Batman: Lost to the Night

[dragonbat]

This is a sequel to Locked Inside the Facade which may be found here: http://forums.comicbookresources.com...d.php?t=167471




Written by Dragonbat
Cover by Gnort
Proofread by Char, Starbatz, and JrFan

Where has the starlight gone
Dark is the day
How can I find my way home?

Home is an empty dream
Lost to the night
Father, I feel so alone

You promised you’d be there
Whenever I needed you
Whenever I call your name
You’re not anywhere

I’m trying to hold on
Just trying to hear your voice
One word, just a word will do…

Julie Taymor, “Endless Night”

Lost to the Night

Disclaimer: DC owns all non-original characters. I’m not making a cent off of this. If they sue me, they’re shooting themselves in the foot, because I won’t be able to afford any more comics. “Endless Night” Copyright 1997 by Walt Disney records. From the original Broadway Cast Recording of The Lion King. “Good For Nothing” copyright 2005 by Disney Enterprises Inc. From the London Cast Recording CD of Mary Poppins.
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[dragonbat]

Chapter 1: Shattered Illusions

When you realise your worst fears have been realised
And certainties now seem a bit less sure
Ideals that at one time seemed idealised
Now don’t seem so ideal anymore

Where once there was order
Chaos has been loosed
And home-truths like chickens
Are coming home to roost

Illusions may shatter but memories stay…

Anthony Drew, “Good For Nothing”

[dragonbat]

Oswald Cobblepot settled himself comfortably into a Queen Mary wing chair. As he leaned back against the silk brocade upholstery, he tipped his feet up so that his heels rested on a nineteenth century Chinese Nanmu Altar table. It was good to be back in Gotham. He fitted a chunghwa cigarette into a black lacquered Dunhill holder, lit it, and slowly inhaled.

Outside his lavishly appointed office, the patrons of the Iceberg Lounge were cheerfully sampling the liquor, the canapés, and the… other delights for which his nightclub had a reputation. To the jaded socialites and businessmen of Gotham, the club was a fixture of the Midtown restaurant scene. True, its opulence skirted, and often crossed the border, from elegant to gaudy. There were whispered rumours that its buxom hostesses had found ways to supplement their incomes in rooms not generally open to the public. And its diminutive owner had a questionable past and no breeding worth mentioning. On the other hand, the food was excellent, the jazz quartet sublime, and the exorbitant prices heaven-sent to a myriad of young fops out to impress their lady friends. Yes, in an area where restaurants and clubs came and went with shocking regularity, the Iceberg was a lucrative operation, seemingly immune to economic downturn. And, in a city frequently subject to crime waves, no patron had ever been robbed while under the protection of the club’s four walls.

Cobblepot chortled to himself as he checked the closed circuit cameras that afforded him a view of his clientele. Nobody would dare attack my customers here. Nor me either, for that matter. He frowned. Nobody but the Bat, at any rate and he hasn’t—

“He’s out there!”

Cobblepot sat up so quickly that the heels of his shoes scratched the veneer of the coffee table. The man who stood quaking before him had, at least, known to enter via the side door in the alley. He bent forward, clutching the back of a Louis Quatorze chair for support as he tried to catch his breath.

With a sniff, the Penguin set down the cigarette holder, crossed to the wall, and opened a bar fridge. San Pellegrino? Acqua Panna? He frowned. Not for this lout. He closed the fridge, walked over to the sink, and ran cold water into a disposable plastic cup. “Here.”

With a shaking hand, his visitor accepted the cup and downed the water. Much to Cobblepot’s dismay, he sat down heavily in the chair. “He’s out there, Penguin,” the man repeated.

“Calm yourself, my good man,” Cobblepot snapped. He waited for the man to stop shaking. “Now tell me.”

His guest drew a deep breath. “We were in the Diamond District, casing the shop you told us abou—”

At the Penguin’s frown, the man hastily amended: “W-we were window-shopping boss. And we thought we’d found something that would interest you, so we was trying to get it—”

Cobblepot rolled his eyes. He could see where this was going. “And he intervened?”

“Th-that’s right, Penguin. He caught the others but I got away.”

Did he? Oswald Cobblepot, known to the Gotham underworld as ‘The Penguin’, brought his monocle swiftly to his eye. He pointed toward an antique brass credenza with a copper decorative swag and vine motif, on which a several crystal decanters stood. “Sherry?” He asked solicitously.

The man blinked at the sudden change in Penguin’s demeanor. “Su-sure, boss. Thanks.”

Cobblepot beckoned him over and poured out a glass. “Tell me, my good fellow,” he said sharply, “did the Batman lay a hand on you at any time?”

His henchman shook his head. “He tried, Penguin, but I was too fast for him.” He laughed. “He was gonna grab my coat ’n I just ducked an’ kept running.”

To me, Cobblepot thought. “Romelly,” he said, “I believe you have a thread loose on that blazer of yours.” At Romelly’s blank stare, he continued, “here. Allow me.” Quickly he ran his hand over the fabric, scowling as his finger snagged something smooth and metallic that did not belong on the jacket. With one finger, he flicked off the tracer. “I believe I’ll pour myself another drink,” he remarked.

“Another?” Romelly blinked. “You haven’t taken a first one.”

As his right hand closed on the decanter, Penguin’s left index finger found the silent alarm on the wall behind the credenza. He pressed it. And then, with one fluid motion, he raised the decanter (a knockoff of a Gorham Lady Anne design that he kept on hand for these emergencies) and hurled it at Romelly.

“What’re you doing?” Romelly shouted as he tried to dodge. The crystal bottle clipped him on the shoulder.

Cobblepot ignored his cry of shock. “Thief!” He screeched. “Thief! Take what you want, and get out! Help! Police!”

Romelly backed away, eyes wide, shaking his head. Both doors to the office, the one from which Romelly had entered, and the one that led out to the lounge area, burst open and GCPD officers poured in.

The Penguin pretended not to notice and continued to call loudly for assistance, until two police officers rushed over to calm him down. “Oh, thank heaven you’ve arrived, officers,” he burst out then. “It was ghastly, simply ghastly.”

“I’m sure it was, Mr. Cobblepot.” The officer whipped out a pad and pen. “Are you able to give us a statement, now?”

[dragonbat]

The officers had barely been gone ten minutes when a pricking sensation at the back of his neck told Cobblepot that he was not alone in the room.

“That was a good trick,” a harsh voice grated.

Oswald didn’t turn around. “I haven’t the foggiest notion what you’re talking about.”

“Of course not,” Batman said mockingly. “You’re a humble businessman.”

“And proud of it,” Cobblepot taunted. “Funny how you’re always on hand for a purse snatching, but let a legitimate business get burglarised and suddenly you’re nowhere to be found.”

The costumed crime-fighter paused. “You know, Ozzie,” he said, “you actually do have a point.”

Cobblepot spun to face him. “Eh?”

Batman nodded dolefully. “I’ve been remiss, and for that I deeply apologise.”

Penguin frowned. Batman… never apologised. Where was the catch?

“You see, Ozzie,” he continued, “I’ll admit I’ve had some suspicions about this club in the past. But I never should have let those suspicions influence my judgement.” He nodded again. “From this night forward,” he intoned, “I promise you that I will be keeping an especially close eye on this establishment.”

Cobblepot’s jaw dropped. He felt suddenly faint.

Seemingly oblivious, Batman continued, “in fact, you can rest assured that going forward, no potential criminal will be able to enter or leave these premises without my knowledge.” He laid a gloved hand on the perspiring little man’s Armani tuxedo. “I’ll be watching out for you from now on, Ozzie,” he said, fighting a smile. “Count on it.”

[dragonbat]

Barbara's voice came through the cowl receiver, slightly amused. “Was that nice?”

“Nice?” Dick repeated. “Batman doesn’t do ‘nice’.”

“Well, no… but he never used to do evil incarnate, either.”

Silence.

“OK, he never used to do that brand of evil incarnate.” She laughed.

“Ozzie had it coming.”

“He did that.” She knew the answer to her next question, but she still asked it. “What next, Current Bat-Wonder?”

Batman’s flippant mood vanished. “Arkham,” he said. “I want to see how Bruce is doing.”

Oracle shook her head sadly. He knew that she’d interfaced the security cameras in Bruce’s cell. He knew that she always had that link up, and that she checked it more frequently than she did Joker’s. He knew that if he’d asked her for an update she would have told him that there had been no change. But even had she volunteered the information, she knew that it wouldn’t have made a difference; Dick would still have wanted to head over to Arkham. It might make a difference for Bruce.

[dragonbat]

He didn’t know how long he had been here. Without a calendar, he couldn’t be sure of the date. With a calendar, the days would still be identical: therapy sessions blurring into each other, meals that, despite some menu variation, still possessed a sameness. Sometimes breakfast was a muffin. Other times it might be a roll or a danish. But it was always something that could be eaten without the benefit of cutlery. It was the same with lunch and dinner: the sandwich fillings varied, the inclusion of sandwiches on the bill of fare, to the virtual exclusion of all other options, did not.

He supposed that he could have complained. But really, what was the point? They knew who he was. They weren’t about to allow him access to anything that he might be able to use as a means of escape. In a way, Bruce supposed, it was almost flattering. If they thought he could use plastic cutlery to somehow pry the hinges off of his door, or to scoop the mortar out from between the cinderblock walls of his cell, in full view of the security cameras that monitored every inch of his quarters… He shook his head, bemused, half-wondering what Jeremiah would make of his sudden movement. Or that new doctor of his… was it a new doctor? He’d lost count.

He’d gone through a slew of them already, it seemed. Some genuinely wanted to help. Others, he suspected, wanted the celebrity associated with being “Batman’s shrink”. Still others seemed to have been Peter-principled into their positions, and viewed their patients as a necessary evil in order to collect a paycheque. And then, there were those that led Bruce to conclude that nepotism had to be alive and well in Arkham—that or mob connections—because there was no other way that some of these doctors could be licensed. In actuality, though, it didn’t matter. He treated them all the same way: by ignoring them.

Promptly at 10 a.m., five days per week—he guessed that it was probably Monday through Friday, but he really wasn’t sure at this point—the attendants bundled him into a wheelchair and escorted him to a therapy session. (True, he no longer needed a cane, but he had determined to resist any and all efforts to ‘cure’ him. That included walking to the sessions under his own power. Administration preferred wheeling him to the sessions over dragging him there.) It was always a toss-up whether the doctor would allow him to remain in the chair, or insist that the attendants transfer him to the couch. Whatever the therapist’s choice, Bruce would sit, head lowered, eyes closed, hands on his lap, and pay no further attention to his surroundings.

After about ten minutes of this behaviour, most doctors would attempt to provoke a reaction. They would cajole, shout, one had even jerked his head up and backhanded him. Bruce still remembered the sudden fear in that doctor’s eyes when he realized what he had done and nervously backed away. The doctor needn’t have worried. Once he released him, Bruce had simply lowered his head again and sat calmly, waiting out the rest of the hour. He never saw that doctor again.

He knew that Dick was right. If he worked with the doctors, there was an excellent chance of another competency hearing—one he would probably pass. That presupposed, of course, that he wanted to pass the hearing. It presupposed that he wanted to leave. He didn’t. His own failures had brought him here. This was where he belonged. If only everyone would just leave him alone and stop trying to help him! He had to be here. After Alfred, after Jim, after more than a decade of seeing people hurt—or worse—because of his actions, this was the right place for him. He wasn’t going to fight it… so why did everybody else?

He’d been asking himself this question for ages, it seemed. Meanwhile, he went through the motions. He ate, he exercised, he attended his therapy sessions, he slept, and he told himself that this was neither more nor less than he deserved. In his mind, he repeated this to himself continually, as he set about accepting his current situation. When the doctor struck him, he accepted it. When his grilled cheese sandwich was ice-cold by the time it came to him, he accepted it. When Tim came to tell him that between working on his grades—he was in his senior year, now—and keeping a lid on crime in Gotham, he wasn’t going to be dropping by as often, he accepted it. He accepted it all. Freely. Willingly.

Then, understandably, boredom set in.

[dragonbat]

“Hi, Bruce. How’d it go today?”

Dick. Of course. He rarely missed a day—and when he did, he always made sure that someone else came in his place. It was one more part of the routine: within the last hour before lights out, Dick would come by. Bruce never acknowledged his presence; in fact, he usually made a point of having his face turned away from the mesh-screened window that faced out into the corridor.

Dick waited for a moment, as though he expected Bruce to reply. He never did, of course. That was also part of the routine.

“Listen, about tomorrow night. I bought the roses, but I just wanted to double-check the time.”

Roses. He kept his eyes closed. He hadn’t realized that it was coming up on that anniversary.

“Was it 8:43?”

He had to hand it to the younger man. It was an excellent question, one meant to elicit a response. Except, of course, that Dick had to already know the time of his parents’ murder. A grandfather clock in the main study concealed the stairway leading from the manor to the cave. In order to access that stair, one was required to position the hands of the clock to 8:25. Dick knew that.

“Things have changed a bit at the manor,” Dick’s tone was guarded. Bruce could appreciate that. Although the guards withdrew enough to allow them a measure of privacy, the conversation—or monologue, to be exact—almost had to be monitored. “I guess you can probably figure out that after they arrested you, the cops searched the manor for evidence. They kept coming back—they never found anything they could use—but a lot of things got moved around. I haven’t been up to the house for months, now.”

Bruce translated automatically: his team had sprung into action to hide as much evidence of his activities as Batman as they could. If the clock still existed, Dick wasn’t using it. Either he was accessing the cave from one of the other entrances, or he wasn’t using the main cave at all. It was plausible. Even likely.

Still, as much as he appreciated Dick’s gesture, the fact remained: placing roses in Crime Alley on the night of the year on which Thomas and Martha Wayne died was one of his traditions, but it was a duty that he had taken upon himself. It was good of Dick to let him know that the tradition would be upheld despite Bruce’s inability to fulfil it. In the larger scheme of things, though, did it really matter whether Dick was 20 minutes late?

Dick continued to talk softly, as Bruce felt his eyelids grow heavier. By the time the light switched off at nine P.M., he was sound asleep.

The younger man waited another moment. “Well, goodnight, Bruce,” he said finally. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” There was no hint of sorrow in his voice or on his face until he was safely off the asylum grounds. Then, he pulled over to the side of the road, and clutched the steering wheel until his knuckles turned white. Until the ridges of the wheel rim felt like they had engraved their imprint on his hands.

Once he had attained a measure of control, he drove back to the nearby satellite cave where he had parked the other car. Automatically, he exchanged his street clothes for a fresh suit. The night was still young. And the city still needed Batman. And until things are different, it’s still stuck with me.

[dragonbat]

The next day proceeded as usual. Another muffin. Another pointless therapy session. Then back to his cell. After lunch, Bruce paced relentlessly from door to wall and back. He’d been doing so for months to build up his healing broken leg, and although the exercise was no longer necessary, the truth was that there wasn’t much else for him to do. He had no contact with the other inmates. For his own protection, his cell was located well away from the rest. In theory, he could still use the lounge or sit outside at specified times when the other patients were elsewhere. In practice, though, he had lost those privileges long ago. So, he paced. He wasn’t sure how long he’d been at it when the cell door opened and Jeremiah Arkham strode in. Bruce continued his approach to the wall, turned, and would have continued back to the door, but the director moved into his path. Without a word, as though he’d been planning to stop anyway, Bruce sat down on the bed, waiting.

“Well,” Arkham stated without preamble, “I suppose I should congratulate you. Dr. Murakami has advised me that she’s stepping down as your primary therapist. So, how many does this make, now, Mr. Wayne? Nine? Twelve?”

Bruce was silent. Jeremiah could go on like this for awhile, and it was easier just to let him rant. Of course, there were things that he might have liked to say, had he not previously decided on a campaign of passive resistance.

Arkham leaned in closer. “I’ll tell you how many it’s been, Bruce.”

My friends call me ‘Bruce’. You are NO friend of mine.

“In the last eleven months, you have gone through no fewer than fourteen of my staff. Even The Joker hasn’t approached that record.”

That would be because you’ve never managed to hold on to Joker for anything approaching eleven months.

Jeremiah sighed. “I told you when you first arrived, the more cooperative your behaviour, the easier you would find your stay here. Surely you would agree that your actions have been, ahem, somewhat less than cooperative?”

You seem to be labouring under the misconception that I’m looking for an easy time, here.

He made a show of consulting his clipboard. “Well, Bruce,” he feigned dismay, “it would seem I’ve no choice but to take some disciplinary action.”

Try to imagine how little that disturbs me.

“Now let’s see. We’ve already rescinded your lounge privileges…”

I’ve lost the right to sit on a couch in an empty room and watch an hour of television. I’m devastated.

“…Your yard privileges…”

See above. Substitute ‘stone bench’ for ‘couch’, ‘yard’ for ‘empty room’, and ‘grass grow’ for ‘hour of television’.

His imagined replies continued in this vein as Jeremiah’s voice rose in pitch and volume. His very silence seemed to infuriate the director all the more. Suddenly, his ears pricked up. What had Arkham just said?

“That’s right, Bruce,” Arkham repeated. “Tomorrow morning you will have another new doctor. If you remain as uncooperative as you have been until now, you will be barred from receiving visitors until such time as I deem fit. The decision rests with you.” He spun on his heel and strode out. The door shut behind him.

It hadn’t slammed. Bruce had to give him some points for that. The visits, he thought to himself. No.

The security guard who monitored the cell cameras noticed nothing amiss. Had he known what to look for, however, he would have seen fists trembling in the patient’s lap, not with fear, but with rage.

The visits, he thought again. Damn him!

[dragonbat]

Written by Dragonbat
Cover by Artteach
Proofread by Char, Starbatz, and JrFan
__________________________________________________ _________________

Close every door to me
Hide all the world from me
Bar all the windows
And shut out the light

Just give me a number
Instead of my name
Forget all about me
And let me decay
I do not matter
I'm only one person
Destroy me completely
Then throw me away…

Tim Rice, “Close Every Door”
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------


A/N: “Close Every Door” written by Tim Rice and Andrew Lloyd Webber. From Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat, Copyright 1982 by Chrysalis Records.

[dragonbat]

Close Every Door

Bruce sat on his bed, hugging his knees to his chest. He’d thought everything was covered. He’d gone into Arkham expecting the worst, and for the most part, he hadn’t been disappointed. Over the months, as his ‘privileges’ fell by the wayside, he hadn’t cared. He had deliberately forced himself not to care. If he didn’t care, he couldn’t be hurt—not in any meaningful way. Damn him! Bruce thought again.

He’d never asked for them to come. Perhaps he should have expected it anyway, but expectations only served to set a person up for more disappointment. He’d convinced himself that he didn’t care. If Dick wanted to pay his nightly call, that was Dick’s prerogative. In no way had Bruce requested that he do so, nor had he even acknowledged that Dick did. Over time, Bruce knew that if he didn’t do anything to encourage those visits, they would happen less frequently, until they stopped entirely.

Except they hadn’t. Oh, Dick missed a night here or there. When that happened, it would be Jim on the other side of his window. Barbara sometimes accompanied her father; she never came to Arkham on her own. Bruce could understand that. Renee Montoya came often enough, usually earlier in the day. Tim had shown up regularly, at least until his homework schedule had grown too intense. Cassandra was more of a rarity, but in her case, Bruce reasoned that it was harder to find a plausible explanation for her to be connected with either Batman or Bruce Wayne. (The fact that Tim had been his neighbor for a time, and that he had lived at the manor while Jack Drake lay critically ill, had probably sufficed in his case.) In the months since his initial arrest, Bruce reflected, he didn’t think that he’d passed a full twenty-four hours without some contact from his… family. That’s what they were. Bound to him by ties stronger than blood. And now, Jeremiah stood poised to sever those bonds.

Damn him!

He couldn’t give in, couldn’t let himself be broken. Not by the likes of Jeremiah Arkham. Others had tried, in the past: Deacon Blackfire, Bane, Hugo Strange. Even Stephen Gallagher had come close.

No more. He wouldn’t give Jeremiah the satisfaction of seeing him toe the line. He was here, and he accepted it. But he wasn’t going to play in to Arkham’s… medical fantasies of behavior modification. The man had actually tried to create a progress chart—rows of empty boxes waiting to be filled by gold stars—so that Bruce could “see how much closer he was to earning another privilege.” The director had been perfectly serious. It was at once laughable and humiliating. Once Bruce proved uncooperative, Jeremiah had switched to ‘negative reinforcement’ and begun to rescind privileges. In the unlikely event that he ever did get out of here, Bruce made a mental note to research whether B.F. Skinner had been the asylum director’s personal mentor.

If he got out. For a moment, he felt a twinge of regret. If he cooperated a bit more, release wasn’t at all unlikely, but… no. He wasn’t going to give them any more control over his life than they already had. If he buckled on one point, it would be that much harder to resist on the next. Eventually, they would win. And he couldn’t let that happen. Which meant—

Bruce closed his eyes and let his head drop to his knees. It meant that tonight was probably the last time that he would see Dick. Ever.

[dragonbat]

“Mr. Richard Grayson?”

Dick looked up from his computer screen, mentally setting aside the press release that he had been proofreading. “That’s me,” he smiled broadly as he extended his hand.

The man standing in the doorway strode into the small office. Instead of shaking Dick’s hand, he slipped a manila envelope into it. “You’ve just been served,” he stated. Then he turned on his heel and marched off without a backwards glance.

Dick wondered how the man had gotten in. He must have tailgated, or something. It wasn’t that hard to get past the security guard at the main desk, as long as you looked like you knew where you were going.

He sighed. He’d been following the story in the newspapers for the last few months. He’d known that this was coming. Carefully he opened the envelope and extracted the enclosed civil summons and complaint. His eyes widened at the amount. Sure, as Bruce’s Power of Attorney, he could get it in a matter of minutes. But… he tried to wrap his mind around the figure named on the foremost sheet of paper. That’s more than three times my trust fund. If every person in China contributed one dollar, it still wouldn’t match this amount. With my current salary, I’d have to work… he did some rapid calculations. It would take me over seven hundred seventy thousand years to earn this on my own. Holy—!

He checked the time. He was due for a break in ten minutes. Jaw clenched, he turned back to his monitor. Over the last year, he’d done everything he could to stress that he’d landed in the media relations office of Patrick Morgan Wayne Enterprises due to his aptitude, and not due to his being the son of the former CEO and being on friendly terms with the current one. For the most part, he’d been successful. He still suspected, rightly or wrongly though, that were he to leave his desk ahead of schedule, or were he found to be making a personal phone call on company time, people would notice.

For the umpteenth time, he wondered what he was doing here. He didn’t need the money. And an entry-level position in media relations wasn’t really that interesting. Mostly, it involved proofreading, filing, and general grunt-work. He worked with a decent enough group of people, but that in and of itself wasn’t enough to hold him here. He supposed that he was trying to keep an eye on things for Bruce—working where he was, he was privy to a lot of press releases and it was easy to keep tabs on what the other areas of the company were up to, without being obvious about it. And trust fund or no trust fund, the life of a ‘professional socialite’ had never held much appeal for him. The truth was, he wanted a day job, and there were worse places to work than PMWE.

Dick forced his attention back to the document on his screen. The page looked cluttered. Maybe if he went with a narrower font, reduced the size by a half-point… he printed a copy and nodded with satisfaction. That was better.

And the ten minutes had passed.

He saved the changes, and dropped the hardcopy into his supervisor’s in-basket as he headed for one of the courtesy phone booths down the hall. Once inside, he dialed a number from memory.

“Rachel Green, please,” he stated firmly. “Tell her it’s Mr. Grayson.”

[dragonbat]

“Oh no you don’t,” Barbara muttered as she stabbed a button on her keyboard.

“Problem?” Jim Gordon entered bearing two steaming mugs of coffee. “Black, no sugar, not too strong, right, sweetheart?”

She inhaled the aroma of the French roast. “That’s perfect, thanks, Daddy.” She accepted the mug gratefully, and set it down on a small stand, a safe distance from her consoles.

She frowned. “No, it’s nothing really. Just my pet hacker.”

“Your—”

Barbara’s fingers flew as she typed instructions into the computer. “Every so often, someone tries to break into my systems. All the security levels in here, they probably think this is a top-secret government site or something. Usually, I just give them something boring to find, like old census reports, and they go away. This guy…” she shook her head. “He keeps digging. So, if I can’t delude him… ah!” A new image appeared on the screen before her. “I’ll divert him.”

Gordon leaned over with obvious interest. “Where are you sending him?”

“Hellenic ministry of culture,” she smirked. “He’s looking for an Oracle. I’ll show him where to find one.” She pressed the enter key. “And then,” she said as she typed additional instructions, “I’ll fix it so he’ll have to find another way in, next time.”

Gordon started to smile. Then he froze. “Barbara,” he said slowly, “it’s been my understanding that you’ve kept an extremely tight rein on the number of people who even know of the existence of Oracle. Who is this person?”

Barbara sighed, annoyed at her slip. “I can handle him.”

“I’m sure you can. Who is he?”

She groaned inwardly. Her father wasn’t going to back off from this. “His name is Noah Kuttler. He also goes by ‘Calculator’.”

Gordon had heard of him. “Well, I’d hardly class him as a serious threat,” he said, more than a little relieved.

“He’s not. Not physically, anyway. More,” to her irritation, she felt her face grow hot. “He’s obsessed with me.” At Gordon’s start forward, she shook her head. “Not in a psycho-stalker kind of way. I doubt he’s got some… some shrine in his bedroom dedicated to me, or anything like that. He’s just… fixated on finding out who Oracle is.” She cupped her hand around the mug of coffee, noting with satisfaction that it should now be cool enough to drink without burning her tongue. “Hey, the US government’s been trying to do that for awhile,” she said glibly, as she raised the mug and took a sip. “It’s nothing I can’t handle.”

“Where is he?” Gordon demanded.

“Right now?” She typed up some more commands. “Right now the signal’s coming from Fayetteville, Georgia.”

“I can make some calls,” he started to say, as Barbara cut him off.

“But it’s been relayed there from Bangkok. We can follow the trail further back to Cape Town, Happy Harbor, Edmonton…”

“You’re saying you can’t trace it.”

“I’m saying that by the time I do trace it, he’ll have moved on.” She sighed. “If it helps, I’m about as crazy about the fact that he’s trying to track me down as you are, Daddy. But I can tell you this: he is NOT going to find me.”

Gordon’s eyebrows knitted together. “I don’t like this. At all. Look. I know the League split up, but would you at least ask for some protection? Surely you know how to get in touch with them.”

“I will not,” Barbara retorted. “Haven’t you been listening to a word I’ve said? I know this guy. He’s good, but I can deal with him. I’ve been dealing with him for the last eight months.”

“Eight… months? And he’s not behind bars, yet?” Gordon fired back angrily.

In her head, Barbara counted to ten slowly. “No,” she enunciated. “He is not behind bars for the same reason that Dick wouldn’t dial 911 if he caught the man trying to break into the Bat-Cave. There are too many secrets involved that I won’t risk compromising.”

“Then, use your other contacts. Surely Superman could…”

“NO! Superman couldn’t!” She snapped. “Daddy, don’t you see? If I needed a mountain moved, you’d better believe I’d call on him. Or Green Lantern. But I don’t. Calculator is a hacker. An extremely good hacker, yes. But at the end of the day, that’s it. And when it comes to handling cyber-crime, Daddy, I am right up at the top of the totem pole.” Softly, she continued. “When it comes to something like this, Daddy, Superman calls me.”

Behind thick glasses, Gordon’s eyes widened. He hadn’t realized. “If he comes near you…”

“He won’t.”

He placed a hand on her shoulder. “He’d better not.”

[dragonbat]

“Hey, Bruce.” Dick sat down on the stool before the mesh-screened window as the two guards on duty retreated to the back of the room. The surveillance cameras and microphones were still functioning, of course. All the same, he appreciated the gesture. “I know it’s earlier than usual. I figured I’d stay here for about an hour, and then head out so I can make it to Park Row in time.”

Bruce didn’t reply. At this point, he doubted that Dick expected it.

“Anyway, it’s been a long day. We’re all set to unveil the new R&D division next week, so I’ve been busy with the press releases.”

This was it. This was the last time that Dick would be permitted down here. After tomorrow morning, Jeremiah would make good on his word, and the visits would be a thing of the past.

“Lucius has been walking around shaking his head for the last few weeks. Ever since they voted to name it ‘Foxteca’.”

He lay on his side, his back to the window as always. In his more honest moments, he admitted that it was probably cowardice. He didn’t want to meet his son’s eyes. It would be too painful for both of them. He’d caused Dick enough distress over the years. And Bruce couldn’t afford to allow whoever was monitoring the security feeds to know how easily he could be hurt. If they had known… If Jeremiah had any inkling, he would have stopped the visits a long time ago, he realized. Maybe that would have been better. If Dick and the others had stopped coming by after he’d been moved to Arkham, he wouldn’t have built up those visits in his own mind as something to look forward to. Because that was what had happened. Despite his best efforts, they had come to matter. And losing them was going to hurt.

“Anyway, Babs found out about this specialist in Ivytown who’s been making some breakthroughs in special ed. She’s spoken with him a few times over the last couple of months, and it sounds like he might have some ideas on how to get Cass reading. They’re flying down on Tuesday for a couple of days.”

Bruce closed his eyes. This was the last time he was going to see Dick. And he hadn’t even looked at him. Slowly, he sat up.

“It’s been frustrating for her,” Dick continued. “I know it has been, but,” he froze.

“Bruce?” He watched, disbelievingly as the older man slowly extended his fingers toward the mesh screening. Tentatively he reached back. “Bruce.”

He jumped back involuntarily as Bruce’s other hand slammed into the screen.

[dragonbat]

Dick backed away from the window. Behind him, he heard someone call…

“Chlorpromazine, 25 c.c.’s intramuscular. Stat!”

He shook his head, wondering what had just happened. He’d thought… “No,” he said. “Let me go in there.”

One of the guards snorted. “You’ve got to be kidding me. There’s no way you’re getting that close to him when he’s…”

Dick whirled angrily. “He hates being medicated, damn it! I can calm him down.” It occurred to him, as he advanced toward the orderly, that he was scarcely behaving rationally himself. If he kept up like this he really would be sharing a cell with… G-d, had he done something that had inadvertently set Bruce off? Get a grip, Grayson, he told himself. Fat lot of good you’ll do Bruce if they decide your coming here is too upsetting for him. He realized that he’d automatically shifted to a combat stance. Slowly, he relaxed it.

“Please,” he said, as he spread his hands wide and held them out, palms up. “Let me try.”

The guard cocked his head to one side, and said nothing. In the background, Bruce was still pounding on the screen. Dick flinched as he heard the blows connect. “Please.” He heard the supplication in his voice. He didn’t care.

“Let him go in.”

Dick turned to the new voice.

“Dr. Morgenstern, according to Wayne’s file, we—”

“Duly noted,” the other man returned. “This is on my authority.” He glanced at Dick.

“Alex Morgenstern,” he said. “Mr. Wayne’s new doctor. You have five minutes to get him to calm down. If you can’t, we’ll have to step in.”

Dick nodded. “Thanks.” He meant it, too.

The guard wasn’t backing down. “Doctor, if he slips Mr. Wayne something—”

“Yes, Nilsen. I’m sure he’s got a lock pick tucked into his left sneaker on the off chance somebody might let him into the cell tonight,” Morgenstern retorted. “And I’m positive that the cameras wouldn’t notice if Mr. Wayne were to attempt to use it. Now get that door unlocked.”

He looked at Dick. “You weren’t planning on slipping him anything, were you?” He didn’t wait for a reply. “Good enough for me.”

Dick shook his head, grinning as the massive door grated open just wide enough to allow him entry. He heard it slam shut behind him, but by then he was already well inside the cell.

Bruce took no notice, as he continued to vent his rage on the window.

For an instant, Dick hesitated. Then he launched himself at Bruce from behind, wrapping his arms around Bruce’s upper body, pinning the older man’s arms to his sides.

Like a marionette whose strings had been suddenly cut, Bruce collapsed, letting Dick pull him from the window and ease him to a sitting position on the bed. Then, without relinquishing his hold on the larger man, he sat down next to him to wait.

[dragonbat]

Bruce knew that facing the window had been a mistake. Tomorrow, Jeremiah would tell Dick… what? Probably that further visits were ‘not advisable’ at the present time. And maybe, if Bruce hadn’t just reacted to his son’s presence, Dick would have bought it. But now…

…Now, more than ever, these ties were a weakness. If he gave in on this matter, then he was handing Jeremiah the key that would crack his defenses. Once Arkham knew what the visits meant, the director would use that knowledge to force him to conform. In future, Jeremiah would threaten to withhold his visitation privileges at the slightest hint of recalcitrance. Bruce felt a sudden surge of anger. At himself, at Jeremiah, and yes, even at Dick. Dick had been too stubborn to stay away, and now, because of that…

He slammed his fist into the screen. He noted in passing that the wires had cut into his knuckles. He barely felt them. He saw Dick’s eyes widen. I’m scaring him. Good. Now, maybe he’ll stay away. That’ll stop Jeremiah and his damned threats! That was the last conscious thought he had, as he surrendered to the roaring in his head and blindly pummeled away at the mesh. He stopped only when something pinned his arms to his sides. They would have sent Dick away by now, he was sure. He allowed them to tear him from the window, and he sank unresisting to the bed, steeling himself for the inevitable sedative.