Alfred pulled into the garage and shut off the engine.

"The tools you'll need should be fairly straight forward," Alfred said as he climbed out of the vehicle and came around to help Bruce. "Your combat skills are close range, so you'll require something with a reach."

"Obviously," Bruce grumbled, leaning heavily on Alfred in order to climb out of the van. Bruce's sparring match with the criminals in the alley had aggravated his shoulder wound. Adrenaline had kept the pain at bay, but as it wore off, the injury was hurting as bad as when Bruce had first been shot. It made Bruce wonder if he'd ripped his stitches.

"Have you considered archery, Master Bruce?" Alfred inquired. He led Bruce to one of the guest rooms where the majority of the medical supplies had been stacked. Bruce was not the only one concerned about the bandaged injuries and if they'd been reopened.

"What do I look like, Robin Hood?" Bruce asked sarcastically.

"You might if you had the right set of tights, Sir," Alfred confirmed, trying to lift Bruce out of the depression hovering around him.

"I'd have to carry a bow too," Bruce pointed out. "If I lost the bow, the arrows would be fairly worthless for anything other than a supply of improvised knives. Besides, a miss with an arrow could be just as deadly as a bullet."

"It depends on how sharp you make them," Alfred corrected. "Razor tips would definitely do some damage, but if the arrows are more flattened, they shouldn't go too deep."

"Pass, Alfred," Bruce declined. "I need my hands free. Besides, the arrows sticking up from the quiver could get caught on things, and if I had to roll, I'd hate to think what it would do to my back."

"I know you trained with them in Japan, but since you disapproved of the arrows because of their possibility of doing lethal damage, I can assume you would also reject the idea of throwing stars for the same reason," Alfred guessed.

"You'd be right," Bruce confirmed. He tried taking off his shirt, but the unhealed bullet wound refused to let him. Seeing his predicament, Alfred acted instinctively without needing to be asked, helping remove the shirt. Alfred inspected the bandages and found one of the pads of white gauze turning dark red, indicating the stitches had broken loose. Alfred started removing the bandages in preparation for their replacement.

"If the throwing stars are too sharp, what about a boomerang?" Alfred queried. "They were used to knock prey out of trees, so you should be able to knock guns from criminal's hands. At the very least, Master Bruce, you could give them a sizable knot on the cranium."

Turning the idea around in his head, Bruce considered it carefully. A boomerang would give him a greater ability to fight at a distance without the risk of killing his opponent. "It's worth keeping in mind, anything else?"

"What about smoke grenades?" Alfred mentioned. "They could cover either your approach or withdrawal. You're trained to fight blind, but I don't think your opponents will be."

Alfred finished removing the bandages, and he inspected the injury. A few of the stitches had come loose, but it wasn't bleeding as much as when it had first happened. The butler opened the medical kit and began replacing the stitches.

"There was a chemical compound my fellows and I experimented with across the pond, Master Bruce," Alfred related while working. "Even in small quantities, it produces a rather sizable cloud of smoke. We could replicate it in order to make smoke grenades. Your enemies can't fight what they can't see."

"What if they start firing blind?" Bruce asked in return.

"It would be a good time to either knock their guns out of their hands or run, whichever you think best," Alfred answered.

"I'd need a great many smoke grenades," Bruce told him. "Picking off enemies blind would be a long process, and I'd need to keep reinforcing the cloud or risk getting shot. It's too risky."

"A set of thermal goggles would let you see through the cloud and take down your targets faster," Alfred suggested. Finishing with the stitches, Alfred began applying a fresh set of bandages.

"We'd need a smaller version," Bruce replied. "Carrying around bulky thermal goggles might not be practical, but it's an idea. Do you have any others?"

"Actually, it's one of yours, Master Bruce," Alfred answered. "Do you remember when we were first building the elevator in the cave? You suggested a motorized grappling hook and line for transferring between levels. If we could rig up a portable unit, it might give you the ability to make a quick exit if things got too dangerous. Combined with a smoke grenade, you could escape unseen."

"It could also be used to scout the area," Bruce suggested as he considered the idea more carefully. "It would allow me to reach places where criminals wouldn't expect me to be and wouldn't bother checking. Without a similar piece of equipment, they'd have a difficult time trying to reach me."

"So, we have boomerangs, smoke grenades, and a grappling hook," Alfred recited. "Any other equipment you might need?"

"Probably just the basics," Bruce replied. "I'll need listening gear, restraints to tie up the crooks I catch, and maybe some form of a camera to collect video evidence of crimes in progress. The rebreather came in useful, but I might need either one with a greater capacity or secondary units so I can stay submerged longer."

Although Bruce was still giving suggestions and considering alternatives while Alfred finished with the bandages, he wasn't certain about any of it. Bruce still didn't know if he had what it took to clean up Gotham. He'd keep his options open, but doubts also lingered in his mind.

                                                                                                         ***

Bruce sat in front of the computers in the cave. A monitor was centered on a wide desk with another monitor on either side and angled toward the middle. Multiple windows of data were displayed on the monitors, and Bruce checked all of them, sometimes repeatedly. He'd been working on a side project for three days while his shoulder healed, but his obsession over it had kept him seated in front of the computers almost constantly. If not for Alfred bringing him a tray of food at meal times, Bruce would've gone hungry.

"How goes the search, Master Bruce?" Alfred inquired as he joined Bruce in the cave.

"It's useless," Bruce answered in frustration, slamming a fist down against the desk. "I've checked traffic cameras, ATM cameras, along with all phone calls and taxi pickups in the area, still nothing. No witnesses or sightings of my parents' killer. Nothing. It's like he vanished immediately afterwards."

"Any evidence recovered from the scene?" Alfred inquired.

"Ballistics didn't match anything in the system," Bruce explained. "Either the killer kept the gun and hasn't murdered anyone since, or the weapon is most likely decorating the bottom of Gotham harbor. The cops didn't find any shell casings, fingerprints, shoe prints, fibers or hairs. Once again, nothing. Other than my parents being dead, it's as if it never happened."

Bruce swiveled his chair around, turning his back to the computers and their frustrating lack of helpfulness.

"I didn't want to say anything before because I didn't want to burden you with my own suspicions," Alfred mentioned quietly.

"What is it, Alfred?" Bruce asked. His curiosity suddenly spiked. "What haven't you told me about my parents' murder?"

"The day they died, I was supposed to pick the three of you up at the theater," Alfred explained. "I was late because the car developed engine trouble. The timing was highly suspicious. The police checked the car but didn't find any evidence of tampering. Despite their assurances, I've never been fully convinced the car breakdown and your parents' murder weren't connected in some way. Perhaps, it's just my training trying to see things that aren't there."

"Maybe it's what isn't there that's the clue we've been looking for," Bruce theorized.

"You think it might've been a professional hit?" Alfred questioned.

"It's certainly possible," Bruce confirmed. "I've got nothing else to go on."

"If you wish to pursue this line of investigation, may I suggest you look into the motives of anyone who may have gained from the death of the Wayne family," Alfred offered.

"It's no short list," Bruce pointed out. "They had extensive holdings and influence. Charting the total effects of their deaths politically and financially could take a long time, and there still isn't any guarantee we'd even find anything."

"It's possible this is just a fool's errand," Alfred lamented. "However, could you live with yourself if you didn't pursue all leads, no matter how slight?"

"Probably not," Bruce admitted. He sighed wearily.

"Since your investigation will most likely be quite lengthy, perhaps you could donate some of your time to the good people of Gotham," Alfred suggested. "You may be able to prevent your tragedy from happening to someone else."

Bruce had been depressed and lethargic since his failed mission. His physical injuries were healing, but his mental state had been severely damaged by the setback. The idea of finding his parents' murderer had given him purpose, but it started fading when the leads went cold. As Bruce realized he'd only been thinking of himself and his own problems, he adjusted his focus to the citizens of Gotham currently living under a cloud of fear. Gangs prowled the back alleys, and people weren't safe on the streets at night. They deserved better.

"You're right," he told Alfred. "It doesn't matter how much of the criminal problem is beyond my reach; it only matters I do what I can. For the few citizens I save, they'll be spared my pain."

A cold and steely determination filled Bruce's soul. He'd get better equipment, more training, and greater experience. The next time he went after the criminals, he wouldn't have to flee in a hail of bullets. The criminals would be the ones running from him.

"Since you're new at this hero routine, might I suggest you start smaller than your last mission," Alfred cautioned. "Perhaps practicing on less heavily defended targets might help you gain valuable experience."

"It's an idea," Bruce agreed. "Perhaps I did reach too far and too fast."

"At least you're still alive to try again," Alfred encouraged.

"I'm going to need something else to make idea this work," Bruce decided.

"Such as?" Alfred prompted.

"The criminals weren't afraid of me," Bruce replied. "If I can scare them from the moment they realize I'm there, maybe they'll be more inclined to run than shoot. Just as we crafted my public face to portray a certain image, I need a persona for my crime fighter, something terrifying."

"I read an item in the paper; hold on a moment," Alfred mentioned. He departed and came back a moment later with a newspaper in his hand. He offered it to Bruce while pointing at the appropriate article.

"Lecture on fears and phobias at Gotham University," Bruce read. "I like it."

                                                                                                ***

The horseshoe shaped levels of the university lecture hall faced a centrally located stage. The levels were staggered, increasing in height from the front of the room to the back, so the audience members wouldn't have to look past those in front of them in order to see.

Bruce had a seat in the back of the lecture hall. He'd been taking notes for almost two hours. Although the information was good enough for him to write down many ideas, he wasn't sure how he felt about the conclusions the professor standing center stage was drawing.

"In summation," the professor finished. "Make no mistake; fear controls every aspect of human existence. People work jobs they hate because they're afraid of being unemployed. They get married because they're afraid of dying alone. They have kids because they fear they won't leave anything meaningful behind when they're gone. Human beings are fear producing machines. If you can master someone's fear, you have mastered them. If you can overcome your own fears, you will be limitless. Thank you for coming."

Bruce waited for the other members of the audience to depart before heading down the steps to speak with the professor. The man was tall and rail thin; the dark brown suit he wore was small in size yet almost seemed too large for his slender frame.

"Excuse me," Bruce said. "Would you mind a few follow up questions?"

"Of course not," the professor denied, pushing the black plastic frames of his glasses up further on his long nose. "Fear is a fascinating subject. I could talk about it all day. What are your questions?"

"What is the greatest fear, and what is the most common fear?" Bruce asked.

"They are one and the same," the professor told him. "Everyone fears the dark. It's the earliest fear among children, and it never fully goes away."

"Why?" Bruce questioned. "What's so terrible about the dark?"

"It isn't so much the darkness itself," the professor corrected. "People fear the darkness because they don't know what might be waiting out there in its concealing depths. They fear the unknown. Anything that scares them, monsters, murderers, rabid or disease carrying animals, whatever it may be, all of it hides in the dark, waiting for them to turn their backs before pouncing on them. Every fear exists in the dark, and that is why people are so terrified by it; they can't see what's sneaking up on them."

"I understand," Bruce said. He offered his hand to the professor. "Thank you very much."

"Certainly," the man answered with a delighted smile. He shook Bruce's hand firmly. "It's nice to have someone else sharing my interests."

As Bruce was leaving the lecture hall, he looked over the sign posted by the door. The banner for the fears and phobias topic covered the majority of the space, but at the lowest point, the instructor was identified as Professor Jonathan Crane.

                                                                                           ***

"How was the lecture?" Alfred asked as Bruce climbed into the backseat of the car parked in front of the university doors.

"Interesting, but I think the professor might enjoy his work a little too much," Bruce replied. "Professor Crane's ideas on fear gave me a direction for my crime fighting persona. Since everyone is afraid of the dark and what might be hiding there, I need to tailor my appearance to blend with the shadows, letting my enemies get only the briefest look as I spring out of the darkness to take them down."

"Any thoughts as to what this fearsome persona may be?" Alfred inquired. He put the car in gear and began driving back toward Wayne Manor.

"Yes," Bruce confirmed. "Since our base of operations is in the cave, I've been thinking about something to do with bats."