The first murder I witnessed was a double homocide, a rich uppety couple, the Wayne's. I wasn't surprised. Death was inevitable in Gotham. People dropped left and right, and no one even batted an eye. Just the norm here. People gunned down, stabbed to death, beaten and left to bleed out; if you witness it, the best thing to do is run, hide, and pretend you never saw anything. It's safer that way. You're more likely to survive if you keep your head down. Besides, it's their own fault, really. They should have known better than to walk down that alley in the middle of the night with no protection. There wasn't anything I could do. It wasn't my fault. 

The night it happened I was looking for an empty space, a canvas I hadn't covered yet. I felt like I'd tagged every building in Gotham by now, but by some miracle I managed to find a clean brick wall, untouched by me or any other street artist, in an alley just outside a movie theater. Generally, I tried to avoid the alleys. Too much could happen, not enough people gave a shit. But this was just too good to pass up. I could start fresh, didn't have to worry about anyone else ruining it or stealing my space. Looking back, I wished I had kept walking, because then maybe I wouldn't have gotten into so much trouble.

I dug out my art supplies and was just getting started when Cat  ducked into the alley. She gave me a curt nod as she crouched behind the dumpster and pulled a carton of milk from the inside of her coat. She had an apple in her fist too, munching on it as she screwed the milk's lid off and yanked someone's wallet out. I guess she'd been busy tonight.

We weren't friends exactly, but every now and again we'd run into each other, helped each other out of a few tight spots. Usually it went something like this: she'd steal me enough food to keep me alive for the week, and I'd make sure she didn't get caught. Not that it was that hard, she was already pretty good at giving people the slip, and the cops aren't worth shit, especially in Gotham. Flippin' idiots. She'd been on the streets a lot longer than I have, and she had shown me the ropes, the good hang outs, the places to avoid, people to dodge, the best places to get some sleep. She was the reason I hadn't gotten myself killed yet. (Not like anyone would miss me anyway…) 

We'd met in an alley, actually. Not this one, a different one. I'd been ducking behind a dumpster, it was my first night out on the streets since my parents had told me to get lost. I was alone, terrified, hungry, I had no place to go, and if I was being honest, I was planning to kick the bucket as soon as I found the quickest way to do it. Unfortunately, she found me first, so I was stuck living the nightmare that is my sorry excuse of a life. She made me follow her to this little crap hole in the Narrows. There wasn't much there, but there were a lot of other kids and somehow that made me feel a little less alone. At least, I knew I wasn't the only one who was royally fucked up.

Silently, Cat tossed me a small bag full of whatever extra goods she'd managed to lift on her way over. I doubt she had been looking for me (why would she go out of her way to find me just to give me some god awful food from who knows where?), it was more likely she was just passing the stuff she decided she didn't actually want to me. An after thought, that's all it was. I took it without complaint, though. Beggars couldn't be choosers after all. Then again, it wasn't like I'd need it long. All I really needed was to find a few heavy rocks to stuff in my socks and the nearest, deepest body of water and... No. Sorry, sorry. Cat says I need to stop thinking like that, but sometimes... Sometimes I can't help it...

Cat poured some of the milk in a makeshift bowl as a calico alley cat made its way over. I thought the thing looked deceased and made it a point to steer clear, but she started making little noises at the ugly little thing. I shook my head and kept working on the wall. I didn't hate cats, but that didn't mean I trusted the ones in the streets either. They had fleas and had been rolling around in the dumpsters and fighting with mice and god knows what else... I guess I was sort of like a cat, in that regard. We both panhandled suckers too, the only difference is it actually worked for the stupid ass felines. People looked at me and thought oh God its another street rat! Get it away!

Cat stood up, rifling through the wallet, pocketing the cards and cash inside it before stashing the thing in an old air vent in the wall. She wasn't worried about me seeing her do it, she knew I didn't care enough to snitch on her. (To be honest, I didn't care much about anything these days...)

Voices brought our attention to the end of the alley: laughter. I stuffed my spray cans behind the dumpster, and Cat grabbed her furry friend; we climbed to the first story fire escape, ducking as far as we could into the shadows. 

The Waynes were a small family. Three of em. All dressed up in fancy richy rich clothing and walking like they owned the world -- and they probably did, as much money and fame as they had. No wonder they were targets. They made me sick. 

"Oh, come on, Tom, it wasn't that bad." Martha Wayne's skirt swung around her hips, heels clicking against the pavement, as she hung on her husband as if he had just told her the funniest joke in the world. Disgusting, truly. 

"Childish drivel. Movies these days, I don't know." Thomas Wayne shook his head, straightening his silk tie, smiling an all too perfect smile. It figured. They got to go waste a butt load of money at some fancy movie theater and get a large popcorn each along with all kinds of random ass candy and sodas. Meanwhile, I had to watch my movies through strangers' windows and somehow not looking like some sort of freak creeping on innocent people.

"Well I thought the acting was fine, and the music was lovely. What about you, Bruce?" Martha (even if they are rich douchebags, I prefer referring to people by their first names, its more personal that way; I don't care that I don't actually know them at all) turned to look down at their son, smiling in a way that made my skin crawl. It wasn't that it was suggestive or anything, it's just weird to see crap like that when you've never had anything like it in your entire life. (I guess, 'my entire life' is a bit of an exaggeration. My mom was perfectly fine for a time, but the second I started shifting away from what she wanted me to be she stopped giving me those heartfelt mother-y looks.)

"Sorry, Mom. I agree with Dad, it was kinda lame." He looked so small from our vantage point, but he couldn't have been more than twelve at least. I wanted to run down there and hit him. Why did he get two loving parents when I couldn't even get one? My parents only put up with me so long as I did what they expected, but the day I told them what I wanted, what I needed they through me out and tell me never to come back. Well, fine. Who needed those fuckers anyway? I was perfectly fine being on my own. I didn't care about them one bit. It was just that the Waynes looked stupidly happy and... Well, what's there to be so damn happy about anyway?

His dad ruffled his hair with a soft chuckle that somehow still carried all the way up to Selina and I. Stupid freaking rich guy, hyping up all his lame ass charities and shit. If I had that much money to blow I would have done something useful, like make a homeless shelter for all these fucking street kids that wasn't complete and utter trash. But no, they go to the movies without a care in the fucking world. Assholes. "There's no such word as 'kinda'." 

"It was totally lame." 

Martha shook her head at the two of them. "You two, so judgmental. Just once I'd like --" She stopped, and I followed her gaze to the other end of the alley. My heart leapt into my throat. It was dark, but even so I could see how shiny the man's shoes were, glimmering in what little light leaked through the alley from the broken street lamps. He was dressed in dark clothes, pulling a hood over his face as he approached the Waynes. Where the hell had he even come from? I hadn't heard any footsteps.

"What's up, folks?" the man greeted, as if they were old friends. Thomas and Martha each held Bruce a little closer to them as they paused at the center of the alley. I guess they weren't complete idiots if they managed to pick up those red flags… The man pulled out a gun. "Gimme, your money!" 

My stomach was in knots. It wasn't the first time I'd seen something like this happen. (Muggings were pretty common place on the streets after all.) I may have only been on the streets myself for a few months, but I'd seen enough to know this was not going to end well. And if that guy found out we were up here, we were dead too. It was time to high tail it the fuck out of there. I tugged on the sleeve of Cat's jacket, pointing to the roof, but shook her head. She brought her finger to her lips, signaling to keep quiet. Damn. She was right, we'd make too much noise if we moved now. We were trapped. 

Thomas and Martha were strikingly calm for a bunch of morons, and I wondered just how often they'd been in situations like this. I'd wager a lot, considering how loaded with cash they were. I wouldn't be surprised if they had a couple thousand on their person right then and there. And just clambering around like that, making so much noise, drawing attention to themselves. Hell, they were dressed like the poster-image of some fifties, cookie cutter family. They really were the easiest targets a mugger could ask for. Still, that didn't mean they deserved to be shot, right in front of their son no less. 

Bruce was shaking in his sweater vest. His parents pushed him behind them, the mugger aiming his gun back and forth between the two. "No problem." Thomas handed the masked man his wallet. I thought that would have been the end of it. Mug-Shot-Waiting-to-Happen would take the rich losers' money and be on his merry little way to buy drugs or pay off a debt to someone or whatever it was muggers did after scaring the ever living fuck out of people. Cat could go do what Cat does, and I could get back to my street art in peace. Wishful fucking thinking.  Apparently, the wallet wasn't enough, because he glanced at Martha's neck. "Nice necklace." 

"Oh, but --" 

"Give it to him, Martha!" 

She fiddled with the clasp, struggling to get the thing off. I couldn't see, but I imagined her hands were shaking. She fumbled the necklace; the beads scattered, clattering to the ground (how cheap…) At first, I didn't know what happened; I thought someone had set off fireworks. Two loud bangs, back to back: pop, pop! The next thing I knew Thomas and Martha Wayne were laying on their backs on the concrete, thick, dark red liquid seeping out from their middle. 

I gripped Cat's arm. My throat was tight. I clutched my stomach, staring down at the Waynes' bodies; the gun shots still rang in my ears. What the fuck was that?