Part I - Family

December, 1993

Few will ever experience the pain and suffering I have. Even fewer will ever witness the destruction of innocent lives and souls. Sometimes, I wonder whether or not there ever was a time that the world was peaceful.

My mind is tainted with images of death like a bride's white wedding dress is stained by spilled wine. Once it has been exposed, it can never return to its original state. It is one thing for a woman of my age to experience this. It is another thing entirely for an eleven year old to go through…much like I did.

Not only are the memories still fresh in my mind, but so is the pain. The clenching in my chest as I watched the life drain out of mother's body, the tightening of my throat as tears raced down my cheeks. But the guilt was by far the worst.

It was like a parasite — a worm that invaded my organs and ate them from the inside out. It started at my toes. It ate at my feet and I was unable to walk for days. It travelled to my stomach. I vomited until there was nothing left. It wriggled into my chest. There it nested for days, growing until I was barely breathing and could not take it any longer. Then it went to my brain. It became a memory that has plagued my mind since. Always on constant replay, never ceasing.

My parents' death was my first taste of reality. It was my first view of the real world. The world of splendor that I had been raised in was forever marred with the brutality of seeing my own mother and father die in front of me. Never again would I be the same. Rarely would I ever smile. Never again would I let someone into my life.

Or so I thought.

I was merely a girl when my parents died. I had no relatives, so the default decision of the court was to enter me into the foster care system. The first couple of months were hell.

As a child, I was different — clever. I noticed things that even adults didn't. I could read a page of a book and recite it back to someone, or sketch someone's face from memory. Eidetic memory, they called it. The general public would think that it was a gift — this really great, amazing thing that would always come in handy. In some ways, it was.

But when you were like me — a child who'd had her parents murdered in front of her — the thing that was supposed to be a gift would turn out to be a curse.

I went back and forth between three different homes — if you could even call them that. The couples who took me in were hostile. I don't know what it was about caring for someone who wasn't of their own blood, but they disliked it. They disliked me. I wouldn't go as far as to say that it was hate — since they fed and clothed me — but I knew that in their eyes, I was no daughter of theirs.

It was during my fourth month of bouncing between homes that I met Alfred.

He was younger then, much more youthful and less serious. I suppose it has something to do with his missing master, but I'll explain that in the future.

I can recall our meeting like it was yesterday — perhaps because it changed my life so drastically.

The couple that I had been staying with for the week wanted to present me to their friends like I was proof of their "philanthropic" ways. Their names were Mr. and Mrs. Durance, I believe. They were an older couple, moderately wealthy and well-known in Gotham's elite society. I still see them at times at the galas that I attend. We make no move to converse with one another.

They brought me to a gala of some sort — I have no memory of what the cause was. I remember being astonished at the air of glamour and luxury that the guests in attendance had. Of course, I had no knowledge of my copious trust fund, so the Lucullan environment was completely foreign to me.

To this day, I still remember the words that were spoken and the downcast looks that I received.

"Oh, poor thing! Her parents left her not a single penny!"

"I feel so badly for her!"

"What a scrawny, mousy little girl! Her parents must not have fed her."

The last comment in particular had made me exceptionally angry.

After hearing the socialites' atrocious commentary, I wandered aimlessly around the venue, looking for anywhere vacant of people. I found refuge in an assumably empty library. For the second time that night, I was in awe of what I beheld.

The library was gorgeous, almost idyllic. With its wood-paneled walls and Tudor era markings, it seemed like the perfect sanctuary. Hundreds of books lined the walls, and I couldn't help but feel the strong urge to run my hands across the spines.

I stood there, in wonder, for only God knows how long. And for a moment, just for a moment — everything stopped. The parasite stopped eating away at my organs and my body was frozen. It was one moment of blissful, sweet ignorance — the kind you wish you had in your life more often.

As blithe and serene as this moment was, it was also fleeting. Soon, the parasite awakened, and I began to feel it wriggle into my chest. My thoughts, once again, were directed to my deceased parents.

And so I began to cry.

Hot torrents of grief coursed down my face. It was that type of crying. It seemed that my deep emotion had no other outlet but through my chest-rattling sobs.

But during one of my deepest moments of misery, someone came into the room — into my life that changed it forever.

My first impression of Alfred Pennyworth was that he was very proper-looking. He spoke with a gentlemanly English accent, words measured and careful, and he was always respectful — with a hint of satirical humor. But there was an enduring stance in his resolve. He also reminded me of mountains, old and abiding: a permanent figure in the rush of tomorrows.

I remember being a bit intimidated by him at first, but then again, I was twelve, crying, and a bit overwhelmed at the moment.

"Are you alright, Little Miss?"

I shook my head, my sobs seemingly unstoppable. My little green dress was now wet, soaked by my tears. My head was buried in my hands.

From the cracks between my fingers, I could see him coming closer, eventually standing a foot from where I sat on the ground. He leaned down, picking me up and setting me on a nearby couch. I was too busy crying to care.

He removed my hands from my face and smoothed my hair. "Now, now, Little Miss. You mustn't cry."

I faced him with wide, tear-filled eyes. "I...I can't h-help it."

He gave me a sad smile. "It's okay, Little Miss. You know what helps?"

"What?"

"Well, it's simple, really. Talk to me." I looked at him then, studying his features, searching for any sign of distaste or aversion. There were none.

I took a deep breath before replying. "Okay."

Slowly but surely, I was eased out of my shell, and I began to tell the man everything that had happened over the last couple of months — from my parents dying to the horrible homes I was forced to stay in.

He looked at me with worried features as I talked, nodding his head once in awhile to show that he was still listening. Soon, my tears were dry, and my liking of the man was growing even more.

To this day, I still wonder what made me open up to Alfred so quickly. Perhaps it was his way with people.

When telling him about my parents, he looked like he was pondering something, thinking about possibilities. "What were your parents names, My Dear?"

I furrowed my eyebrows, wondering to myself why he would bother to ask. I answered anyway. "Grayson and Aline Devereux."

His eyes widened in what looked to be shock or astonishment. "And what is your name?"

Was

"Milana. What is yours?"

"I'm Alfred Pennyworth, Little Miss. But you can call me Alfred." He smiled at me and kept talking. "Do you remember your mommy and daddy's friends, Dear?"

"Well, yes. They were closest to The Waynes, but they —wait…" I studied him closer, recognition taking over my mind. "You were their butler, weren't you?"

Shock was evident in his face once again. "How did you know? You were not yet born when they...passed."

"My parents showed me pictures."

"They were your godparents." There was realization in his eyes.

"Well, yes." I looked at him skeptically, wondering what was going on in that brain of his.

"Do you realize what this means, Miss Milana?" Alfred questioned.

"Not really, Mr. Alfred."

"When Thomas and Martha died, everything of theirs was given to their son—their estate, cars, everything. But he is not yet responsible enough to take care of these things, so it is all under my name. So if you were their goddaughter, then legally...you are my goddaughter now."

I looked at him, stupefaction present in my features. My mouth hung agape, my jaw slightly stiff from my crying. "Does this...Does this mean that you will take care of me?"

Alfred smiled graciously.

"Of course it does, Little Miss."

...

Unfortunately, I could not stay with Alfred at the manor that night, as there were obvious complications with my foster parents and heavy paperwork that needed to be filled out. Nonetheless, I was accepted into Alfred's little family with open-arms, and now, I couldn't be any more grateful for that.

It was three weeks later that everything was finalized.

Mr. and Mrs. Durance were not at all reluctant in letting go of me, most likely because I had purposefully given them a lot of trouble these past weeks. When they were informed of my wishes to live with Alfred and Bruce (who I had not had the pleasure of meeting just yet), they were at first angry with me. It seemed that they thought my presence in their household gave their reputations an instant uplift, and that me leaving would result in rather impertinent questionings from their fellow socialites. But after some purposefully problematic habitude from my person, they quickly warmed up to the idea of my departure.

My first day at Wayne Manor was fairly uneventful. Alfred had personally gone to pick me up from the Durances' estate. Although they were moderately wealthy, they did not reside in what Alfred called "The Palisades", the area of Gotham in which Wayne Manor stood. Alfred and I made small talk during the drive there, and he informed me of my housing arrangements.

"You'll be staying in a suite located in the east wing of the house. We haven't had much time to decorate it, but you'll be allowed to personalize it once you get settled in."

As we drove into the fancier part of Gotham, I stared in awe at the rolling green lawns and stately manor homes that we passed until we entered the circular drive of a palace. I was shocked at manor's state of luxury and grandeur. I had thought that the Durances' estate was large, but this? It was a castle.

We continued into the main hall, at the same time making light conversation. I studied my surroundings. The interior of the mansion was just as beautiful — if not more so — as the outside structure. Alfred led me to a grandly-furnished sitting room, where I sat on a plush white lounge. He placed my bags on a nearby table.

"Seeing as you have very little clothes, I'll be sure to take you shop —" He suddenly turned his gaze towards the sound of the main doors swinging open. "Master Wayne!"

The man who had just walked in gave Alfred a small smile that was quickly replaced with a confused look. "It's good to see you, Alfred. And...who might this be?" His eyes met mine, a questioning glint evident in his gaze.

I sat perfectly still, folding my hands delicately in my lap, gazing at the man in curiosity. He was tall and around seventeen or eighteen years old with a slightly-tanned complexion and chestnut-colored eyes that were nicely-framed by high-cheekbones and small slivers for lips. At such a young age, I was not yet aware of his attractiveness. The man studied me in turn as Alfred introduced me. He coughed before speaking. "Master Wayne, this is Milana Devereux. She is my goddaughter."

It was obvious to me that Alfred had yet to make "Master Wayne" aware of my situation. It was also obvious that Alfred had not expected him to be here.

I stood up from my seat on the lounge and went to shake his hand politely. "It's um...nice to meet you, Mr. Wayne."

He returned my gesture, a questioning look present in his eyes. He still smiled, though. "It's nice to meet you too, Milana. And call me Bruce. Mr. Wayne makes me sound old." I gave him a tight smile in return and reseated myself on the couch. Aside from my first encounter with Alfred, meeting new people had never been my forte.

Alfred was the next to speak up. "I was under the impression that you were still at school, Master Wayne."

Bruce shrugged and gave him a sly smile. "Yes, well, I decided I needed a break."

"And how long will this break be?"

"Well...I don't know. I was thinking maybe...the rest of the day." Bruce gave Alfred a sheepish smile. Then he looked at me again, probably wondering why an eleven-year-old had randomly shown up at his house. "Alfred, could we uh...talk? Privately?"

Alfred cleared his throat and prepared to lead me out of the room. "You read my mind, Sir." He gestured for me to stand up. "Come now, Miss Milana. Let's get you settled into your room." Then he took my bags and guided me through the maze that was Wayne Manor.

I was sure we had passed hundreds of rooms before we arrived at mine. It was a stately room that had white walls and older, Victorian-era furniture. The carpet was also a plush, alabaster-white, and it was by far the biggest room I'd ever seen.

Alfred set my bags down on the bed. "Alfred?"

"Yes, Miss?" He turned around on his way out of the room.

"I don't think Bruce likes me very much."

Alfred looked at me knowingly. "No one ever thinks so when they first meet him. I'm sure that he'll warm up to you, Miss Milana." He gave me a warm smile before exiting the room.

I really hoped that Alfred was right. I had no intentions of becoming Bruce's friend, but if I had to live in the same house as him, we had better be at least civil.

I was sitting on the bed, pondering my thoughts, when a knock sounded from outside of the door. I immediately went to answer it, thinking it was Alfred.

"Hey, Alfr—" I paled once I discovered that it was actually Bruce who was at the door. "Oh...uh, hi Bruce."

He gave me a small smile. "Can I come in?"

"Well, uh...it's your house, so yes, obviously." I stepped aside to let him into the room. I took a seat back on my bed, where I studied him from afar. He walked about the room, gazing at its attributes before he spoke again.

"This reminds me of my parents' room." At the mention of parents, my gaze dropped to my lap and I began twiddling my thumbs. He noticed this and smiled sadly. "I know that it's hard, Milana. I went through it myself. I go through it myself."

My regard snapped back up to him, my eyes slightly watery. He came and sat beside me on the bed, placing a comforting hand on my back.

"Does it...Does it ever go away? The pain?" I looked into his eyes, my own close to tears.

"I wish I could say that it did." He had a despondent look on his face, and I could swear that I saw his eyes get glassy for just a second.

A silent agreement was made between us. From that day on, we would lean on each other, voicing our emotions and sentiments to one another when we needed it.

For the first time after my parents' death, I had found a family. A family that would take care of me like I was one of their own — a family that knew exactly what I was going through.

What I didn't know at the time was that one member of the family would stick around longer than the other.