I did not create Bruce Wayne or Leslie Thomkins. I did create the other characters seen here.

I do not intend to make any financial profit from this story, merely to share it with other fans. So, I hope no one who owns anything seen here takes offense.

Please read and tell me what you think.

"No!" Bruce spun around and rose to his feet. He reached a hand out toward the scene.

The thirteen-year-old pointed his gun at the man in the dirt. The Leader struggled to get on his hands and knees then collapsed. Bruce had broken two of his limbs, but not his voice. "Shoot him, boy, not me! I am your Leader."

A smile spread over the young soldier's face. He kept his gun aimed at the body struggling at his feet. "You are nothing."

The Leader cursed. Bruce shouted over the sound. "Don't waste your life by taking this one! It won't help you!"

The boy raised his gaze, but not his gun, and looked Bruce in the eye. He didn't shake as he replied. "What do you want now, rich man? This is all I want. Go home. Take the rich boys with you. Maybe they have no stomach for this. I do."

Bruce lowered his arm to his side, straightened his back, and lowered his voice. "It won't last. Everything you think you'll feel from this won't last. What will you do then?"

"I don't care."

Bruce let his gaze flick down to the man still trying to rise up on his broken arm and leg. Some around him were trying to do the same. Some near the edges were trying to crawl away. Others were lying nearly as still as the earth under them, perhaps trying to evade the still standing soldier's wrath. Bruce looked toward the boy again.

"Look around you. You've already won. And they know it. Let all of them live with this, being beaten, by you, me, and the others."

"I am not beaten." The Leader shoved himself up on his good arm. Bruce feared it would be the end of him. As he tried to stand though, his injured leg took some of his weight, and he crumpled again.

The boy didn't move his gun, but laughed at the sight. Bruce shuddered. Then he looked up toward the boy again. "He's worked to turn you into a killer. Do you want to prove he succeeded?"

A light flashed in the youth's eyes. His face creased into a scowl. "I've already killed for him. Now I will kill him."

"Then why haven't you, yet?"

"I want him to feel fear. I want to hear him beg me."

"I will not beg." The man spat into the dirt.

The boy's snarl carved itself even deeper into his face. The corners of his mouth turned further down. His brows wrinkled. He looked like he smelled something foul. The gun did begin to tremble in his hands.

Bruce swallowed. The boy's strength was giving out. He had to feel it. He'd have to take action soon if he planned to do so. What could he say to stop this?

. . .

"Someone with both talent and the wisdom to learn can go far anywhere. How would you like to take art-classes?"

Madge stared at the near stranger sitting next to her. Then she rose from her chair still staring. Then she ran through the kitchen door.

Juniper raised his head from atop his paws. His brown eyes watched her go. As the door swung closed behind her, he tilted his head sideways, and perked up his ears. Then he glanced toward the other humans still staring at the door themselves. Leslie lowered her own head and sighed.

. . .

Bruce cleared his throat, took a deep breath, and addressed the trembling youth. "You told me you wanted to avenge your friend. What would he want for you, as a 'true' friend? Would he not want you to become richer, smarter, and stronger, someone he'd be proud to claim as a friend?"

The boy looked away from his enemy and met Bruce's gaze again. One eyebrow rose in a question. Bruce smiled at him and nodded. "Live to be a man, who makes this one," he nodded down at the man in the dust before the boy, "burn with jealousy. Let him live to know it. Then you would have truly pleased your friend if he can still see you."

Bruce raised a gentler gaze to the youth's face. It was no longer looking at him, but at the man in the dirt. The small, slim body's trembling was worse.

. . .

Madge sat on the guest bed. Her arms were splayed out in a triangle holding her up. She stared at her feet resting on the dark carpet.

With barely a sound marking her entrance, Leslie opened the door and went to sit beside her. She studied Madge's face in silence. The younger woman let the silence drag on. Finally, she spoke, though without looking at the doctor. "It's so easy for all of you, born to rich families, married into other wealthy families, college graduates with PhDs, living 'respectable' lives … Even if I actually 'make it' what happens when somebody digs up my past and exposes who I really am?"

"'Who you really are' does not entirely depend upon your past. Besides, you would not be the first famous artist with skeletons in their closet or who didn't live what many would have called a 'respectable life.'"

Madge turned to face the doctor with an upraised eyebrow. Leslie met her stare dead on and continued, "My sister knows what you used to do for a living. It hasn't stopped her from offering you this opportunity. If you work in her house for a time and prove to her you are a good investment opportunity, she will pay for your artistic education and vouch for you once you complete it. I and others will vouch for you then as well."

Madge scowled. "So, I'm just supposed to take this leap of faith with you? Jump in with both feet? Nothing's ever gone right for me except in the past few months! It'll probably blow up on me and take you all with it …" Madge turned her face away to hide her tears. They strained her voice, so it became quieter as she spoke. "I should leave before my bad luck takes you down."

Leslie looked at her wrinkled hands and spoke in a softer voice than Madge was used to hearing from her. "My best friend died when we were both eleven years old."

Madge's eyes flew wide open. She turned them back to stare at the other woman. Leslie went on with a sigh. "She made me promise when we both realized how sick she'd gotten to take care of her little brother, Thomas. After her funeral, he and I promised each other we'd go to medical school and learn to save people like Elizabeth, so things like that would never happen again. We went to the same medical school. I went to his wedding, became his wife's best friend, delivered their baby, and became Bruce's godmother … and when they really needed me … I was reading a book at home. By the time I got to them, there was no way I could have saved either of them if I'd spent a century in med-school."

Madge was frozen in place. She only blinked at Leslie. The older woman went on. "They were on their way to my house … I tried to use my PhD in psychology too keep from feeling guilty about that, to help their son who'd witnessed it, to understand why my little sister ran off and married an abusive man. I didn't free her from him. He did that himself, by committing suicide and framing her for his murder. I almost believed she'd done it. My godson, though, didn't. He kept 'playing detective' till he found the clues to prove her innocence. But not because of me."

Leslie sighed again. "I've tried to save my godson from himself again and again, from the guilt eating him from the inside out, but that hasn't gone well either."

She finally looked up at the younger woman again. Made seemed to have turned to stone beside her. Leslie lowered and hardened her voice again. "If you fail, Madge Robertson, you won't be the first in this family to do so. If you manage to make something of yourself, it will be a boon to us. If you survive a few failures to try again, well, you'll have really proved your one of us. You've already kept our secrets. You've guarded them with your life. Let us do the same for you. If you lose one of us, the others will have a long history of knowing what to say, what not to say, what's comforting, and what isn't. And if we lose you too, we'll have experienced the like before. We'll mourn you. We'll bury you, but we won't forget you. We can't." Leslie rose from the bed and headed out the door. "We never have."

Madge watched her go, eyes wide, silent and still.

. . .

The boy took a deep breath, but his voice still trembled. He kept his eyes on "The Leader," but spoke to Bruce. "Do … do you really thing I could become a man like you?"

Bruce nodded. "With discipline, education, and help from great men, I believe you can. Show me, show him, show yourself … show your friend."

The boy let the gun's muzzle lower till it was pointed toward the bare earth. His shoulders slumped, head bowed, and face crumpled. The man in the dust cursed him, but Bruce raced over and around the Leader and his men, knelt down beside the youth, took the gun from his hands, laid it aside, and embraced him. The boy turned to and sobbed into his chest. Bruce squeezed him. "It's okay … it's okay …"

. . .

Years later, Bruce entered the warehouse on his private airstrip. The whole area was shrouded in darkness. He took a few steps, hearing the echoes of his footfalls, soft though they were, feeling the emptiness around him he could not see. He tried to walk slow. He swung his head from side to side seeing only the outlines of things. Then a voice made him turn and stare, though he could still see nothing.

"What do you want from us this time rich man?"

Please, tell me what you thought.

God Bless

ScribeofHeroes