A DC / Batman What If:
What if Bruce wasn’t the bio son of Martha and Thomas Wayne? What if Bruce wasn’t even human?
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It was a heartbreaking day when Martha and Thomas Wayne had found out that Martha was infertile and could never bare children. Thomas’ heart ached from the broken wails of his distraught wife. God, he hated this. He wished he could do something to alleviate her sorrow, but had no clue how. He walked down the halls of the hospital until he arrived at an open air balcony. Leaning over the railing he sighed and lit up a cigarette, the glow of the match and the burning of the embers shown dim in the fading light of day. He puffed at his cig and breathed out a billowing cloud of smoke, lost deep in thought. It was quiet until a broken distorted wail of a baby split the air, causing Thomas to shoot straight up and look around trying to find the source of the inhuman cry. There, in a woven basket made of river reeds, forgotten bloodied cloth, and pigeon feathers, lay a babe, or what one would assume was a babe. Thomas gaped, in shock. Where had it come from. It was a tiny thing with tiny ebony colored wings like that of a bat or those of a stone gargoyle, and skin a pale gray soot color. It’s eyes opened revealing eye the color of shattered sapphires. Thomas gently picked up the almost eldritch like baby from the basket. The baby was wrapped in a grungy white baby blanket that almost seemed as if it was thrown out from the hospital itself. There was a note gently pinned to the cloth.
“Thomas Wayne,” it read, “I have watched over you your entire life, and, in my time of need, I need you to do the same for my son. I have seen your wife’s suffering, and know I will not be able to take care of him myself, and so have thus left him in your hands. My brave guiding knight, you have done much for me as your city, do the same for him. His given name is Bruthíum, but feel free to give him a human name as well. I trust in you, please treat him as if your own. Yours Eternally, Lady Gotham.”
Oh, god. Thomas had finally realized what, and who, he held cradled in his arms. It was the son born of the city herself. He held the babe close to his chest and ran a finger over the pudgy gray cheek of the tiny tot which quickly bled to be a soft pale cream as the boy’s wings faded from view leaving the boy human in appearance. If no one looked to closely, the boy could have even passed as Thomas and Martha’s own. His heart bursts with gratitude for the lady Gotham. His city had heard his wife’s cries and his own desperate pleas and passed them her own babe to raise as their own.
“Thank you, my lady, thank you,” he breaths reverent as he holds the boy close, turning to run back to his wife, leaving only the smoldering remains of a burnt out cigarette on the floor of a third story balcony.
