"Beware my terrible sword!" Bruce cried jubilantly, swinging a closed fist and fighting mock combatants.

"Not so far, Bruce," Martha said, her voice raised as he moved ahead of his parents.

"Let the boy play, Martha," said Thomas. "He is a bright boy; he won't go too far."

Martha looked about the city streets. It was an unseasonably cool night for early autumn, and there was something elusive in the night, not quite foreboding.

"I am worried, Thomas," she said, her tone no-nonsense. "I can't put my finger on why, but I'm just worried."

Thomas looked briefly at his wife, then unhesitatingly, he called, "Bruce, why don't you stay a bit closer, son?"

"Aw, dad," Bruce called, "do I have to?"

Martha suddenly felt silly, hearing the tone in her son's voice, "No, no. I am sure that it is just the weather and my nerves."

Thomas smiled, squeezing his wife's hand, "I swear, if you're not careful, you are going to end up spoiling the boy."

She smiled, briefly applying her lips to her husband's cheek, "Well, someone has to. Who better than his mother?"

The Waynes walked slowly, the quiet night still and peaceful around them in their finery, conservatively expensive clothing. Thomas and Martha smiled at their one and only son as he ran rampant, his elaborate adventures played out in exquisite detail before them, his exuberance total, despite the few onlookers that cast wary expressions at the rambunctious youth.

"What are we going to do with him?" Martha asked. "He is only eight and I would imagine that he could take on the entire world out of sheer enthusiasm."

Thomas snorted good-naturedly, "I am sure that he could do whatever he wants to do. There is time enough for all that. Don't make him grow up too fast, Mar."

"Naturally," said Martha, "but look at him; he seems so happy, so energetic. His play won't sustain him forever. What do you think he might like to do when he sets aside childish things?"

Thomas nodded, considering, "I am quite sure he will surprise us."

Bruce turned down a backstreet ahead of them.

"Bruce," Thomas called warily.

"Come one, dad," Bruce called, smiling.

"Let's go this way, Bruce," Martha said, indicating the sidewalk ahead. "We'll go around the block."

"Aw, mom!" he said, taking a few steps down the side street once his parents had arrived and ran several trashcans through with a series of quick thrusts. "Come on! The car is just down this way! Let's go!"

Thomas smiled at his boy, and looked sideways at Martha, "Our son."

Finally, Martha returned the smile indulgently in acquiescence. They followed their son, and though the street was away from the public eye, it was well lit and open. So well lit that they didn't even notice the unlit alleyway at odds with the side street, nor the shape that moved out of the shadows, advancing on the family.

Bruce froze, knowing that something was wrong as if by instinct, but not sure what. His parents noticed his reaction before they saw the figure moving towards them, barely lit until he was upon them.

"Excuse us," said the father, his voice polite but wary. "We were just passing through."

It happened fast.

"Money," said the figure, and his extended hand was wielding the unmistakable shape and gleam of a gun. "Now."

Bruce froze, watching the metal weapon pointed at his father, the romantic notion of the weapon forever lost with the expressions he saw on his parent's faces. Thomas carefully began withdrawing his pocketbook, moving slowly and carefully, his voice remarkably even despite the expression he wore, "That is perfectly alright, sir. Just take the money. It's fine."

Martha's stress was frantic, almost a living creature within her breast, her eyes darting between her son and the gun. She just managed to keep herself from skittering towards Bruce. However, her movements still drew the gun towards her, the speed of its redirection alarming. As though by reflex, Thomas stepped between his wife and the implement of death. The gunman fired.

Bruce jolted a step back with the explosive sound of it, watching as his father, the bravest man he ever knew, crumpled as though he had suddenly fallen asleep, sprawling, no conscious action left in him. His mother caught him, badly. As she held her husband, they both began to slump to the ground, as she screamed and tried to rouse him. The gunman stepped forward, hurriedly, pulling the pearls from the crying woman's neck, breaking them to spill and scatter about the alley. With a look of disgust, he fired again, silencing her as she fell across her husband. The gunman took up the dropped pocketbook, shoving it roughly into his jacket. Turning, he aimed the gun at Bruce's head.

Bruce was wide-eyed, perfectly still, his shock and fear beyond anything the mind of an eight-year-old boy was ever meant to endure. Tears fell without a single emotion playing out upon his face. As the gunman steadied his aim, Bruce closed his eyes, prepared to die.

Suddenly the gunman snorted. As Bruce reopened his eyes, he watched as the gunman loped easily away, as though he hadn't a care in the world. Bruce watched him go, unable to move from that spot. His eyes swept across his parents in a daze. His mother's almost lazy sweeping eyes finally found his. She tried to speak, but no air seemed to be capable of coming out of her. She grew very still and faded away.

Bruce stood there, staring blankly at his parents, blind to everything else in the world, be it light or matter or time, until the officer's coat fell around his thin child's shoulders and strong arms lifted him and carried him away.

Pennyworth stood, holding the umbrella against the rain. The funeral was long and had long ended, the ingratiated public mourning the billionaires that had so tragically fallen. The guests had run the full spectrum, from fellow upper-class friends paying respect to middle-class workers who knew that Waynes for the good people they had been to the impoverished who seemed to think that being here might benefit themselves in some way. But not a one of them seemed to have true compassion for the Waynes' demise or were willing to stand beside the fresh dug graves and bare witness to this entombment with any degree of selflessness. Agendas and pretense abounded, and he found it more than simply distasteful. He was so offended, it showed, in the crease of his eyes and the clench of his jaw; so unseemly.

The so-called mourners had all come and gone, leaving in troves as the weather became poor. And yet the young master stayed, watching the totality of his patrons being laid to rest. Many a man could understand how to hold an umbrella and many more still could do so beside a young charge without protest, even in such conditions, but Pennyworth considered his stance to be something more. As the young master held watch over the burials, Pennyworth stood with all the care and respect his well-disciplined years of service would allow.

Doing his diligence to ensure the young master's safety, he noticed that the only one other person still standing with them, an officer by his poise. He was a man about Thomas Wayne's age, perhaps a bit younger, with a well-kept mustache and glasses. He didn't bother to keep the rain off himself, and stood as a sentry with Pennyworth, both bearing witness to the young master's vigil. Finally, long moments after the mounds of earth were well set, the boy turned towards the car.

Pennyworth walked beside him in silence, drove back to the estate in silence, and walked him inside in silence, having long since learned that the young master would reply when he was ready and not before. He cared for him with all the diligence he had shown his father before him, with all the respect due to a parentless child.

Pennyworth took care of the young master's coat and shoes. He guided him to the parlor where he stoked the fire, leaving him to sit in the warmth with his favorite book beside him. He then went to the kitchen and prepared a simple meal. Upon returning, he found the scene unchanged, save for the book that now resided in the fireplace. He gathered his charge and took him to the lesser dining room, where the young master sat before his meal at great length and ate none. After a respectful passage of time, he cleared up and lead his charge up to his room. He prepared a bath and laid out sleepwear, waiting outside the door should there be a need. He walked beside the young master as he finally walked back to his rooms and tucked him into bed. Pennyworth was about to see himself out when the Bruce spoke for the first time since that fateful night.

"Alfred," he said, his voice sounding dry and cracked.

Pennyworth was able to keep his professional demeanor, despite the very visceral relief that filled him, "Yes, Master Bruce?"

The boy looked at him, his eyes spilling over, "Why did this happen?"

For the first time in all his years of service, he broke from his role. Crossing the room, he knelt and hugged the boy to him. The boy was small and thin in his grief and voiceless in his sorrow.

"These things happen," Pennyworth said. "There is no sense to them, Master Bruce. It cannot be helped."

The boy wavered slightly, "Someone should help it. Someone should stop it. No one should ever have to feel like this, ever again."

At that moment, Pennyworth felt something stir in the boy, a passion, almost an anger, something yet unseen in the child to date. He didn't know what it meant, but he was sure that road ahead would certainly not be an easy one.