"What are you going to do, kid?" Winston asked. "You can't run. You can only fight or die. Which is it? Come on, take the gun. Take it!"

"Alfred!" Bruce screamed.

"He can't help you," Winston told him sternly. He switched targets, pointing the gun toward Alfred before shouting, "Bang!"

Returning the aim to Bruce, Winston continued, his voice and manner becoming louder and more aggressive. "Alfred can't help; he's dead. The only one who can do anything here is you. Now, take the gun!"

Bruce still failed to take action, so Winston slid his grip on Bruce's arm down to the wrist, forcibly moving Bruce's hand over to rest on the cold metal of the weapon.

"There are two initial parts to any fight where the enemy has a weapon and you don't," Winston explained, his voice becoming slightly more civil and instructional. "First, you want to keep the weapon from harming you. In this case, you'll need to stop the gun from firing. You can do that by taking a hold here."

He pushed Bruce's fingers to the rear of the gun's slide near the hammer.

"If the hammer is pulled back and locked, you'll want to grip here," he told Bruce, adjusting the child's grip accordingly. "If the hammer can't move forward, the gun is useless. You might get your fingers pinched in there if they slip off the hammer, but injured fingers are better than getting your head blown off."

He shifted Bruce's fingers again, wrapping them around the rear of the hammer.

"If the hammer isn't back, you can hold it here, and it won't be able to fire either," Winston explained. "Now that you know how to stop a gun from shooting, you can move into the next step of the fight, removing the weapon from your enemy's possession."

Bruce's resistance to the hard lesson was decreasing as the moments passed, but having to stand back and watch was wreaking havoc on Alfred's blood pressure. He wanted to step in, but he knew he had to stay out of it for Bruce's sake.

"Hold here," Winston instructed, releasing his grip on Bruce in order to position the kid's opposing hand on the gun. "Once you have your hands like this, twist over and pull."

Bruce did as he was told and ended up with the gun in his own hands, separated from its former owner.

"Very good," Winston praised. "With practice, you'll get faster and more expert at it. No one will ever be able to use a gun on you at close range again. You up for a little training?"

Alfred fought back the tears of joy threatening to well up in his eyes as he saw something he thought he might never see again; the corners of Bruce's mouth turned up ever so slightly in the faintest glimmering of a smile.

                                                                                             ***

"Come on!" Winston shouted. "You can hit harder than that!"

The early morning light bathed the back lawn of Wayne Manor in golden rays, but its warmth had not yet grown to its full proportion, leaving the air slightly cool. Three days had passed since Winston had first begun training Bruce, and the young Wayne was already showing great promise, taking to his lessons quickly and with ever increasing proficiency.

Bruce yelled as he swung his gloved fist toward the square pad worn on Winston's left hand. The impact made a loud slap against the leather material. Winston retaliated, and smacked Bruce in the back of the head with the pad on his right hand.

"Hold up for a minute," Winston said. "You're using good power, but you're letting your rage drive your attacks. It makes you blind to what's around you and leaves you unprotected. Do you know the difference between a bomb and a rocket?"

"One explodes, the other flies," Bruce answered.

"Exactly," Winston confirmed. "Both use powerful explosions, but a bomb goes in all directions. It's strong, but because it goes everywhere, its range is limited and its power unfocused. A rocket has an opening on one end, so when the explosion goes off, it's forced in a single direction. Military and police use shaped charges to blast doors open by controlling where the released energy will go."

Winston shook off the pad on his right hand and reached into his pocket, producing a lighter. Flipping back the chrome cover, he ignited it with a flick of his thumb against the striker wheel. The orange flame burned brightly and reflected off the polished chrome of the lighter's exterior.

"Fire can be used to keep a man from freezing to death in the cold," Winston continued. "It can heat food for cooking purposes. It can even be used against your enemies. However, it can also be a very dangerous thing, burning down people's homes and leaving terrible scars on those it touches."

Winston jerked his wrist to snap the lighter closed and shut off the flame.

"Anger is very similar to fire," Winston concluded. "Like the rocket, it can be controlled and used for a productive purpose, but should it get loose, it is as much a threat to you as it is to your enemies. When people lose control, they shout or attack people who've done nothing wrong, simply because they were nearby. Do you understand? You can seriously hurt people, emotionally or physically, if your anger gets out of control."

Bruce nodded silently.

"There is nothing wrong with being angry as it can motivate you to challenge an injustice or otherwise take action when fear and doubt are trying to hold you back, but always remember to keep it under your command," Winston finished before putting the pad back on his right hand.

"Again," Winston commanded.

Bruce punched hard against the pad, but when Winston tried to hit him in the head as before, Bruce raised his opposing hand and blocked the strike against the side of his forearm.

"Good," Winston praised. "Again."

                                                                                         ***

The sun had moved high overhead as the hours of training continued. At noon, Alfred brought them a silver serving tray with a stack of sandwiches and glasses of ice water covered in condensation.

"Have a seat," Winston instructed Bruce, sitting down on the ground cross-legged.

Bruce mimicked the actions of his trainer, and Alfred set the tray between them.

"How goes the training, Master Bruce?" Alfred inquired politely.

"I'm not the one to ask," Bruce answered, not taking his eyes off Winston.

"He's a natural," Winston informed Alfred. "We'll do one more lesson before we eat."

"As you wish," Alfred accepted, returning to the house.

Bruce started to reach for one of the sandwiches, but Winston raised a hand to halt him.

"Your next lesson is in discipline," Winston stated. "I know you're hungry, but I want you to sit here and not eat any of those sandwiches until I tell you. There will always be things in life you want, but you need to have the restraint and wait for the right moment before reaching for them. Discipline and food, you can't live without either. Which is more important to you, eating your lunch, or developing the discipline you need to survive?"

Bruce pulled his hand back from the tray, resting his palms on the sides of his knees as he got comfortable in his cross-legged position.

Hours passed as Bruce and Winston continued to stare at each other, but neither moved except to occasionally shoo away any flies attempting to help themselves to the food on the tray. Bruce's stomach growled loudly in hunger, but he remained motionless. Winston nodded in approval.

"I think it's been long enough," Winston stated. He plucked one of the sandwiches from the tray and handed it to Bruce.

Although very hungry, Bruce forced himself to take the offered meal calmly rather than wildly grabbing for it. He took a measured bite from one corner and chewed it slowly and deliberately, enjoying the tuna salad as it mixed with the sweet taste of success.

Winston smiled proudly as he appropriated one of the sandwiches for himself.

"Where did you learn all this stuff?" Bruce asked after swallowing so as to not speak with his mouth full.

"I work for British Intelligence," Winston replied.

Bruce's eyes widened. "You're a spy?"

"Not anymore," Winston denied. "I stopped being a field agent some time ago. Now, I train other agents."

"Why did you quit?" Bruce questioned.

"A person can only take so much," Winston explained. "You have to understand the amount of stress such a job can put on a person, to say nothing of the physical demands. After enough years, you either can't do the job anymore or don't want to. You see so many horrible things in the dark places of the world, and it makes you want to get away. If you don't find something else, something better, it may become a part of you, changing you in ways you don't even realize."

"How so?" Bruce asked, taking a swallow of ice water and enjoying the soothing coolness it flushed through his system.

"Look at your own life," Winston clarified. "You had a tragic experience, and it changed you. You never would've started training and learning discipline like this if not for that incident. When you encounter the darkness existing in this world enough times, it changes how you look at things, how you think, and even how you respond. You can never go back to who you were before it happened, but afterwards, you can choose who you become."

"How did Alfred manage to get you for my instructor?" Bruce questioned before taking another bite of his lunch.

"Alfred and I are old friends," Winston told him. "He's the man who trained me."

Bruce stopped chewing and stared in blind disbelief. "My butler trained secret agents?"

"Alfred Pennyworth was our best operative," Winston confirmed. "Before he retired, he trained the man who would take his place, me. We went on several missions together, and I can't tell you the number of times he saved my life."