Bruce Wayne never saw the weapon that killed his parents. The only thing he could remember was the face of the man who did it.

In a sense, it wasn't really a face; it was an almost faceless face. Blank, expressionless, cold and unrelenting, a gaze of stone and ice that flashed in the blast of the gunfire. There was nothing familiar, nothing sensible, nothing really even human in that face, except that it looked exactly like the others.

Bruce asked Alfred, later that same night, as they settled down at Dr. Thompkin's house, who the man was who killed his parents. Alfred had replied. "Go to sleep, Master Bruce." He asked him again, in Japan, when they were hiding in Yoru-Sensei's basement, and Alfred had said. "I don't know, child. Now hush! They are searching." He had brought up the question again in Tibet, as they walked behind a strange man with glowing eyes who promised to help them, and Alfred had said. "A man, Master Bruce. A man doing his job. Now keep after Mr. Ghul." He asked Alfred once more in the snows of the Nepals, as they fled from Mr. Ghul to India, and Alfred had replied, "A soldier. A soldier without a heart. It was not his fault."

Again, and again, Bruce asked Alfred, throughout his childhood. In India, in Pakistan, in Africa, in Russia, among the ruined buildings of England, even in the great capital of the world, Berlin, where they hid among the great and arrogant. But never could he learn the name of his parents' murderer. Many other things he learned. He learned how to hide, how to fight, how to think, how to plan, and how to shoot. He learned how to walk and not grow weary, how to run and not be faint. He learned to patch wounds and how to make them. He learned how to make things and how to blow them up. He learned how to blend in, and how to make an impression that no one would forget. He learned many things, but he did not learn the name of his parents' killer, and he did not learn to forget.

Johnathon Kent could never forget the day he and Martha found the capsule. He could never forget the sense of wonder, the unbelieving spirit of astonishment that came over them as they came towards it. He could never forget the sensation that came over them as the ship split apart to reveal the squealing child inside.

It seemed like a gift from God. He and Martha had always wanted a child, a son of their own, but had never been able to get anywhere. After World War II had ended, they weren't even sure if it was fair, with the world like it was.

But when the meteor shower hit, when the rocks showered down on Smallville, when that capsule bounced across the road right in front of their tiny pickup, burning its way to a stop in the middle of the field, it seemed like providence itself.

And looking back, Jonathon could still hardly help but wonder what might've happened, if they'd been allowed to keep the child. He could hardly even help but wonder what might have happened if he'd refused to give him up to the stormtroopers.

That had been nearly as frightening. He and Martha had scarcely opened the capsule, had just started to rejoice over the child, when they had heard the car coming up the road. It had ground to a stop just beside their pickup, its dull metal plating glimmering in the sun, and emptied itself of stormtroopers.

Martha had pressed into him as the soldiers ran up to him, hugging the child to her. The grey-clad men had surrounded them. Jonathon had heard the guns revving up, heard the clicks of relays.

And then the officer had stepped forward, hand extended, eyes hard and cold. "Give me the child." He had said.

Then, even then, Martha had dared to question. "Why?"

The soldier's eyes had not wavered, not moved. "It is a matter of international security. The child is an alien."

Johnathon still wondered what would have happened if they'd said no. Could he have stepped in front of those soldiers, faced the bullets, said no? Would it have done any good? Would God have sent an angel, one who could stop bullets and overpower soldiers?

He would never know, though he thought it unlikely. They had said yes. They had given the child to the soldier, the soldier whose eyes were not those to comfort a child, not one to quiet the screaming baby they saw packed into the van alongside the soldiers. They had stood by quietly as the van rumbled off away.

And now Jonathon could not help but wonder, what if they hadn't?

The only thing Steve Trevor could remember about the day World War II ended was where he was—in a dingy basement in Metropolis, sending coded transmissions to England. They had found the new munitions factory, and were just sending word of it to Headquarters in London. It was the most incredible thing in the world. One moment he was telling MacArthur about the locations of different weapon piles, and the next… static.

Trevor knew then, although the word didn't actually get around until a few hours later, that it was over. As time went on, he learned more and more… that it had been done with the 'weapon' they had from Los Alamos, that it had destroyed nearly everything on the island, that the whole place was little more than a glowing ash-heap of radioactivity…. but still he thought of that moment as the one that World War II was over.

Yet, Trevor never considered it The End. For him, really, the War had never stopped, and never would, as long as this went on. For years, he had kept the fight alive, in basements, in attics, in city side-streets, fueling the fire wherever it still burnt in the hearts of men. Trevor had to believe that a regime like Vandal Savage's could not last, that such a false kingdom could not stand.

Even when the end came for Steve Trevor, he did not consider it The End. It was a few days after they had taken in that one Matt fellow, the one who'd had his whole life wrecked. Trevor was pretty sure now that it had all been an act, that Hagen was the one who'd betrayed them. The stormtroopers had come right to where they were, surrounded them, blown it right apart without even giving them a chance to surrender, or for Hagen to escape.

But even as Steve lay dying in the rubble, the thought still came to him. This is not the end. This is only the beginning.

Bruce asked Alfred one last time, in Gotham City. As the feet of the stormtroopers pounded into the distance, he came out from behind the clock and knelt beside Alfred, who lay gasping in his blood on the carpet of Fox Manor, alongside the kindly gray-haired man who had welcomed them to his house, the man who had hidden them so well that when the stormtroopers came again, it was not for Bruce, but for Mr. Fox.

And as Alfred smiled with the resignation of death, Bruce Wayne knelt beside him and whispered. "Alfred… who was the man who killed my parents?"

Eyes darkening, Alfred answered. "His name is Vandal Savage. Now go and kill him, Master Bruce."

And from that moment, Bruce Wayne was never the same. For now he not had not only learned who had killed his parents, but also how to live and how to die, in this savage land they called the world.

A/N: I think this is my first entry into the DC universe. Not because I'm disinterested, mind you. The DCAU that Stan Berkowitz and Bruce Timm put together over the years is fascinating. But I just never knew how to write it.

SO. Send me a REVIEW and tell me how I did! It can't harm you, and it can only help me! Besides, Reviews are fun things for everyone.

I wrote this a while ago, while still enthralled by the Savage Land episode of JL. AU's fascinate me, and I was going to write a whole history of Bruce's journey to the resistance leader we meet in that episode. I still have some clips somewhere... I might post them later but I doubt it. This stands pretty well as a one-shot on its own.