Summary:

After a particularly bad night for Bruce Wayne, Alfred knows that his master wouldn't last much longer, both physically and mentally. When a short vacation aboard a ship is suggested by Alfred, Bruce readily agrees and takes the oppertunity to have a good break from his living nightmare. But when things don't go as planned, Bruce finds himself alone, stranded on an obscure deserted island, with no food, water, supplies, nothing. While a desperate search for him ensues, Bruce struggles to survive, fighting the elements, wild animals, starvation, and his own inner demons... Bruce discovers things he never knew about himself during his unpleasant stay on the island - who know that the Batman would be so vital for staying alive? Post-TDK, spoilers naturally.

Rating: T for violence, language, and general maturity.

Notes: This is more of an experimental fanfic. Bruce Wayne, shipwrecked - it's just too fun of an idea to resist. Also it's going to be a great oppertunity for an in-depth exploration of the character of Wayne - a very interesting character, indeed. This is going to be a lot of fun. Try reading on, review, and enjoy.

Shipwrecked

Chapter One

"There! There he is! Move! Move!"

"Open fire!"

"Bring him down!"

The bullets came flying - a few finding their mark, smashing through Kevlar, flesh, and bone. Batman screamed, more in frustration then in pain, and simply let go of the wall he had been scaling. He fell, and fell and fell - the cape didn't open in time - he landed hard on a fire escape. He thought he felt something break, but there was no way of telling - there was just too much pain. More bullets, whistling past him - one grazed his exposed jaw, leaving behind a burning, searing line in its wake.

"Bring him down! Bring him down!" Batman staggered up to his feet as the cops came running at him with their clubs and dogs. He took a few punishing blows before he was able to yank out his grappling gun, aim and shoot. He was hauled up onto a nearby rooftop - saved for now. Knowing that he didn't have much time before he would give in to blood loss and exhaustion, Batman spoke into his radio, breath coming in ragged gasps.

"Alfred... I'm in trouble. Meet me by the alley behind Gotham Bank."

"I shall be there right away, sir."

"I've lost a lot of blood."

"We've prepared for the worst of things, Master Wayne, don't you worry." Alfred's voice betrayed no concern, like always.

"Thanks. And hurry... please."

"I will, sir."

Clicking off the radio, Batman closed his eyes for a moment, his breathing labored and painful. The blood, the blood, there was too much blood... Then he remembered the policemen were still after him, probably searching the buildings. With a grunt he levered himself to a standing position, and somehow made it to the edge of the roof, the one facing Gotham Bank. The cops were on the other side, he could hear them, and the dogs - he silently begged Alfred to ignore the speed limits on the road. It wouldn't be long before they found him. If they did, it would be all over, everything.

It seemed like an agonizingly long time before there was the low rumble of engines from the ground below. Through the black blotches that were obscuring his vision, Batman recognized Alfred's Rolls-Royce.

With a final, desperate effort, Batman lurched over the edge of the building, closed his eyes, and let the darkness overtake him as he fell.

Alfred knew that Bruce's life may be in danger. He knew that half the cops of the Gotham PD were after him. He knew that if they caught Bruce they would arrest him, probably keep him in prison for the rest of his life.

Ignoring the blood soaking into the expensive leather seats of his Rolls, Alfred sped out of the alley, swerving around the few cars that were on the road at this time of the night. He glanced at the rearview mirror; no police cars, no wailing sirens. Good. So they weren't chasing the car. After all, who would ever suspect that the Batman would be carried away by an old gentleman in a Rolls-Royce?

They arrived at the Bat-Hanger. With a strength he never knew he had Alfred carried Bruce out of the car and to a slab he had prepared before leaving. Wrenching off the cowl and armor, Alfred calmly and efficiently began to treat the numerous injuries that his master had sustained - mostly bullet wounds, some bad bruising, and what seemed to be a broken rib. Yes, it was bad. But none of the wounds were fatal, to Alfred's great relief.

"Live to fight another day, Master Wayne," murmured Alfred as he wiped away the last of the blood from Bruce's skin. He pulled out a chair, and sat, hands clapsed together.

Waiting, waiting. Waiting for Bruce to wake up, waiting for the dawn of his life, waiting for Gotham's recovery - waiting. It seemed to Alfred that he never did anything else.

Why did the meeting seem so long? Bruce struggled not to squirm with discomfort in his chair - all his wounds hurt like the devil. He knew that he should have listened to Alfred this morning. "You're going to damage yourself further - allow yourself a day off, for God's sake, Master Wayne!" But Bruce had grown up with this stubborness. He went off to work, even though it still hurt to breathe. The injurires he sustained two days ago were bad; Bruce couldn't deny it. Four bullet wounds, a gash on his face, a snapped rib and a mild concussion. Batman had rested, even if it was what he hated most - being left in the dark like that. Batman was supposed to be all-knowing, impossible to surprise or ambush. Not any more...

"Mr. Wayne?" Someone tapped his shoulder, where, previously, a bullet had been lodged. He couldn't help but flinch with pain as he answered, rather faintly -

"Yes?"

"We were asking you about the deal..." Miraculously, Bruce could think of something to say.

"Put it on hold. We can't afford to take the risk."

A man raised his hand. "But..."

Lucius Fox to the rescue. "You heard him. The meeting's over." Bruce almost groaned with relief as the men stood and left. Fox came to him, and said in an undertone,

"Mr. Wayne. You must do something. You look like you've been through hell - "

"Lucius. I said I'm fine."

"Then some enthusiastic young employee will come and shake your hand, make you faint or something." Fox shook his head. "You're going to blow your cover, Bruce, and things will turn very ugly. Please."

"Lucius - "

Fox looked at him. "You're bleeding through that suit, Mr. Wayne."

Bruce looked down at himself. "Dammit." He muttered, hurriedly buttoning up his jacket all the way. "You have any spare bandages, gauze, anything of the sort?"

"Only if you promise me to stay in your office for the rest of the day."

Bruce clenched his teeth. "Fine."

Fox suddenly smiled. "Just like your father, aren't you? Both stubborn as donkeys."

"You're not the only person to tell me that, Lucius." Bruce muttered. "You're not the only one."

Bruce was planning to get home as soon as possible, but again things didn't work out according to plan.

He was heading home in his new Lamborghini when he encountered some bad traffic. The cars were all parked on the road, their drivers nowhere to be seen. Cursing, Bruce honked the horn - no response from any of the vehicles. With no other choice, he got out of the car, spotted a crowd not so far away, and walked towards the source of the commotion.

It was a press conference, something of the sort, being held in a square on the side of the road. Bruce instantly recognized the man at the podium. He should. It was the man who was leading the manhunt for Batman - Commissioner James Gordon.

The speech was just beginning. "I am holding this press conference in answer to the reports of Batman murders and robberies the Gotham Police Department have been receiving in the past few months - "

"Yeah, but no cop seems to be giving a damn!" Someone from the crowd shouted. There were roars of agreement, making Bruce clench his fists in anger, frustration and helplessness. Gordon raised his hand for quiet, and began to speak again.

"We will now be doubling the number of policemen dispatched to locate and capture the Batman. We have already allowed the use of gunfire on him." Bruce felt his wounds tingle when Gordon said that. Hell, yeah, you have... "And I have created a Batman report hotline for quick pinpointing of his location."

'Damn, no... Gordon! Why? Why?'

"Commissioner!" A reporter called out. "What do you plan to do first if you catch him?"

Bruce saw Gordon hesitate. "Interrogate him first - "

"That monster?" Hot anger flared up within Bruce, but he managed not to show any reaction. "He deserves nothing but a slow, painful death!" Murmurs of agreement. More anger.

"We'll see about that," Gordon looked down at his hands, "when we find out whose face is under that mask." A cold chill ran down Bruce's spine.

"But he's killing cops! Citizens! He's a murderer!"

'I'm not a goddammed murderer... I never killed anyone... I never commited robberies... I never...' Bruce desperately wanted to tell the entire world the truth, the whole truth - but he knew, it was he who chose to do what he did - it was a sacrifice he had chosen to make. No one had forced him to do it, no one at all.

Yet he was now shaking with rage. The pain didn't help either. The rib he had broken in his fall gave an unpleasant grinding sensation; the bullet wounds throbbed, the cut on his face stung painfully.

"Mr. Wayne? You all right?" A man asked from beside him. "Mr. Wayne?"

Bruce was wise enough to know that he wouldn't be able to hold in his emotions for much longer. He was in danger of arousing suspicion. Without answering the man, he abruptly turned, and left, trying to keep his expression from twisting into a snarl of rage.

Ah, the unfairness of this whole situation, the unfairness of his life. He could hear Harvey Dent's voice inside his head - "The only morality in a cruel world is chance. Unprejudiced, unbiased, fair."

As Bruce backed his Lamborghini out of the traffic, he wondered whether Dent had been right. Chance. How... tantalizing the word suddenly sounded. Chance. If everything in the world was decided by a flip of a coin, his life might have been so different. The possibilites were mind-numbing. Maybe he wouldn't have fallen into that well, he would never have become what he was now. His parents might never have been killed - Rachel, God, Rachel, too.

But things would never be that way. It was just another dream, a stupid, pointless, dream. Bruce had a lot of these wishes, wishes that would never be fufilled.

He gripped the steering wheel so tightly that his knuckles went white.

"I am not a murderer!" He shouted to no one, knowing that not a soul would be able to hear him from outside the car. His shoulders were shaking. "You fools think you know everything..." Tears of rage and hopelessness flowed down his face, despite his best attempts to stop them. A nightmare... I'm living a nightmare... Then when will I wake up?

When?

Goddammit, I said, WHEN?

Even if it's only for a moment...

When...

The pleasant Mozart sonata tinkled through the speakers of the radio. Alfred was sitting on the couch with a cup of tea in his hand, enjoying his day. Despite his worry for Bruce he was able to relax - he knew his master was a man who was able to take care of himself exceptionally well.

Bruce came home much later than he had expected. Alfred had thought he would head straight for the penthouse, with his obvious injuries and exhaustion. But today he arrived later than usual.

"Master Wayne?" Alfred called out when he heard the door open.

No reply. Alfred set down his cup, stood up, and raised his eyebrows. Bruce came in at this moment, an almost frightening expression on his face. It was one of complete anger and devastation, of frustration and hopelessness. Alfred wondered what had happened to him as he came and flopped down onto the couch, a wince flashing across his features.

Alfred sat down beside him, and helped him take off his jacket. The white shirt underneath was stained with blood. Sighing, Alfred dared to ask,

"What happened, sir?"

Bruce looked down at himself as Alfred began his doctoring. "Nothing, really."

"Then... what..."

"Gordon held a press conference today."

"I know. I saw it on television. I had no idea you were there, Master Wayne." Alfred had been hoping that Bruce wouldn't hear about the conference.

"Well, I was. And I heard every word of it." Alfred could feel his master's pain as he cleaned up the bloody mess that was Bruce's torso. He knew all the things that Gordon and the other people had said about Batman; he also knew what Bruce would have thought of it.

Bruce's brow was knitted into a V-shaped crease on his forehead - obviously he was deep in thought. Alfred hesitated before asking,

"Will Batman be working tonight, sir?"

Bruce was silent for a long while. "No. No, he's not." Another pause. "The cops will be everywhere; so will be the rest of Gotham City, after the press conference. And I'm not feeling well. It's too dangerous."

It wasn't often that Bruce admitted to not feeling up to his nightly battles. He didn't like to show weakness; it was a part of his nature. Something about his attitude made Alfred sense that today, Bruce's weary mind wasn't well, either. It worried Alfred.

"Alfred." Said Bruce suddenly, a rare desperation in his eyes and voice. "Alfred."

"Yes, sir?"

Bruce was trembling all over. "I... I can't take this any more. I really can't. All this... all this shit... It's driving me insane. 'Batman the burgler'. 'Batman the murderer'. 'Kill the Batman'. The police shooting away at me every night, Bruce Wayne the idiot... I just can't do this, Alfred! How can anyone endure this?" Bruce looked up at Alfred, his eyes red. "When can I wake up from this nightmare?"

"Master Wayne..." Alfred hesitated again, pausing to dab away at a bullet wound. "How would you like a short vacation?"

Bruce looked incredulous. "A vacation?"

Alfred nodded. "Yes. To some quiet part of the sea, perhaps, on a yacht... Just you, sir, and me."

Bruce grinned weakly. "No goddammed ballerinas?"

"No bloody ballerinas." Alfred smiled.

Then Bruce was serious again. "A vacation... Very tempting, Alfred, but I don't know. For one thing, I'm not exactly in the best condition - "

"We can wait until you recover."

"Even so - someone might make a connection..."

"Last time you went to Hong Kong, sir, no one gave a damn. Although it did seem very obvious - an article in the paper, even - no one noticed."

"But Alfred..."

"Yes, Master Wayne?"

"I'm not so sure about this - "

"Master Wayne." Alfred was suddenly grave. "You need to have a rest. As you said so yourself, you won't last much longer under these circumstances. If you go on like this, sir, who knows what will happen? The possibilites are melancholy. To others this will be just another reason to scorn Bruce Wayne, but to you, sir, this will be a brief wake-up from your nightmare."

Bruce closed his mouth, obviously seeing the logic in Alfred's words. As Alfred bandaged up the last of his injuries, he said, "I don't like it, but I have to admit it. You're right, as always. I should have a break."

"Two weeks from now?"

"Sure." Nodded Bruce. "Pick a good spot for me, will you?"

"Of course, sir."

"Until then..." Murmured Bruce, smoothing his hair back with a sigh. "Before I leave I think I'll have to pay Commissioner Gordon a visit."

"Why, Master Wayne?"

"Oh, I just want to say hello," Bruce replied.

"Just hello?" Alfred raised his eyebrows skeptically.

"Yeah. Why, don't you believe me?"

Alfred just said, "I have a thousand bloody reasons not to, sir."

So, how was it? A little long, I know, but the upcoming chapters will probably be shorter. Reviews will be appreciated, expect updates to be slow, but steady. Thanks for reading!