Batman Begins Batman -

Rachel had the Tumbler. Gordon had the element of surprise. But Bruce had the weight of the son who finally understood the father. Thomas Wayne didn’t build a monorail to control the city. He built it to connect it.

“You’re just a boy with a trust fund and a dead daddy,” Falcone had sneered, years ago, in that same restaurant. “You don’t understand the deep water.” Batman Begins Batman

“You crossed the world to understand the criminal mind,” Henri Ducard said, his voice a low, patient rasp against the wind-scoured rocks of the frozen tundra. “But you forgot the first principle. To conquer fear, you must become fear.” Rachel had the Tumbler

The earth was cold and smelled of wet stone and something older—roots, perhaps, or the bones of things that had fallen before him. Eight-year-old Bruce Wayne pressed his small palms against the crumbling wall of the drainage pipe. Above, through the circular grille of the old well, the sky was a diminishing coin of bruised purple. The screams of his parents—no, the memory of those screams—had faded to a thin, buzzing static in his ears. Thomas Wayne didn’t build a monorail to control the city

“And you’ll never have to,” Batman replied, the cape billowing in the chemical-scented wind.

He stepped off the gargoyle, the cape catching the thermal updraft from the burning wreckage below. As he glided into the blind night, a child in a tenement watched from a cracked window. The child saw not a man, not a creature, but a shape against the moon—a silhouette of a bat.

He had to become more. He had to become a symbol. A man is flesh. A bullet can stop a man. But an idea? An idea is bulletproof.