James Gordon was still relatively new to the Gotham City Police Department, having transferred from Chicago just a year earlier. He was already growing disillusioned with the corruption he saw daily, but nothing had prepared him for the scene in that alley.
The boy sat on the back steps of an ambulance, a blanket draped over his shoulders despite the mild night. His eyes were vacant, staring at nothing. Beside him sat Alfred Pennyworth, the Wayne family butler, his normally stoic face etched with grief.
"How is he?" Gordon asked quietly, approaching them.
Alfred looked up, his eyes red-rimmed but dry. "As well as can be expected, I suppose."
Gordon nodded, then crouched down to Bruce's eye level. "Hey there. I'm Officer Gordon. Can you tell me what happened?"
Bruce's eyes focused on him, really seeing him for the first time. "He shot them," he said, his voice small but clear. "He wanted my mom's pearls."
Gordon nodded, keeping his expression neutral despite the rage building inside him. Two lives—two good, prominent lives—taken for a string of pearls and a wallet that probably contained no more than a few hundred dollars.
"Did you see his face?"
Bruce nodded slowly. "He had... he had blue eyes. And a mole, here." He pointed to the side of his nose.
"That's good, Bruce. That's very helpful." Gordon placed a gentle hand on the boy's shoulder. "We're going to find him. I promise you that."
Later, as Alfred led Bruce to the car that would take them back to Wayne Manor, Gordon stood watching them, a heaviness in his heart.
"You shouldn't make promises you can't keep," his partner, Flass, said from behind him.
Gordon turned. "What makes you think I can't keep it?"
Flass snorted. "This is Gotham, rookie. Do you have any idea how many muggings happen every night in this city? How many homicides?"
"This is different."
"Yeah, because the victims are rich and famous. But the perp? Probably some junkie who's already spent whatever he got for the pearls on his next fix. Good luck finding him."
Gordon watched as the car carrying Bruce Wayne disappeared around a corner. "I'll find him," he said quietly. "For that boy's sake, I'll find him."
But even as he said it, a part of him knew how unlikely it was. Gotham had a way of swallowing criminals, especially the desperate ones. And the Wayne case, high-profile as it was, would be just one more in an endless stack on his desk.
Still, the image of that boy—shock giving way to a desolation no child should ever know—stayed with Gordon. And he made a silent vow that night, one he would keep for years to come: to watch over Bruce Wayne, from a distance, and to do whatever he could to make Gotham a little less dark for kids like him.
—
The morning of the funeral dawned with a subtle cruelty—sunlight streaming through scattered clouds, birds singing in the trees that lined Gotham Cemetery. It seemed wrong to Bruce that the world should continue on so normally, that nature itself didn't recognize the cataclysm that had torn his life apart.
Alfred had helped him dress that morning, his movements gentle as he buttoned Bruce's black suit jacket, straightened his tie with hands that trembled almost imperceptibly. Neither spoke much. What words could possibly matter now?
The Wayne family plot occupied the highest point in Gotham Cemetery, a sprawling section enclosed by wrought iron fencing and marked by a towering marble angel. Generations of Waynes lay beneath the manicured grass, but today, all eyes were fixed on the two mahogany caskets positioned side by side over freshly dug graves.
The funeral was a spectacle, attended by hundreds of Gotham's elite and covered extensively by the press, who hovered at the perimeter like vultures, their cameras clicking incessantly. Bruce stood between Alfred and his uncle Jacob Kane, Kate on her father's other side. Kate's small hand occasionally reached out to touch Bruce's, as if to reassure herself that he was still there, that she hadn't lost him too.
Bruce didn't cry. He had done all his crying the night his parents died, and now he felt hollowed out, as if something essential had been scooped from inside him, leaving only an empty shell. He stood rigidly, his face an expressionless mask as the minister spoke of lives cut tragically short, of legacies that would endure, of a community in mourning.
Empty platitudes, Bruce thought. None of it mattered. None of it would bring them back.
His mother's family, the Kanes, formed a protective semicircle around him. Uncle Jacob stood tall in his military uniform, medals gleaming in the sunlight, his face set in the stoic expression of a soldier who had seen death before but never expected it to claim his beloved sister. Aunt Catherine wiped tears from her eyes, one arm around Kate, who looked small and lost in her black dress. Bruce's cousins from his mother's side—distant relations he barely knew—stood in somber silence, their presence more obligation than comfort.
But it was the other attendees that truly spoke to the reach and influence of the Wayne family, particularly those who had gathered in a solemn cluster near the front – men and women whose weathered faces carried the weight of decades, whose presence seemed to command respect without effort.
Alan Scott, tall and imposing despite his years, stood with a quiet dignity that reminded Bruce of how his grandfather Patrick used to describe him – "a man who carried light in times of darkness." His shock of white hair caught the morning sun, and a green ring glinted on his left hand as he occasionally used a handkerchief to dab at his eyes. Beside him stood his children – Jennifer and Todd – and his grandchildren, their expressions solemn as they paid respect to a family their patriarch had watched over for generations.
Near Alan, Jay Garrick maintained a watchful presence, his silver hair combed neatly back, occasionally placing a steadying hand on his wife Joan's shoulder when her composure threatened to break. Their children and grandchildren stood close, forming a protective circle around the aging couple. Jay's eyes rarely left Bruce, filled with a mixture of profound sorrow and something else – a determination that seemed to say, "We are still here. You are not alone."
Ted and Dinah Grant stood side by side, their hands clasped together in a grip that spoke of decades of partnership. Ted's weathered boxer's face remained stoic, though his eyes glistened with unshed tears. Dinah, her once-blonde hair now silver, occasionally leaned against her husband's shoulder, whispering something that seemed to steady them both. Their granddaughter, Dinah Lance – a girl several years younger than Bruce whom he remembered meeting at a Wayne Foundation event – stood quietly with her parents, watching the proceedings with solemn eyes too mature for her young face.
Among these aging legends stood Howard Stark, his wife Maria beside him, both dressed in understated black that did nothing to diminish their commanding presence. Howard's face was etched with grief—a man who had lost not just one friend but two in the span of a single year. First Patrick Wayne, and now Thomas. The Stark patriarch looked older somehow, diminished, as if each loss had carved away at him.
Beside Howard stood Tony Stark, home from his first year at MIT. At eighteen, Tony already showed the charismatic intensity of his father, though today it was subdued, his usual cocky demeanor replaced by genuine sorrow. Bruce had always thought of Tony as something between a distant cousin and a cool older brother during the rare family gatherings when the Waynes and Starks would meet. Now, catching Tony's eye across the gathering, Bruce saw nothing but helpless compassion—the look of someone who wanted to fix something that couldn't be fixed.
Nearby stood an elegant older woman Bruce recognized as Peggy Carter, one of his grandfather's closest associates from the war years. Her hair had gone silver, but she stood with military bearing, her spine straight, her gaze sharp even as tears glistened in her eyes. Beside her was a tall, powerfully built man with blonde hair that Bruce didn't recognize at first. James Carter, Peggy's son, carried himself with the same quiet authority as his mother.
James stood protective beside Peggy, his arm supporting her almost imperceptibly. Though middle-aged, he seemed to possess an unusual vitality, his bearing reminiscent of the military men Bruce had seen at Wayne Foundation events. His wife, Helena Trevor, stood beside him, her hand clasped in his, her dark hair framing a face that showed genuine compassion. Their children—Steven, the eldest, then Michael, Anna, David, and little Sarah—stood in a neat row, solemn and quiet in a way that spoke to careful parenting.
Not far from them stood a couple that drew subtle glances from those who didn't know them. The woman was extraordinarily beautiful, ageless in a way that defied explanation. Diana Trevor carried herself with a grace that seemed almost otherworldly, her dark hair swept back from a face that showed both strength and compassion. Beside her, her husband Steve Trevor—his hair now silver, his face lined with age in stark contrast to his wife's timeless beauty—stood with the bearing of a military man, his hand occasionally touching Diana's arm as if drawing strength from her.
Their children, all grown now, stood with their own families—a dynasty that had the same striking features as their mother, the same strength in their bearing. Bruce knew them only distantly, from rare family gatherings and the occasional holiday card, but he recognized Diana's daughters Hippolyta, Antiope, and Donna and her sons, Alexander and Philip, each with their own families now.
Bruce noticed a striking man with sea-green eyes who seemed uncomfortable in his formal attire standing somewhat apart from the others, occasionally exchanging solemn nods with Alan Scott and Jay Garrick. He carried himself with an almost regal bearing, despite his obvious discomfort with the ceremony.
Rachel and her mother stood nearby, Rachel's face streaked with tears. Before the service began, she had approached him, pressing a handmade card into his hands. The childish drawing showed the three of them – Bruce, Rachel, and Kate playing together in the gardens of Wayne Manor. "I'm sorry," she'd whispered, voice breaking, and Bruce had nodded, unable to find words that wouldn't shatter the fragile control he maintained.
As the minister's words droned on, Bruce found his gaze drawn to other faces in the crowd. Lucius Fox, from his father's company, stood with his wife, his usual cheerful demeanor replaced by profound sadness. Commissioner Loeb represented the GCPD, though Bruce noticed the young officer from the station—Gordon—standing at a respectful distance, his expression suggesting he was there out of genuine concern rather than official duty.
The business associates, the politicians, the society figures—they all blurred together in Bruce's vision, their presence registering only as a sea of black clothing and solemn expressions. None of it seemed real. None of it seemed to matter.
When the minister finished, Howard Stark stepped forward to deliver the first eulogy. The powerful industrialist looked down at his notes, then folded the paper and tucked it into his pocket. When he spoke, his voice was rough with emotion but carried clearly across the gathering.
"Thomas Wayne wasn't just my friend," Howard began, his eyes finding Bruce in the crowd. "He was family. His father Patrick and I built things together—companies, technologies, organizations that changed the world. But Thomas... Thomas built something far more valuable. He built a life of purpose, a life dedicated to healing rather than power, to compassion rather than control."
Howard paused, visibly collecting himself. "When Thomas told me he wanted to be a doctor rather than follow in the family business of... industrial development, I'll admit I was disappointed. Selfishly so. But Patrick understood immediately what I didn't—that Thomas had found his true calling. That he would save more lives with a scalpel than with all the advanced technology Stark Industries and Wayne Enterprises could develop."
Bruce watched as Howard's composure briefly faltered, his voice catching. "Thomas and Martha created something beautiful together—not just in their professional work, not just in the Wayne Foundation, but in their family. In their son." Howard's eyes found Bruce again. "Bruce, your father was the nephew I never had, and your mother was the heart that kept us all honest. The world is darker without them, but what they built—what they believed in—that lives on in you."
Howard stepped back, his hand briefly covering his eyes as Maria reached for him, steadying him as he returned to his place.
After Howard, Alan Scott rose from his seat, straightening his dark suit as he approached the podium. His dignified bearing commanded immediate attention, and a hush fell over the already quiet gathering.
"I've known the Wayne family for three generations," Alan began, his resonant voice carrying easily across the cemetery despite his years. "I met Patrick Wayne during the darkest days of the war, when good men stood against unspeakable evil. We found in each other kindred spirits – men who believed that light must always stand against darkness, that justice requires courage, that some fights are worth any sacrifice."
His eyes, still sharp and piercing despite his age, found Bruce among the mourners. "I watched Thomas grow from a curious, bright-eyed boy who asked endless questions into a man of profound integrity. While many expected him to follow his father's path, Thomas found his own way to fight darkness – not through the corridors of power or on battlefields, but in operating rooms and clinics, in the Wayne Foundation's outreach programs, in the quiet moments of comfort he offered to those in pain."
Alan's voice wavered slightly as he continued. "Thomas used to visit me when he was a boy, fascinated by the stories I would tell – always with Patrick's careful editing, of course." A small, sad smile crossed his face, drawing knowing looks from Jay, Ted, and the others who shared those memories. "Even then, Thomas understood something essential – that true heroism isn't about strength or glory. It's about standing up when others cannot, about using whatever gifts you have to make the world better, kinder, more just."
His gaze returned to Bruce, his expression softening. "That legacy now passes to you, Bruce. Not as a burden, but as a light to guide you. Your father and mother showed us all what it means to live with purpose, to use privilege as a tool for positive change rather than personal gain. That light cannot be extinguished, not even by the terrible darkness that took them from us."
As Alan returned to his seat, Jay Garrick stepped forward, his movements still remarkably spry despite his advanced years. Unlike Alan's commanding presence, Jay carried a folksy warmth that seemed to embrace everyone present.
"Thomas Wayne," Jay began with a gentle smile, "was one of those rare people who made you feel like you mattered just by listening to you. I remember when he was about ten years old, he spent an entire afternoon asking me about the physics of motion, scribbling equations and diagrams that would have impressed college professors." Jay's eyes twinkled momentarily with the memory before growing somber again.
"Patrick would bring Thomas to our gatherings – what we jokingly called our 'society meetings' – and that boy would soak up everything: the stories, the debates, the ideals we all shared. But what Thomas took from those meetings wasn't our tales of adventure. It was our belief that ordinary people could make extraordinary differences in the lives of others."
Jay looked directly at Bruce, his expression kind but serious. "Your father chose medicine because he understood that real heroism happens in everyday moments of courage and compassion. Martha shared that vision completely. Together, they showed us that you don't need to be extraordinary to change lives – you just need to care deeply and act boldly."
As Jay returned to his seat, pausing to squeeze Bruce's shoulder gently as he passed, Ted Grant approached the podium. The former boxer's powerful build had weathered with age, but he still carried himself with the disciplined grace of a fighter.
"I'm not much for fancy speeches," Ted began, his gravelly voice resonating with emotion he clearly struggled to contain. "But Thomas and Martha deserved better than what happened to them. They deserved to see Bruce grow up, to grow old together, to finish the good work they'd started."
Ted's weathered hands gripped the podium as he continued. "I taught Thomas to box when he was a teenager – not because Patrick wanted him to learn to fight, but because Thomas wanted to understand how to stand his ground. 'You don't have to be the strongest,' I told him, 'you just have to be willing to get back up when you're knocked down.'"
His eyes, surprisingly gentle in his rough-hewn face, found Bruce. "That's what courage is, kid. Not fearlessness, but facing the fear and standing up anyway. Your dad understood that. So did your mom – fiercest woman I ever met when it came to protecting what she loved." Ted's voice broke slightly. "We're here for you, Bruce. All of us. You're not alone in this fight."
Dinah Grant followed her husband, her elegant bearing offering a striking contrast to Ted's rugged presence. Her voice, still melodious despite her years, carried a soft but clear authority.
"Martha Kane Wayne," she began, "was one of the most remarkable women I've ever known. She took the privilege she was born into and turned it into a force for change. While many in her position would have been content with charity galas and symbolic gestures, Martha rolled up her sleeves and did the hard work of actually changing systems."
Dinah's gaze swept across the gathering before settling on Bruce. "Your mother knew that true justice requires both compassion and action. The Wayne Foundation under her guidance didn't just treat symptoms – it addressed root causes. Education programs in Gotham's poorest neighborhoods. Legal aid for those who couldn't afford representation. Mental health resources for communities that had been abandoned by the system."
Her voice softened. "Martha used to bring you to the Foundation's family days when you were very small, Bruce. She wanted you to grow up knowing the city your family had helped build, all its beauty and struggles. 'He needs to see the whole picture,' she told me once, 'so he can help paint a better one.'"
As Dinah stepped away from the podium, Diana Trevor approached, her timeless beauty and grace drawing the eye of everyone present. There was something in her bearing – a blend of warrior's strength and profound compassion – that commanded attention without demanding it.
"Thomas and Martha Wayne," Diana began, her accent subtle but exotic, "understood what many never learn – that privilege is not a protection to be hoarded but a responsibility to be shared. In a world that often measures worth by wealth or status, they measured it by impact, by lives improved, by suffering eased."
Her gaze, penetrating yet warm, found Bruce among the mourners. "I have lived long enough to know that true strength is not found in power over others, but in service to them. Your parents embodied this truth in everything they did, from Thomas's dedication to healing to Martha's tireless advocacy for justice."
Diana's voice carried a wisdom that seemed to transcend her apparent years. "The ancient Greeks spoke of 'arete' – excellence of character that manifests in virtuous action. Thomas and Martha lived with arete, not perfectly – for no human does – but with unwavering commitment to their highest values."
As she concluded, her eyes held Bruce's with surprising intensity. "Remember them not only in grief, but in action. Honor them not with monuments, but with a life that continues their work of bringing light to darkness."
After Diana, Alfred was next, rising from Bruce's side with a gentle squeeze to the boy's shoulder. The butler's face was a study in dignified grief as he stood before the gathering, hands clasped behind his back in the military posture he'd never fully abandoned.
"I had the privilege of serving the Wayne family for over thirty years," Alfred began, his British accent more pronounced with emotion. "I watched Thomas grow from a serious young boy into a man of profound integrity. I was there when he met Martha, when he brought her home to meet his parents, when he proposed in the rose garden at Wayne Manor."
Alfred's eyes found Bruce. "I was there the night Master Bruce was born, when Thomas held his son for the first time and made a solemn vow that Bruce would grow up in a world better than the one he had inherited. That vow shaped everything Thomas and Martha did—from their medical work, to the Foundation, to the way they raised their son."
A small tremor entered Alfred's voice. "Thomas and Martha Wayne were not just my employers. They were my family. And while they may be gone from this world, the love they shared, the values they instilled, the good they did—that remains. In the lives they touched. In the city they loved. And most of all, in their son."
As Alfred returned to his place beside Bruce, the boy felt the butler's hand come to rest gently on his shoulder—a subtle reassurance, a promise that he was not alone.
The minister stepped forward again, inviting the mourners to approach the caskets and pay their final respects. Bruce watched as, one by one, the guests filed past, some leaving flowers, others simply pausing with heads bowed.
Howard and Maria Stark approached Bruce first, Howard kneeling despite his formal suit to meet the boy at eye level.
"Bruce," Howard said softly, his usual commanding tone replaced by gentle concern, "anything you need—anything at all—you just ask. You're family, son. Always have been, always will be."
Maria embraced Bruce, her perfume reminding him painfully of the way his mother would smell when she dressed for charity galas. "We're here for you, Bruce," she whispered against his hair.
Tony stepped forward next, awkward in a way that belied his usual confidence. "Hey, kid," he said, hands shoved in his pockets. "This sucks. All of it." The stark honesty of the statement, free from the platitudes everyone else had offered, almost broke through Bruce's careful composure. "Listen, when you're ready—if you ever want to get away from all... this—you come stay with us, okay? MIT's boring without someone to talk to who actually understands what I'm saying."
Bruce managed a small nod, grateful for Tony's attempt at normalcy amid the surreal horror of the day.
Alan Scott approached with Jay Garrick, both men moving with the careful dignity of age. Alan knelt before Bruce, his movements still fluid despite his years. "Your grandfather Patrick was one of the finest men I ever knew," he said, his voice warm with memory. "We fought darkness together, in ways I'll tell you about when you're older. Your father carried that same courage, that same moral clarity. And now, so must you." He squeezed Bruce's hand, his grip surprisingly strong, the green ring on his finger catching the light strangely. "You are not alone in this world, Bruce. We may be old, but we stand with you. Remember that."
Jay nodded, his hand resting briefly on Bruce's shoulder. "When the time is right," he added cryptically, "we'll tell you stories about your grandfather – the real stories, the ones that matter. For now, know that Patrick's legacy, your parents' legacy, lives in you."
Ted and Dinah Grant embraced Bruce together, Ted's massive arms gentle around the boy's shoulders. "Your mom was like a niece to us," Dinah said softly. "Bright and fierce and absolutely unwilling to back down when she knew she was right." Ted nodded in agreement. "And your dad," he added gruffly, "had one hell of a left hook. Taught him that myself."
James Carter nodded solemnly to Bruce. "If you ever need anything," he said simply, his voice deep and resonant. There was something in his steady blue eyes that Bruce couldn't quite place—a familiar quality that seemed to resonate with old war photographs he'd seen in his grandfather's study, though he was too young to fully process the connection.
Peggy Carter approached next, her dignified bearing reminding Bruce of his grandfather. "Your grandfather Patrick was one of the finest men I ever knew," she said, her British accent softened by decades in America. "Your father carried that same moral courage. And now, so must you." She squeezed his hand, her grip surprisingly strong for a woman her age. "You are not alone in this world, Bruce. Remember that."
Diana Trevor embraced Bruce with a warmth that seemed to momentarily penetrate the ice that had formed around his heart. "Your mother was a light in this world," she said, her accent subtle but exotic. "And that light lives on in you, Bruce. Never forget that."
Steve Trevor shook Bruce's hand with military precision, then surprised the boy by pulling him into a brief, fierce hug. "Your grandfather saved my life more than once," he said gruffly. "Your father saved countless others with his work. Good men, both of them. The best kind of men."
As people filed past to offer condolences, Bruce overheard snippets of conversation floating around him.
"What will happen to the boy?"
"Alfred will raise him, I suppose."
"But the company? The foundation?"
"The board will manage until he's of age."
"Such a tragedy."
"And in our city, of all places."
Bruce let the words wash over him, meaningless sounds that couldn't penetrate the numbness that had enveloped him since that night in the alley.
When the service concluded, the caskets were lowered slowly into the ground. Bruce watched, feeling a strange sensation—as if he were watching himself from above, observing this small, broken boy who no longer knew who he was supposed to be.
Thomas and Martha Wayne had been his entire world. And now that world was gone, buried under six feet of Gotham soil.
The crowd began to disperse gradually. Howard conferred quietly with Alfred, their heads bent together as they discussed practical matters—financial arrangements, legal guardianship, the immediate future. Jacob Kane joined them, his military bearing momentarily softened by concern for his nephew.
Bruce stood at the graveside, unable to move, unable to process that this was real, that this was final. Kate remained beside him, her small hand finding his again.
"I'm scared too," she whispered, and Bruce realized with a start that she understood something no one else seemed to—that beneath his numb exterior, terror lurked. Terror of a world without his parents, terror of the darkness he'd glimpsed in that alley, terror of what might become of him now.
He squeezed her hand in silent gratitude.
Tony approached once more before leaving, awkwardly patting Bruce's shoulder. "I meant what I said, kid. About staying with us sometime. Might be good to get out of Gotham for a while."
Bruce nodded, though he knew he wouldn't go. Couldn't go. Something held him to Gotham now—something beyond grief, beyond the practical matters of inheritance and responsibility. Something he couldn't yet name but felt taking root inside him like a seedling pushing through concrete.
As the cemetery emptied, only a few remained—Alfred, the Kanes, and a small circle of those closest to the Wayne family. Bruce noticed Alan Scott, Jay Garrick, Ted and Dinah Grant speaking quietly with Diana Trevor and Peggy Carter by the cemetery gate, their heads bent together in a way that suggested a shared history beyond what casual observers might guess.
When the last mourner had left, Alfred placed a hand on Bruce's shoulder. "It's time to go home, Master Bruce."
Home. Wayne Manor. The house that now felt too large, too empty, too full of ghosts.
As they walked toward the car, Bruce looked back at the fresh graves, at the names carved in stone that represented the two people he had loved most in the world.
Something hardened inside him then, a resolve that would shape the rest of his life. He didn't yet know what form it would take, but he knew with absolute certainty that he would not let his parents' deaths be meaningless. Somehow, someday, he would find a way to ensure that no other child in Gotham would have to stand where he was standing, feeling what he was feeling.
It was a vow, made in silence but no less binding for that.
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