He stumbles through the dark, clutching his wounded abdomen. An overfilled trash can clatters noisily to the alley ground as the Batman loses his balance, falling gracelessly into the pile of garbage. A mangy alley cat yowls as it darts away, it's rest interrupted by the sudden intrusion. Bruce Wayne groans, checking the bleeding puncture in his side. The red flow has subsided, now oozing sluggishly from the ragged bullet hole. He reapplies pressure, grunting in pain as the Dark Knight rises to his feet.

Leaning against the brick wall for support, he slowly trudges toward the far end of the back street, where his custom built car sat waiting. He now wishes he had installed the autopilot system, however rudimentary, bugs be damned. Finally exiting the narrow passage, he throws himself into the car, the door opening automatically, triggered by the sensor within his armored suit.

Gasping, he activates the security systems, the door locks engaging with a THUNK and the windows darkening to hide the injured occupant. A trembling finger presses the button for the radio communications, and the voice of Alfred Pennyworth fills the car, crisp and sharp through the premium speakers.

"Good evening, sir. I hope to hear you're doing well."

"Alfred, I'm going to need a ride."

"Are you having a spot of engine trouble, sir? I warned you that the motor was too powerful for that frame, you know."

"I've been shot."

The teasing quality of the voice is gone, replaced by concern.

"Where are you?"

"Old Gotham, near Crime Alley."

"Of course you are. I'm on my way. Be strong, master Bruce."

Then

-THWACK-

The shinai smacks against his temple, causing Bruce to cry out in pain. He drops his mock sword, angrily turning to face his aged instructor. Alfred sharply taps his other cheek with his own bamboo stick, swiftly retreating while providing commentary.

"You should never drop your weapon, or your guard, master Bruce."

The teenager glowers at him, massaging his stinging face. "Why do I need to learn how to use swords, anyway? I thought the point of your training was for me to learn self defense? Hand to hand combat?"

The tip of the training weapon lowers, it's wielder frowning at the young man. He holds the imitation sword up, calling attention to the item.

"This does not only represent swordplay, young master. It could be any weapon you may find yourself needing to use. Feet and fists alone do not always win the day."

Now

He stares at the moon outside, it's light dimmed by the darkened windows. He thinks back on the events of the night, trying to find where things had gone wrong. His first night in Gotham as the Batman had begun as well as could be hoped. Crime grew like a weed, and the streets of the once proud city made for the perfect soil. He quickly found a group of thugs harassing a young couple out on a date. The troublemakers had run at the first sight of the horned figure.

The carjacker outside of the cinema had fought back. Luckily, the densely woven fibers of his custom armor had turned the man's blade away. Bruce had made short work of the car thief, leaving the man hogtied outside a local police station. But then, in a dark alleyway, he had heard a scream.

A woman, with three men bearing down on her, their intentions obvious as she begged for them to release her. A swift kick to the groin had dropped the first, the second falling as a heavy fist connected solidly with his nose. The third man had picked up a length of pipe, and Bruce had thought of his old training with Alfred.

Then he had heard the shot. The pain came later, but the sound drowned out the rest of the world. He could hear the scrape of the woman's shoes as she ran down the footpath, still screaming. He could hear the metallic CLANG of the pipe as the would-be attacker dropped the length of steel and followed his accomplice in the opposite direction. The second man still lay on the ground, holding his bleeding nose. The first man must have had a gun.

Bruce curses himself for being so stupid, checking the status of his wound again. The bleeding had stopped, but the pain was beginning to spread to his entire abdomen. Where was Alfred? He didn't like the irony of having endured all this training only to die from a bullet wound in an alley in Gotham, shot dead at the age of 27. Just another name in the long list of Gotham's victims.

Then

Alfred Pennyworth holds the limousine door open, "I don't suppose I can dissuade you at this lat hour, young master?"

Bruce smiles at the older man as he ducks to enter the car. Settling into the luxurious seat, he shakes his head.

"No, I think it's time for me to continue my training."

Closing the door and circling around to the driver's seat, Alfred responds as he buckles his safety belt.

"We could always move on to archery. Your father kept some fine equipment in the sports storage."

"Thank you, Alfred, but I have to find my own way. Somewhere out there is a teacher who can help me find a purpose."

"I certainly hope so, Master Bruce."

Now

Bruce groans, the bright light stinging his eyes. His head aches as he takes in his surroundings. The tastefully furnished master bedroom of Wayne Manor looks as it always has. He winces at the sudden pain in his side.

"What are you doing? Lie back down this instant."

Alfred sweeps through the doorway, a tray of breakfast in one hand and a small box of medical supplies in the other. Bruce gratefully accepts the steaming plate of food.

"How did I get home last night?"

"Barely, I'm afraid to say. You were lucky that it passed through you, and missed anything vital. I was able to patch you up without too much difficulty."

He pauses. "Although, we will have to burn a set of bed sheets."

Bruce smiles. "I think we can afford a new duvet. Thank you, Alfred."

"Of course, sir. However, I do believe we should have a chat about investing in some bulletproof armor."