There's a child.

Bruce is eight. His body feels numb. There's pearls scattered on the ground. There's red seeping into his parents' clothing. There's the smell of gunpowder and the dirty alley. There's a dampness on his cheeks and a scream bubbling in his throat. There's police sirens and lights. There's-

Bruce is an adult. He's wearing his bat suit. There's no pearls. His parents aren't here. He isn't going to cry or scream. No police are here, none will be for a while.

There's a child.

He's in that same alley staring at what feels like a younger version of himself, his pain mirrored in the kid's face. He was late. Bruce was late and there was a child. There was another child orphaned because of Gotham's filth.

You sit between two forming puddles of red. Bruce can hear the agonized and terrified sobs more closely now that he's sprinting towards the brutal scene.

You're young.

Bruce was young.

Your parents are gone and you wear the same expression Alfred must've seen on him all those years ago. Everyone knew to avoid this area around night, especially with children. He didn't know why you and your parents were in this alley. He didn't care to find out. There was no need to question you when you looked like you were pleading to every deity in existence to be woken up from your nightmare.

Bruce Wayne didn't know how to soothe a child. He had no kids of his own and never interacted with them.

The Bat, on the other hand, knew all too well how to comfort a child who'd seen too much.

He carefully pulled you away from the bodies and into his arms, wrapping his cape around you as he kept your head tucked close so you couldn't see. It was everything he wished someone had done for him. It was all he could do.

Though your situation almost matched his past's perfectly, the quick-witted hero was at an utter loss for words as he thought of how he could've prevented this. Bruce couldn't rectify his mistake, but he could try his best to protect you from further harm.

"Breathe, little one. I've got you."