Muffled screeches of Bats, water dripping from stalagmites and a bright light from a giant computer in the centre of a web of walkways.

Bruce Wayne stood in the centre, typing away at the computers.

“Master Parker is here for training, sir,” Alfred said.

“Tell him I’ll be there in a minute,” Bruce said. On the Batcomputer screens a large map of Gotham was spread out. “The Master Planners forces have been stealing from Wayne factories all over. I’ve sent the technology they stole to Lucius to find out what they’re building. The only thing we know about this Master Planner is that he has a grudge against Wayne Enterprises.”

“Your father was a good man,” Alfred said. “But even good men have enemies. A fact you are acutely aware of.”

Bruce was silent.

“You seem rather anxious Master Bruce,” Alfred said. “What seems to be the problem?”

“He knew about the leg,” Bruce said, turning around from his chair revealing the lump. “One of his men, he told me the Master Planner knows all his inventions.”

“Mr. Fox told us the leg was made by a certain Otto Octavius,” Alfred said. “But that’s rather impossible, our friend Mr. Octavius is rather incapacitated.”

“Maybe,” Bruce said. “But that doesn’t change the fact that this leg is a weakness, if anyone were to find out about it…”

“So that means you isolate yourself and bury yourself in your work,” Alfred said, rather bitterly.

“I have to Alfred,” Bruce said. “If anyone finds out, if I make one slip up we’re all compromised…”

“But look at what’s happening around you,” Alfred said. “You and Mr. Fox are struggling to keep your hold on Wayne Enterprises, everybody in Gotham is wondering where Bruce Wayne is. The subsidiaries and organisations you believed in, that your mother believed in are slowly losing their funding.”

“Quiet,” Bruce said, barely looking at Alfred’s eyes.

“And not to mention Master Jason,” Alfred said. “He’s been denied his childhood for so long by violence and drugs and here you are throwing him into a world of violence and drugs. He can’t only be Robin, sir. He has a whole life ahead of him, he can’t be cooped up in this manor for so long the only thing in his life being gadgets and criminals.”

“He seems to be enjoying it,” Bruce said.

“He shouldn’t be!” Alfred snapped.

The silence was heavy. “You’re right. He shouldn’t be enjoying it.” Bruce sighed. He rolled his chair over to his prosthetic leg placing it under the stump and pressing a button on the chip attached to his neck. The leg reattached itself. “But this… this leg. It’s a weakness, a burden. And the Batman…” He walked over to the glass case that held his suit, Bruce’s face barely reflected on the black symbol in the middle. “The Batman can’t afford to be weak.”

…

Peter felt Bruce’s fist on his face for what felt like the hundredth time but was probably the one thousandth punch.

Jason snickered and Bruce managed to flip him to the ground to the perfectly timed lawn of Wayne Manor when the punch Peter landed failed to connect.

“Dammit,” Peter groaned as he got up. “How the hell do you know when I’m going to attack?”  

Bruce grabbed a tower and wiped his face. “Your control over most of your powers is spectacular, you could easily punch me across the lawn and I wouldn’t be able to do anything about it.”

“So why do I have to keep training…”

“Like I said,” Bruce said. “Most of your powers.”

Alfred stood by the curb with a tray with a water bottle. Jason sat on a chair eating popcorn and laughing at Peter.

Bruce grabbed the water bottle and drank it. Sweat drenched his training shirt whereas Peter’s shirt was squeaky clean.

“Your spider sense,” Bruce said. “That’s what you call it?”

“Yes,” Peter said. “It’s just a sense that warns me of danger. I don’t think there’s anything I need to control…”

“Yes you do,” Bruce said. “You let it guide your movements instead of guiding your movements yourself. It makes it easier to predict where you’re going to move next. Most of the criminals you face aren’t trained but if you were to face someone like Deathstroke or Taskmaster they’d catch onto you pretty quick and…”

Jason mouthed ‘Bang’.

“Yes,” Bruce said. “Bang.”

The sun was starting to set. “Training’s done,” Bruce said. “I’ll see you later.”

Later meant busting a drug warehouse for one of the new gangs that had been popping up in Gotham lately.

“Yeah,” Peter mumbled. “I’ll see you there.”

…

Mr. Parker was awfully quiet on the car ride home, Alfred could see him staring vacantly out the window.

“What seems to be the matter?” Alfred asked. Peter sighed, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. “Was training too harsh today or…?”

“No,” Peter said. “No. It’s just…”

Peter pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’ve taken plenty of beatings before,” Peter chuckled. “Skinny, nerdy kid like me with the big glasses on my face, made me a prime target. I was bullied for most of my life and when that spider bit me I could finally…” Peter stared at his clenched fists. “Fight back. And yeah, it was fun for a while, being able to fight back. To see the look on Flash’s face and those asshole wrestlers I fought over in New York. But then my Uncle died and I…” Peter barely could look himself in the mirror. “I almost killed the man. You should’ve seen his face, how terrified he was. I couldn’t bring myself to kill him, I couldn’t bring myself to kill anyone. Fighting, being strong… it… it didn’t seem as fun anymore.”

“These things,” Peter said. “Crime bosses, Vultures and Jokers. No kid has to worry about that. No kid has to worry about dangerous men finding out who they are. No kid has to pray to whatever God is out there that when the moment they open the door, their aunt or their mum is dead. At school… I almost had two close calls. Some idiot barged into me wearing the costume and someone saw the mask in my hand. I managed to drive them off but…”

Peter sighed. “And what Bruce said about… about those criminals. Deathstalk and Taskbar or whatever. What if I do piss them off? What if I’m not ready and I die? What happens to me then? What happens to Barbara and May and everybody else?”

Peter looked into the mirror and he looked like he was about to cry. “I just… I’m scared Alfred. I try and joke and keep a cool head but every time I put on that mask I’m scared and… and… I don’t… I don’t want to be scared anymore.”

Alfred was silent. His eyes were calm and impassive, something Peter appreciated more than anything.

“Sometimes…” Peter said. “Sometimes… I don’t want to be Spider-Man anymore and I… I don’t know how I feel about that.”