Batman 5 - Batman Begins

by Dennis O'Neil

  Bruce continued to the tower and hunkered down, scanning the yard, aware that he was being stared at. This is bad, he realized. Life had been hard on the ship and he had acquired a few scars, but none of the crewmen had actually wanted to kill him. They tormented him because they were bored, and sometimes drunk, and they did not know how else to amuse themselves. But here, these men . . . they were full of hate and rage and he was a stranger, not of their kind, and so he was their natural enemy, and enemies died.

  FROM THE JOURNALS OF RĀ’S AL GHŪL

  A young man from the United States has come to my attention. He is of wealthy parentage but seems to have retained a modicum of character despite a privileged upbringing. At this time he is in a Chinese prison. I can change that quite easily, as the warden of the prison has long been a paid ally of ours. It may be that I will investigate this Bruce Wayne further, although he will undoubtedly prove to be as disappointing as his many predecessors.

  Bruce and his ancient cellmate were in the mess hall, waiting to have gruel plopped into their bowls.

  “They are going to fight you,” the old man said.

  “Again?”

  “Until they kill you.”

  The cook dumped a ladle full of gruel into Bruce’s bowl. “Can’t they kill me before breakfast?”

  Bruce moved toward a table. He stopped. His way was blocked by an enormous man with dozens of knife scars on his face and arms. Five other prisoners stood behind him. None seemed friendly.

  The scarred man spoke English in an accent Bruce could not identify. “You are in hell.”

  He punched Bruce in the face and Bruce fell.

  “I am the devil,” the scarred man said.

  Bruce got to his feet and smiled as he brushed dust from his shirt. “You’re not the devil—you’re practice.”

  The scarred man swung. Bruce caught the fist, kicked the man’s knee, and as the man fell, Bruce kneed his face.

  The scarred man’s five companions all charged at once—a mistake, because they got in each other’s way. Bruce fought, using everything he had learned on the ship, everything he had seen in back-alley brawls, and some things he did not know he knew.

  Then the familiar sound of two boards being slapped together instantly chilled Bruce. He had heard its like before, outside an opera house, and immediately Bruce’s attackers stood back and dropped their fists to their sides. A guard holding a pistol stepped in front of Bruce. Two other guards grabbed Bruce’s arms.

  “Solitary,” the guard with the gun barked.

  Bruce made a show of being indignant. “Why?”

  “For protection.”

  “I don’t need protection.”

  “Protection for them.”

  The guards dragged Bruce from the mess hall and down a steep flight of stone steps. They flung him through a door and slammed it shut. Bruce could see very little of where he was. The only light was from a small gap high in the wall that cast a crack of sunlight onto the dirt floor. The air was dank and stank of human waste. Bruce tasted blood and touched a split on his lower lip.

  “Are you so desperate to fight criminals that you lock yourself in to take them on one at a time?”

  The voice had come from the shadows—a richly civilized voice, deep and mellifluous.

  “Actually, there were seven of them,” Bruce said.

  The source of the voice stepped into the light. He was tall, powerfully built, wearing an impeccably tailored gray suit.

  “I counted six, Mr. Wayne.”

  “How do you know my name?”

  “The world is too small for someone like Bruce Wayne to disappear”—the newcomer swept his arm in a semicircle—“no matter how deep he chooses to sink.”

  “Who are you?”

  “My name is Henri Ducard. But I speak for Rā’s al Ghūl. A man greatly feared by the criminal underworld. A man who can offer you a path.”

  “What makes you think I need a path?”

  “Someone like you is only here by choice. You’ve been exploring the criminal fraternity . . . But whatever your original intentions—you’ve become truly lost.”

  Bruce moved closer to the stranger, this Ducard, and examined his face: prominent bones, a prominent nose and chin—a strong, highly resolute face. “What path does Rā’s al Ghūl offer?”

  “The path of one who shares his hatred of evil and wishes to serve true justice. The path of the League of Shadows.”

  Bruce turned his back on Ducard and snapped, “Vigilantes.”

  “A vigilante is just a man lost in the scramble for his own gratification. He can be destroyed or locked up.” Again, Ducard swept his arm to indicate the cell around them. “But if you make yourself more than a man . . . if you devote yourself to an ideal . . . if they can’t stop you . . . then you become something else entirely.”

  “Which is?”

  Ducard strode to the door. “A legend, Mr. Wayne.”

  The door swung open and a guard moved aside to let Ducard pass.

  “Tomorrow you’ll be released,” Ducard said. “If you’re bored of brawling with thieves and want to achieve something, there’s a rare flower—a blue poppy—that grows on the eastern slopes. Pick one of these flowers. If you can carry it to the top of the mountain, you may find what you were looking for in the first place.”

  “And what was I looking for?”

  “Only you can know that.”

  The door slammed shut behind Ducard. Bruce pushed against it: locked. He lay down on the dirt and stared up at the sliver of light until sometime, many hours later, he slept. He dreamed of bats exploding from a crevice and tearing at him . . .

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Before dawn the following morning, Bruce was escorted from his cell, given a breakfast of gruel and a chunk of stale bread. A guard handed Bruce a canvas jacket with frayed sleeves and took him to where a rusty army truck was waiting, its ancient engine coughing and sputtering. Bruce climbed into the back of the truck, which left the prison grounds and bumped along a rutted road for an hour. The sun was bright in the eastern sky when the truck screeched to a halt. An Asian man in military fatigues came to the tailgate of the truck and barked at Bruce in a language he did not understand. In the next instant it became clear as he was thrown from the truck. As he picked himself up he watched it speed away.

  Bruce shivered; it was snowing and incredibly windy and cold. He pulled the jacket’s collar tighter around his neck and scanned his environment. There was a glacier far off in the distance, and Bruce set off in its direction. He walked for a very long time, and eventually he found himself in the foothills of the Himalayas, at the edge of a field of exquisite blue poppies. He stooped and picked one, studied it, and put it in his breast pocket. He trudged to the foot of the nearest slope and began the hike upward.

  The sun was almost directly above, and the snow and wind had increased in pitch by the time he topped a steep, twisting trail and saw a cluster of huts a few hundred yards away. He hurried toward them; he had been climbing for hours in thin, frigid air. He needed food, rest, warmth. He saw two men and a woman near one of the huts and waved to them. They scurried into the hut. He ran toward them, yelling. All the doors were closed. He pounded on one with his fist. No answer.

  Maybe the flower is some sort of signal . . .

  He took the poppy from his pocket and held it high over his head.

  “No one will help you.”

  Bruce turned: a young child, a boy around eight years old, had spoken in English and was pointing to the flower.

  “I need food,” Bruce said.

  An old man came around the corner of the closest hut, stood beside the child, and said, also in English, “Then turn back.”

  Bruce waited for the old man to say more. When he did not, Bruce continued up the mountain.

  At about midafternoon, by Bruce’s estimate, clouds had completely covered the sun and the mountainside was colder and windier. The upward slope had grown steeper and snow hit him constantly. Bru
ce was panting as he climbed to the top of an icy ridge. The rest of the mountain was covered in clouds, snow, and mist. Bruce clamped his teeth together to stop their chattering, but he could not control the shivers that racked his body. Wind howled down the slope, driving gusts of snow into Bruce’s face and eyes. He blinked, wiped his face on his sleeve, and struggled on.

  At the next level clearing, Bruce flopped down into the snow. The sky was almost dark and the wind felt like a razor slicing his face but he did nothing to shield himself. He was completely exhausted. He could go no farther.

  This is where it ends . . .

  Something was visible through the snow, the silhouette of . . . what? A building? Bruce rolled to his hands and knees and tried to stand. He could not; his legs refused to stay straight.

  Bruce crawled across a stone patio, making furrows in the snow behind him, and up a small flight of wide steps to a tall wooden door. He struck the wood with his fist feebly. He struck again, harder, and again, harder still. There was a creaking and a grinding sound, and the door scraped open.

  Bruce pulled himself inside and, leaning against a wall, got to his feet. He was in a huge, vaulted hall lit by torches set into iron brackets on the stone floor, forming pools of flickering firelight that melted into surrounding shadows. There were thick, supporting pillars every few yards.

  The door creaked and scraped and thudded shut.

  Bruce squinted, adjusting his sight to the semidarkness. At the far end of the hall, at least half a city block away, there was a raised platform. On it sat a robed figure, a man whose features, in the dim glow of the torches, seemed vaguely Asian, but only vaguely.

  Despite the subzero temperature outside, the long chamber was warm and humid. Bruce felt his body recovering from its ordeal as it warmed. He unbuttoned his jacket and shuffled forward.

  “Rā’s al Ghūl?” he called.

  A dozen men emerged from the shadows behind the torches. Their clothing was a mix of ethnic dress and modern combat garb. As they moved toward Bruce, they brandished daggers and short swords.

  “Wait!” someone commanded. The armed men stopped and became as still as stone.

  Ducard stepped around a pillar. Bruce reached into his breast pocket and pulled out the blue poppy. He held it out, his hand shaking.

  Rā’s al Ghūl spoke in what Bruce thought was Urdu. Ducard translated: “What are you seeking?”

  Bruce’s lips were numb and he found it difficult to answer. “I . . . I seek . . . the means to fight injustice. To turn fear against those who prey on the fearful.”

  Ducard moved to stand in front of Bruce, and took the flower.

  Rā’s al Ghūl spoke again, and again Ducard translated: “To manipulate the fears of others you must first master your own.” Ducard placed the poppy in a buttonhole and asked Bruce, “Are you ready to begin?”

  Bruce felt himself trembling with fatigue. “I . . . I can barely . . .”

  Ducard kicked him and Bruce fell to the floor.

  Fists on hips, Ducard looked down at him and said, “Death does not wait for you to be ready.”

  Gasping, Bruce struggled to his feet and Ducard punched him in the ribs. Bruce staggered backward.

  “Death is not considerate, or fair,” Ducard said. “And make no mistake—here, you face death.”

  Ducard pivoted 340 degrees and aimed a kick at Bruce’s neck. But Bruce raised his right forearm and blocked Ducard’s foot. Ducard smiled.

  Bruce put his left leg forward and shifted his weight onto his left, and put his flattened, crossed hands at chest height: a martial arts stance he had learned aboard ship. He forced himself to remember everything else he had learned on the ship, and in all the dark alleys and filthy bars where he had fought, and won, and been defeated. Ducard attacked and Bruce responded: punches, kicks, blocks, jabs, chops—a smooth flurry of continual motion.

  Ducard said, “You are remarkably skilled. But this is not a dance.”

  Ducard smashed the top of his head into Bruce’s face and immediately kneed him in the groin, driving his flat palm up into Bruce’s chin. Bruce fell backward and tried to rise, but could not.

  Ducard crouched over Bruce. “And you are afraid. But I sense that you do not fear me.” Ducard pulled the blue poppy from his buttonhole and dropped it onto Bruce’s chest. He put his lips close to Bruce’s ear. “Tell us, Wayne . . . what do you fear?”

  And Bruce remembered: screeching hats exploding from the crevice and tearing at him . . .

  FROM THE JOURNALS OF RĀ’S AL GHŪL

  I feel like Michelangelo must have felt when he found the block of marble that became his David. Thus far, Bruce Wayne has not disappointed me. He may be the raw material of my masterpiece. Evolution has been kind to him. He is of huge mental capacity with an intelligence quotient I believe to be among the highest ever recorded and an eidetic memory. Everything that he sees or hears he can recall with total accuracy and he is able to absorb new information of any kind with speed. He is also a splendid physical specimen with what appears to be an optimum balance between fast and slow muscle fibers, a large lung capacity, unimpeded circulation of blood, a responsive nervous system, and excellent proportions, so much so that the artists of ancient Greece might well have used him as a model for the statues of idealized humans they were fond of creating. Bruce Wayne is still ignorant and cannot access all that nature has given him, but those are conditions that I can remedy.

  CHAPTER SIX

  The following morning, Ducard and Bruce, now wearing cold-weather gear, stood on the balcony of the monastery. The sun glared on a vast sheet of ice, a glacier that lay below them. Bruce had just finished telling Ducard the details of his parents’ deaths. He was silent for perhaps ten minutes, enjoying the cold, clear air flowing into his body, and the sight of the hard blue sky above them.

  Ducard broke the silence by asking Bruce a question. “Do you still feel responsible for your parents’ deaths?”

  “My anger outweighs my guilt,” Bruce replied.

  Ducard nodded, seemingly satisfied with the answer. He led Bruce into the monastery’s main chamber, where Bruce had first entered the building. Groups of warriors, perhaps fifty men in all, were training: sparring, shadow boxing, leaping, and kicking. Ducard and Bruce walked to one of the pillars, where a ninja was hanging upside down. Ducard motioned the man to come down and when he did, Ducard showed Bruce the secret of the feat: spikes spaced along a gauntlet that the ninja had driven into the pillar.

  “The ninja is thought to be invisible,” Ducard explained. “But invisibility is largely a matter of patience.”

  Bruce and Ducard climbed a short flight of steps to a mezzanine full of stacked boxes and bottles. Several ninjas were pouring powders into packets, obviously making compounds. Bruce knew that the ninja’s art had originated in Japan, but these ninjas were a mixed lot: Asians, East Indians, some Caucasians.

  Ducard took a pinch of gray powder from an open box and threw it down. There was a flash of light and a loud bang. Bruce flinched and Ducard smiled.

  “Ninjitsu employ explosives,” Ducard said.

  “As weapons?”

  “Or distractions. Theatricality and deception are powerful agents. You must become more than just a man in the mind of your opponent.”

  Bruce took some powder from the box and, with a snap of his wrist, dashed it on the floor. This time Bruce did not flinch at the flash and the noise.

  After a lunch of rice and vegetables, Ducard gave Bruce a straight-bladed Chinese sword and a pair of gauntlets similar to those the ninja had worn.

  Ducard equipped himself identically and led Bruce down the steep, snowy path to the glacier.

  “You’re training me to fight with a blade?” Bruce asked. “Why not a gun?”

  “The man who killed your parents—he used a firearm?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was he a great warrior? Was he even an efficient killer?”

  “No, he was a thug, but—”

&nbs
p; “The weapon is nothing, the man who wields it everything. Guns are crude and impersonal and a blade is not. With a blade, you do more than learn combat. You develop character.”

  Ducard unsheathed his sword, held it in front of himself, and said, “I suppose ‘en garde’ would be appropriate here.”

  Bruce and Ducard circled each other. Suddenly Ducard’s blade flashed forward, aimed at Bruce’s chest. Bruce deflected the blow with his gauntlet-sheathed arm. Ducard glided to his left, frozen breath streaming from his nostrils. Bruce, sliding to his right to again face Ducard, heard the ice beneath him creak and shift. And the muted gurgle of running water.

  “Mind your surroundings, always,” Ducard said.

  They fenced. Bruce thrust and Ducard parried, Bruce thrust again and Ducard turned aside the point of Bruce’s blade with his own. Their faces were inches apart; Bruce could feel the heat of Ducard’s breath on his cheek.

  “Your parents’ deaths were not your fault,” Ducard said conversationally. “It was your father’s.”

  This remark consumed Bruce with rage. He abandoned all pretense of skill and swung his sword. Ducard caught Bruce’s blade in the scallops of his gauntlet and rotated his arm, wrenching Bruce’s sword from his grasp. The sword skidded across the ice.

  “Anger will not change the fact that your father failed to act,” Ducard continued, as though he was discussing the weather.

  “The man had a gun,” Bruce blurted.

  “Would that stop you?”

  “I’ve had training—”

  “The training is nothing. The will is everything. The will to act.”

  Ducard slashed downward at Bruce, who blocked the strike with his crossed, gauntleted forearms. Then Bruce dropped and dove between Ducard’s legs, sliding to where his sword had stopped its skid. He grabbed it and pivoted, his legs sweeping toward Ducard’s lower body. Ducard jumped straight up and Bruce grabbed Ducard’s left foot and yanked. Ducard fell onto his back as Bruce scrambled to his feet and aimed his sword at Ducard’s bare throat. The point stopped only inches from Ducard’s flesh. Ducard lay still, his arms at his sides.