Hey guys, I am the world's biggest bitch and have totally neglected this story. Chapter 5 is in the works but I thought I'd tide you guys over with this little filler chapter ( I'm really sorry its so short :( ). I was hoping to have it address some of the reviews that were left so I hope this helps a little bit. Thank you all for your patience with me, I know I'm a trouble child. And please keep reviewing! Your comments help me write and I promise that I will update more regularly! Okay, enjoy!

Bruce Wayne was an extremely curious child.

Since he was able to crawl, he would waddle off (more often than not under the lackadaisical watch of his grandmother who, while she did let him go, kept an eye on him from afar with a small grin on her face) to check out what was lurking in those dark corners. Whether it was secret halls, decked out with old portraits and mouse-eaten carpets, or boarded-up rooms that held treasures far more valuable than any gold or jewel within his mansion home, or dark and smokey alleys that were bridges to a world that was completely unfamiliar and new to him, or dark caves that were home to hundreds of bats, dark, damp, and terrifying: he'd seen it all.

After enough times of him venturing places without hesitation, holding other children's hands when they were to scared to go any further, friends of the family dubbed him brave: brave Bruce. They were wrong. It wasn't bravery that had convinced him to stealthily slipping his hands from his parents' in the heart of Gotham City in search of an adventure that was worth talking about nor was it bravery that told him to go farther into the deep cavern that echoed danger and was so dark that he couldn't see his hand in front of his face. It was naivety. Plain and simple.

Or maybe it was genetics.

His granny had always been on his side. Whenever he was receiving a pretty good lecture from his mother and father, as they grew ever the more frustrated and angry each time they collected him after he'd been found by the police they sent out after him, Samantha Wayne nee Mason sat off to the side of the argument looking on in amusement. But it wasn't all that. No, his granny gave him a stripping down more than a few times. But, more often than not, in the aftermath of the argument and when his cheeks were still hot from his parents' chastising, she'd stand on shaky, elderly legs and make her way over to him.

"Well, let's go," she'd say before turning down the main hallway toward his room, her dark haired grandson following obediently behind her.

In his transformers pyjamas, buried under thick comforters, surrounded by posters of comic book heroes, he would wait in anticipation as his granny plopped herself down on the edge of his bed and began her story.

There was a different one each time. Well, a different scenario but the characters were always the same: a noble hero, a computer wiz, and a goth girl that could pack a punch. In all their stories, they fought evil villains: robot hunters, computer virus', fruit loop vampires, and so many more. With every story, Bruce would clasp his hands together and wring his fingers out, his mind roaming deep within Sam's stories.

As Danny outwitted his opponent, Bruce stood beside him, jeering at the villain with raspberries just for effect. When Tucker hacked in the dummies-in-white-suits' network, Bruce quickly typed in a code whenever he was too focused on joking around and forgot to type it in. When Sam was forcing some sense into them, Bruce stood next to her with his arms crossed over his chest, glaring the two boys down.

And when the story was over, and his granny had given him a kiss on the head and shuffled out of the room, and his green puppy stuffed animal was in his grip, Bruce's dreams were chock full him and his adventure while fighting alongside his heroes.

If his parents ever found out that his granny had been sharing those stories, Bruce had no doubts that they would just decide to haul Sam in on the lectures because while he was running of because of curiosity, because of wanting to know the unknown, it was also because he was trying to live up to her stories. He wanted to be just like Danny. He wanted to save the day and swoop down to help people. He wanted to impress his granny. She wasn't afraid of anything.

In the face of things that even he ducked for cover from, like spiders or a particularly horrible thunderstorm that shuddered the walls of his room, she comforted him. She picked up the eight-legged arachnid and put it down in the grass when he threatened to smash it with a shoe (one of his oldest mind you), telling him about life and how precious it was no matter how small. She came into his room in the dead of night as soon as she spotted lightning and crawled under his covers to hold him in a way only a grandmother can, running her frail hand through his hair as he trembled and cried out when thunder exploded.

But there was also something else. He had no doubts that Danny and his friends were real. He even had a sneaking suspicion that Sam was his granny when she was younger! But, at the end of every single one of her stories, she always leaned in close, holding his hand tightly, and whispered:

"This is our little secret, remember?"

"Yeah, granny. Goodnight."

And their secret it stayed. He never told his parents what he and granny talked about at bed time, he never shared it to any of his friends at school, it stayed between him and her. But, as he got older, there were whispers of names that sounded familiar. And they weren't positive.

They were hesitant and careful, talking low as though they'd be struck down if someone heard. Kings and ectoplasm and Daniels.

So Bruce kept quiet.

Once, in a fit of casual curiosity, Bruce had decided that it was a good idea to see if he could get onto the roof of Wayne Manor from his bedroom window. His second story window lead onto a little stretch of roof which he decided would be perfectly fine to step on. In the end, his arm had to be reset and he got nine stitches in his head that served as a painful reminder on how much falling from two stories up hurts.

But before he'd been picked up off of the lawn and brushed off, he'd rolled on to his back and put a hand to his forehead, only to pull it away and see the teardrop of blood his head had cried out. The amount of blood that had been bled had been pretty substantial.

But he'd never assumed someone could have so much blood in them.

It was everywhere: on the ground, on the walls, on him. His heart gave a murmur, the first hint of movement in what seemed like an eternity. His throat dried up, clenching furiously around nothing, no air, making his screaming so much harder but that didn't deter him and kept on producing that glass-shattering sound. His voice box had been turned up to the maximum volume, his hysteric voice filling cracks between the bricks on the buildings that made the alley like helium in a balloon.

The moon shone down on the scene, lighting it up and forcing Bruce's accursed curiosity to take in every detail through wide eyes. Blood, thick, smelly, red, blood ran over the creases on his hands, imprinted his handprint in a bloody mess wherever he put it down.

His mother's eyes were still open. Her absolutely beautiful, perfect, fierce, protective, smart, stunning eyes looked up into the night sky. They looked, shattered glass creating chaos where clear liquid once kept peace, but didn't stare at the bright balls of light, curiously.

His father was lying on his stomach, in a pool of his own blood. It swelled, as though it was intending on swallowing him underneath the waves of his own life source. His hand was outstretched, reaching, his wedding ring drowning beneath the bloody waves.

Bruce, to his utter horror, scurried back, away from the people who had raised him and had loved him unconditionally. Away from the woman who had given her shoulder for him to cry on, who had taught him right from wrong, who had the courage to push him out of the way and way from the crook's fire. Away from the man who had taught him how to see the beauty in even the most horrible of things, who had been the jester of their family, who had given his last breath to protect the people he loved more than anything.

Ashamed and utterly distraught, Bruce tucked his head into his knees and clasped his hands over his ears, hoping to block out the sound of the city. Just so everything would be completely silent and this whole night would end.

His heart split in half, the one part dangling in the cavity of his chest while the other tumbled in his stomach. He fought to breathe, clutching at his shirt, his fancy clothes, tearing the fabric like a madman. His fingers fount to rip open his chest, to fix his broken organ and out himself back together. Skin forced its way under his finger nails.

Hands clasped around his own, holding them steady and pulling them slowly away from his satin collar. They were calloused but gentle as they over turned his digits carefully and checking the damage. Bruce's eyes lifted to look up at the person, moving as though he'd just woken up.

His hair was a startling white and his eyes were a green that was akin to the grass at Wayne Manor: almost artificial. His face was slack, looking over Bruce with trance-like focus and the boy noticed that he was very young. Over him, he wore a trench coat, with red dipped sleeves that were dripping onto the pavement.

"Bruce?" he said, his vibrant green eyes looking into Bruce's own blue ones, still wide. "Do you trust me?"

Inside his head, a fog cloud had formed. It sat in front of his memories, what he had seen and made them blurry. Bruce nodded. The stranger, but not really because he was his hero and heroes aren't strangers to the people they inspire, put on arm under his knees and the other around his back before picking him up.

They started to walk and the blankness that had been weighing down on his mind like a thick comforter had begun to unravel, filling Bruce with the realization that there was only one way to exit the alley. One of those calloused hands pushed his head into the hero's shoulder.

"Don't look up."

Bruce gasped, burying his face farther into the stranger's chest. With every step, his fingers curled tighter around the collar of his trench coat that seemed to hide a glow.

"Danny."