The flashing blue and red police lights were the only colors splashed across the decaying tenement buildings. The edges of the streets were choked with trash and old newspapers. The rain had stopped momentarily, but it had left puddles in the oily streets and a glistening sheen over the grime common everywhere in Gotham. The gargoyles on the surrounding structures cast ominous shadows over the city that lay beneath the span of their stone wings.

Lifting the bright yellow police tape, Detective James Gordon inspected the area. The grisly double murder he found was burned into his mind by the bright flashes of the forensic team taking pictures. The brief illumination of the cameras put everything in stark brightness and momentarily turned portions of the darkened streets into day, only adding to the surreal feeling.

"What's the situation?" Gordon asked the local uniformed cop in charge.

"Double homicide," the policeman reported, checking through the small notebook he carried to review the details he'd written down before Gordon's arrival. "Man and woman, both shot at close range. A broken pearl necklace near the woman and the man's missing wallet indicate possible robbery."

"Any way to identify them?" Gordon questioned. He glanced at the two bodies, staring hard when he saw their faces. Even in the dim light, he couldn't mistake his recognition of them. "Good heavens! Don't you know who these two are? They're Thomas and Martha Wayne."

"Are you certain, sir?" the officer inquired.

"Of course, I'm sure!" Gordon replied gruffly. "I've known them for years. Good people, these two. They'd done a tremendous amount of good for Gotham and its people. They deserve better than to be gunned down in a trash strewn alley."

A uniformed police officer came running up to join the group, barely ducking fast enough to avoid being entangled in the yellow tape outlining the crime scene.

"Sir," the cop reported. "I found some movie ticket stubs, and the manager of the Monarch Theater around the corner identified the vics from their description as Thomas and Martha Wayne. He says they were there and left only a short time ago."

"How many were in their group?" Gordon asked.

"Three," the cop replied instantly.

"This is real trouble," Gordon muttered.

"What's the problem?" the first officer questioned.

"The Wayne's have a son," Gordon explained. "With the deaths of his parents, Bruce Wayne stands to inherit everything. That kid is going to be worth millions! Can you understand why someone would want to kidnap him?"

The officer went pale as he realized the target the poor kid would have on his back. Money attracted enemies like blood attracted predators in the wild.

"Alright, listen up!" Gordon commanded. "I want an immediate search started for Bruce Wayne. Contact Wayne Enterprises and see if they can furnish a full description. Call it in as a missing person, possible kidnapping. Move it!"

The police around Gordon scattered in all directions. Remaining where he stood, Gordon raked a hand through his coppery brown hair. He didn't know if they'd gotten the word out in time. Bruce Wayne's life might very well depend on their efforts.

He looked down at the two dead bodies lying on the cold pavement of the alley. Covered in white sheets, spots of red were noticeable in the material as the blood on the remains was absorbed at the contact points.

The passing beam of a police officer's flashlight let Gordon catch a glimpse of something. He raised a hand to stop the cop walking past him, motioning him to relinquish the flashlight. The cop handed it over without question, and Gordon pointed the cone of light toward a nearby dumpster to illuminate the area. Crouched amid the overflowing garbage was a small boy, hugging his knees and crying softly.

"Hey," Gordon said gently so as to not startle the boy. "I'm Detective James Gordon. You can come out; it's safe now."

While Gordon was speaking, Bruce saw a figure approaching from behind the police officer. He wanted to shout a warning, but his voice wouldn't respond. The silhouette leveled a gun at Gordon's head in passing. A thunderous bang filled the alleyway, and the lifeless body of Detective Gordon fell to the ground.

Bruce pushed backwards, trying to dig himself deeper into the garbage piled around him but to no avail. The gun swung toward him in slow motion.

"No one's going to save you," the specter said, its voice distorted and guttural

The gun fired again, consuming Bruce's world in blinding light.

A scream tore from Bruce's throat as he bolted upright in bed. Sweat covered him and soaked the sheets. His breath came in rapid gasps, never seeming to be enough to fill his lungs. His heart rate was so fast, he couldn't tell the individual beats apart.

The door to his room flew open, and for a terrifying moment, he thought it the specter from his nightmares come to kill him. Seeing an older gentleman with graying hair and mustache, dressed in a pristine black suit and bow tie, he calmed down only slightly.

"Master Bruce," the man said with concern while hurrying over.

Bruce lunged out of bed, wrapping his small arms as far and as tightly around the man as he could manage. Alfred Pennyworth had been the family butler since before Bruce had been born, and with the death of the Wayne's, Alfred was the only one left in Bruce's world. The boy sobbed uncontrollably against Alfred's chest, and the butler hugged him tightly, uncertain of how to comfort the child after the personal tragedy Bruce had suffered.

"It's just a nightmare," Alfred said softly. His voice had a British accent and revealed the manners and polish of his profession. "You're safe here."

It was nearly fifteen minutes before Bruce cried himself to exhaustion and returned to sleep. Alfred walked downstairs when he heard the doorbell ring. He used a brisk pace so as to answer the door before the bell awoke the boy in his care.

The heavy door of solid oak swung open easily and quietly on its well-maintained hinges. Alfred stood in the gap between the door and its frame, preventing anyone from entering without his approval, but it was unnecessary as the man standing outside made no move to come in.

"Detective Gordon," Alfred said in greeting. "How can I help you?"

"I was hoping Bruce might have remembered something to help us in our investigation," Gordon said. His tone and uneasy stance revealed his discomfort with asking a boy to relive the night of his parents' death.

"I'm afraid not," Alfred politely denied. "Would you please come in?"

Alfred stepped back and allowed Gordon to enter. The police officer took off his brown, wide brimmed hat as he crossed the threshold, following the butler into the parlor.

Wayne Manor was an elegant and gothic style house. Arched doorways provided passage between rooms, and a wood topped railing, gleaming with polish, offered a view down from the numerous balconies of the upper levels. The parlor was no exception to the splendor of the rest of the house, but the muted color of the furnishings and thick rug made it feel more comfortable than palatial.

Alfred ushered Gordon to a large sofa, waiting for his guest to be seated before pouring a cup of coffee from a silver pot for the policeman and himself. Taking a seat in the wing-chair opposite Gordon, Alfred gently sipped his coffee before setting the white cup back down on its matching saucer with a slight clink.

"It's been six months since the loss of the Wayne family," Alfred said slowly. "Master Bruce still has nightmares on a daily basis. Therapists have been unable to help as he won't talk to them. He won't even leave his room."

"Poor kid," Gordon lamented, taking a careful drink from his steaming cup. "If we could catch the scum who killed his folks, it might help him start to recover."

"Quite," Alfred agreed. "Master Bruce is deathly afraid the madman will break in and kill him."

"According to what we've been able to piece together, the shooter killed the parents and then put the gun against the kid's head," Gordon related. "If not for the timely intervention of some people coming down the alley, we would've had a triple homicide on our hands."

"I'm at a loss as to what can be done," Alfred admitted. "The last people who promised to protect him were shot in front of his eyes. How can I make him believe he's safe when it was so blatantly proved he isn't?"

"If he's afraid the killer will come after him, why not give him some self-defense training?" Gordon suggested. "He's been depending on others for protection, and they died. Maybe he would feel better doing it himself. At the very least, it would give his mind something else to think about."

"Not a bad idea," Alfred accepted, brushing an index finger along his mustache as he considered the prospect. "I have a few people I can call who might be able to help me."

"I hope it works," Gordon muttered, taking another swallow of coffee. "Goodness knows that boy's been through enough."

                                                                                         ****

"Master Bruce?" Alfred called out before opening the door of the eight year old survivor of the Wayne family. He announced himself so as to not add to the boy's fear of a stranger entering his room. "I have a friend who wants to meet you."

"I don't want to," Bruce replied from his spot on the bed, knees pulled up under his chin.

"I can take it from here, old chap," a British accented man said as he came in behind Alfred. He patted the butler on the shoulder in passing.

Alfred's friend was attired in a loose shirt of sky blue tucked neatly into the top of a pair of black slacks. The belt around his waist and his shoes maintained a flawless, mirror shine. His blond hair was cropped very short, and his face showed the lines not from age but from stress and the experiences of a hard life. The blue eyes looking at Bruce were cold and sharp, seeming to look clear through the boy.

"My name is Winston, and my old chum, Alfred, tells me you had a gun put to your head," he said. It wasn't a question. He unbuttoned his cuffs and rolled his sleeves up to his elbows. "In life, you have two choices, kid. You can either let it run you over, or you can fight back."

With his left hand, Winston grabbed Bruce by the arm to be certain he wouldn't escape, and with his right, he pulled a gun from behind his back and pointed it at Bruce's face.