I do not own Bruce Wayne, Dr. Leslie Thompkins, or Alfred Pennyworth or any other DC characters shown here. I also don't own Gotham City. Please enjoy for free.

Whumptober 2024 Alternate Prompt: Survivor's guilt.

Gotham City's South Side: 2 Years after Thomas and Martha Waynes' Deaths

The sun blazed overhead. Sweat slipped down his face, neck, and back. The homeless, even those with homes, had been dropping, even dying, during this heatwave. Still, 10 year old Bruce continued striding down the sidewalk. His mouth twisted in thought. Maybe he "shouldn't" have left the clinic …

The waiting room had been stuffed with humanity suffering from various ailments. Their body heat made it stifling despite the fans. The water cooler had been emptying fast. Even the liquid left in it had been lukewarm. Some had started going to the small bathroom to drink from the tap. Then someone went in, locked the door, and from the sounds overheard after, had begun vomiting. So, he'd left.

Aunt Leslie and Alfred would definitely punish him if they found out. Honestly though, when it got that crowded, he "should" leave. Let those actually trying to be seen for their health have any available space. Aunt Leslie wanted him around to teach him other people had problems too. On summer days like this, him taking up space and heating the air there "was" an "other peoples' problem!"

He just had to reach Mr. Gates grocery store. It was reasonably safe. It had air conditioning, was not nearly as crowded even on days like today, and he could buy a cold drink on credit. Gotham-green, a locally made lime flavored soda, was sold there. Dad and he used to get them there all the time. Sometimes, they also got mom a Gotham-orange …

More than two years ago … Why did it still hurt so much? Why hadn't he just ..?

"You dissing us old man?"

Bruce froze. He quieted his breathing and cocked his head. A second voice, not quite as snide as the first but more teasing came from the alley opening several steps ahead on his right. "Maybe he just wants a drink instead?"

There was a pause. Bruce remained still letting the sun beat down on his head and sweat slide down his back more as he waited.

"No, he thinks he's too good for any of it!"

The second voice added, "He thinks he's too good for any of it, then he thinks he's better than us."

Bruce rose onto the toes of his sneakers. Then, he began creeping forward toward the alley opening. He moved up to and slid along the brick wall of the barber-store that went out of business a few months before. After another pause, the third voice spoke again. "Look at him trying to shrink away."

The first voice laughed, "Too bad for you, we're generous."

Bruce could hear not only laughter, but liquid being poured then. It didn't sound like it was going into a cup or mouth by the splashing. Who was wasting liquid on bullying? He poked his nose and then the rest of his face around the corner.

Near the end of the dead-end alley, three teenagers surrounded what looked like a homeless man. The oldest looking teenager held a bottle upside down over the man's drawn up knees. The smell told Bruce it "had' contained alcohol.

The liquid had splashed onto the man's arms and now spilled onto and stained his pants. The victim was almost in the fetal position holding one arm up to block the liquid making it the wettest part of him. The teen continued to stand over him. The other two watched over their leader's shoulders holding their own bottles in one hand while their others' clutched cigarettes.

Bruce's eyes widened and mouth fell open. Both opened wider as the teen with the empty bottle pulled it back before reaching toward the cowering figure with his lit cigarette.

Bruce stepped into the alleyway. "Stop!" The teens turned their heads to stare at him. Bruce noticed the fingers holding the cigarette over the homeless man hovered there still. A bit of ash could … "Get that away from him!" He flung his arm out to gesture toward the cigarette before clenching both his fists and holding them up in front of his face.

The tallest teen straightened, turned from the man, and took a step toward Bruce laughing, bringing the cigarette with him. "What are you talking about kid? We're just trying to share."

The other two teens followed their leader a step behind. They formed a towering curving line before and around Bruce. The tallest teen raised the cigarette to his lips and puffed. Bruce smelled the alcohol and smoke laced breath while hearing "Sure you don't want to apologize for talking to us like that?"

Bruce's scowl became darker as he stared at the cigarette. His fists clenched tighter. This time … this time he wouldn't hide, wouldn't cower, wouldn't survive while someone else didn't. "Yes."

The lit end of the cigarette inched toward his face. Bruce stepped to the side. It passed his head. He pushed the teen's arm away from him.

The teen on his right threw a punch at his head. Bruce squatted letting it pass over him. Then he lunged at his second attacker. His fist sank into the second attacker's diaphragm. A waft of alcohol and smoke laced air ruffled his hair.

His second attacker stumbled back. From the corner of his eye, Bruce saw the next blow coming and dropped to his haunches again. His sneakers ground against asphalt as he spun while staying low. Then he rose, grabbed the arm, and twisted. That brought a shout. An empty bottle was dropped. It shattered on the asphalt.

Bruce turned to face his last and first attacker. He leaned back to avoid a second bottle being swung at him. Then, he dropped to the seat of his pants, brought up both feet, and rocked back onto his back as the bottle flew over his head again. He kicked, planting both feet deep into the teen's gut. The bottle went flying into the wall. He heard it crash. The biggest teen not only stumbled back, but bent double and vomited.

Gathering his feet under him, Bruce swept his gaze over his foes. The leader stumbled by him. The other two followed hands clutching their own injuries. Then Bruce smelled something.

His eyes widened. A cigarette had landed on a bit of newspaper dampened by alcohol from a broken bottle. He dashed to and began stomping the growing flame. Thankfully, the soles of the sneakers Alfred and Aunt Leslie made him wear were thick. After he smothered the growing fire out, he let his shoulders fall. He released a gust of breath.

Bruce walked back to the opening of the alley and stared after the teens now almost all the way down to the end of the street and j-walking across the intersection. He waited to make sure they reached the other side without being mowed down by a car. They weren't looking both ways. Then he backed up into and studied the alleyway. He should approach their intended victim while avoiding stepping on the glass or anything else dangerous. No need to further test his shoes.

Once he reached the man, he squatted down in front of him. The near-victim had his arms wrapped around legs still drawn up to his chest. Bruce swept his gaze over the pitiful form. Despite it being noon, the walls on three sides of them made it difficult to study the man well. He could see though, the face was staring up at him open-mouthed. Bruce tried to gentle his expression and voice. "What's your name?"

The mouth closed. The throat beneath it swallowed. Bruce tilted his head. "You look like you're not sweating much … Do you mind if I touch your skin?"

The man swallowed again. Then he shook his head. Bruce decided to take that as a signal his patient "didn't" mind.

He reached out to place a hand on the man's arm that was least wet with alcohol, on a dry spot. Bruce's brow furrowed. "Your skin feels hot and dry where they 'didn't' get you. You're definitely dehydrated at least. There's a clinic a block and half away with fans and a water cooler." Maybe the vomiting individual had left the bathroom by now ...

The man shut his mouth, moved his jaw slightly side to side, then closed his eyes. "You don't have to …"

Bruce scowled. Oh, yes, I do. He shuffled around to the man's side and put his right arm under the man's left and around his back. Then, he braced his feet and lifted. "People 'have' been dying out here of heatstroke. This year is setting records for that. I can't just leave you to become a statistic! How would I live with myself?"

The man said nothing more. Bruce thought this meant he either agreed or was in too bad condition to argue. Either was a reason to continue doing what he was doing. Then the man also seemed to help him by putting weight on his own feet. Once they were both standing, Bruce guided the man out of the alleyway, trying to help him also avoid the broken glass, and onto the sidewalk heading back in the direction of the clinic. The man still seemed only capable of taking slightly stumbling steps forward beside him. Yet, Bruce still had to lengthen his usual stride to compensate for the man's long legs.

Man was it hot! His own body was absorbing the heat from the man as well as the stifling air! He tried to scan his surroundings in case the teens came back or someone else tried to interfere.

Three kids who lived in the apartment building nearest the clinic were playing with a hose ahead of them. One of them, the youngest and only girl, was holding the nozzle. She noticed him walking up and turned the water on him and the man. She aimed it away after a few seconds. Bruce spluttered and shook his head. "Thanks, but warn me next time!"

"You taking him to the clinic Mr. Wayne?"

"Bruce, and yeah ..."

"Should I run ahead and tell papa he needs to be seen soon?"

He sighed. "Yeah, as long as you and your brothers go together." Kids should stay together in groups when they went anywhere in Gotham, even across the street or down a floor of their apartment building. Bruce sighed. Alfred and Aunt Leslie were going to be mad … Lucius too.

All three kids turned and ran ahead of them. The man beside him straightened, taking even more weight off him. Bruce reached up, grabbed his wrist, and kept dragging his patient toward their destination.

What did you think?

God bless

ScribeofHeroes