#filed under; development

[stcrkisms]

When you’re your own biggest fan.

[shadcw-king]

Those Sauer Twins.

[thedcrk-knight]

Sorting Hat.

“Hmm... let’s take a look here. A few psychotic tendencies. Obsessive, a control-freak. Just hate it when things don’t go your way, do you? What sticks out is the moral code you’ve set for yourself. Quite relentless, could keep going until one foot is in the grave, but even then you’d just yank it out of the ground. Your pride is what’s going to get you in trouble, there’s handfuls of it in your head and it makes you b l i n d. You have the intelligence there, you can deduce problems and make connections and leaps where nobody else can. That’s going to help you in the long run, but don’t rely on that. Have some heart, trust your heart. Trust not only your instincts, but your mind, body, and soul alike.”

“You would t h r i v e in Slytherin, but that’s not the house you’d be happiest in. You’re not willing to take the turns that most Slytherins are. Nor the good, nor the bad ones. You’re brave, and can be reckless, but you don’t have that dash of Gryfindor-ness in your heart.  You have the patience, dedication, the loyalty and hard-work ethic. But, you don’t quite like to share, do you? Tut-tut, sharing is caring, little Raven. Sharing is caring.

“Do well to remember what I said you’re lacking in and perhaps one day you won’t feel so grim about yourself and the future of the world.”

[thedcrk-knight]

Let Darkness Come ↠ Self-Para.

He hadn’t been here when they put them in the wall. He’d ran off. He couldn’t watch them unload his parents like furniture into a stone wall with their names etched into it. And, dates too early than ever intended. 

He was eight years old. His father? Thirty-nine years old and his mother only thirty-five. Never to gain another year, she wouldn’t have to worry about turning forty. Not that he ever recalled his mother worrying about such a thing. She was beautiful and would always be so, a goddess on Earth. His father would always say that. He could recall the very last moment he’d said it to her. Over breakfast just a few short weeks ago. They’d been bantering and he’d called her a goddess just to get out of the gutter he found himself in after sticking his foot in his mouth.

He didn’t know what that expression meant. His mother had said it. She didn’t sound, she’d smiled and patted Bruce on the head. Told him to take pointers from the head of the table. He wasn’t sure if he ever picked up any pointers. He hoped he did, then maybe his father could live through him. That is what everyone kept saying. That his parents lived through him. They would comment how he had his mother’s nose. He had his father’s eyes. 

Nobody bothered to remember he had his mother’s smile. 

Because he hadn’t smiled. Not since moments before he heard his very first gun go off. Leaving him with nothing in the world but a pain in his chest that isn’t going away and tears that have made everything taste so bitter and disgusting.

That pain slowly evolved into anger and before he knew what he was doing, his fist was ramming into the stone wall next to the tombs. Over and over again until his his knuckles and fingers were no longer white, but a striking dark red. A flex of his hand and a disgusting cracking sound confirmed one was out of place, if not broken. He didn’t feel that, though. Just the same pain that made him feel like a goddamn shell.

He didn’t realize Alfred was at his side until he felt the stinging sensation that came from the soap seeping into the small cuts along his fists. If the man had said anything up until then, Bruce didn’t hear it. His eyes had clouded and that was the only change. His eyes confirmed it was late. The last of the blood on his knuckles seemed black from the lack of light. The bats would come out soon. His parents were buried in a cave. It was either this or in the ground and he decided to take the lesser of two evils. 

As Alfred stood up and moved to the door to open it, Bruce knew that was code for ‘come along, it’s getting late’. He wasn’t one to defy an order, even a silence one. But, a few more seconds he could bare. His eyes bore into the freshly words ‘Martha’ and ‘Thomas’. 

“I’m gonna kill him,” he whispered but it echoed through the tomb. Of course Alfred heard it, but he chose not to comment. “I’m going to take that gun and I’m -- I’m gonna shoot, I’m gonna shoot him right in the face and then in the heart and the stomach and -- and --” he stopped as the words turned to sobs. 

His knees buckled but they didn’t hit the floor. He was against Alfred’s chest and the man was soothingly running a hand up and down his back. Like his father used to. The tears were falling and the blur had gotten so bad, he didn’t even get a chance to watch them walk away from the stones or the grave house that now held his parents.

[thedcrk-knight]

Bruce’s childhood was nowhere near normal.  Whether it be the money, his parents dying, being raised by a butler, or traveling the world from twelve and surrounding his life by fantasies of revenge for his parents. 

When he was born, he was a surprise to his mother, Martha. She had, at first, thought she couldn’t get pregnant. Her and her husband was happy and feeling blessed that they finally got the chance to be the parents they’d always wanted to be. Despite having all the money in the world (figuratively), they tried to raise Bruce unspoiled. They wanted him to understand that he got nothing but laying around. They wanted to instill hard-work into their son, which caused the boy to earn his allowance as soon as he began receiving one by doing chores alongside their butler, Alfred Pennyworth.

They were, sadly, killed when Bruce was only eight years old and the traumatic event changed him completely. He became withdrawn, he stopped believing in a better world around him. He became consumed with fantasies of revenge. It worried his surrogate father, Alfred, but there wasn’t much to be done about it. When he was just twelve, he began traveling around the world in search of a purpose for life. Seeking experts in many fields and training himself mentally and physically. 

He studied at Cambridge, the Sorbonne, many other famous European universities. A man named Henri Ducard taught him man-hunting, a ninja named Kirigi taught him stealth, an African bushman trained him in the art of the hunt, and Nepalese monks taught him healing. Furthering him from the definition of normal.

[thedcrk-knight]

“I work alone.” “Thanks, Dick.” “Thanks, Barbara.” “Thanks, Tim.” “I’m not a team player.” “Thanks, Justice League.”