Chapter 1: Wishes**
Bruce Willer was a nondescript man living in the bustling heart of Manhattan, New York City, on May 1st, 2024. With unassuming black hair that always seemed a bit disheveled, Bruce was neither handsome nor ugly, just average, with deep-set blue eyes that reflected a restless spirit, and navigated a life filled with quiet despair. His greatest passion was his admiration for the character of Batman. This connection ran deeper than a shared name; for Bruce, Batman symbolized resilience. The shadowy figure resonated with his own pain from a childhood tragedy—his mother had been murdered in a senseless mugging, much like the fate that had befallen Bruce Wayne. To compound this dichotomy between hero and history, recently Bruce found himself equally fascinated by the larger-than-life villain, Doctor Doom, particularly drawn to the character's ever-present aura of power and style.
As days melded into a repetitive cycle, Bruce found himself trapped in the fabric of an unremarkable existence. Each morning, he awoke to the sound of city sirens and the distant rumble of traffic, only to shuffle into another uninspired workday as a data analyst, cubicles lined with gray and monotony stretching ahead of him. Yet beneath this dreary surface, a yearning for something extraordinary stirred quietly within, a promise of adventure unfulfilled.
One seemingly mundane evening, as twilight descended and painted the sky in hues of orange and purple, Bruce trudged home from work, his shoulders burdened by fatigue. As he walked along a desolate stretch of sidewalk, something unusual caught his eye—a glint of light emerging from the dirt at the base of an old oak tree. His heart quickening, he approached and unearthed an ornate bottle, intricately designed, its surface adorned with patterns that seemed to dance in the fading light. He found himself entranced, questions swirling in his mind: What was this relic doing here? What story did it hold? Unbeknownst to Bruce, this impulsive decision would spark a whirlwind of events that would reshape his destiny.
After finally returning home to his dimly lit apartment, Bruce positioned himself at his cluttered desk, noting the layers of dust collecting on his childhood memorabilia. The bottle gleamed tantalizingly, an object of mystery in the otherwise drab space. Unable to resist the allure, he absentmindedly twisted it in his hands, feeling an electric anticipation pulse through him. In a moment that felt almost surreal, he uncapped the bottle, unleashing a genie—an astonishing figure who embodied the charisma and confidence of none other than Will Smith.
"Why do you look like Will Smith?" Bruce exclaimed, the confusion bubbling in him clashing with bursts of intrigue.
With a playful grin expanding across his face, the genie replied, "Because this is the face you associate most with genies." Yet, in an unexpected turn, the genie announced that Bruce was entitled to four wishes. A rush of determination surged through him; the mundane was about to give way to the miraculous.
Without a moment's hesitation, Bruce took a deep breath, his mind racing with possibilities. "I wish for the intellect, experience, and magical knowledge of Batman from the New 52 series, Reed Richards, and Victor Von Doom to slowly integrate with me." Almost immediately, he felt an overwhelming tide of knowledge flood his mind, spiraling through him like a tempest—a transformation coursing through his veins, elevating him from an ordinary man to a being endowed with unparalleled mastery in strategy, science, magic, and technology. The implications of such enlightenment filled him with, sparking ideas that danced in his consciousness.
With three wishes remaining and his mind illuminated with possibilities, Bruce hurriedly penned his next request on a scrap of paper. After a few moments of fervent contemplation, he handed it to the genie, nerves thrumming in his chest. "I wish for everything written on this piece of paper to be true from this moment forth." The audacious wish dictated that any force, energy, or entity—fictional or real—that he selected could manifest in this universe, stripped of any memories, only understanding that he had created them.
The genie's brow furrowed with annoyance, fully aware that Bruce had twisted the boundaries of traditional wishes. Feeling Pett, the genie decided he was not gonna grant it but take the wish. Yet Bruce, empowered by his newfound knowledge, was already planning the next move that would give him the advantage.
"Granted," the genie muttered, Bruce perplexed by the genie's emotional shift. A glimmer of amusement flashed in the eyes of the genie, watching the confusion on the mortal's face.
Emboldened by his successful wish, Bruce formulated his third request. "I wish for ninety billion U.S. dollars, ensuring that this wealth does not come at the expense of anyone's well-being, freedom, or happiness. It should not disrupt global economies or markets, and I shall be the sole bearer of this fortune." As he uttered the words, he checked his account, and there it was 90 billion dollars. He now wielded the title of the richest man in the world.
Feeling invigorated and inspired, he prepared for his final wish. "I wish for Batman's body while still looking the same." A thrill of potential coursed through his being as the genie vanished, an ever-ever-growing smile as he watched Bruce.
As he stood alone in his apartment, Bruce felt an overwhelming rush as the power of muscles surged to fill his frame, confirming that his wish had come to fruition. Almost instinctively, he tapped into Doctor Doom's magical expertise to craft an inventory portal. To safeguard his secret and newfound wealth, he carefully sealed the genie lamp within the portal, locking it away from prying eyes and possibly unfathomable consequences.
Curiosity bubbling within him, Bruce made his way to the bathroom—a destination he thought would quench his thirst for self-exploration. As he hurried, he noticed something unexpected: the creaking floorboards beneath his feet made no sound at all, an unusual stillness that further piqued his intrigue.
Upon entering the bathroom, the stark lighting illuminated his reflection in the mirror. He immediately recognized the profound difference brought about by his wish. Though he had always reached only 5 feet 8 inches tall and weighed around 180 pounds, he expected to be short forever from what he saw from his parents. Now he was 6 feet 3 inches and 210 pounds of muscle built for speed, power, and endurance.
Suddenly, memories of that night rushed back, reminding him of a mission.
Suddenly, a vivid flash of memory engulfed Bruce, washing over him with an intense wave of emotion. He could almost feel the warm summer air wrap around him, the laughter of his childhood echoing sweetly in the backdrop. He recalled that fateful day when his mother was taken from him, the stakes of innocence lost forever.
**Flashback.**
It had begun as a delightful and carefree evening—a simple family outing to the charming local ice cream shop, one favored by families seeking sweet solace. The warm summer air wafted around him, filled with the enticing aromas of freshly made waffle cones and the cheerful chatter of delighted children enjoying their treats. A small, skinny, black hair, light blue nine-year-old Bruce Willer, his fingers sticky from the chocolate sauce, bore a wide grin as he savored a decadent sundae piled high with a mountain of whipped cream. The joy of the moment wrapped around him like a comforting embrace.
However, the atmosphere shifted dramatically as they exited the shop and decided to take a shortcut home young Bruce felt a cold and sinking feeling something was wrong.
"Mom, we should go the other way. I don't mind walking far. "Bruce said to his mother quietly but his mother was close enough to hear him.
"Nonsense, it's fine. There's police all over here. No one would try. It's not worth the trouble," his mother said, kindly and softly, trying and succeeding to calm him.
Then it all went to shit.
The vibrant colors of the sunset fade into shadows. Suddenly, they were confronted by a menacing figure in a dark alley—a mugger, whose face was obscured by a hood and whose intentions were clear. Previously forgotten panic surged through Bruce as the mugger demanded their belongings, his mother's early attempts to calm Bruce were now no longer effective to the young Bruce.
"Calm down, Bruce, just breathe," his mother said as she slowly handed the mugger money and anything valuable at gunpoint.
Suddenly, a loud shout from down the alley filled Bruce with the hope that he and his mother were safe now.
"NYPD HAND UP." a police officer said, his weapon raised at the mugger and slowly walking forward with one hand calling for backup.
The mugger, shocked and panicked, fires his gun ... Bruce's mother falls on him. She is dead with a bullet hole in her forehead, eyes drained of life, and the cop fires back. The sense of security that had once enveloped Bruce was irrevocably shattered. The fleeting relief of justice served now became a night he will never forget. The cop ends up killing the mugger but gets a bullet to the stomach and left leg for it, now also stuck on the ground like Bruce, who eventually passes out when backup arrives.
After that day, he moved in with his uncle, his mother's brother; having only seen pictures of his father and never meeting him, he had nowhere else to go and remained there until he turned nineteen.
The haunting memory of that day lingered in his mind, marked by an overwhelming sense of loss and powerlessness.
Now, after years of not knowing what to do, he finally knew what he wanted; no one would ever feel what he felt that night, and he knew exactly how to do it.