PROLOGUE

DECEMBER 22, 2003
APPROX. 0130 HOURS

"Ahhh, the things I would have done if I were not such a cold man."

He quipped to himself softly, audible to naught else but him due to the noise of metal on metal drilling echoing throughout the warehouse. The stone concrete shook with each step that Victor Fries took in his cold envirosuit as he strode over to the rest of the makeshift crew that he had hired to perform this job. Carefully he stepped through the water rushing on the ground - an uncareful consequence of a security guard's stray bullet hitting a fire sprinkler. With each thunk of his metallic boots, the wet ground beneath him quickly froze into ice, mush, and snow; a frozen indication of his travelling through the warehouse. He did stop momentarily to marvel at the beauty of the crystal ice around him. A luminous sheen reflected the warehouse lights back at him which mirrored the rest of the space around him. Ice- large stony crystals of ice- jetted out from various walls and from parts of the floor. Within it, it had been encasing a few warehouse and security workers. The agape mouths and wide eyes of fear stared back at him as the cold gripped their minds more and more. Eventually they would be dead, and unable to tell the tale of what frozen terror was exactly enacted upon this site. Fries put it out of his mind. He wasn't outright killing them to get what he needed. It was an unfortunate side effect of his plan. No matter. They had ample opportunity to run. Those who played hero were met with due action against them.

"How much time do we have, boss?" One of the hired guns looked up from the drill he was utilizing and asked as Fries stopped just behind him, joining the group of four men who were kneeling at different parts of a large cargo container.

"We need not worry about time, Miller." Fries calmly replied. "Everything is going to plan. Nobody should know we are here."

"Hm, alright." Miller replied, one hand steady on the grip of the drill as it continued pushing forward slowly, solidly. The custom designed cask was tall, taller than at least two or three men stacked on one another, and roughly as wide. Aside from the gray gunmetal color, large stickers reading 'FRAGILE' and 'RADIOACTIVE MATERIAL' with the matching yellow warning stickers adorning it. Not to mention the large and obvious 'WAYNE TECHNOLOGY AND ENTERPRISE' logo to boot. On each of the four sides was a specially designed lock, meant to be more ergonomic and secure for transporting hazardous materials, designed in-house by Wayne-tech R&D

Another hired gun off to the left also chimed up. "This shit's radioactive, boss? We gonna need special gear to haul this?"

"Maybe a big fancy suit like the iceman's got." Miller cracked before any other response could be made, his chuckled soon met with the other men laughing as well.

"No, the radioactive element is confined well within the machine." Fries completely ignored the quip, his face unchanging from its focused nature. "And we are not taking the whole machine as well, Franklin. Just what we need."

"Hey, by the way…" another goon, Jameson, spoke up. "Why the hell ain't we gotta worry? You just gonna freeze the police to death when they show up?"

"They won't." Fries responded. "More of my employees around the city will ensure that." Jameson shrugged, seeming content, yet careful.

"We're almost there anyway, Jamie, lighten up." Miller spoke just as his drill bit through the lock enough. "We'll be out of there before you know-" before Miller could finish his reassurance, blood spattered onto Fries' mechanical suit, the red contrasting harshly with the light blue of his suit. Miller fell to the ground in pain, clutching at his arm. The bullet punched clean through a major artery, apparent now due to the blood spurting from his limb. Across the way, now taking cover was another warehouse security guard. A smoking pistol he held, a determined look emblazoned on his face, and confidence- if not foolishness- coursing in his mind.

Fries scowled. This number of hired security personnel wasn't in the reconnaissance report he had.

No matter.

Fries took a deep breath, and once again readied himself for action. As the rest of his hired crew sprung into action - Jameson quickly dragging Miller behind the cover of the cask as the other two drew their rifles and took cover of their own - Fries simply began walking.

Clunk.

Clunk.

Clunk.

The light reflected the red orbs of Fries' goggles towards his assailant. He fired his pistol again, once, twice, a third time as the bullets simply pinged against the metal of the suit. His confidence surged quickly as a fourth shot landed against the glass helmet adorned on Fries. But alas, it was thick, bulletproof, and merely cracked it enough to only slightly obscure his vision. That confidence plummeted into his gut, an explosion of anxiety sending a shockwave of fear, true actual fear of death or worse through his veins. Clunk, Clunk, he drew nearer. The guard ran while reloading his pistol, looking for better cover. Looking up from his gun, he was met face-first with a wall of ice. Ice? What the hell? He thought. It obviously wasn't there before. He turned, the aisle of warehouse storage now… frozen over? A thick sheet of glassy ice turned the area into a hallway leading to a dead end.

He faced his pursuer. He wasn't even rushing, just briskly walking as if enjoying it. Clunk. Clunk. Closer and closer. The guard desperately fired continually into the figure. Every other bullet missed and whizzed past Fries. There was a distinctive icy thak of bullet meeting ice. Sweat dripped from his forehead, dropping to the ground with a crystalline tink as it quickly froze into a tiny icicle. Fries was closing the gap. The guard shivered hard, harder and more unlike any kind of shivering he had ever gone through before. Was it the cold? The fear of what the red-eyed and pale skinned man was about to do? Perhaps both. But that was a mere afterthought to the guard.

The clunking came to a stop. Fries raised his right arm, for the suit had been fashioned with a large cannon that replaced where the limb went. Tubes and wires of blue and brighter near white colors all led into the base of it. Slowly, electricity flowed into it to charge it. Powering it with a sinister whir. The guard's gaze met Fries.

He screamed. And then soon it was abruptly cut short.

The guard's scream was now an echo across the site. The crew nearby put their weapons down, themselves somewhat anxious at what they witnessed. Very soon after, the clunking picked back up, as Fries returned to the site. Jameson had put as much pressure as he could on Miller's wound, but his rag was leaking crimson. Fries came over, kneeled while twisting the tip of his arm cannon. The same charge came over the gun, as Miller recoiled. But instead of a wider beam as before, it was a more controlled glimmer. Carefully, he froze over the wound with ice, encasing it in a cast of frost.

"And now, we have less time." Fries remarked. "In about 20 minutes, your skin will succumb to frostbite, and you will lose your arm unless we get you to a proper medical professional and thaw your-"

"W-What the hell, boss?!" Miller shuddered from the pain and cold. "I-I don't wanna lose this, you can't-"

"Would you rather run the risk of losing your arm if it meant a chance of living, or would you join the man I have just attended to over there?"

It was entirely rhetorical at this point, but his voice sharply cut Miller off. He couldn't stop the shuddering, but the point was made. He was silent.

"Good. Now, the rest of you hurry if you wish to see Miller still have two arms."

CHAPTER ONE

DECEMBER 22, 2003
APPROX. 1030 HOURS

"Sheesh, you hear about what happened last night? That bat vigilante did a number to those jewel thieves."

The distinct smell of Gotham General Hospital wafted into the office, just behind the visitor. Bleach, mixed with that particular type of mixed pot of industrial cleaner and disinfectant. It was sharp, and heavily contrasted the cherry candle burning away dutifully in the corner, next to numerous recognitions and awards. Not all of which were related to doctoring or any medical awards - many were trophies and photos of boxing matches and championships. In some of the trophies, the outside light from the window was shining in and reflecting. It was a winter day outside, and the brightness of the snow was certainly helping to illuminate the room.

The shelf as a whole was a gorgeous mahogany, and contained a mix of orthopedic texts, photos, and assorted knick-knacks that were gifted from now and then - one of the more prominent ones that stood out was a father's day card with macaroni art, made with love. The shelf matched the clean, orderly, and professional look of the office as a whole, the wood finish matching other furniture, including the desk in which Thomas Wayne sat behind. He, indeed, had the Gotham Gazette in his hands, having been skimming a few articles while waiting for his visitor, Thomas Elliot.

"Hm. I haven't read more about it, I was just skimming while waiting for you." Wayne responded, folding the newspaper down in his hands, placing it neatly onto his desk for later. He rubbed his eyes a bit before shaking it off. He was about to say something further, but heard a distinctive cardboard tunk on his desk.

"Sugar, no cream, yeah?" Elliot smirked, having done his good deed for the day.

"Thank you, Thomas." Wayne accepted it with a hint of a smile.

"Not a problem, Thomas." Elliot responded, the obvious joke between the two men bringing them no less joy than the last time they made it. It was their style of humor, perhaps a product of the age of the two surgeons, but nonetheless it was theirs. "Late night? You look a bit more out of it than usual."

"Eh…" Wayne groaned, rising from his seat, fresh cup of coffee in hand. "Bruce had another nightmare. Had to console him."

"Poor thing." Elliot said as he frowned. The two began walking out of the office, into the brighter, whiter halls of Gotham General - but not before Thomas sidestepped to blow out the burning candle. There was a decent hustle and bustle of nurses and hospital staff moving around. This was the administrative offices, and yet many of the staff were frantically scrambling to get last minute paperwork in before the holiday, as many were taking time off, and many weren't. It reminded Wayne of the hundred hour workweeks he had during his residency, and he was somewhat glad to now be on the administrative side of things. He only occasionally took on surgery now when the time called for it. It especially helped bring balance to his second job as Waynetech CEO, of which he was especially thankful. But a part of him did miss making a more direct difference.

Wayne took a sip of his coffee as Elliot continued speaking, "And I hope you're all well as well, chum. If you ever need to talk about anything…" He trailed off.

"Update me. What's on the agenda today, Dr. Elliot?" Wayne gave his answer steering the subject away. Further, he only ever saved 'Dr. Elliot' for when he was much more serious. Elliot nodded, taking the hint, and spoke.

"I've got my consultation with the patient today, and yours will be coming in tomorrow." Elliot explained. "After that, by the end of… I wanna say this week? We should- oh, excuse me." A nurse passed by, nearly bumping into him and his coffee. Sidestepping her, he continued, "We should have him on the operating table just before Christmas."

"The FDA should be pleased, for sure." Wayne said. "Phase II of these kinds of trials are usually the most stressful. The sooner the better in their eyes."

"I guess. Perspective, maybe." Elliot looked at Wayne, seeing his face take on the complexity and roughness of stone. Frowning himself, he stopped and put his hand on Wayne's shoulder to beckon him to stop too. "Thomas, hey, let's back up for a second." Aside from their joking, it was always Thomas Wayne and Tommy Elliot. They stepped to the side where nobody could particularly hear them well. "Look, work is great and all, and I know it's around the time it happened, but-"

"But nothing, Tommy." Wayne shook his head. He was stopped, but his leg was out to the side of how he stood. He was obviously impatient for this kind of conversation. He was ready to leave. "We have the client for the FDA trials to discuss and-"

"No, Thomas, come on. You've been distant as hell." Tommy said, almost pleading. "What, you take over a year-long sabbatical, letting Bruce get raised by the hired help-"

"Alfred." Wayne corrected. "And we all heal in our own ways, Tommy. I'll be fine as long as I focus on work." He spoke through nearly gritted teeth, growing a bit more irritable. Tommy took a moment to consider his words in order to navigate the minefield that was Wayne's temper. After a brief moment of thought, he went in.

"Look, okay- I get it, it's hard. And I really do, what with my folks back in '75. It hit me like a truck, but you know what?" He put his hand on his friend's shoulder again. "I had someone to keep me on the straight and narrow. A buddy I could rely on. And all I'm saying is that it might be high time you seek that too, yeah?" Elliot smiled.

To a point, it worked somewhat. After a moment in thought, Wayne sighed. Then, a hint of a smile formed. It was a smile that meant that he knew he wasn't entirely alone- as much as he felt it at times.

"How 'bout this, you big brick wall…" Elliot began, teasing him slightly. "After we get the big part of this FDA deal done and over with, I treat you to our college cram meal."

"What, after dealing with stress, you want me to relive memories of it?" Thomas joked, eliciting a good chuckle from Elliot.

"Paul's Diner then? Christmas treat, or…?"

Thomas shook his head, his face shifting to a bit more of a sullen look. "No, Tommy. Christmas is her day, remember?"

"Shit! Right!" Elliot kicked himself mentally. "...day after then?"

The hint of a smile returned to Wayne's face. "Just have the patient's chart on my desk before 5, Thomas."

"You betcha, Thomas."

DECEMBER 22, 2003
APPROX. 2030 HOURS

"Bruce? Buddy, you sleep when the sun sleeps, remember?"

The halls of Wayne Manor were as tall and echoey as any other expensive mansion on a hill could be, but with recent events - not as inviting as it could be. Thomas Wayne had called out to his son, as he didn't know where in the hell he could be in this big house. Thomas had just gotten back from a later day of work - Not only did a few of the nurses at the hospital need consultancy from him, but Wayne Tech shareholders and board members wanted an urgent quarterly meeting due in part to a recent theft. While he didn't consider himself an active part at Wayne Tech, the CEO was still required to sign off on any major changes or decisions. In any sense, it was drab and boring as hell, and he had already trusted Lucius Fox to make most of those decisions - but he knew that if anyone else was at the helm, eventually the company would spiral out of his vision for making a better Gotham. So for now, having those 'two' jobs was a necessary evil.

As far as Wayne Manor, it was a keepsake of generations past. It was built for his Great- Great-Great-Great-Grandfather, Darius Wayne, as a way to solidify his place, and his family's place, in Gotham. Over the years, it was passed down to, essentially, whoever wanted it. Thankfully, none of the kids fought over it, seeing as they were effectively wealthy enough to afford whatever they wanted. Thomas, of course, grew up in the house and wanted to change things for the better in his home city. So he chose to accept it from his father, Patrick, who passed away after Thomas turned 20.

And much like the history of the manor, it too was a well-kept place- due in no small part to Alfred Pennyworth, whom Thomas now considered more part of the family than just a butler. If anyone knew where Bruce was, it would be him. Luckily, as Thomas was ascending the stairs of the main hall, he could hear the distinct footsteps of Alfred exiting the drawing room to his left. He turned his head as Alfred greeted him.

"Master Thomas, my apologies for not greeting you at the door." He spoke softly, albeit much more casual than a traditional butler would. His accent was posh, with the strength of both age and experience carrying that extra bass and volume with it.

Thomas simply waved him off. "Oh, don't worry about it, Alfred." He began descending back down to meet him on the ground level. The top of Alfred's head almost met the height of Thomas's, and Thomas was much bulkier than him. "I called out for Bruce, do you know where he's at?"

Alfred sighed. Oh boy, I'm not gonna like this answer. Thomas thought.

"Master Bruce's fixation of the day is on the television." Alfred answered. "As such, he is located in the Morning Room."

Of course. Where she spent most of her time.

His face turning a bit glum, he began going back up the stairs, the door to the Morning Room (turned now into more of a modern living room than anything) located at the top of the first flight. "Thank you, Alfred."

"If I may speak freely, Master Thomas…" He began ascending with him.

"Always."

"In my opinion, it would be best for Master Bruce to talk to a professional. These bouts of sadly fixating on one thing to the next are most definitely not good for his mind."

Thomas respected Alfred, and was always open to hearing what he had to say. The man fought in the war, for Christ's sake, to say he didn't have a good perspective on things would be an insult to him.

"I've tried, Alfred." Thomas responded. "But he rejects it each time. Each and every time he just… shuts it out and refuses to go. If this is his way of saying that he wants to grow up and make that decision for himself, then I'll treat him like an adult and respect his decision."

"With all due respect, Master Thomas, that may be part of the problem." Alfred said. "Perhaps to ensure Master Bruce is of sound mind, it may be best to tackle this problem with a more direct hand." Now they stood in front of the closed door to the Morning Room.

"Eh… maybe you're right, but…" Thomas looked around, his face strained in thought. "It's been getting harder and harder to strike that balance between intervening myself, and letting him live his own life. Hell, I got lucky to get him to agree to go to that school Christmas function tomorrow. We all mourn differently, and for different times, but I'm trying to find what works for Bruce."

"Perhaps you should endeavor for him to mourn as you do, by taking on your third job." Alfred quipped. This old bearded bulldog's sense of humor never got dull.

"Tch." Thomas scoffed. "Not in a million years." He said as he opened the door to the Morning Room.

The room had been updated within the last 5 years, less of a morning room and more of a living room. A large bubble screen sat at the end of the room, surrounded by a wide sectional couch. Among the clean decorations and knick knacks strewn in the room, probably one of the more prominent adornments displayed in the room was the Wayne family portrait that hung above the television. Painted ever so carefully and elegantly was Thomas, who had a smile underneath a bushy moustache of a bygone era (which he still had, and admittedly was reluctant to lose). In front of him, beaming from ear to ear was a slightly younger Bruce. His hair was ruffled in the portrait, thanks to his father. Despite protests otherwise, Thomas and Bruce both thought it 'added character' and wasn't a problem, because it was a happy memory.

And finally, standing tall next to Thomas was Martha. Her smile was subtle, but her eyes had captured a happiness that her lips otherwise couldn't. Beautiful and blue, vibrant like a stirring ocean, and sitting below endearing arched brows. Her features were truly ethereal and immaculate. But perhaps this was also the bias of Thomas coming through, as he couldn't help but look at the portrait - as he always did when he came into this room.

"Well done, old chum! We defeated Mr. Zero together!" A heroic voice came from the television. Thomas was brought back out of his head, looking at the screen as he heard The Gray Ghost declare his victory. On the TV, The Gray Ghost was shaking hands with his newfound sidekick, The Silent Sparrow. Bruce was watching, sat not on the couch, but almost directly in front of it - absolutely transfixed on the show.

"Bruce, bud, it's almost time for bed. You need to wash up and…" Thomas began, but his words were just droning to Bruce, and Thomas could see that as his voice trailed. He sighed, seeing his son stare obsessively at the show. The credits began to roll, so Thomas quickly scanned the room, and found the remote positioned on the couch. Grabbing for it before the next episode could start, Thomas switched off the TV.

"Bruce, come on." Thomas's voice was stern. Bruce dejectedly looked back. Thomas saw that his eyes were bleary and bloodshot. "Son, how long have you been watching that show?"

"A bit." Bruce simply responded. He rubbed his eyes and yawned.

"Bruce, I've got some excess work to do in the study, but Alfred can help you to bed, okay?"

Bruce didn't respond verbally. Instead he got up from where he was sitting, and sort of… silently nodded. There was a deliberate slowness, like he was lost in thought. Or maybe the thoughts were making him feel lost. Thomas frowned, and approached his son.

"Hey, bud, did you… wanna think about talking to someone again?" May as well try what Alfred said, he thought. Worst he could do is say no.

And Bruce did, by simply shaking his head with a frown glued to his face. That look hurt Thomas to his core. 10 years old was too young to be hurt like this.

It was at that point that Alfred re-entered the room, with a tray in hand. Christ, he can really move quietly. Thomas thought as he turned to see him. Placed on the tray was a bowl of cereal accompanied by a glass of milk.

"Perhaps the young Master Bruce would like a small snack to help him to bed." Alfred said.

Bruce thought for a moment, looking back at the portrait one last time. His frown grew a bit for just a moment before he turned back, and nodded at Alfred.

"Can I eat it here?" Bruce asked, looking more at Thomas for his answer. Thomas knew that he just wanted an excuse to watch more television. The look in his eyes was unmistakable. He relented.

"One more episode, okay? Then off to bed at 9 o'clock sharp." There was a hint of a smile that flashed on Bruce's face. "Then brush your teeth and get changed into your PJ's for bed, okay?"

"Okay, father." It was always father. Never dad, pop, papa. He didn't even ask any formality from him.

But it was always mom when she was around.

"I'll be in my study, preparing some paperwork, okay?"

"Okay, but…" Bruce looked a bit puzzled.

"What is it, son?"

"How come when you say you're doing work, I come down and you're not in there?"

A flash of fear jolted both Alfred and Thomas, but for the latter it was only so brief. His response was prepared and immediate.

"Well what are you doing out of bed after hours?" He threw back, knowing it would catch Bruce off guard.

And it did, causing him to blink a few extra times, searching for an excuse. "I was, um… just curious?"

"I get called out sometimes to talk to Uncle Lucius in person. You know how much he likes showing me his new gadgets."

The answer was good enough for Bruce, lest he get in more trouble for staying up too late. He nodded, muttering a simple "Okay." and turned back to face the television, a small table now set up in front of the couch for him to eat his snack over.

"Goodnight, father." Bruce said drearily. "I love you."

Sometimes, hearing that was enough to numb his pain for a solid minute. "I love you too, Bruce." Thomas gave Bruce a quick kiss on the top of his head, and patted his back.

"I shall be with you to assist with any driving or paperwork after I put Master Bruce to bed, Master Thomas." Alfred informed Thomas, a knowing look on his face.

"I'll be in my office, Alfred." There wasn't too much vocal emphasis in his voice, but enough for Alfred to pick up on. Bruce, none the wiser, was munching away at his snack while watching The Gray Ghost take on the relentless villain, The Silver Bullet.

Thomas made his way to the study, which adjoined the Morning Room. Every time he entered, ever since he was young, he was always unsure what was larger - the bookcases, or the array of windows across from them, both nearly touching the ceiling. While this wasn't the largest collection of books in the manor, it was where Thomas kept all of his orthopedic texts, as well as various issues of encyclopedias. This was always the first room that Alfred made sure to clean, and always the hardest he cleaned. Not that he had to, but perhaps Alfred was simply a fan of the view.

Perhaps it was paranoia for what the study was hiding.

Making sure that Bruce couldn't hear, Thomas strode over to the grandfather clock that stood against the wall across from the windows. Reaching up, he spun the finial counter clockwise for about three rotations. After a distinctive, yet soft click, he opened the case and spun the hands around - from 8:43 to 6:10 - and pressed a hidden button in the top-right spandrel. A second click. Then, simply, he pushed that finial at the top of the clock down, which resulted in the third and final indicative click. Now, he could reach into the case itself, and pull the clock aside.

After it opened, he descended down the hidden staircase. It was time to start his third job.