"Catch me if you can," the voice of Tommy Elliot carried through the garden. Excited, the young Bruce Wayne ran, frantically searching for his friend. Flowers and various species of foliage flew by his face as he weaved between the aisles of plants.

Bruce had always liked the garden. Over the past few years it had easily become his favorite place to play in the vast estate where he lived. It had plants that had been procured from nurseries all over the world, and Mrs. Cooper always did a fine job at keeping them as healthy as possible in Gotham's oceanic climate.

Breathing heavily, Bruce came to halt, placing his hands on his hips and looking up at the sky. Brushing his jet-black hair away from his blue eyes, he took note of how warm the windless air was today. He was glad to be able to play outside today. It was a record breaking April as far as rainfall had been concerned, with today being the first stormless day in almost a week and half. The clouds held almost motionless in the grey sky above. The skies were nearly always grey in Gotham. At least, it seemed that way. Gotham had a reputation of being dark and damp year round, with the exception of the summer months. Being located along the Eastern Seaboard that was so be somewhat excepted, but for whatever reason weather patterns all seemed to converge right over Gotham causing for a much cooler climate than could be found in any of the other major East Coast cities.

"You giving up?" Tommy shouted from somewhere in the distance. Grinning, Bruce resumed the chase. Tommy Elliot had been his best friend for the majority of both of their young lives. In fact, the Elliots were friends to the entire Wayne family and had been for some time. Both of the boy's mothers had been pregnant at the same time, and being neighbors both got to experience childbirth and the excitement of being new parents all at the same time together.

Coming to the greenhouse, Bruce opened the door and called in, "Tommy?" There was no vocal replay but Bruce noticed the sound of shuffling feet inside and, pursing his lips, ventured in.

For as lush and well kept as the gardens were, Mrs Cooper did not keep the greenhouse in very good condition. She didn't favor the more tropical plants, and as such a menagerie of tangled vines and gnarled branches reigned within the structure which was perhaps more often appreciated as a storage shed for the gardening tools. Rakes, shovels and trowels lined the walls, with pots, hoses and various bags of fertilizers sprawled over tables and workbenches.

Bruce stopped and strained his ears, listening for any sign of his friend and breathing in the humid air. Then he saw, under a wooden table to the left, a bright sneakers of Tommy Elliot.

"Can I see?" Bruce asked as he leaned over and looked his friend in eyes. Tommy grinned, wiping his sweaty red hair away from his forehead.

"Finders keepers, and I found it," Tommy taunted.

"In my garden," Bruce quipped. Though he liked him, Bruce had always felt the need to come up with reasons and feigned logic in order to outsmart Tommy. Tommy was smug and arrogant, always fancying that he knew everything. The two usually played board games involving strategy where Tommy could gloat about his intellect, and if they weren't doing that then they were playing imaginary games in Tommy would dictate make-believe scenarios for Bruce to deal with. But today had been different. Today they had opted to play in the garden. It was the only somewhat decent weather they'd had in days, and thus the morning had been spent taking full advantage of that.

"I'm serious, let me see," Bruce said. Tommy stretched out a fist and unclenched his fingers, revealing an old Native American arrowhead resting on his palm. Native Americans had inhabited the Gotham regional area for several thousand years prior to its first permanent European settlers. In fact, Bruce's father had told him that the explorer, Jeremy Coe, had reported Indian Camps in droves in what was now known as the Gotham Heights area only three hundred years previously. And while Bruce's dad had always told stories of finding old pieces of pottery and other artifacts on the grounds of the manor when he was a boy, Bruce had never found anything of the like until today.

"Pretty cool, huh?" Tommy said. Never taking his eyes off of the object in Tommy's hand, Bruce struck his hand out as quickly as possible and snatched it up for himself. Before his red-haired friend could entirely register what had happened Bruce was running out of the greenhouse, arrowhead in hand.

"Finders keepers!" he giggled back as the reentered the garden area. Hearing Tommy closing in behind him, he frantically looked for a place to hide. And then he saw a tree off to the right, running up against an old well, which had been boarded up years before Bruce was even born. If he could just climb up into the tree before Tommy got close, then surely he'd be able to hide up there. He ran over to the base of the trunk, and seeing it was too tall, he resolved that he should climb on top of the well to give himself a boost.

He carefully tucked the arrowhead into his pocket and climbed up onto the boards covering the old well's opening. Bending his knees, Bruce crouched down and then jumped up, desperately reaching above his head for the nearest branch. But he missed.

"Bruce!" Tommy called as he got nearer. Bruce bent down and sprung up again. This time his fingers just barely grazed the lowest branch. Tommy suddenly appeared around the nearest shrubbery and Bruce made one final desperate leap. His palm hit the branch, and his fingers quickly tightened around it. A smile burst across his face as he found himself hanging above the old well from the branch. He had made it.

But suddenly Bruce found his stomach forcing its way up into his chest. The world around him went flying up into the air. The branch had snapped, and before Bruce had even realized he was falling his body slammed hard against the wooden boards below. Pain surged along his back and then scraping along his sides and the boards gave way and he scratched along past their splintered ends. Darkness swallowed him as he tumbled down to the bottom of the well.

"Bruce?" Tommy shouted, peering down into the well, but it was too dark to see his friend anywhere down in the depths. Quickly as he could, he ran back through the garden toward the massive mansion calling out for help.

The stone surface had slapped the breath from Bruce's body as his fall ended. Groaning, and barely able to move, he gazed up at the tiny hole of light from the opening above. It was damp and still down in the hole. He could barely see, or even bring himself to cry out. It was almost soundless, except for a slow and steady dripping and a distant whisper of air.

Straining his eyes he turned his head and noticed that the well opened up into a tunnel to the right of his body. Barely able to make out the silhouettes of shapes, it appeared as if the tree's roots had grown into the side of the well and ripped it apart, giving way to a tunnel leading to a much larger cavern in the distance. Maybe he could lift himself up and crawl down the tunnel, but he feared he wouldn't be able to see.

The distant whisper suddenly changed. It had transformed into something else. Something that stirred in the darkness. It grew from a whisper into a shuffle and a hiss. And it chittered. And then, as suddenly as the branch had snapped before the fall, the darkness exploded from out of the tunnel. They boiled from the darkness, flapping, beating, gnawing, and clawing. It was a nightmare of leathery wings and gleaming eyes and fangs. Bats surrounded him, choking the air and leaving Bruce petrified with fear. Bruce shrieked, half out of terror, but mostly out of despair. He had never felt this pure panic surge through his veins like this ever before in his life. He had been scared, of course, as most children had. But this was something entirely different. This was the gut-wrenching panic that comes from an extreme fear that few people ever truly feel. But here he was, a boy at the age of eight years old, squeezing his eyes shut and willing himself to be anywhere away from here.

That time in the darkness felt eternal. The bats had moved on, but for how long Bruce had no idea. In fact, he hadn't ever really noticed when they had left, too consumed in his panic. But though they were gone, the helplessness and loss Bruce felt had not. Too scared to move and barely breathing so as to stay as quiet as possible, he wondered if he would ever be free. Dried tears had caked grime and filth onto his face, his clothes were soaked from the mud, and the cold air seemed to have pierced through his body and clamped onto his bones. Bruce wasn't even sure if he was still alive, unable to see the light filtering in from above anymore. As a weighted lump seemed to form in his heart, he wondered if he had fallen into Hell.

And then, suddenly, a beam of light stretched through the inky blackness and engulfed him. Reaching up to shade his eyes, Bruce saw his father, Thomas Wayne, floating down towards him, flashlight in hand. A rope was harnessed around his body, and though Bruce knew he was being rescued, he did not feel safe.

"Bruce. It's okay," Thomas whispered as he reached down and clasped hands with his son. "Don't be afraid, it's okay. You'll be ok."

Thomas carried Bruce up the stairs to the door of Wayne Manor. The house had been in their family for a long time. In fact, the Wayne's had been in Gotham nearly since it was first settled. And in the generations that followed they had made themselves rather prominent members of its society.

Wayne Enterprises was the massive corporate conglomerate that the Wayne family had run from within the heart of the city that granted them their vast multi-billion-dollar fortune. But fortune had not caused the Wayne's to be decedent. In fact, so determined to be industrious and help benefit the world around him, Thomas usually didn't even run his company himself. He left it up to men much more interested in the corporate world than himself. Instead Thomas had gone to medical school and worked as an accomplished surgeon. He and his wife Martha were both well known philanthropists, often spearheading numerous charity events. They were Gotham's favored family.

"Will you be needing my assistance Master Wayne?" Alfred, the Wayne's butler asked as they ascended the stairs.

"No, it looks like just some bruising and maybe a sprained ankle," Thomas replied. "But it could have definitely been worse."

"Very good sir," Alfred nodded. Alfred Pennyworth was a good man. Born and raised in Britain, in his younger days he attended numerous prestigious academies and eventually entered training to be a military man. He trained specifically in combat medicine, however, his training lead him to take up various jobs as bodyguards, which eventually turned into simple valet work by the time he was hired by the Wayne's. He and Thomas had hit it off extremely well and he quickly found himself promoted from valet to head butler at Wayne Manor, growing extremely close to the entire family.

Waiting near the doors to the vast mansion stood Tommy Elliot and his father. Tommy looked ashamed, guilty, and worried, while his father stood somewhere between embarrassed and entirely lived.

"I'm very sorry Thomas," Mr. Elliot sputtered at Bruce's father. "I've told Tommy a hundred times-"

"Don't worry, it's alright," Thomas replied kindly. As they passed, Bruce reached out and slipped the arrowhead into his friend's hands. It wasn't worth taking.

"Took quite a fall, didn't we Master Bruce?" Alfred smiled at the boy as they entered the grand entrance hall.

"And why do we fall Bruce?" His father said comfortingly. "We fall so we can learn to pick ourselves up." Bruce had heard this saying from his father numerous times in his life, but somehow today he wondered how it could possibly apply. He had been petrified down in the well. How could he pick himself up?

"Honey!" Bruce's mother called as she ran over to meet her husband and son.

"It's just a little fall Martha, nothing serious." Thomas assured her.

"Does anything hurt?" She asked, kissing him on the forehead.

"Just a little sprain, some scrapes, and some bruises right Bruce?" Thomas said winking. "Lets get you up to your room for now."

As Bruce was laid in his bed, he was glad to back in the arms of his parents, in his nice comfortable home. It was good to be out of the cold and be bathed in the lights of Wayne Manor. But he did not feel safe. As the sun slipped behind the clouds, and the sky began to dim, the shadows seemed to be reaching for him, and there was no warmth or comfort in his heart. The chittering of the bats echoed in his head. Their eyes watching him blankly, and he could not escape.

"Bruce," the calm whisper of his father rang out in the darkness as a hand gripped the boy on the shoulder. "Bruce are you alright?"

Bruce opened his eyes. He was tangled in the soft down blankets of his bed, with sweat running down his forehead. Had he just been screaming? He couldn't remember. All he could remember were the bats surrounding him, and lunging at him. The way they moved and twisted through the air. Their shrieks and hissing. He had been having a nightmare. Pain was pulsating from his heel up through his leg from the sprained ankle which he had obviously just agitated as he thrashed in his sleep. He was terrified, but he did not think he could admit it to his father. After all, he was eight years old. Eight year olds didn't need their parents to come in and comfort them when they had nightmares. He didn't even think eight year olds had nightmares at all. What would his father think? Bruce stared up searchingly at his dad, as his mother entered the door behind him and looked down with a worried but loving smile.

"The bats again?" Thomas asked. Bruce nodded. "You know why they attacked you, don't you? They were afraid of you."

"Afraid of me?" The thought seemed preposterous to Bruce.

"Of course they were. They were just sleeping in their cave when in dropped this boy who's so much bigger than any of them. To them you're a giant! They were scared. All creatures feel fear."

"Even the scary ones I guess." Bruce said, the faint outline of a smile appearing on his face as he imagined those horrible little shadow-like creatures being frightened of him.

"Especially the scary ones!" Thomas chucked back. Martha moved closer to the bed and sat herself down on the edge.

"Mom, what was that place?" Bruce asked.

"Just some old cave honey. Your father says those caves run all over underneath the grounds. In the civil war your great-great-grandfather was involved in the underground railroad, and probably used them to help people. You remember what that is?" Bruce nodded, remembering what he had learned about good people who helped free slaves by sneaking them into the northern states during the war. To think that a place, which was used to help people, had been so scary for him was a bit bewildering, but then again, so was the thought that the bats had been frightened of him.

"Are you still feeling frightened?" Thomas asked.

"No," Bruce said quietly.

"Do you need us to stay with you for a while?" Martha asked.

"I think I'll be alright."

"Good," she said as she placed her hand on his head. "But if you need us Bruce, you know where we are. You never need to be afraid, Bruce. We're always here for you when you get scared. And you're here for us too. We are all going to be here for each other for when times get scary."

"Even Alfred," Thomas chimed in as he placed his arm around his wife, "He's just been boarding up that hole you fell into right now. So you don't have to worry about it anymore. We're always here for you, Bruce." And for the first time since he fell into the hole, Bruce did feel better. At least, he felt better inside the house. Outside, in the cold wet night, he knew the bats were still out there.

June 26th. It had been two months since Bruce had fallen into the caves with the bats. His schooling at the Gotham Heights academy had been out for a few weeks, which meant it was time for the usual summer outings as a family in the Wayne family.

"Sit down Bruce," Martha told her squirming son. As the train jolted to a slow start Bruce pulled his face away from the window and took his seat across from his parents. It was an exciting time for Bruce, as his parents rarely ever brought him into the interior of the city. In fact, he could only remember traveling downtown on a very rare few occasions, either to the zoo or museum and so on.

Wayne Manor where Bruce's family lived was located on the outskirts of Gotham City in a neighborhood of Gotham Heights known as The Palisades. Gotham Heights was located on am outcropping of hills which bordered the western perimeter of Gotham City's limits. From the mansion they could see the sprawling megalopolis clinging to the ocean in the distance, but for the most part they didn't often travel there as a family all together. Bruce had always been content exploring the grounds at Wayne Manor or visiting the parks and ice cream parlor which were in the more immediate neighborhood. They only ever took him downtown on special occasions, and today was a special occasion. Or rather, it was a special occasion for his parents. Tonight was not the sort of night Bruce would have likely chosen for himself.

The Grande Monarch Theatre, one of the oldest theaters in Gotham City, was performing a limited engagement of Arrigo Boito's Mefistofele. When Bruce had complained about going, his mother had explained to him that the tickets had come to them through a good friend and it would be rude not to accept them. His father had told him that the opera had only been performed on extremely rare occasions, and in fact had only been put on twice in its original run, so this was an opportunity that should be taken advantage of. Earlier that month Bruce's friend Tommy had visited Amusement Mile, a massive carnival-like theme park along the water front and seen a back to back showing of both the 1920 The Mark of Zorro and it's 1940 remake. Of course Tommy had told Bruce all about it, and when he had suggested it to his parents they had told him they would take him the following month, because this month they had received the tickets to the opera.

Alfred had driven them to the train station, and Bruce had been upset for the duration of the ride. Opera sounded boring to him, and he did not enjoy wearing the suit and bowtie his parents had made him wear. He was nowhere near as comfortable in that outfit as his father appeared. And his mother looked absolutely pleased to be in her dress, wearing a brand new string of pearls around her neck that Thomas had given her just moments before they left the manor. Bruce wondered if someday he would have to buy jewelry for a girl, worrying that he would not be any good at deciding such things.

The buildings flew by out the windows of the train, and Bruce's grumpy mood earlier was lightening. The massive skyscrapers and sculptures that lines the streets of Gotham were a sight that people from all over the world would travel great distances to see, but the awe they inspired was not lost on the young Bruce. He enjoyed the train too. It wasn't vastly different from riding in a car, but something about being on a train was fun. Perhaps it was the tracks elevated so high above the streets, or maybe it was the tunnels and moments it would squeeze between buildings and so on. Whatever it was, there was something special about seeing Gotham from the train system.

"Dad," Bruce asked. "You're company built this train, right?"

"That is correct," Thomas smiled.

"Why did you want to build this train Dad?"

"Well, Gotham has been good to our family… but some people here have been suffering. People less fortunate than us have been enduring some very hard times. So… we decided to build a new, cheap, public transportation system to help them out."

Bruce didn't entirely understand the economic circumstances in Gotham, but he had heard about it plenty of times. Most people referred to it as "The Depression." Apparently this sort of thing had happened in the past to other cities, where companies who provided a lot of jobs experiences extreme economic downturns or went out of business entirely. People would move out of the city and eventually the city itself would be nearly a ghost town. The same thing had happened in Seattle during the late 1960's and early 70's during an oil crisis. Gotham was going through similarly hard times. While the extremely wealthy, like the Waynes, were barely touched by these problems, the lower class found itself plunging even lower. Crime and sickness was a rampant issue in the inner city, which was in large part a reason that Thomas and Martha did not often take their son into the city. But they did their part to try and fix things. Both of them worked extremely hard on various charity projects and Thomas had expertly navigated his company through the crisis so that it would be able to provide as much stimulation to the economy and help as many people as possible.

Gotham was interest city, architecturally. It was a layered city. There were streets elevated over streets, and streets that ran under the ground. Entire city blocks and shopping districts were sometimes located on subterranean levels of the city. On ground level the buildings were mostly all old, brick, and elegant in their build. Beautiful sculptures erected from marble and even steel could be found around every corner. They were edifices of the past haunting the present. As one moved up higher on the skyline the buildings would often get more modern in many places. There were several examples even of newer buildings being built on top of older ones, with updated structural foundations added to accommodate the changes. It was truly the one of the only cities of its kind in the entire world.

When they arrived at the nearest station to the theater, the Wayne's disembarked and walked a few blocks to the Grande Monarch Theatre. It had been built very early in Gotham's history, and was originally intended to be exclusively an opera house. But in more recent years it had lent itself to various other events, converting sometimes into a stage for dramatic plays, a movie theater, or even a symphony hall. Red velvet chairs with golden accents filled the theater, and enormous elaborate tapestries lined the walls- originals from the days when it was originally built. They took their seats and waited patiently until the lights dimmed and the stage lit up. The curtains raised on the main stage and the opera began.

A heavenly chorus sang out and praised the Almighty God for his power and goodness, only to be met by Mefistofele, the Devil, who scornfully declared that he can win the soul of a man, the elderly Dr. Faust. His challenge is accepted by the Forces of Good, and their struggle over Faust's soul began. The aged Dr. Faust and his pupil, Wagner, were watching Easter celebrations in the main square of their town, celebrating the anniversary of the resurrection of Christ. Faust noticed that a mysterious friar, about whom he sensed something evil, was following them. Wagner dismissed his master's feelings of unease and as darkness fell they returned to Faust's home. Faust, in his study, was deep in contemplation. His thoughts were disturbed in dramatic fashion by the sudden appearance of the sinister friar, whom he now recognized as a manifestation of the Devil, Mefistofele. Far from being terrified, Faust was intrigued and engaged in a discussion with Mefistofele which culminated in an agreement by which he would give his soul to the Devil on his death in return for worldly bliss for the remainder of his life. With the deal in motion and restored to his youth, Faust infatuated Margareta, an unsophisticated village girl. She was unable to resist his seductive charms and agreed to drug her mother with a sleeping draught and meet him for a night of passion. Meanwhile Mefistofele amused himself with Martha, another of the village girls. As Faust engaged in more and more activities with the Devil, they became further and further devilish until Mefistofele carried Faust away to witness a Witches' Sabbath on the Brocken Mountain.

Bruce watched as the Devil mounted his throne and proclaimed his contempt for the World and all its worthless inhabitants. The witches and goblins gathered and began to dance and twist around on stage. The music built upon itself and Bruce found himself more and more engaged. And suddenly, out of the caves and crevices of the set of the Brocken Mountain came a great number of performers dressed as gigantic and horrible bats. Bruce's heart beat faster as he watched them twirl and spin on the stage, reaching up towards Mefistofele with grasping clawed hands. And as he watched, and sweat ran down his forehead, it was as if he could see the bats from the cave before his very eyes. He could hear their chittering and hissing, and feel their leather wings brushing over him as he sat in panic. His stomach churned and ached. They were surrounding him, swarming over his body, and desperately he looked for a way out.

Thomas glanced down and saw his son's face drenched in sweat with skin as white as paper. His chest was heaving. Glancing back at the stage and seeing the bats, Thomas reached down and placed his hand on Bruce's knee.

"Can we go?" Bruce gasped out. "Please?" With a look of understanding, Thomas nodded his head and took Martha's hand and whispered in her ear. She glanced down at Bruce and then together they all stood up and eased their way past the rest of the audience in their row. Then quickly, as they got into the aisle they hurried out to the lobby.

"Sir are you sure you would like to leave? We will not be able to allow you back in until the beginning of the next act," an usher remarked.

"That's quite alright," Thomas replied as they walked through the lobby and out the front door.

"Bruce are you alright?" Martha asked. He just nodded his head while his father patted him on the back.

"A little bit of opera goes a long way, right Bruce? Come on, lets get back to the train station." Walking arm-in-arm with Martha, they all took to the night streets of Gotham heading toward the nearest train station.

"Here, let's take this shortcut," Thomas said, leading them down a narrow street called Park Row. "This is where Leslie works, Martha."

"Oh, in here?" Indeed one of the doors they passed carved out in the side of the alleyway had a sign that read, "Leslie Thompkins Medical Clinic." Bruce had only met Leslie a few times in his life. She had apparently been a student with Thomas in Medical School, and even a co worker at the hospital for a while. A lifelong friend of the Wayne's and a renowned medical professional, Leslie had left the hospital to start her own clinic, dedicating her considerable skills toward helping Gotham's neglected and impoverished population in the inner parts of the city.

They passed the door and continued toward the end of the street, which is where Thomas said the train stop was located. Bruce was glad to be out in the cool night air, calming down from his panic attack at the theater. He was so thankful for his parent's being understanding and letting him leave, but he didn't want to tell them for fear that they might tease him. He felt worse enough on his own about his fears.

A man entered the street in front of them and started walking toward them. Bruce noticed his mother's uneasiness as she clang closer to her husband who looked to have perked up, as if on his toes for the worst. Bruce didn't understand what was to be worried about. The man ahead looked like any other, wearing a coat, muddy pants, and a cap with the brim pulled low. There was hardly anything to be nervous about.

But as they came into close proximity to each other the man exploded into movement, whipping a gun out from his coat and pointing it directly at Thomas. Bruce stepped back in shock, his heart racing but barely able to move.

"Wallets, jewelry," the man ordered, his arm trembling as he held the outstretched gun. "Come on. Fast."

"That's fine," Thomas said quietly, his hands up in a submissive gesture.

"Fast!"

"That's fine. That's fine. Take it easy. Just take it easy." Thomas slowly reached into his coat pocket and removed his wallet. The man's eyes fixed onto the wallet and he reached out with his free hand to take it. Keeping eye contact Thomas said, "Here you go." But as the wallet touched the hand of the mugger, Thomas let go and the mugger let it slip out of his hand and to the ground. The mugger's glare shot up to Thomas, enraged like a feral animal, but Thomas just calmly kept his hands raised and said quietly, "It's fine. It's fine." The mugger slowly bent himself down, keeping his eyes fixed and gun aimed at Thomas, blindly reaching out for the wallet. Finally he clasped it and began returning to a stand.

"Now just take it," Thomas said as kindly as he could. "Just take it, and go away." But the mugger's glance shifted toward Martha along with his gun and he sputtered out, "I said Jewelry!"

"Hey!" Thomas shouted, stepping between the barrel of the weapon and his wife. It all happened so fast that Bruce didn't know what had happened until after the shots had rang through his head. The mugger had panicked at Thomas' sudden movement and squeezed the trigger, releasing a bullet into Bruce's father's body. He dropped to the ground like a brick of lead and Martha streaked a wrenching scream, "Thomas! THOMAS!" Bruce looked down at his father, eyes widening, only to hear the second shot ring out. His mother's shrieks were silenced forever, as she fell to the ground next to her husband. Her pearls flew in all directions, hitting the ground and rolling around loose on the pavement.

Breathless, Bruce looked up at the man who stood above him, who looked down at the boy a stare as blank and gaunt as the bats, which had swarmed around him earlier that year. Then, slipping the wallet and the gun into his coat, the man turned and ran back into the shadows. Bruce was alone.

The silence in the alleyway was almost defeating, as it soundlessly pounded against the inside of Bruce's head like waves crashing on a crumbling cliff's side. He fell to his knees, splashing his legs down into the pooling blood, which was gathering around him. On both side laid his parent's lifeless bodies, and he was entirely alone. He would never hear his father's comforting voice again, or feel his mother's warm embrace. They were gone forever.

His gaze followed the flow of blood from the wound in Martha's neck down to the pool in which he knelt, and slowly he pressed his hand down into it. The pungent smell filled his nostrils, mixing with the Gotham night air. He felt like his eyes had been fused open, staring into the empty cityscape beyond. Tears wouldn't come, and the pit in his stomach grew only larger and larger. He was alone. His childhood was over. And so was his life.

That night, Thomas and Martha Wayne were shot, and destroyed as they fell to the ground. They would never rise again. But neither would Bruce, because when he finally stood up from the pavement, the child who had played happily in Wayne Manor and studied at the Gotham Heights Academy was gone. He was no longer that boy. He wasn't sure exactly who he was becoming, but for the moment he was simply empty. He was an empty vessel waiting for something to possess it.

"Hello?" a voice called out in the darkness. "Hello? Are you alright?" A woman approached him, though he didn't turn to see her. He simply stared. She gasped as she got closer, and muttered profanities in fear as she saw the bodies. Bruce thought he heard her gasp his father's name. No, he was sure of it. She had. It was Leslie. He didn't need to see her to know who it was. She must have heard the gunshots and come out to investigate. He wouldn't look at her. He couldn't look at her. He couldn't look at her, or the bodies, or the police that arrived later. He didn't even blink or sigh when he overheard the police saying they likely couldn't solve a case involving a random vagrant mugger. He didn't look at Alfred when he came to pick him up. Bruce kept on staring, hardly muttering a sound for the entire night. He even felt as if was staring into the gaping darkness in his sleep. The shock would not pass.

It rained on the day of the funeral. People arrived dressed in black and listened and watched as Martha and Thomas were lowered into the ground of the family plot, which resided near the Manor. Bruce hadn't bothered opening his umbrella. He just let the rain run over his hair and down his face, though he could hardly feel it. He could hardly feel anything.

People wished him condolences and told him they would help him manage whatever his parent's left him. He wouldn't need help with that. Alfred had been appointed as his legal guardian, and Leslie had offered her help as a sort of surrogate mother as well. Alfred and Leslie were friends, though Bruce was not entirely fond of her. He was especially not fond of the idea of someone filling in for his mother. At least Alfred would know his place. Alfred would never try to be Thomas Wayne. Alfred would be Alfred. A servant. A fatherly figure in his own right, but a servant at the end of the day.

There were plenty of the rest of Gotham's wealthy citizens in attendance. Bruce knew very few of them. He recognized the Falcone's, people Thomas had not thought highly of though he spent plenty of time with them. Tommy Elliot had been there with his parents, but he hadn't bothered to say much of anything. Bruce didn't look at any of them though. Not even his parent's caskets. He just kept on staring.

It wasn't until the guests had left and Bruce was back in his bedroom in the manor that he began to feel anything. He stood by the window, still drenched in water, and stared out at the family burial grounds in the distance. And as he stared he could see their tombstone rising above the rest.

"Master Bruce," Alfred said as he entered the room behind him. "Are you alright Master Bruce?" Bruce didn't respond, the feelings just barely starting to bubble up inside of him. Alfred continued, "I thought I might begin to prepare your supper." Bruce didn't respond. He didn't know how. Alfred sighed in acknowledgement and turned to leave when the growing weight in Bruce's core began to boil and bubble its way up and out of his throat.

"Alfred," he choked out as he spun around to face the butler.

"Master Bruce?"

"Alfred, it's my fault Alfred. It's all my fault!" Tears flowed from the boy's eyes. It was the first time he had cried since the murder. It was the first time he had really felt anything since the fear from the opera had drained out of him and the gunshots had rattled his eardrums. Alfred ran forward, kneeling down to Bruce's eyelevel and wrapped his arms around the boy.

"Oh no Bruce. No."

"If I hadn't gotten scared-" Bruce cried.

"No," Alfred said, looking him sternly in the eyes. "It was nothing that you did. It was him, and him alone. Do you understand me?" Bruce rushed his head into Alfred's shoulder, burying his face in the coat.

The crying continued on and off for most of the evening but eventually the tears ran out. Bruce didn't eat dinner that night. He didn't have the appetite. In fact, he went back to his lifeless mood, staring out at the loneliness. But he didn't feel empty. He felt sad. He felt lonely. He felt guilty.

He was put to bed by Leslie that night, and he laid there so still and lifelessly that she thought he had fallen asleep before she even left the room. He let her believe it. It made her happy. She worried about him so much, seeing how he had reacted to it. She couldn't imagine how a boy who had grown up as Bruce had could handle watching his parents be gunned down before his very eyes. He worried he'd hardly be able to sleep at all, especially after hearing about the chiroptophobia he had developed after his encounter with the bats. So it was comforting for her to think he had slipped off into sleep so effortlessly. Quietly she snuck out the door, and closed it behind her.

But Bruce was not asleep. He opened his eyes as soon as she had left the room and stared into the corner of his bedroom. The sorrow was welling up in his throat, swelling to such proportions that he thought he might burst. And then he heard the gunshots. The two gunshots which had killed his family. He no longer saw the bats sprawling in the air around him, but the shadowed figure of the gunman and his parents dropping to the ground around him. His father fall, his mother's screams, and the blood-spattered pearls flying through the air. Again and again and again he saw this. His heart racing faster and faster and faster. The voices of the police saying they couldn't find the mugger. The sound of the train in the distance. The echo of the steps the mugger took as he came closer. His whining in the opera house.

And then something snapped. It all went away. His entire body shook as he sat up in bed and clenched his fists. The sorrow was gone, and the guilt was melting away. This feeling was new. It was a feeling that would permeate much of the remainder of his life. It was anger. The boy, Bruce Wayne, was gone. And as he stood up out of bed, a rush of newfound power surged up through his body he shouted at the darkness in the room.

"I swear!" he shouted. "Mother, Father, I swear!" It was all he could vocalize. It was all his anger would allow. But in his head the words swirled around, fluidly, and profoundly fleshing themselves out: I swear, I will avenge your deaths. I will spend the rest of my life warring on all criminals. All criminals. I swear."