Wrongdoings

Wayne Manor, Gotham City

2:04 a.m, November 22

The Tumbler veered away from control and crashed on the crevasse wall upon Bruce's return to the cave. He slid himself out but was too drained on energy to carry on. The bullets lodged in his back were burning him alive and there was nothing he could do about it.

"Alfred!" he screamed at the top of his lungs. Alfred had already been on his way ever since he felt the Tumbler discharge a slight tremor underneath the manor. He arrived just in time clad in his night pajamas.

"Master Wayne," he shook Bruce who was now fading into a deep sleep. "Master Wayne." His eyes widened in horror as he watched the young man too young to die slip into a fade. "Oh dear," he thought aloud. This couldn't be happening. "Master Wayne," he called once more hoping for any signs of life. There was none. Teardrops ran down his cheeks as he stared terrified at the thought of losing the child. "You stupid boy," slipped out of his mouth, slurred by his crying. Bruce Wayne unlike his father was always involving himself in all kinds of dangerous endeavors as if he was trying to prove something to himself. And as Batman, things had only gotten worse. He would come back every night from his playfield with bruises and scratches all around his body, and like any loving father, Alfred would always be there to help ease those pains no matter what, even if the child had become unworthy of it.

Worth was a meaningless term to Thomas and Martha Wayne. If nothing else, the current inhabitants of their home had carried on that trait.

Alfred recalled his silent predictions that this day would come. It was a nightmare that usually kept him awake at nights in the past. As the years had passed however, he had grown to be more acceptable to Bruce's cause. He began to trust the child with his own activities and time passing deeds, hoping to himself that soon he would grow old of his games and finally come inside to rest. Little did he realize that once a child, always a child.

His duty had always been to ensure the safety of everything that carried the name of Thomas Wayne, especially his son. In this morning approaching day, already he had failed.

With flinching hands, Alfred unbuckled Bruces' armor slowy piece by piece, realizing blood stains on the back part of his suit. Expecting the injury point to be on his back, Alfred turned his ward behind and caught a visual image of his inner demon.

Two bullets had pierced Bruce only a few inches away from the spine. Blood was pouring from the holes at a rather rapid speed. "Oh my God," he gasped. Immediately, he grabbed a white cloth and exerted pressure on the leaking point to stop the bleeding. It would buy him some time. Hopefully all the time he needed.

With time running against him, Alfred rushed into Thomas Wayne's room, picked up a black medical bag and ran back. Bruce was lying still just as he had left him.

Alfred had gained much experience in medical repairs from his time served as a medic in combat. He recieved three medals of honor for personally saving the lives of his fellow soldiers in a live battlefield; the list including four corporals and two commanders. He had become an inspiration and a role model for the medical teams who were had by then grown in awe of his loyal and selfless achievements.

The only problem now was that it was all in the past. The proper procedures he had taken in saving the lives of gunshot victims were now blurry and for the most part forgotten. Alfred Pennyworth who was once known by his commanding officers as "The angel's touch" recalled near as much about surgery as known by the common oaf. He knew that he couldn't call an ambulance, it would only raise suspicion. And if suspicions were to escalate by even the smallest inch, it would only be a matter of time until Batman would be known to the entire world. For that he would never forgive himself. And as a result, his only hope in saving the child and keeping his promise was to force his mind into bringing back the past.

A rifle bullet had lodged itself into colonel Cummings straight into his stomach. The eventual loss of blood and energy rendered him speechless and unconscious. He was sure to die. Then, the sight of two medics carrying emergency equipment had come to his rescue.

"Get the stethoscope," Alfred ordered Leslie, a rookie medic who had been assigned the task of following any medical officers in need of assistance. Leslie turned sharply and stripsearched his green army bag. Upon finding it, he passed it on to Alfred who waited with a hand stretched out.

When it landed on his palm, he accepted it and held the tip on the injured soldier. "He's still breathing. We need to get the bullet out of him." Alfred reached on his knees and the rookie did the same. Following on instinct, Leslie pulled out a piece of cloth and forced pressure deep into the bleed spot. Alfred reached into the army bag and pulled out a pair of graspers and a thin sharp incision tool. He gave the rookie a sinciere expression and told him that, "Alright. We need to get the bullet out before things can get any worse. Put the stethoscope on and listen closely. If anything goes unsual in his beats tell me."

Alfred passed ownership of the stethoscope and once his rookie was ready, he held the scalpel tightly and made a lined cut straight down on his patient's wound.

There was nobody else around to assist him in the emergency surgery. He would have to hold onto the stethoscope on one hand and perform the incision cut with another. With precise dexterity, he marked a horizontal line down his patient with the scalpel and listened attentatively into the stethoscope. Bruce's heart was still beating, but barely. The wound seemed to be eating him away faster than it normally should. It took six seconds, then suddenly...

"Alfred his beat's going down!" shouted a panicked Leslie.

"Oh God. Please no."

Heavy amounts of blood was leaking from his back and his beats were losing rhythm. There was no turning back now. If he bandaged Bruce without taking the risk of pulling the bullet, the lead would slowly poison him to death. He went forward with the surgery.

"Are you sure about this?"

"It's the only choice we have," replied Alfred. Keep your ears on his beat. I'm going to get it out."

With parts of the patient's body unfolded, it became much easier to spot the copper round. Using the graspers, he hooked tightly onto the bullet which had stapled itself onto the patient. He counted to three seconds silently in his head, then with all the strength he could summon he yanked it straight out.

"He's going down," warned the rookie. "Patch him back up."

From the black bag, Alfred was not at all surprised to find the proper stitching equipment he needed.

The colonel was sewed up of his injuries. Lines of blood were leaking from the stitch.

Leslie reported, "His beat's stopped."

No! Master Wayne was not going to die. Not like this.

He pressed down on Bruce with his bare hands to exert pressure. 'C'mon,' he prayed silently, waiting to hear another beat from his heart.

With the fear of failure in his mind, Alfred asked nothing of the colonel's beat. Instead he sat silently, his hand still forcing pressure, anxious for even a glimmer of hope.

"I'm sorry," gloomed the rookie. "I wish it didn't have to end like this."

A minute had passed, and Alfred said nothing. He let go of the warm corpse who was now dead for sure, and his empty hand had absorbed an aura of lifeless stale air. The colonel was a respected man among friends and family. He was also one of the few greatest patriots to ever live. A charismatic leader, war hero, this man singlehandedly brought smiles to a thousand frowning soldiers. Rumor had it that he was to be promoted soon, now all it is is a rumor. His entire life and acomplishments were gone in the blink of an eye, dreams taken from him. For Alfred's failure, colonel Cummings would never be able to go back home and lead the life he had dreamed of. A legenday hero fallen because one fool had failed to do his part.

"I've failed," he reminded himself. Light teardrops raced down across his cheeks and fell headfirst on the wet muddy ground. He turned to the rookie for acknowledgment, but noticed that he hadn't paid a single mind to what was said. Instead, Leslie held onto the earpiece of the stethoscope and unwillingly summoned a bright smirk across his face.

"His heart is beating," he reported.

"Oh yes!" he cried. Bruce Wayne was alive. Alfred proclaimed in joy for he had once more lived up to his promise. Thomas Wayne would have been proud.

Arkham Asylum, Gotham City

3:05 a.m

Arkham was now a genocide slaughterhouse. Of all the horrors that presided in the institution, this was without question the worst. Patients, some on the brink of rehabilitation, some not, were all murdered in the same cold blood. There were no redemptions at Arkham, every soul was gone. The only things that remained of them were they're lifeless corpses. The air was stale and cold with blood already beggining to rot. A swarm of flies and mosquitoes had already found their way into the asylum feeding off the dead.

This was a nightmare come true to Jim Gordon. He and only a few willing police officers were able to stomach going inside for further investigation. All the others volunteered to wait outside.

Jim walked around the crime scene careful not to catch any bloodstains on his shoes. He had a handkerchief on his mouth to suppress as much of the vile stench as he could. It only helped slightly.

"Commisioner," called a man running towards him from behind. Jim turned around.

"Commisioner," the man continued. "We have a problem. I think you'd better follow me."

The man led Jim into a tiny room dimly lit. There was a chair stapled on the center of the room with straps on the armrests and the legs. Bloodstains inked the chair, but a body was missing.

"What's this?" asked Jim.

"The blood on the chair matches Jack Napier's. He isn't anywhere in the asylum to be seen."

This in itself was another nightmare. All this bloodshed and it still didn't change a thing. In fact it only made it worse. "We have a missing convict?"

"Well actually. Two sir."

Gotham City Police Department, Gotham City

3:25 a.m

Damien sat perfectly relaxed in the interrogation room. It wouldn't be long from now until he and his men were finally cleared of all charges against them. The rules of the jungle had a way of being funny at times. Punishment came as a price only if you didn't have the fine to pay. In this case, that fine was money, establishment, and the support of a lot of powerful friends.

He could already picture the scene inside his head. A detective would enter the room and introduce himself by saying the words "Let's talk." The detective would go on for seven minutes ranting about how much prison time Damien was going to face and how the men he kept company with have already started talking about making deals for a less painful jail time. Damien would stay seated where he was and not mention a single word throughout. After that seven minute time period, the police would recieve a call from the governor's office if not the mayors. The detective will be ordered to stand down, and that Damien was to walk out of the police department unscathed.

After that happens, Damien had a few other moves that needed to be executed. Moves that would not have been otherwise reachable had he not attained his new earned power. Arkham was only a half of what needed to be done. The other half was to rid himself of any opposition. On top of the list already was Jim Gordon, and the Batman.

The door opened and a tall skinny caucasian male invited himself in holding a brown folder in his hand and a cup of coffee on the other. He shut the door behind and walked towards Damien.

"Let's talk."