Six in the morning, in the Batcave beneath Wayne Manor.
Bruce stood before a full-length mirror. He wore a grayish-brown jacket that reeked of mildew and sour sweat over a red-and-black plaid shirt with a torn collar. Two large holes had worn through the knees of his jeans, with loose threads dangling from their edges.
Alfred stood beside him with a silver tray bearing a cup of unsweetened black coffee.
"Master Bruce, this jacket came from the donation bin at the third relief center downtown." The old butler spoke evenly, his impeccable London accent echoing through the cavernous basement.
"Its previous owner died beneath a bridge following a sudden bout of tuberculosis. To preserve the authentic street experience, I specifically refrained from having it dry-cleaned. I hope you find the aroma satisfactory."
Bruce fastened the jacket's precariously dangling plastic button.
"It's perfect, Alfred." Bruce accepted the coffee and took a sip. The bitter liquid flowed down his throat, sharpening his senses. "From now on, call me John Smith."
"Of course, Mr. Smith." Alfred took back the cup.
"Shall I reserve a bed for you in the Emergency Department at City Hospital? Given your refusal to carry any communication devices, cash, or weapons for self-defense, that is. Medical resources in the East End have always been scarce, and waiting to register can take quite some time."
"I'm not going out there to die." Bruce pulled on a cap with a frayed brim and tugged it low. "I just want to see what those underlying rules the doctor talked about actually look like."
Alfred made no further attempt to dissuade him. He knew Bruce's temperament too well. Once he made up his mind, nothing could stop him.
Bruce left the manor without taking the bulletproof Rolls-Royce Phantom or using any other private