nsmnmsndjsnmdsnmnsnmns helloooooooo

Its Saturday which means I get to see my lil silly bitchy nerd again, Oh I wonder what he might do now Hes probably going rabid idk - man

A child theorized to have wandered into abandoned alleyways and empty streets, aimless and shocked after witnessing the deaths of his parents.

And perhaps he did.

Perhaps Bruce's body truly lies somewhere within those alleys, being slowly consumed by rats; and perhaps one day they will find him, forcing Alfred to surrender the manor to some distant relative, unaware that the rightful heir still remains there.

Watching.

But for now, the little stain follows him everywhere.

While he cleans, cooks, and tidies the manor, young Bruce always watches him. And Alfred knows it is him because he wants to believe it is him —small and harmless.

The only time Alfred manages to separate himself from the thing is at night, when he makes a brief stop at the boy's bedroom, pretending to dust away nonexistent dirt until, from the corner of his eye, he sees the child climb into bed as he used to while alive, beneath soft sheets and half a dozen pillows.

Alfred leaves him there, as though he were merely sleeping, and does not see him again until morning, when he resumes his duties while waiting for the phone call from the police that might finally break the routine with news of a body.

Or something close to one.

And still, the call never comes.

And every day, Alfred realizes the stain looks less like a stain, and more like a person.

Little by little, it begins to resemble the Bruce from before the tragedy; less blurred, more visible. Its face slowly forms from shadow, and color gradually returns to its skin.

Alfred sees him more often now; no longer only at the edges of his vision, but directly before him as well, in fleeting moments when entering a room or turning a corner.

And it is only once the child's face becomes a perfect reflection of the living Bruce Wayne that Alfred finally begins to speak to him.

He feels insane, talking to a presence that only watches and never answers.

He talks about what he is cooking, about which rooms he plans to clean, about the groceries he needs to buy. He speaks without expecting a response from the child who becomes more perfect with every passing day.

Still, it is difficult.

And Alfred begins to doubt again.

Is he losing his mind?

Has the death of the family he served for so many years broken him so thoroughly that he now hallucinates their missing son?

And what does that say about him?

And while the police, the media, and all of Gotham search for Bruce Wayne, Alfred no longer only sees him.

Now, he hears him too.

He hears the boy's footsteps behind him, the indecipherable whispers that announce his arrival, and the sound of dead clothes brushing softly as the child walks.

Sometimes Alfred hears him behind him. Sometimes beside him. Other times above him, within the walls, or across the ceiling.

Haunting by right the house that belongs to him. The very house now fought over by distant relatives eager for the death of a child who, to the public eye, remains merely missing.

Days become weeks.

Even criminals join the search now. The entire city grows desperate to know what happened to the boy who, by then, is presumed dead. And for his part, there are moments when Alfred almost convinces himself that Bruce is alive.

Until the child remains perfectly still for entire minutes, staring at him without blinking.

And then Alfred sees him fully.

The center of Gotham's media spectacle, standing in the middle of the great hall; a copy of the boy who waved goodbye to him that fateful night and left the manor holding his parents' hands, laughing with excitement.

But his skin is pale.

His gaze dull.

His suit wrinkled and soaking wet.

Mud stains the imported carpet beneath his shoes as he walks toward Alfred.

Bruce gently tugs at Alfred's sleeve, as though announcing that he is physically present now as well.

The boy looks up at him with those large, unnatural blue eyes, and Alfred, rigid with terror, can only kneel before the child who is now undeniably alive.

“Tell them I am here,” he says in a small, fearful voice.

And of course, the city rejoices at the miraculous return of the boy, who, according to his butler's testimony, appeared at the manor doors during the heavy rain at midnight.

And so Bruce Wayne grows up secluded within his manor, hidden away from those who might notice his inhumanity, raised by his butler until he learns to imitate humanity well enough to stand before the public with a bright smile and effortless charm.

Only the two of them know that beneath designer suits and human skin, the stain still remains there, seeking justice through Gotham's dark nights, forcing itself upon criminals in its grotesque true form.

The Bat, they call him.