His parents wouldn't have wanted to get shot by a petty thief either. They wanted to live. They had so many plans, so many things they wanted to do and see. Hopes and dreams they wanted to realize. And all of that was taken from them in a single night. Taken from them by a selfish man who didn't value life, who thought violence and crime were the answer to his problems and in the process destroyed everything Bruce held dear.
A man who is still at large because of a failing justice system and a police force that can’t do its job right. But of course Bruce's teacher didn't want to hear any of that. He just wanted Bruce to get over it and stop being inconvenient. He wanted him to forget.
Gritting his teeth, Bruce tries to breathe through the rage flaring brighter in his gut with every passing second, but he can't control it. He doesn’t really know how and lately he’s found he doesn’t really want to anymore. The need to lash out, to punish someone for his pain, for the injustice of his parents' murder, someone who deserves it, is too strong. He needs to hurt .
The thought scares Bruce. Enough that he’s closing his eyes and tries the breathing exercises Alfred taught him, but it's no use. He hasn't been able to shake the rage for three years now. If anything, it's only gotten worse. He doubts he's going to shake it now, is afraid it’s always going to be a part of him, demanding an outlet.
Unfortunately, it's the middle of the night and there are no schoolyard bullies around for him to beat up, to scratch the itch.
bRuCE.
COmE tO uS.
Bruce's head snaps up, heart nearly stopping as he listens out into the darkness, eyes frantically searching his room, but there’s nothing there . Fear and shock creep up his spine, freeze him in place. It's that voice again. The one that woke him up. And it sounds so close… Or rather they do - because it’s not just a single voice; it’s more like a whole choir of them. A choir of inhuman voices that inexplicably know his name and are calling for him from somewhere nearby without being visible...
Bruce swallows thickly and draws his knees to his chest. Is he still dreaming? He has to be. Nightmares are all he ever has so this shouldn’t freak him out so much. He’s used to them. But this feels different somehow. This feels real.
He sits on his bed, listening intently as his heart pounds against his ribs, but all he can hear is the wind and rain outside his window and the old house creaking as it’s battered by the elements. The voices sounded so close a moment ago. And Bruce would have to see them if there was someone in his room, right? The moon is so bright… Bruce's thoughts stop in their tracks. Maybe he's finally losing his mind completely, but how can there be moonlight in his room when there’s a storm raging outside? He looks out his window. The moon isn’t even visible! He takes a shaky breath. Maybe the never ceasing rage finally took its toll and now he's lost it. Alfred will be so disappointed if he has to send Bruce to Arkham Asylum.
bRuCE.
wE caN HeLP yOU. jUsT foLLoW uS. tRusT Us.
Bruce shudders. His room still lies empty around him and yet the voices are whispering directly into his ear, clear as the rain and wind outside. The sourceless moonlight moves suddenly and a second later it reaches his bed, stretching its silvery fingers over the covers until it touches Bruce’s bare foot. Bruce scrambles backwards, desperate to get away, but the light is faster, and in the end he can only look on in horror as it happens. The light touches him, seeps inside his skin, traveling up his leg…
Bruce breathes in deep, ready to scream for help, but the fear is gone all of a sudden, replaced by a strange calm and the urge to follow the voices to their source.
In his mind's eye he sees a cave, dark and cold, with detail and clarity that should be impossible. Stalactites hang from the vaulted ceiling and stalagmites reach up from the ground to meet them. A small waterfall gurgles in the far corner and a soft looking carpet of moss covers the stones near the cave’s entrance. Bruce can hear the hundreds of creatures flitting around the space in the near impenetrable darkness he somehow still manages to see through.
It should be scary, terrifying even. But it isn't. The sight fills Bruce with a sudden peace he hasn't felt in years. Not since the night his parents died. And before he knows what he's doing he's already out of bed and through the door, following that feeling down the hallway and towards the backdoor. It feels a lot like hope, and that thought has his heart racing in fear of a different kind. Hope is a dangerous thing; Bruce has learned that the hard way.
Yes, bRuCE. Come. YOU NEED US. We NEED you. Come.
Bruce obeys and follows the voices out onto the sodden grounds, towards the old well on the eastern side of the property. The one his father boarded up when Bruce was little so that he wouldn't hurt himself.
wE cAN cHAngE GOTHAM. mAKe iT SaFE. Bring JUSTICE. cOMe to Us.
The words awaken a yearning in Bruce's heart the likes of which he has never felt before. A safe Gotham. A Gotham where children don't have to grow up without their parents, where people can walk at night without fear. A Gotham without crime or violence.
Bruce wants it so bad he can taste it. It's the first thing besides rage he's felt in three years, the first feeling strong enough to pierce the grief and anger poisoning his soul like a festering wound.
When he finally reaches the well Bruce is sopping wet and by now the voices have become a constant stream in his mind, echoing and overlapping until the individual words are indistinguishable from one another. Reaching them is all Bruce can think about.
He begins to claw at the wooden boards keeping the well closed with his bare hands, fingers numb from the cold and the rain, but he barely feels it. Barely feels the splinters embedding themselves in his flesh, the way the withered wood scrapes the skin of his palms raw until his blood mixes with the rain.
The volume of the voices is deafening now, drowning out every other sound and filling Bruce with urgency, and when he finally pulls the last board free the need to finally reach the cave overwrites everything else. He has to reach them, whoever they are. Bruce doesn't know and he doesn't know why they want to see him but he also doesn't care. It's not important. All that matters right now is reaching the bottom of the well, reaching hope.
So Bruce jumps, or falls - he's not sure. Either way, it's exactly what his father feared would happen all those years ago when he sealed the well. There's no pain when Bruce hits the ground, but he knows there should be. He knows he has twisted his ankle and that there are scrapes and bruises all over his body, but he doesn’t feel any of it.
He doesn't feel anything.
Not the pain, not the cold, not his wet pajamas clinging to his skin, or the mud between his naked toes. Nothing but a weird sense of anticipation, of rightness. Like he is exactly where he should be. Where he belongs .
YEs! wE WiLL tAkE cARe oF yOU. bRuCE. WE ARE ONE NOW, you and us. We WILL tAkE CaRe oF yOU.
The words are spoken directly into Bruce's ear and as he turns to face the speaker, silence falls over him. Deafening, impenetrable silence that seems to steal Bruce's breath. Suffocate him, just like the darkness all around him. His breaths are coming faster now as the anticipation builds, and he turns on the spot, trying to see what he came here to find.
And then Bruce hears it. A rushing sound. Almost… almost like wings, thousands of them, all racing towards him. Heart beating in his throat, he stares harder into the dark, squinting his eyes, but it's no use. He can't see anything. There’s no source of light down here. The strange moonlight didn’t follow him and he doubts even that could reach this far down. The darkness doesn’t feel natural.
A cold draft suddenly hits Bruce, blows his damp hair back from his face and makes him shiver in his wet clothes, right before a high-pitched screech pierces the air, followed by several others. Terror grips his heart with icy claws, and he screams. The sounds converge into one, echoing off of the walls. The draft becomes a whipping wind, pulling and pushing at Bruce as he screams until his throat is raw.
bRuCE wAYnE! wE aRe OnE nOW. We ArE tHe nIGht. wE aRe jUStiCE. WE ARE VENGEANCE!
The voices are everywhere, surrounding him, trapping him and Bruce's chest feels too tight. He can't breathe, his heart isn't beating and each and every one of his nerve endings lights up in agony unlike anything he’s ever felt. He knows he's still screaming, but his voice doesn't sound like his own anymore. It’s a part of the choir now.
Vengeance. Justice.
It's all he wanted for the past three years, all he's yearned for, all he could think about every hour of every day. He needs it like he needs air to breathe. Maybe even more.
So he surrenders. Opens himself to the pain, opens his mind, lets the darkness in, welcomes it and allows it to consume him completely until everything else falls away and he's not just Bruce anymore. Until he's something else, something more.
And then he loses consciousness.
When Bruce next blinks his eyes open, he's lying in his own bed once more, but this time it's sunlight streaming in through his window. His entire body is sore, his throat hurts and he's incredibly dizzy. Everything is spinning. He takes a calming breath. The voices, the well, the cave… was that all just a dream?
But then why is he feeling like he's been run over by a truck?
"Bruce! Oh thank the heavens, my boy, you’re awake! How are you feeling?"
"Alfred?" Bruce frowns, confused now. Alfred never just calls him by his first name and he sounds almost frantic with worry. Bruce sits up and looks around. His head hurts too. Actually, everything hurts, but he forces himself to ignore the pain.
His eyes find Alfred standing at the window next to his bed, as if he was just looking outside when Bruce woke up. Weak sunlight is streaming in through the window. For some reason Bruce shies away from it.
"What happened?", he asks, rubbing his forehead, and Alfred’s expression darkens.
"What happened? Why, I should ask you that very same question, young man! Do you have any idea how worried I was? You've been unconscious for hours! Hours, Bruce! If the surveillance cameras hadn't caught you going out… What on earth were you thinking, wandering the grounds in the middle of the night, and during a storm no less?! You are lucky you didn’t fall to your death, Bruce! I was worried sick!"
Bruce's heart sinks into the pit of his stomach and he quickly looks down at his bandaged hands and feet. So it was real. He really did fall down the well. But what about the rest of it? The moonlight and the– the voices? Did he really hear them, whatever they were? And what does it mean if he did? Is he going crazy? How does a person know if they’re losing their mind? It's not like he can just ask Alfred about it. He probably wouldn't even believe him.
he would. because we can show it to him.
Bruce flinches violently at the voice, now sounding crystal clear, and somehow he knows it’s coming from inside his own head this time. His breathing is getting shallow. It's the same voice he heard last night, but he doesn't have time to think about it because as soon as the… creature’s words register Bruce’s face begins to feel hot. His teeth start to ache, his eyes burn and all of a sudden the world around him is way too bright. Everything looks like he's seeing it through heat-vision goggles, like in the old spy movies Alfred likes so much, and Bruce's hearing is much sharper as well. He thinks he can actually hear the mice moving up in the attic, Alfred’s upticking heartbeat...
Panic grips him. He has no idea what's going on and the shocked gasp from Alfred tells him that whatever changes he can feel are very much visible too. What is happening to him?!
"Dear Lord! What have you done, Bruce?", whispers Alfred, face deathly pale. He looks more scared than Bruce has ever seen him and that in and of itself is terrifying. Alfred is never scared, not of anyone or anything. He’s the bravest man Bruce knows.
" What do you mean? ", asks Bruce, and his eyes widen in shock. That's not his voice! It's someone else's, something else's. What the hell is going on? Tears gather in his eyes. He doesn't understand. He doesn't – why did he have to go to that stupid well?
"Tell me what happened, Bruce. All of it. Leave nothing out." Alfred's voice is commanding, stern and intense, but collected, steady, like the eye of the storm. Bruce clings to it. Alfred stands in front of the window like an Admiral on his ship, backlit by the sun, and the image helps Bruce calm his own nerves. Alfred always knows what to do. He'll know how to help. So Bruce takes a deep breath and tells him everything. Alfred's face turns even paler with every word.
"A spirit possession", he murmurs faintly, clearly shocked when Bruce is done with his tale. "There hasn't been a spirit possession since the late fifteenth century. They were supposed to be more myth than anything else, a tale to frighten children.” Alfred shakes his head, a little disbelieving. “It seems, Master Bruce, that you have somehow managed to write history last night and have gotten yourself possessed."
Alfred swallows audibly as he takes a careful step closer to Bruce and sits down on the bed. Bruce's heart pounds in his chest. He feels ill. He's read about spirit possessions before, in school, but the books always said it's a medieval superstition meant to explain natural phenomena. The books said spirits aren’t real.
Alfred lays a comforting hand on top of Bruce's. His face is serious. Well, more serious than usual, which is saying something. "It’s going to be alright, my dear boy. I promise you we will get through this, don’t you worry. Do you perhaps know what kind of spirit it is, Master Bruce? Has it talked to you since last night? There is a lot of research to be done and the more you can tell me now the better."
Grateful for Alfred’s unwavering support, Bruce grips his guardian's hand and holds on tight. "It did talk to me. It... It said we are vengeance now and justice, and that we would make Gotham safe again. It– it looked like a bat, Alfred, and earlier... Earlier it said we could show you what happened and then I started to feel different."
Alfred nods, face grim. His thumb strokes over the back of Bruce’s hand. "You do look different, my boy. I fear… I fear we may have to take you out of school. At least until we know exactly what is going on."
Bruce's stomach lurches. Sure, he hadn’t taken school seriously in a while now. After his parents’ death it just didn’t seem important, nothing did. But dropping out completely? And this suggestion from Alfred? Who usually spends hours every day lecturing Bruce on the importance of his education? How different does he really look if Alfred thinks he can’t leave the house? Suddenly, Bruce has to know.
He quickly throws the covers back, scrambles out of bed and runs into his bathroom. His ankle sends searing stabs of pain up his entire leg as he runs, but he doesn’t stop until he stands in front of the mirror. Bruce catches sight of himself and stares at his reflection in abject horror. A scream builds and dies in his throat.
His eyes have turned a glowing blood-red color and there is no distinct pupil or iris visible anymore nor any white surrounding them. Everything is just that horrifying red. But that’s not the only change. Bruce’s face looks pale and sunken in, except for the dark, almost black shadows surrounding his eyes. His cheekbones are sharp and more pronounced and the skin around his hairline has turned a leathery black, like that of a bat. Claws are tipping his fingers, and now that he’s paying attention he can feel talons extending from his toes, too. To top it all off, huge black wings have sprouted from his back, framing his body and as he stares, the shadows in the room seem to gather around him, swirling like smoke and sucking all the light away, hiding him among them.
Bruce’s heart hammers in his chest.
He’s a monster.
not a monster. just scary. evil will fear us. we punish them. hurt them. bring VENGEANCE. JUSTICE.
The words penetrate the fog of fear clouding Bruce’s brain, and give him pause. "We can do that?", he whispers, and the fear is momentarily drowned out by hope. The same dangerous hope that filled him last night when he first followed the voices into the darkness. The hope to finally be able to make a difference in the world. "We can really save people like this? Protect them?"
If that’s true, they could avenge his parents' deaths, make sure nothing like that will ever happen to anyone else. If that’s true, looking like a monster will be worth it. A price Bruce will happily pay.
"we will avenge them. protect others. bring justice." Bruce’s lips move, but it’s not his own voice that answers him. It’s the Bats. Bruce grins at his reflection, revealing a row of razor-sharp teeth, almost like a shark’s but longer, slimmer. Maybe this possession is the best thing that happened to him in a long while.
"Not without proper training you will not."
Bruce whirls around to face Alfred, who's standing in the doorway, arms crossed. He sniffs. "I know I can’t stop you, Master Bruce, but I will not let you out of here unprepared. Before any avenging happens we will gather what information we can about your spirit. Then we will ascertain that you are in full control of yourself and that you do not pose a threat to anyone. If you still feel the need to bring justice to Gotham after that I will personally train you, but we have to proceed with caution. I will not stand by and watch you get yourself killed.”
There is a fire in Alfred’s eyes Bruce has never seen there before. Not since his parents’ funeral and even then it hadn’t been like this. Bruce stares, his glowing red eyes wide. “You would help me with that? But you always say I need to let go of these feelings, that I need to move on…”
Alfred’s mien softens, something like sadness entering his gaze and nearly extinguishing the fire. “And that advice has not helped you in the slightest. I don’t see any harm in trying something different if it will bring you peace. Besides, you are my ward, Master Bruce. My responsibility. No matter what it is, we either do it together or not at all. Am I making myself clear?"
At a loss for words, tears burning in his transformed eyes, Bruce runs at Alfred, throws his arms around his middle and hugs him tight.
we listen to him. friend. ally.
"Family,” corrects Bruce and buries his face in Alfred’s chest. “We’re family.”
"That we are, my boy, that we are. Now, don't you worry. Everything will be alright. I will be with you every step of the way."
Bruce believes him.
And so does the Bat.