Chapter Text
Twenty Years Ago
“This way, Bruce,” Thomas Wayne said, leading his ten-year-old son and beautiful wife Martha around the corner from the Gotham Palace Repertory Theater.
“Hah! Take that, senor!” Bruce said, pretend sword-fighting against imaginary foes.
They’d just come out of a showing of the 1940 classic, The Mark of Zorro. Even in the heart of Uptown, the autumnal wind off Gotham Harbor ran chill through the streets, and Martha huddled against her husband for warmth.
“Why couldn’t the car pick us up, again?” she complained.
“It’s good for Bruce to see normal life in the city, here, boots on the ground,” Thomas chuckled. It was an old argument, one they’d had many times. A ten-minute walk wouldn’t hurt them. “Besides, Uptown’s crime rates are down this year.” As if on cue, a black-and-white police cruiser slowly patrolled down the street.
“I’m not worried about criminals,” Martha said, as she watched their son excitedly slash his arm in a zigzag aimed at a wall - the mark of Zorro! “You know, he’s a natural athlete, we should get him into lessons of some kind.”
“Just like his mother,” Thomas chuckled again. “Well, there’s plenty of time for that.”
A gust of wind ruffled Martha’s skirt and she shivered as a chill ran up her back. “Can we at least take a shortcut? I’m freezing to death.”
“Psssh,” Thomas scoffed. “It’s only October. It won’t be really cold until January.”
“East Coasters are insane,” Martha muttered.
“Oh, fine,” he replied, glancing around. A nearby break between two brownstones offered a shortcut. “Bruce!”
Their young son ran over to join them, taking his mother’s hand. “That movie was so amazing!”
Thomas grinned. The Mark of Zorro had always been a favourite of his. He loved sharing his joys with his son. “What was the best part?”
Bruce thought about it for a moment, as Thomas led them into the alley. “I liked that Diego was rich, but wanted to help people. Like you, Dad.”
A surge of emotion filled Thomas’ heart, and for a moment, he was speechless. He’d been expecting an answer more along the lines of a sword fight, or Zorro riding Tornado. Bruce loved horses. His son’s thoughtful insight into the film was more mature than Thomas might have thought of the child who’d been mock-dueling in the streets only moments before, but Bruce was always surprising his parents.
“That’s very perceptive, Bruce,” Martha said proudly, squeezing him close as they turned down the alley.
The alley had no street lights. No windows looked down into it. The darkness seemed total, until a part of it moved.
“You lost?” the man asked as he stepped into their path. Martha gasped, startled. The three Waynes slowed, but did not stop walking.
“Just taking a shortcut,” Thomas said, instinctively stepping between his family and the man.
“Took a wrong turn. Not your night, pal,” the man said. Far above them, the clouds parted for a moment, and moonlight glinted on something metallic in the man’s hand, aimed at them. A gun.
“We don’t want any trouble,” Thomas said, stepping forward to block them from him completely. That simple movement brought him closer to the robber. Close enough to maybe see his face. “What? But… What are you doing here?”
“I told you, pal. Not your night.”
“Give him your wallet, Thomas,” Martha said, her voice trembling.
“M-mom?” Bruce asked, his voice shaking as well.
“Yeah, give me your wallet, Thomas,” the man repeated, scorn thick in his voice. “Wallet, watch, rings, purse… and the lady’s necklace, too.”
“Look, there’s a couple hundred dollars in my wallet,” Thomas said, pulling it from his inner jacket pocket slowly. He tossed it to the robber, who caught it one-handed and pocketed it away. “My watch is worth probably ten thousand.” Thomas removed it and tossed it over, and the robber repeated the catch and pocket. “But the necklace is a family heirloom. I’d prefer not to lose it. Give him your purse, Martha.”
Wordlessly, Martha tossed her clutch to the man, who fumbled the catch.
Thomas jumped the robber as he was distracted by the purse.
The gun went off twice, loud cracks in the cold night air, ending a life, shattering a family.
Dr. Thomas Wayne, scion of Gotham’s finest families, fell face down onto the filthy, cracked asphalt of the alley, dead. Martha pushed Bruce behind her, too late to keep him from seeing the pool of blood seeping out from beneath his father.
“Gimme that necklace,” the killer snarled, rushing towards Martha, snatching at her throat.
“No! Stop!” Martha screamed, punching at his face, knocking his hat off. Moonlight illuminated the man’s enraged face… and glinted off the badge on his chest.
The necklace snapped, pearls dropping to the asphalt.
The gun went off twice more, booming blasts too close to Bruce’s ears, filling the world with their sharp cracks, and Martha Wayne, brilliant jewel of the socialites and philanthropists of Gotham, joined her husband in death.
Bruce huddled on the ground, tears streaming down his face, sobbing uncontrollably.
“Goddammit,” the killer snarled, raising the gun and aiming it at Bruce.
A siren chirped a warning beyond the end of the alley. Red and blue lights flashed in the street.
“Shit!” the killer swore, picking up his peaked cap. He glared at Bruce, then ran down the alley. A police cruiser appeared. The killer jumped into the shotgun seat, and the cruiser sped away.
Moments passed. Bruce was never sure how long. He crawled to his mother’s side, her blood pooling beside her, mingling with his father’s.
Pearls in blood. Moonlight overhead. Red and blue flashing lights.
“He’s in shock,” a woman’s voice said. She was right beside him. He had a blanket wrapped around him. His parents were dead.
“What’s your name, son?” a man asked. A kind voice, from a kind face… under a peaked cap.
Bruce began to hyperventilate, eyes widening in panic. A woman crouched down between Bruce and the cop. She had kind eyes, and long graying hair held back in a ponytail. Behind her, the cop backed away, giving her space.
“Hey,” she said softly. “No one’s going to hurt you. It’s okay. My name’s Leslie. Can you tell me your name?”
Bruce fought to get his fear under control. His parents were dead. He swallowed, hard. “Buh… Bruce. Bruce Wayne.”
Leslie blinked, mouth dropping open. “Where are your parents, Bruce?”
Bruce looked around, realizing he was sitting on a stoop in front of a brownstone. There were a lot of police cars, flashing red and blue lights. He began to tremble, but he raised a hand and pointed at the alley not far from where he sat. At the mouth of the alley were several cops, just standing there. Doing nothing.
“In the alley?” Leslie asked. Bruce nodded. In the alley, dead. His parents were dead.
“Can you tell me what happened?” the cop behind Leslie asked.
“Jim, for Christ’s sake,” Leslie swore, rolling her eyes. “Give the kid a chance.”
“Les, you know what’ll happen once they get here,” the cop, Jim, said quietly, glancing around to make sure he wasn’t heard.
Leslie stood and rounded on him, stabbing his badge with a pointed finger. “James Gordon, don’t you tell me they can kill Thomas and Martha Wayne and get away with it!”
The harshness in her voice broke something in Bruce, and he began to sob.
His parents were dead.