It was dark. Not so dark that nothing could be seen, but instead where the reassurance of barely glimpsed light is just far enough away that no comfort could be drawn from it. Instead, one could only wallow amongst the shadows, invisible to any who might be near enough to help.

A child's sniffle buffeted thickly off of the cold, damp walls that surrounded him, the echoes dying out before they got anywhere close to the freedom of open air. Perhaps with a strong enough shout someone would hear him, but the boy had no strength for such a feat. His throat was already hoarse from wasted screams, and the combined exhaustion of terror fading to empty acceptance and the strength-sapping stings of the many cuts and bruises he'd gained stole his voice, and worse still, his will to care. It was enough to just lie in the damp black sod of the underground, surrounded by silence that mimicked the grave. It was better, after all, than pointless cries and fear that pounded in his chest until his ribs felt cracked.

But Dad's going to find me; I know he will. He's always found me before.

But that was where he found pause. Yes, Dad had always been there, but this time it felt different. There was no change, no approaching sense of relief that came when he knew that Dad was coming. The cold loneliness of nearly being buried alive he could bear as long as he had that comfort at the end of his isolation. This time, though, he didn't even have that.

Daddy wasn't coming.

Hazel eyes peered upward at the pale grey light filtering down through the well's opening. It was something at least, even though it was still too far away. He could actually see it; the light wasn't blocked by a twisting, shrieking cloud of stifling blackness made of leather and coarse fuzz.

Maybe...maybe he wouldn't need Dad, if he could manage to climb out on his own. He didn't know how he would do it, nor how long it would take him. The walls were steep and smooth, and the light seemed so far. But if Dad wasn't coming, how else would he escape the darkness?

With a tear-choked sigh, he settled back into the earth, allowing the cold of this underworld to seep back into his bones and numb him.

He would make the climb. He just… couldn't yet. He didn't know how. He would take some time to think first, figure out a way to escape before dark.

But even as he resolved to find a way out on his own, he couldn't help but hope that somehow, Dad would be there to save him.

The light began to fade, but he still couldn't bring himself to move. It was just another thickening of the clouds overhead, and would only serve to take what little light he had and sweep a black veil over it.

Thunder crashed overhead, and he jolted up, trembling once more as fear began to creep back into his chilled limbs and weary heart. That wasn't supposed to happen.

He flinched as a fat, freezing droplet splashed onto his pale uplifted face. He dashed away the moisture even as it sent more chills through his body, but it proved a fruitless effort as first one, and then two, and then ten more swollen storm tears burst on his skin, dampened his hair, and began to soak his clothes. The growing cold was abruptly banished from his mind, however, when the child made the horrifying discovery that the icy water was beginning to pool around him, rising much too fast. It was already above his ankles.

There was no time for thought now. He would drown down here if he hesitated. Tiny hands caked with mud and laced with bloody scratches began a desperate scrabbling at the wall, searching for a vine, a handhold, anything that would help him escape the rising, hungry pool beginning to froth up to his shins.

There was nothing. No escape, no way out. All he could do was call for help.

Lightning split the sky, another cannon shot of thunder following right on its heels, just in time to drown out the sobbing scream of a tiny boy as he called out for his father, his mother, anyone to help him as the glacial water rose to his chest, compressing against his ribcage and freezing his breath within his lungs, drowning him prematurely. Hot tears, the only warmth the child now possessed, streamed down his dirty, dripping face as the water reached his chin, and began to lap into his mouth as he continued to cry out in vain. But even as he continued to scream, he knew that no rescue was imminent. Even as the roiling clouds split open, pouring down a deluge that would surely seal his demise, he knew.

Daddy wasn't coming.

The heavenly torrent crashed down upon his head.

Hazel eyes popped open once more, stinging with a vengeance. Body flailing, ungainly and stiff from a night spent on the hard, chill ground, Bruce rolled onto his side, spitting up what little of the piss-bad alcohol hadn't gone up his nose or slipped between his eyelids. Harsh brays of laughter cut through the sound of his gagging as the culprit, seeming to find his abrupt and crass awakening of the sleeping man amusing, moseyed off before the object of his drunken prank fully recovered his senses. Bruce let him go; the offender wasn't worth his time.

Snorting out the last of the alcohol burn in his nostrils, Bruce used his elbow to boost him up towards a sitting position. Twinging pain shot through his back and neck as he straightened, reminding him of the previous night's less than ideal conditions, as did the dirty brown puddles scattered over the ground and the cool dampness in the air. He had come a long way from the finest of feather beds to the hard-packed dirt alleys of a Moroccan city's slums.

Quite the achievement, Bruce snorted inwardly to himself as he leaned back against the shanty wall bordering the side of the alley that served as the best shelter he could find. There's obviously something wrong with you, Bruce, if you're traveling the wrong way down the path of success and it's where you intended to get to.

He slumped, taking a moment to collect himself. A foul smell was still hanging in the air around him, and it didn't take him long to deduce where it came from, considering the sticky strands of soaked hair dangling over his forehead. He brushed it away, determined to keep more of the stuff from leaking into his already bloodshot eyes.

His hand came away wet, of course, and for a moment Bruce just stared at it, watching the drops of liquid roll down his fingers to pool in his palm, or in the canyons between the digits.

The dream was far from unfamiliar; it occupied his sleeping mind almost every night, when said mind wasn't set in a forbidding alley that held far more darkness than the old well ever could. But things had begun to change gradually over time. In his memory, he knew how that particular event ended: after what felt like eternity, a shadow and a comforting voice had descended into the well, and his father had brought him out safe and sound, save for a twisted ankle and some scrapes. Yet in his dreams, reality had started to become warped. He could no longer rely on the comfort of his father coming to find him, the dream becoming more and more frightening as the concepts of safety, and liberation, and love faded with time. And the storm, and the fear of drowning like a rat in its hole, that was something Bruce had never seen before. He didn't know what it meant, if it was supposed to mean anything at all, other than another indicator of his obvious issues. In all likelihood, it was just a byproduct of his unconscious mind registering both the early morning drizzle and some drunkard pouring his booze all over Bruce's obliviously sleeping head.

Don't dwell on it, he persuaded himself in his head. Doesn't get you anywhere. Just more nightmares like it and a distracted mind, and you don't need either of those.

A sudden high pitched mewl, one produced from infant lungs, caught his attention. Behind the flimsy wall at his back he could hear the sounds of stirring, a babble of children's voices almost drowning the deeper, weary voice of their mother. It was at that point that Bruce decided it was time to move, rising stiffly and trudging off in an aimless direction. Though he certainly wasn't the only one having to find shelter in the streets at night, he still felt it unnatural to basically sleep on some stranger's porch.

Reentering the slums felt like stepping into a maze that spanned miles, but Bruce wasn't fooled; with time, he'd come to recognize its pattern. The clotheslines that stretched through the streets, the hutch-like homes that vomited their residents out of the doorframes because there wasn't nearly enough space, and the trash littered alleys and muck-filled reservoirs testified all too loudly the metaphorical downward spiral that so few of those living within it had any hope of escaping.

A damp clump of trash caught on the toe of Bruce's ratty sneaker. Just another piece of refuse amongst a thousand just like it, tossed to rot where it would.

The thought was lost as another sensation that had been creeping up on him since he rose, one once foreign but now becoming quite familiar, like a stray puppy always tagging at his heels and refusing to be ignored. Hunger.

His ragged pockets were dismally empty; a brief stumble in his gait reminded him that that fact had been important at some point, but his driving inner instinct, allowed greater free rein since his sojourn began, continued pulling him forward. Do not think. Act and resolve.

Why? A reply coming from another part of him that perceived more than just daily survival questioned. Why bother when the cycle is just going to start up again tomorrow, and the next day, and the day after? Why am I even here anymore?

Another inner shriek of hunger and a harsh self-chastising effectively derailed that train of thought, but it was nowhere near completely banished. Even so, when he finally took the time to think, Bruce realized that he hadn't eaten since the day before yesterday. No matter his thoughts, or the unceasing doubt weighing down his mind, finding something to eat was his first priority. Don't have the time to earn proper wages to pay for food, he outlined for himself, trying to focus on the now, rather than the before or what was to come. Best bet is to offer services to anyone willing - or able - to spare enough to sustain you until the next available meal.

So he shambled on through the ramshackle neighborhoods, practically in tunnel vision, everything not within the parameters of his objective fading to a colorless haze in his peripherals. More than once he bumped bony shoulders with another, equally destitute denizen. No apologies were exchanged; not even weary grunts of acknowledgment as they went their separate ways, consumed in their own problems.

A scent reached Bruce, one of surprising enticement that had not been swallowed up by the stink of trash, animal droppings, and unwashed bodies. Like a hook had been snagged into his quailing stomach, he veered a hard right down an even narrower passage, his rapid and unchecked detour nearly causing him to whip himself to the ground courtesy of a semi-swift collision with one of the multitude of clotheslines spanning the alleys and streets. He managed to duck it only just in time, continuing to follow the smell of food out the other end of the passage.

The aromatic trail came from a hutch home similar to most of the others that surrounded it. The shanty door stood open, allowing the smells of even the simplest of meals to ensnare Bruce where he stood.

He had a brief moment of pause. Bruce may never have been joined at the hip to his wealth as so many of his status were, but before just recently, he had never had to willingly, and far worse, desperately rely on a stranger's whims for not just money or shelter, but for just a single meal to keep him from burning out to the point of helplessness. It stung at his pride, but instinct crushed the twinge with a fierce internal snarl. Now's not the time for empty arrogance. Besides, what place does pride have when begging for service in return for food is the most liable option?

Bruce shifted forward. The burning desire just to bite into something, to feel something in the black hole that was his stomach, had grown so strong that any labor required to earn that mouthful was a worthy price to pay.

Then he pulled to a halt a second time. This wasn't due to pride, but to something infinitely harder to identify, one that caused an uncomfortable tightening in his chest and an inexplicable locking of his limbs that refused further movement. The trigger seemed to be the withdrawal of his mental blinkers, and with the reveal of the bigger picture, he was able to take in the sight of several small children huddled outside the same doorway he planned to head for. Their clothes were so faded and worn that it almost camouflaged the small figures against the backdrop of poverty. Wide eyes, all framed by dirt-smudged faces, stared hopefully to the open doorway.

The painful point of gravity in Bruce's midsection was now doing battle with an equally vexatious feeling that could only be compared to guilt. The desire to slink away unnoticed was almost as strong as the longing to eat.

I have to eat something. I won't have the energy to keep going if I go much longer without. Bruce shifted a step forward, and then another. The knot of pain tightened even worse, seeming to taunt him and accuse him at the same time. The more he moved forward, the more he began to feel dirty somehow. His eyes flickered to the kids again.

The world spun rapidly, and suddenly Bruce's flagging steps were leading him away, body wailing in displeasure, but resolve too cowed by a growing sense of mortification for every step he took toward the doorway. In a way, he felt as one would imagine the planning stage of stealing candy from an infant: low-down and undeniably pathetic. All he knew was that he needed distance right now, and as far as he could get, starvation pangs be damned.

The sky was gray, casting a somber hue over the ground and buildings. Bruce only noticed this once he finally emerged from the expanse of hutches overly packed with impoverished, hungry people. Once he came out onto the road, one that led to better places, it seemed like he finally saw the sky again.

Feet wading through fatigue, Bruce trekked alongside the road, losing himself in a trance.

Motion. Forward momentum. One foot placing itself in front of the other. It was like a life line these days, like a shark that would die if it stopped swimming. Once he had started to run, he had never stopped.

How long had it been? Bruce guessed it had been about five months since he'd been thrown roughly from a seedy restaurant, handed his ridiculously expensive coat and his money over to a random street bum, and bolted off into the night, refusing to look back.

In retrospect, he hadn't really been looking forward either, blinded as he was by a tidal wave of fury built up for over more than a decade that had no outlet, a stupidly spiteful desire to prove wrong a man who was little more than a bully with a city-wide reach, and a sense of floundering that frightened Bruce more than the other two emotions combined. It wasn't unlike being blindfolded and spun around, before being flung into the middle of the ocean.

Need to stop thinking about water in general now. He had managed to keep the nightmare at bay so far, and he wasn't about to break his streak just yet.

He followed the roadway back to city streets paved with stone or asphalt rather than dirt, and where the houses were more than mere sheds to the eyes of even the semi-well-off, first becoming homes that at least could hold a family, and then on to dwellings of greater luxury. Bruce could feel the slight culture shock. Since he'd come to this place around a month ago, he hadn't stepped foot outside the poorest regions of town. Seeing people walking around in new clothes and without the harried, drawn expressions on their faces... it seemed so alien. He was really beginning to wonder if he should be concerned about that.

Apathy was so easy, though.

Apathetic, he could wander the streets silently with no destination or purpose, other than occasionally scouring the ground for any dirham coins fallen from pockets. He found a few, and some tension let up from his shoulders now that he was that much closer to a properly earned meal. His wandering, however therapeutic, wouldn't be able to stave off biological needs forever.

Despite the cloud cover obscuring the sunlight and stealing some of the color, it really was a beautiful city. Certainly not the largest or most known, but the Moroccan architecture, with its blend of bold and muted colors, modern and antique designs, and its mix of many cultural influences gave the city its own signature, a brightness resembling a life of its own, and its breath was the briny breeze flooding the streets from the nearby North Atlantic. Even under mournful skies, the sun still seemed to shine somehow.

Nothing like home, Bruce thought, then grimaced. It was a mistake to let the thought slip, and he knew it, but no amount of mental slaps could stop the spread of emotions as they slipped through his walls. What was it about the thought of towering skyscrapers, iron-grey rivers spanned by bridges, and a sea of lights that could be seen for miles at night that caused both longing and nausea at the same time?

Well, the nausea might just have been his stomach talking again, refusing to be put off any longer. Bruce retrieved his collected coins from his pocket; maybe enough for some msemen bread and tea.

Walking into a cafe in tattered clothes, topped off with a fair few days' growth of scruff on his face would probably attract a few stares no matter where he was in the world, even if they only came from North American tourists with no grasp on the norms of other cultures. Bruce really didn't care. They might stare, but it only reminded him of the blissful gift of anonymity. No one recognizing him, no one pointing, and the stares didn't even linger for long. To their knowledge, he was just some poor kid whose luck had fallen through. Maybe a college dropout that had taken off to explore the globe, riding on a high of independence and invulnerability before crashing down under the weight of a merciless world and Murphy's Law.

He took a brief time to cool his heels at the cafe's outdoor corner table, trying not to scarf down the bread, sipping his tea intermittently to pace himself.

Today had been something of a break in the status quo, he had to admit. Something had driven him out of his self-imposed hiatus within the slums, and it was a bit too late now to head back and look for work. Not enough hours left to put in to make it worth the time. Even if that weren't the case, the idea stirred up that unpleasant feeling that had assaulted him earlier, so he let the thought pass.

Now with the rest of the day ahead, what was there to do?

"Excusez moi?"

Bruce's head twitched up, a jump only barely restrained.

"Ce qui?" The words shot out roughly and lacking any grace, as if he had choked on a peach pit and then spat it back out. His voice didn't help; neglecting any unnecessary conversation or general speech for weeks now, his typical smooth timbre had mutated into something far less inviting.

The young woman, an employee at the cafe, blinked at his rather spastic reply. She didn't leave though. She went on, Bruce translating her words in his mind.

"Can I get you anything else?" Her tone, while polite, was still detectibly testy. Bruce had to wonder how long he'd been sitting there. The girl might just be having a trying morning, but it was probably his fault. After all, having a scruffy, looming character skulking around the cafe all morning couldn't be conducive to a welcoming business atmosphere.

"No, no merci," he replied, beginning to stand. He wasn't going to hang around anyway. He glanced inside for any sign of a clock.

He glimpsed the time, a quarter to one, on the basic white wall-mount hanging above the doorway to the kitchen. What really lingered in his mind, though, as he headed back out into the streets, was the equally brief glimpse he had caught of the calendar hanging near the clock.

The date was February 19th, and Bruce's birthday.

He didn't really know what to make of this. Again, he decided to pass over the fact that he'd both lost track of the date and had forgotten about his birthday completely; it really wasn't important. But the knowledge that he was now twenty-three, and that time was indeed passing instead of playing in a perpetual loop had unbalanced him somehow. Things were coming to a head, and all of the thoughts and doubts he had been accumulating were rising to the forefront. Reluctantly, Bruce decided that perhaps it was time he stopped putting them off.

He needed someplace to think in peace.

His steps carried him determinately west, continuing until the pavement beneath his holey sneakers gave way to sand. Frothing breakers pounded against the shore, and a sharp wind off of the sea blew his overgrown hair out of his eyes. Settling atop a small dune, Bruce looked out over the endless waves. If he adjusted his line of sight a little northward, he could imagine a straight line, trekking hundreds of miles over the ocean depths, all the way back home.

Today, he should have woken up in his dorm at Princeton. Would have shared some brief birthday greetings with the few classmates he ever talked to, before throwing fully back into studies, preparing for graduation in the fast-approaching summer. Or maybe he'd be home...in Gotham. At the manor with Alfred, and maybe Rachel. A quiet celebration, a simple but delicious birthday cake, two heartfelt gifts of little monetary worth, but worth more to Bruce than a suitcase full of money. A retreat to his parents'...his room afterward, lingering idly as any brief joy gained from the day seemed to slip through his fingers like dust.

Bruce glanced down, taking himself in. A ragged, overlarge shirt, dirt-encrusted jeans, sneakers that had been white at some point but were anything but now, and enough hobo scruff to make him believe he could skip his merry way down Main Street of Gotham and not be recognized.

What the hell am I doing here?

There was the rub. The question he'd been trying to keep at bay for weeks now. The perpetual instinct to keep in motion was ground to a screeching halt before a mountain of whimpering indecision.

He'd abandoned Gotham compelled by Falcone's taunts and his own addled mentality at the time. He had been lost, directionless, trying to channel out anger that he'd kept controlled for so long. That day he'd expected a release, an outlet by way of a small caliber gun and the sight of Chill's lifeless body at his feet. When that had been stolen from him, the pain and hatred had already been released, and he didn't know what to do with it. His ensuing talk with Rachel had been the proverbial straw that broke the camel's back; half his life spent in bitterness and sorrow with no foreseeable end, combined with the ashamed frown on the face of the one friend he'd ever cared about keeping, and the glaring full realization that he had almost killed a man had driven him in the one direction he saw open to him. A challenge had been presented, and he'd taken it.

Now, Bruce was sure he wasn't normal, looking back on it. The normal path would probably have been a straight plummet off the Sprang Bridge and into the river. Or a bullet between the teeth, but neither would he have thought of that, nor would he have done it if he had. He wouldn't have done it for Alfred's sake.

Instead, here he sat, thin and broke, and what had he gained from his taste of desperation? An addiction, maybe. An addiction to apathy, to living through every day with only a three box checklist to take care of and nothing else: food, drink, shelter, food, drink, shelter, over and over again. No thought and no worry, just survival.

Aren't you just the most self-centered bastard there ever was?

Living on the margins because it made him feel better, not because it was the only option he had. He used poverty as a tool, a shield against his own tragedy and depression, safe in the assurance that a trust fund worth some small countries waited as a safety net if things ever got too hard, unlike the people who struggled for every cent and mouthful they could get, never knowing if it would be their or their children's' last.

No wonder he'd felt like such an asshole this morning.

Bruce stood. The damp sand muffled his footsteps, each tread causing miniature granule waves to rise where he placed his shoes, and leaving the tiny swells frozen as he passed. He walked in hopes of containing the gut-twisting epiphany that was creeping up on him. So far, it wasn't doing much good.

I don't belong here. I never did.

He could almost see Falcone's red face, a smirk pulling his paunchy cheeks upward as he mocked him. Bruce's fists tightened reflexively, his pace picking up. Of course, the poor Prince of Gotham would come slinking back, unable to handle the reality of those not born into mansions and massive inheritances. But really, what was he accomplishing here, other than basically stealing food from mouths that truly needed it with his mere presence?

It's not like I couldn't still make a difference if I go home. I've seen this way of life, lived it. I can go home, take over the company, make Gotham better for people like this. It's something Dad would have done. His lips twitched, almost reaching a small smile. It was something both his father and mother would be proud of. It could make up for what he had almost done five months ago. Maybe Rachel would no longer be ashamed of him. He wondered, had she told Alfred about the incident? Despite having ignored the chilly winds coming off the ocean thus far, Bruce shivered a bit. That was a confrontation he couldn't bear to face. Alfred never yelled, but that was almost worse. Just a quiet gaze and a cold silence, every line of his old face etched with his disappointment.

Come to think of it, Bruce realized as he pulled to a halt just beyond the reach of the washing tide, that was the last expression he'd seen from his old friend before he'd left Gotham. It sent a pang through his chest.

He had a feeling he'd have to face that look once he returned. It would be softened slightly by concern and relief at Bruce's respective disappearance and return, but it would still be there, that face that said Bruce had let him down somehow. Explaining why he'd gone and what he'd done would no doubt be a torturous experience, whether Rachel had explained things or not. Where was I? Oh, here and there, southern Europe and Africa mostly. Why did I run off without a phone call or notice, dropping my college studies completely and leaving you with no idea where I went? I just needed to get out for a bit, clear my head. And no, I didn't get thinner, why would you think that? The conversation hadn't even happened yet and Bruce already felt two inches tall, and a moron at that.

He would have to face it though, sooner or later, bitter pill or not.

Bruce shifted, glancing over his shoulder back toward town. He had a few more collected dirhams, enough to make a call just long enough to relate to his unsuspecting butler the identity of the caller and his location. Alfred wouldn't need more information beyond that to understand what it meant. Bruce would have two days at most to wait before he was on a plane back to the US and all he had ever known.

The idea of going home seemed pretty final.

So why wasn't he moving?

Why did the thought of the manor, Wayne Enterprises, and all he'd ever known feel like a poorly disguised cage with its door wide open? Bruce might have had no clue what the next step was, but he wasn't stupid. He knew that all of these arguments were present in his mind, that the logic was pointing him back to Gotham; he'd just been too stubborn to acknowledge them until now. Thus, he had been equally and subconsciously aware that something would resist heading back into town, finding the nearest payphone, and calling Alfred for the first time in nearly half a year. Maybe it was this that had really required thought.

Yes, he should head back to Gotham. But he wasn't going to.

A splash of water washed over the toes of his sneakers. Bruce drew back, shivering a bit as the cold water seeped through the ratty soles. It felt like icy fingers groping for him, trying to drag him into the sea.

"Damn dream," he growled under his breath, the words coming out strangely because of his rusty voice and his infrequent use of his mother tongue in the past eight weeks or so.

Damnable it might be, but the dream still felt like some kind of warning.

A voice echoed in his head, faded enough with time to remove the value of memory and old comfort it used to have, but sharp enough to make sure it didn't stop hurting. Bruce…don't be afraid.

This memory was followed by another, much more recent recollection of words. If the first had been the sting of an old scar, this was a fresh and furious switch to the face. Your father would be ashamed of you.

How right Rachel had been.

An ugly feeling rose in his gut; not the guilt or confusion he'd felt before. The vision of black water behind his eyes was still haunting him, the phantom cold of the loneliness and solitude bolting his fists at his sides and darkening his vision.

He sat back with a thud in the sand, fingers gripping his bowed head while barely restrained from yanking his hair out. His breath rate increased, even as near growls began to slip past locked teeth.

A psychotic break, maybe. Would have been a long time in coming. Bruce really didn't care. He was just fucking sick of it all. The memories that refused to fade, the anger, the hate, the fact that there was clearly something wrong with him because fourteen years had gone by and nothing had changed and was never going to change. Over a decade later he was still just the same as he was at the year mark of his new and bleak life, even when he had every worldly opportunity to escape from it. He was stuck with no place to go, and no place to return to. Now he had hit some kind of edge, and the desire to reach out and tear something apart was infusing itself into his very cells.

He'd felt something so like this the day he tried to kill Chill, that twisted but unbearable desire to be on the other end, to be the one Chill stared at in terror and confusion as his life shattered apart, to make that bastard feel a fragment of what he'd felt so long ago and still felt so keenly. But right now it was even worse, a straight shiv to the chest with the poison of gut-wrenching guilt and self-disgust on the tip. He would never attempt to kill again, not after his best friend's words and his own epiphany that night. But this dark core of his very being was so frighteningly strong now that he couldn't see a way to restrain it, having been enculturated into him over the years of mourning and despising the world for what it had taken from him, hell, what it had taken from everyone.

Rachel was right. Gotham was a cursed city, and it only made it all worse. His vice-like grip on his skull, some physical manifestation of trying to hold on to his sanity no doubt, loosened as something even worse than the fear and the rage set in. Hopelessness.

What kind of home was Gotham when its curse could even reach the highest levels, to someone like the Waynes? If Gotham could tear them down, what molecular chance did everyone else have?

None, that's what, he acknowledged internally. Bruce suddenly began to realize why the slums he'd been hiding out in seemed so oddly comforting. Almost familiar. The day to day grind of people that worked their fingers to the bone, providing and surviving with no actual hope of something better around the next bend because they didn't have the means, and those that did couldn't give a rat's ass.

Different key, same tune.

Bruce's eyes became fixed on a puddle in the sand, separate from the heaving ocean and completely still. In reality, Bruce's own tired, scrubby face was looking back at him. All Bruce saw, though, was Joe Chill.

Same expression. Same air of unhinged desperation. Freaking same poor hygiene.

It was the kind of face Gotham bred, even when she was hundreds of miles away.

Now that he'd run the gamut, Bruce stared blankly into the small pool, in emotional doldrums with only the remnants left behind; the tremble of fear in his muscles, the fuzzy headedness of directionless confusion, a cold pit of resign in his stomach, and blooming bruises on his scalp from the fit of fury.

The memory was playing behind his eyes again, blurred at the edges but still present and painful. It felt different today, because he had turned his focus elsewhere. He tuned out the two gunshots, and put aside his moribund parents. Even his father's last words faded into the background. They'd been burned into his psyche anyway.

He had met Chill's eyes that night. It had been a split second, and it was forever after overshadowed by everything else that hit him over the next few months, but he could recall the lock of gazes and what he'd seen. Fear, plain and simple, reflecting right back at him; maybe of a different kind and of different origin, but Joe Chill had looked like a starving animal flinging itself at a much bigger competitor because it had nothing else to lose.

Bruce would always hate the man. No matter the guilt he felt for what he'd almost done, Bruce would never be able to drum up remorse for the death of his parents' killer. Now, though, he was beginning to feel regret at the crook's fate, because now the hate and disconnection was being replaced by the all-consuming need to know, to understand.

Why?

Why had Chill been there that night, over any place in the vast city he could have chosen to stick someone up? Why had he gone out with that intent? Why had he believed that that was his only option, and that the lives of a family he didn't know were a worthy price to pay?

Bruce breathed out shakily, lifting his eyes over the ocean again, back toward the west. The world seemed to have unfrozen suddenly.

Chill was dead and gone. For now, there was nothing in Gotham that could help Bruce, nothing that could make the pain stop or erase whatever had been printed on his psyche with such violence. He stood again, turning away from the water. He had a direction now, and that was a start. As much as he loved them, Alfred and Rachel couldn't help him now.

Bruce was just going to have to climb out of the hole himself. Only, he might have to dig down even deeper to find the answer he was looking for.

Well…there you have it. First BB/DK fic. In fact, first Batman fic ever. I am both super excited and at the same time feeling very out of my depth. The complexities of Mr. Wayne far exceed my own novice writing brain, so wish me luck on doing this amazing character justice. Please let me know if you ever think I'm just talking out of my ass, as this will be the first of quite a few chapters I have planned.

Special thanks to Cansei de Ser Sexy who was a great encouragement, and a great all-around reviewer. Hope you enjoy :)

WG23