Prologue
A terrible scream pierced the usual nightly silence like a hot knife through butter. Down the halls of Wayne Manor it flew, disturbing every mouse and fly it swept past. It was even enough to rouse young Thomas Wayne, and his wife, Martha, from their deep slumber.
He glanced over to her, expectantly. She smiled, grimly, as if she'd been expecting the scream, and simply said, "your turn."
Thomas groaned tiredly, clearly not wanting to get up, before quite literally rolling out of their king sized bed. He hit the ground with a dull thud.
"You okay?" Martha yawned.
"Ow," he replied, simply.
He considered just continuing to lay there, in a crumpled heap on the floor, but decided there were more important matters than sleep.
Groaning again, he staggered to his feet, and stumbled around their dark, lightless room, trying to find the door. Just his luck, he didn't find it until he ran into it, and when he did, he stumbled back in surprise, and tripped on the rug, landing flat on his back.
"Do you need the light, dear?" He heard his wife ask.
Panicking, he shouted, "no, no, DON'T-!"
Too late, the blindingly bright lights of the master bedroom blared to life. Thomas, too stunned to protest, simply threw his arms up over his eyes, trying not to go blind.
"Sorry," Martha said, trying to stifle a laugh.
"Sure you are," he replied, sarcastically.
Once he regained the use of his eyes, Thomas turned to glare at his wife, but found he couldn't stay mad at her. He wasn't surprised, he never could. Martha had the kind of face that no one could stay mad at. Her hazel eyes could move mountains, and her long, flowing brunette hair was perfect, even though she'd just woken up. Groaning in pain, and tiredness, Thomas got back up, and left the room, heading towards the origin of the scream.
Out in the hallway, it would've been extremely difficult to see, if the lights weren't motion activated. As such, it was easy for him to see the grand mahogany walls that, between the hundreds of expensive paintings and photos, had small, intricate designs upon every inch. He didn't pay them much attention, though. He lived here, and had for about two decades. All he was focused on was where he was going. Of course, as everyone does, he glanced at himself as he walked by a mirror. He didn't stop, but he slowed down enough to drag his brown hair out of his equally brown eyes. "I need to shave," he thought, as he continued walking.
The longer he walked, the farther it seemed he had to go. Such was the way of the rich- houses so grand you had to have a car to navigate without getting tired. Left, right, left, left again, he would've lost track of he hadn't been going down this hall every other night for the last month.
After what seemed an eternity of walking, he finally reached his destination- a door, at the end of the hall. The door wasn't any more special than all the other doors in the house- in fact, the only difference was the name tag that was duct taped to it at eye level. It read, quite simply, 'Bruce.' The letters were written in black crayon, and the letters were uneven, suggesting that they were written by a four year old. Bruce Wayne was, in fact, six. He just had bad handwriting.
Thomas didn't dwell on the door, or the sign. His thoughts were on the room he had just left, rather than the room he was heading towards. Stifling a yawn, Thomas knocked on the door, and, upon hearing a muffled, high pitched, "come in," turned the brass knob, and pushed the door open.
The room that followed looked like what most rooms for six year olds look like. Well, most six year olds don't have a thirty six inch flat screen on their walls, but other than that, it was the same. Oh, and the computer. Bruce loved his computer. But not as much as the Legos, and the other toys that were strewn all over the floor.
The bed wasn't nearly as large as Thomas', but it was still larger than most beds used by the typical kid his age. The Avengers blanket was picked out specifically by Bruce. He loved his comics.
Bruce himself was visibly shaken. His skin was pale- well, paler than usual. His long black hair was so far down his face that it was hard to see his dark brown eyes. But the most obvious sign of fear- aside from the earlier, blood curdling scream- was the fact that he was curled up in the fetal position, rocking back and forth, not on the bed, but in the far corner, and the lights were on.
"Bruce," Thomas sighed.
"I know, I know," Bruce whined. "'It's just a dream,'" he recited.
"Oh, you know, now, do you?" Thomas retorted.
"Yeah."
"Then why am I down here?"
Bruce opened and closed his mouth a few times, trying to figure out what to say. After a moment or two, he said, "it just seemed so real. I really felt like I was there."
Thomas, who until that point had just been standing in the doorway, strode silently into the room, and sat down next to Bruce.
Bruce glanced up at his father, and said, "are you mad at me?"
"No, I'm not mad."
"You look mad."
Thomas hadn't even realized he was grimacing. "Well," he explained, "I stepped on a Lego."
Bruce winced, as if he felt the imaginary pain.
"I'm sorry I woke you up," Bruce sniffed.
"Bruce," Thomas said, Ignoring the apology, "did I ever tell you that I used to have nightmares, too?"
"You did?" Said Bruce, full of wonder, as if dads didn't have bad dreams.
"Yeah, I did." Thomas proclaimed. "Every night I had the same dream- a dream where I was being chased by some freak with a gun. They scared me to death every night, and it drove your grandpa insane."
"What happened?"
"I'll tell you what happened. See, one day, your grandpa sat me down right where you are, and he said to me, 'son, you might be scared, but fear isn't a bad thing.'"
"It's not?" Bruce asked.
"No, it's not. See, fear gives us boundaries. Without them, we don't know our limits. And, in a world where people don't know their limits, a whole lot of people would die."
"Wow, I never thought of it that way."
"Bruce, one day you'll understand the importance of fear."
"I will?"
"You will. And on that day, I expect all of Gotham will know it."
He had no idea how right he was.