Bruce Wayne

Chapter 37: Self-doubt

Bruce surfaced; he was far enough from the Stacked Deck to avoid being seen by the gunmen trying to kill him. His rebreather had run out, forcing him to swim the rest of the way to the rendezvous on top of the water.

By the time Bruce reached the designated location for meeting up with Alfred, he was exhausted. Pain and loss of blood combined with his lengthy swim to drain Bruce of his energy. He had trouble climbing the ladder out of the water, and his legs were unstable beneath him, forcing him to lean on nearby objects.

"Sir!" Alfred called out with concern as he exited the van and hurried over to him. Alfred maintained the presence of mind to not shout Bruce's name and give away his identity. They'd picked an isolated location to meet, but neither one wanted to take chances of letting anything slip. Alfred put an arm around Bruce and helped him back to the van.

"If you're going to make a habit of attracting gunfire, perhaps you should consider some body armor," Alfred suggested.

Bruce was too tired and sore to bother trying to answer. In his mind, however, Bruce considered the possibility he wouldn't be able to continue his plans for saving Gotham. The criminals of the city were heavily armed and unafraid to shoot someone who didn't have a weapon. He'd been almost killed on two different occasions. The first was when he'd nearly drowned trying to spy on the meeting with Fairbanks, and now he'd almost been gunned down simply watching an arms deal. His intentions had been good, but the reality was turning out to be far more hazardous than he'd anticipated. He was beginning to think the job was simply too big and dangerous, even for someone with his skills. Bruce grimly wondered if he could even make a difference at all.

Alfred used a first aid kit to tend Bruce's wound when they reached the van. It wasn't much, but it stopped the bleeding and kept the injury clean for the drive back to Wayne Manor.

Bruce stared lifelessly out the window, depression weighing him down like an anchor. The memory of his parents' deaths resurfaced in his mind. It didn't matter how long or hard he trained; he still couldn't stop bullets.

                                                                                                     ***

The medical supplies Bruce had purchased for the hospital project had already been delivered from the house to the temporary medical facility in the Wayne Enterprises' warehouse. The additional quantities intended for his personal use were held in Wayne Manor while awaiting transport to the cave for proper storage. Alfred opened a few crates and removed the items he needed to fix Bruce's injury.

"It's a through and through, Master Bruce," Alfred informed him. "It didn't hit any bones, so you only have to wait for the muscles to heal up."

Bruce didn't answer. His mind was in such a consuming amount of depression, he didn't even flinch when Alfred started stitching the bullet hole closed.

"What's troubling you, Master Bruce?" Alfred asked. He finished his stitching and began wrapping the injury in bandages.

"I don't know," Bruce answered. "Actually, I do know; I just don't know how to put it into words."

"Does it have anything to do with tonight's injury?" Alfred prompted.

"In part," Bruce agreed. "I'm just wondering how effective I can be against gunmen."

"Have you considered carrying one yourself?" Alfred asked while packing up the unused medical supplies.

"It would be too easy to accidentally kill someone," Bruce answered.