Bruce surfaced; he was far enough from the Stacked Deck to avoid being seen by the gunmen trying to kill him. His rebreather had run out, forcing him to swim the rest of the way to the rendezvous on top of the water.

By the time Bruce reached the designated location for meeting up with Alfred, he was exhausted. Pain and loss of blood combined with his lengthy swim to drain Bruce of his energy. He had trouble climbing the ladder out of the water, and his legs were unstable beneath him, forcing him to lean on nearby objects.

"Sir!" Alfred called out with concern as he exited the van and hurried over to him. Alfred maintained the presence of mind to not shout Bruce's name and give away his identity. They'd picked an isolated location to meet, but neither one wanted to take chances of letting anything slip. Alfred put an arm around Bruce and helped him back to the van.

"If you're going to make a habit of attracting gunfire, perhaps you should consider some body armor," Alfred suggested.

Bruce was too tired and sore to bother trying to answer. In his mind, however, Bruce considered the possibility he wouldn't be able to continue his plans for saving Gotham. The criminals of the city were heavily armed and unafraid to shoot someone who didn't have a weapon. He'd been almost killed on two different occasions. The first was when he'd nearly drowned trying to spy on the meeting with Fairbanks, and now he'd almost been gunned down simply watching an arms deal. His intentions had been good, but the reality was turning out to be far more hazardous than he'd anticipated. He was beginning to think the job was simply too big and dangerous, even for someone with his skills. Bruce grimly wondered if he could even make a difference at all.

Alfred used a first aid kit to tend Bruce's wound when they reached the van. It wasn't much, but it stopped the bleeding and kept the injury clean for the drive back to Wayne Manor.

Bruce stared lifelessly out the window, depression weighing him down like an anchor. The memory of his parents' deaths resurfaced in his mind. It didn't matter how long or hard he trained; he still couldn't stop bullets.

                                                                                                     ***

The medical supplies Bruce had purchased for the hospital project had already been delivered from the house to the temporary medical facility in the Wayne Enterprises' warehouse. The additional quantities intended for his personal use were held in Wayne Manor while awaiting transport to the cave for proper storage. Alfred opened a few crates and removed the items he needed to fix Bruce's injury.

"It's a through and through, Master Bruce," Alfred informed him. "It didn't hit any bones, so you only have to wait for the muscles to heal up."

Bruce didn't answer. His mind was in such a consuming amount of depression, he didn't even flinch when Alfred started stitching the bullet hole closed.

"What's troubling you, Master Bruce?" Alfred asked. He finished his stitching and began wrapping the injury in bandages.

"I don't know," Bruce answered. "Actually, I do know; I just don't know how to put it into words."

"Does it have anything to do with tonight's injury?" Alfred prompted.

"In part," Bruce agreed. "I'm just wondering how effective I can be against gunmen."

"Have you considered carrying one yourself?" Alfred asked while packing up the unused medical supplies.

"It would be too easy to accidentally kill someone," Bruce answered.

"Considering the criminals you're facing, would that be such a bad thing?" Alfred questioned.

"I can't become an executioner, Alfred," Bruce denied. "If I justify one kill, it will be even easier the next time because once you start making compromises, you can't really stop. A single individual can make a mistake by either moving against someone with only partial information or acting on personal emotion or bias. Either of these incidents could lead to an innocent being cut down and the real criminal escaping justice."

Bruce closed his eyes as he fought against his raw emotions.

"If someone deserves to die for their crimes, it should be in the hands of courts and juries, not one man with a weapon," Bruce said, his hands clenched into fists. "No one person should be able to choose who lives or dies, like the thief who chose for my parents."

Alfred was at a loss for words, and he simply nodded somberly.

"I'm not going to be able to sleep tonight," Bruce mentioned. Only half the reason related to his injuries, the other was his emotional state. Everything he'd worked for seemed to be turning to ashes, meaningless and dead. "I think I'll go for a drive."

"In your condition?" Alfred questioned. "I think not, Master Bruce. You're injured and shouldn't be let behind the wheel. I'll drive."

"Thanks, Alfred," Bruce said in return.

"Certainly, Sir," Alfred replied. "Any particular place you want to go?"

"Crime Alley," Bruce answered.

"Not exactly the best place in the city, especially in your condition," Alfred commented. "But, if that's where you want, I'll oblige you."

                                                                                       ***

The drive was quiet and uneventful. They'd taken the van rather than the car as they wanted to draw less attention. The pearl gray sky in the east signaled the rising of the sun, but it would be another hour before the sun actually appeared. The heavy cloud cover, typical in Gotham at this time of year, would ensure very little sunlight actually reached the city.

Alfred parked the van at the curb, and Bruce climbed out.

"I'll be back in a minute," Bruce said, telling Alfred he needed to be alone with the unspoken inference. Alfred understood and nodded.

Bruce shut the door and walked slowly away. He was grateful Alfred accepted his request for solitude. Bruce didn't know what he was thinking, and he needed to be alone to sort through his conflicting thoughts. He'd accomplished some things in his efforts against crime in Gotham, taking down Fairbanks and the crooked cops on his payroll. He'd also managed to nab a killer and rescue a young girl. It wasn't too bad, but nearly drowning while collecting evidence on Fairbanks and having to flee in a hail of bullets from his observation of an arms deal made him question his effectiveness. It was possible he could do some small things, but they wouldn't have the overall impact he wanted. Cleaning up Gotham meant going after the bad guys at the top, the ones with their hooks deepest into the city, but if he couldn't handle armed criminals, he couldn't expect to do anything major without getting killed before he finished.

Kneeling down on the alley pavement where his parents had been murdered, Bruce wondered what he should do, wondered what he could do.

The sound of breaking glass roused him from his brooding thoughts. Without considering what he was doing, Bruce headed toward the disturbance. The alley opened up onto a passing street, and Bruce found a large truck parked there with several men loading electronics from a store. The glass front door of the building had been broken, and the fragments crunched under the men's shoes as they entered and left the store.

Bruce crouched in the darkness of the alley, the early morning light having not yet reached it. One of the thieves stood with his back to the alley while keeping a lookout for the police. Bruce snaked his good arm around the man's neck and pulled tight as his opposing hand clamped down across the man's nose and mouth. Dragging him back into the alley, Bruce held on until the goon dropped into unconsciousness.

The takedown was effective but risky, and Bruce checked the man's pulse. Cutting off oxygen to the brain with the chokehold he'd used could put a subject down quickly, but his margin of error was extremely slight. If Bruce hung on too long, he could easily cause brain damage or death. He'd checked the man's pulse to be sure he was still among the living. Satisfied, Bruce moved on to the next target.

Slipping under the cargo truck, Bruce watched the movements of the thieves. Two were currently walking back and forth from the store, carrying boxes of plunder while the third waited in the cab of the truck, ready to drive away if the cops arrived. Bruce needed to get the driver first, so he picked up a broken piece of wire and wedged it into the valve stem of the front tire, scooting back under the truck immediately afterwards.

The hiss of slowly releasing air attracted the driver's attention, and he climbed out of the truck to investigate. Seeing his opportunity, Bruce slid out from under the truck and pounced, incapacitating the driver as he'd done to the first man. Bruce dragged the body around to the front of the truck where it would be less likely to be seen by the two goons in back.

Using the front bumper, hood, and cab of the truck as steps, Bruce climbed up and moved in a low crouch to the rear of the vehicle. He watched the two men as they worked to plunder the store, timing their movements and estimating their distance from each other. When the right moment came, Bruce dived off the truck and landed on both men. The collision slammed the skulls of the two thieves together, and they dropped to the ground, stunned.

Bruce gritted his teeth in pain as the bullet wound in his shoulder complained forcefully about the stress put upon it by his actions. He had no time to deal with it as the criminals would not be down long. Tearing loose their belts and shoelaces, Bruce got to work.

                                                                                        ***

As Bruce exited the alley, one hand resting protectively on his injured shoulder, Alfred got out and opened the door for him.

"Are you alright, Sir?" Alfred inquired.

"I'll live," Bruce replied.

"Might one know what you were up to in that alley?" Alfred asked, indicating his suspicions that Bruce was doing more than simply paying his respects to his fallen loved ones.

"Take a right turn at the corner," Bruce instructed.

Alfred started the van and drove as he'd been told. Police cars were arriving, their flashing lights filling the street with pulses of red and blue. Parked in front of a vandalized electronics store was a large truck. Four criminals were tied up and piled in front of the truck for the police to collect. The first officers on scene were scratching their heads in puzzlement over the gift they'd been left.

"Being a hero is in your blood, Master Bruce," Alfred told him.

"It doesn't change my limited effectiveness," Bruce countered, leaning back against the headrest and closing his eyes. "If they'd had guns or more men, it would've been different. Can we just not talk about this?"

"On one condition," Alfred replied. "I'll drop the subject if you can tell me honestly that you even considered the hazards before taking action."

"What do you want from me?" Bruce demanded when he couldn't deny Alfred's point. His response to the situation had been instinctual.

"I want you to be the hero I know you can be," Alfred replied softly. "Goodness knows, this city needs one."

"I'm still no match for armed gunmen," Bruce pointed out.

"All you need is the right equipment, Master Bruce," Alfred encouraged. "I've been thinking about it, and I have some ideas you might find useful."