BATMAN: The New Continuity

The place was a magnet for pitiful, dirty examples of humanity. Killers, thieves, men on the run. Whores, and the men who found use for them. Lowly people, doing lowly things and doing so with no apologies. There was nothing left for these people, if they had anything in the first place. Now, all they had were regrets, and simple carnal pleasures.

Not much of a life, but a life nonetheless.

Like many such places all over the world, this oasis of sin had it's regular patrons. Old men, struggling to hang on to whatever they could take; young men high on life, looking for as many experiences as they could find, and young women all too willing to provide those experiences. As such, the regulars were always wary of newcomers. This was especially the case for the newcomer who arrived on this particular early morning.

He was a tall, well built, intimidating man. Tan, more muscular than anyone who had ever come around this place before. Most imposing of all, this tall mountain of a man wore a mask over his entire head like it was his own skin. He didn't quite look human; when he spoke, it was with a cold Spanish accent, bereft of compassion or concern in any form. "Where is the man who arrived here six minutes ago?"

The regulars outside the building gave the large newcomer a quick once-over, and then went back to doing whatever they had been doing. The newcomer, hearing no response to his question, stepped forward and took hold of the closest convenient shred of humanity, holding the man by the head. He lifted the man up, holding him by the neck and the waist, and slammed him sideways into one of the wooden posts that supported the roof of the building's porch. The sound heard was that of the man's spine breaking.

The newcomer pointed to one of the harlots, a girl who had been whispering something into the ear of one of the other patrons. "You. Woman. You will tell me what happened to the man who came here before I arrived."

The young woman stepped away from her would-be conquest and stood timidly before the large man. "Do you speak of a tall, thin man? His age perhaps fifty?"

The newcomer nodded.

The woman pointed to the door leading inside. "There are stairs to your right. Go up. The man you seek is with Naria, in the third room."

The newcomer gave another nod, only courteous this time, then walked inside.

He stalked up the stairs, his feet powered by enormous legs, pounding into the wooden steps. There was a hallway at the top of the staircase, and four doors on the right wall of the hallway. The stranger continued down the hall, stopping in front of the third door. With a moment's hesitation, he kicked open the door.

Inside the room were two people, a man and a woman. The man was lying on his back on the bed, a bottle of tequila in his left hand. The woman was straddling the man's naked waist, rolling her hips back and forth on him. The stranger entered the room and, enraged, pulled the girl off of the man and threw he off the bed. Her head hit against the wall, and she fell unconscious, her dark brown hair falling over her face. The stranger looked at her face for the first time; she couldn't have been older than eighteen years.

"Naria," the stranger said, turning to the drunken man lying on the bed. "That was my mother's name!"

The drunken man blinked several times, not quite taking in what was happening. Then, his glazed eyes became clear. In an instant, he knew who he was looking at. "Is . . . that you, son?"

Bane nodded. "Yes . . . father." Father . . . he spit out that word.

Bane's father looked over at the unconscious young prostitute. "She looks like your mother, no?"

Bane leaned forward and plucked the bottle of liquor out of his father's hand. He looked at it. "Is this poison what made you weak and spineless like you are? So little a man that you would leave your pregnant wife to serve your punishment?"

The drunk man was still looking at the young harlot. "Is she why you've come here to kill me? For what I did to her?"

Bane pointed to his own chest. "For what you did to ME!!" he screamed in his deep, heartless tone. "I never knew my mother. I seek vengeance for myself. And I shall have that vengeance."

The drunken man looked up at his son; he couldn't see his eyes because of the mask he wore. "Before you mete out your revenge, may I give you one piece of fatherly advice?"

Bane threw the bottle of tequila into the wall of the room; it shattered, its jagged shards falling on the unconscious harlot. "It is too late for mercy!" he screamed. "You damned me to a life of Hell!! And I shall have your life for mine!"

Bane's father was calm, resolved to his fate. Now, it seemed he just wanted to speak his final words. "Look at me . . .," he said, gazing down at his own slowly rising and falling chest. "Look at your father, what he has become, what he has been reduced to."

Bane looked at his father; his mask allowed no emotion to be shown. "You were always nothing in my eyes. There was no room for reduction."

"Do you know why . . . what has brought me to this pitiable level?"

Bane looked on his father with cold silence, but he was listening.

"My enemies, my son. Instead of facing them, I turned and ran as a coward. I have run from them all my life, and I run from them still." Whether it was his drunken state or genuine emotion, Bane's father burst into tears. He spoke to his son between sobs. "Don't . . . let that happen to you . . . my son. Do not run from those who would be your enemy; turn and attack"

"You believe I would take advice from a coward?"

"I believe you would take sound advice, no matter who offers it."

Bane walked forward and clamped his hands onto either side of his father's head. The man seemed totally at ease, but maybe that was the liquor. "You know," he said in his final moments, "I could comfort myself with a final drink, had you not shattered my tequila bottle."

Then, Bane broke his father's neck, and he left without a word to anyone.

Hyatt Deluxe Hotel, Cleveland, Ohio, 2:43 p.m.

"All right. Thank you, sir. Here's your room key; just take it up to the second floor, it should be the sixth door on your left, down towards the end of the hall."

Jean-Paul Valley nodded and took the key to Room 14. "Thank you." He shifted his stuffed gym bag over from his left shoulder to his right, turned and walked towards the elevator. The doors of the elevator parted, and he stepped inside and pressed the button for the second floor. The elevator started up.

Cleveland, home of the Indians, American League Champions of Major League Baseball. It was one of the cities that Jean-Paul had left off of his original listing of Major League hometowns. It was also the current home of one Victor Bartog, for three months one of the groundskeepers at Cleveland Stadium. The name was wrong, an alias. But the face, found in the extensive records provided to Jean-Paul by Oracle, was a perfect match. It was Victor Benson.

When Jean-Paul got to his room, he went straight to the bathroom, took a long shower, then went to bed, never turning on the television, never looking out the window, never going downstairs to take a dip in the hotel pool. He had been awake for nearly eighteen hours on a bus, and he wasn't here for pleasures, he was here to fulfill a promise. He was here to carry out justice, something he hadn't done since wearing the costume of Batman. Jean-Paul imagined it would feel good to consciously do the right thing again, to dispense justice to someone who had eluded it for so long.

The murderer who was calling himself Victor Bartog lived at 6753 Phelps Avenue in Cleveland, an apartment complex that had been built in the 1960's, and had virtually no security worth noting. Nothing that would be any trouble for Azrael.

Getting there, now that he knew where "there" was, wouldn't be any problem. The problem was, what to do when he got there. Diane Benson, the ex-wife of Jean-Paul's quarry, had requested that, when Jean-Paul found him, that he kill Victor Benson; take his life for that of her son's, whom had been murdered by his own father in the most heartless and brutal of fashions.

Kill the man. Kill the murderer. Take his life in the name of vengeance . . . no, in the name of justice. Which was it? Was it in the name of justice, or in the name of an angry, mournful mother who lives to see retribution for her devastating, tragic loss? Did it matter? Wasn't killing the same act either way? Could there be justification for the unjustifiable? Or, was taking a human life a justifiable act?

Since allowing the murderer Abattoir to die when he wore the costume of Batman, Jean-Paul had intentionally avoided facing the issue of taking human life in the name of revenge, or justice. It was a hard thing to look at. Jean-Paul, as Batman, had turned away when he could've saved the life of this vile, unforgiving killer. He had neither tried to save him or taken his life; Jean-Paul merely let him fall to his death in a vat of molten, boiling liquid ore. There, Jean-Paul's descent into near madness began. As Batman, he became a brutal, unforgiving vigilante, dispensing justice in the form of savage beatings and destruction.

Realizing this now, it was difficult to look back to that time over a year ago and see that savage man as Jean-Paul Valley. But, because of the confrontation that was about to take place, serious reflection seemed almost necessary. Jean-Paul had let a man die once in the name of justice; could he do it again? Should he? Was it really justice? According to who?

Jean-Paul crawled in between the sheets of his bed, rolled over on his side and closed his eyes tight. The questions would continue to come and go in his head all through his sleep, unanswered. He wouldn't know the answers to any of his concerns today.

He wouldn't know until he found Victor Benson, saw him, and faced him at last.

Apartment of Dick Grayson, Gotham City, 4:03 p.m.

Tim pulled his van up so that the vehicle's rearend was just ahead of the front of the parking space. He shifted into reverse, and slowly let off of the brake, steering the back of the van into the space. Stopping, he looked briefly over at Ariana. "I hate parallel parking." Ari looked back as he started in, and laughed. Tim looked at her, and she stopped. A mild grin came over Tim's face, and he said, "Yeah, yeah. Laugh now; when you start practicing for your license, you'll hate it too."

Tim turned the wheel hard in the other direction, and the van's front eased slowly into the space. There was a car in the space behind Tim, but not one in front of him; the pressure was definitely reduced. "Do I have enough room back there?"

Ari checked her rear-view mirror, then shifted around and crawled into the back of the van, peering down out the back window. "Yep," she called back. "About two feet."

Tim nodded, straightened his wheels, and backed up a few inches. He smiled proudly. "There." Ari climbed back up to the front. Tim glanced over at her, then indicated the front of the van. "See? Perfection."

They both opened their doors and hopped out. Ari stepped over the curb onto the sidewalk. Tim walked around and looked at his front right tire, a mere three inches from the curb. "See that?" he asked Ari, smiling. "That's as close as you can get, Ari! Huh?"

Ari smiled and put her arm around his waist. "Well, I've still got a few months to learn."

Tim kissed her. "I'll teach you."

Ari kissed him back. "Hnh-unh. Not old enough . . ."

Tim kissed her again. "Oh . . . right."

They started for the front steps of the apartment building. "So, why are we here?"

Tim hopped ahead up the last two steps and opened the front door for Ariana. "To see Dick. He called me earlier today. He wanted my opinion about something."

"Oh . . . hmm . . ."

Tim led Ari up three flights of stairs to the door of Dick's apartment. It was locked, of course. Tim knocked three times, but no one answered. "That's weird. He usually answers before I'm done knocking . . ." Tim knocked again. He heard footsteps inside, running back and forth across the floor.

"Tim? That you?" Dick called from inside.

"Yeah. It's me; I brought Ariana with me, if that's okay . . ."

"Um, sure. Perfect. Just gimme a minute . . ."

Ariana looked confusedly at the door, then leaned into Tim's ear and whispered, "What do you think he's doing?"

Tim shrugged. "You know, I can never tell." The doorknob turned suddenly, and the door began opening slowly. Painfully slow, in fact, like in a horror movie. Dick's hand appeared, gripping the edge of the door and pulling it open further, his fingers moving up and down along the edge. The door came open entirely, and Dick stood before them, hands on his hips, trying his best to look as if everything were normal. And, from his neck down, it was. He was dressed in his usual casual style, a light-blue short sleeve button-up shirt, black cotton slacks, dark blue sneakers. That was the normal part; over his head, Dick wore a black pillowcase, obviously just pulled from his bed--there were numerous wrinkles and hairs on and in the fabric.

Dick waved, and although his face couldn't be seen, Tim could tell from his voice that Dick was smiling widely. "Hi ya," Dick said cheerfully, stepping aside to let his guests enter. "Come-on in. Thanks for stopping by, Tim. How are you, Ari?"

Ariana looked at Tim, then said with forced seriousness, "I'm all right, Dick. . . . How are you doing."

"Oh, you mean this?" Dick asked, pointing at the pillowcase. "Don't worry; I haven't gone insane. It's part of my advanced ninja training. The sensei instructed me to live as a blind man for seven weeks, in order to sharpen my other senses."

Ari didn't quite know what to say. "That's interesting . . ."

Tim stuck his hands in his front pockets and laughed boyishly. "He's kidding you, Ari." Tim took another look at the pillowcase over Dick's head. "Right? You are kidding, Dick . . ."

Dick closed his door, then waved his hand dismissively in front of him. "Yes, I'm kidding. Actually, I wanted you to tell me what you think about something new. But, I didn't want to ruin the surprise." He tugged lightly at the pillowcase. "Of course, I guess I've kinda given away what that surprise is going to be . . ."

Tim nodded. "Right. So, you grew a mustache?"

Dick laughed, and it was funnier coming from beneath the pillowcase. "I thought I was the one with the jokes."

Tim shook his head. "Nah. You're the one with all the bad puns."

Dick chuckled, then shook his fist menacingly in front of him. "Oooh . . . I'll pound you, young man." Dick reached up towards the ceiling and stretched. "So, do you wanna tell me what you think of this new haircut, or do I pretend I'm a leper for the rest of my life?"

Tim glanced at Ariana, who smiled and nodded. "Yep. Let's see the do."

Dick reached up and pulled the case off of his head, grinning widely. "Ta-da."

"I like, I like," Tim said, nodding, his fist thoughtfully against his chin. Dick's hair was shorter, styled similar to how it looked during his early days with the Titans, only longer than that. It was parted on the right, and the back rested easily on his neck. Like the rest of Dick, it was a very simple, casual style. And, from his smile, Dick was apparently very happy with the new do.

He reached back and tugged at the back of his hair, returning with a handful of nothing. "See? Not enough for a ponytail anymore. Not even a little one."

Ariana folded her arms and tilted her head to the side. "You look real nice, Dick. Handsome."

Dick grinned. "As opposed to my demon-like appearance before the haircut."

Ari laughed meekly. "No . . ."

"Bless you, girl." He turned to Tim. "So, it's me, huh?"

Tim nodded. "You bet. I like it a lot better than the ponytail. This looks more like Dick Grayson."

"Yeah. That's what I thought." Dick cracked a wide, sparkling, artificial grin. "Don't I look like the quintessential all-American guy?"

"The very image of Americana."

Dick smiled genuinely this time. "Thanks. Glad you like." Dick balled the black pillowcase up into a tight bundle, and pitched it through his open bedroom door. The pillowcase landed on his bed, beside a lone, undressed pillow. "So," he said, clapping his hands together at arm's length in front of him, "were you guys coming back from someplace? Or, on your way? You didn't come into the city just to see me, did you?"

"No. Of course not," Tim said, unable to resist getting in another of the good-natured jabs that made up a significant portion of his relationship with Dick. "Ari wanted to check out the mall. She saw a pair of jeans there when we went last week, but didn't get them."

"Ah-ha. Didja get 'em this time?"

Ari smiled and glanced at the door. "They're in the van." She brought her right thumb up to lips and bit it once. "Can I use your bathroom?" she asked shyly.

Dick nodded and gestured towards his bedroom door. "Sure can. It's the door right across from the bedroom."

"Thanks." Ari hopped off to the bathroom in a hurry, leaving Tim alone in the room with Dick.

Tim took a few steps towards Dick and folded his arms. "So, what's the situation with Heidi's baby?"

Dick stood quietly for a moment, then started for the kitchen. "You want something to drink?"

Tim sighed and started hesitantly in after him. "Dick . . . if you're . . . if you don't feel like talking about it, then we'll talk baseball, okay?"

Dick pulled open a cupboard and removed two glasses. "I'm perfectly comfortable talking Heidi or her son. Now, I got Coke, I got Sprite, I got a few different flavors of Snapple . . ."

Tim looked at Dick, mouth gaping for a moment, then shrugged, sighing with resignation. "You have lemonade?"

Dick sat the glasses in the middle of his kitchen table, then opened up the refridgerator. "Hmmph," he grunted, looking around inside the fridge. "Yellow or pink?"

"Okay . . . pink."

Dick stepped out with one bottle of Snapple Pink Lemonade in his hand and shut the door. "I've just got this one bottle. We'll have to split it, if that's okay."

"Sure. No problem."

Dick poured half of the bottle into one of the glasses and pushed it over to Tim, who brought it immediately up to his lips and took a sip. "What about Heidi's baby? You talked to the grandmother yet?"

Dick poured the rest of the lemonade into his glass, then recapped the bottle and walked it over to the trashcan. "You mean about naming the kid after me?" He threw the bottle into the trashcan. "Nope. Not yet." He walked back across the kitchen and took his glass. "The--" Dick took a sip. "--grandmother is going to be at the hospital tonight sometime to pick him up. I was thinking maybe I'd head her off at the pass, so to speak."

Tim shrugged and took another sip of lemonade. "I was just wondering, that's all." He glanced back at the closed bathroom door. "Ari's been in there for awhile, hasn't she?"

Dick took another sip of his lemonade, then stared at the bathroom door thoughtfully. "Well, let's see . . . you guys are fifteen. It's probably just . . . female stuff."

Tim winced, brought his forearm up to his face. "Ohhh, let's not get started on that, okay?"

"No problem there, my friend. Maybe it's for the best that I'm not dating anyone right now. . . . All that talk about pads and tampons and pills and cycles . . . too much to handle. I just can't take it."

The bathroom door opened and Ari stepped out. She looked around the living room, then spotted Tim and Dick standing in the kitchen. Tim swallowed down the rest of his Snapple in one gulp, then sat the glass back on the table. "Ahhhh," he exhaled. "Thanks a lot, Mr. Grayson."

Dick finished his glass, then put both glasses in his sink, along with a few others. "No problem, Mr. Drake."

Tim looked with disbelief at the near-empty sink. "Did you wash dishes?"

Dick turned around, brushed his palms against each other, and glanced over his shoulder at the sink. "Oh . . . yep. It was getting kinda full, so I . . . well, I had some free time the last few days. Figured, what the hell, right?"

Tim walked over to Ari and put his arm around her shoulders. "Well, we'll get outta here now, I guess. Good luck with that . . . thing tonight."

The three of them walked into the living room. Dick brushed ahead of his younger guests and opened his front door up. "Thanks a lot, Tim. See you 'round, Ari."

Ariana stepped out into the hall and waved at Dick as she and Tim started for the stairs. Dick watched them go until their heads disappeared down the staircase, then closed his door.

Roxbury, 5:19 p.m.

Bane had removed his mask in order to walk among the common people of Gotham City more easily. Even without the imposing leather hood, he was still an incredibly imposing figure, dressed in black boots, black tight-fitting jeans, and a dark blue tanktop stretched over his massive chest. To make himself look at least partially normal, he also sported a long tan trenchcoat, open in the front as if to remind people that he was still a physical marvel, and worthy of their respect, and especially their fear.

He had been in Gotham an hour and a half, after a thirteen-hour plane flight. Roxbury was the nicest of Gotham's boroughs to actually be located within the limits of the city, where the rich lived and played. It was one of the few places in the city that was moderately civilized. It was almost as if, when one crossed over the Gotham Bridge, they entered an entirely different city. Roxbury was located on an island, one-half mile off of the main coast; like a high-class Manhattan. It wasn't so much that Roxbury was different than the rest of Gotham, it just seemed detached. Overall, it looked better. The district had its seedier sections, although nothing like the rest of the city. The difference was, whatever crime that existed in Roxbury was either pushed aside, or blissfully ignored altogether.

The wealthy had convinced themselves that it was a great place to live, and so--in a way--it was.

This was not where Bane wanted to be. He had lived here once before; when he owned Gotham, after breaking the Batman. But that life hadn't been his. He'd been given that life of wealth and women and ease by an addiction to a powerful and controlling drug. Everything that venom had given Bane, he now wanted no part of. Soft carpets, plush pillows, the smooth touch of warm flesh . . . these all were elements of a life he had once known, and now rejected.

Bane wasn't walking into Roxbury; he was walking out of it. Out of Roxbury, across the bridge, straight through to Bordertown.

The DMZ; that's where Bane was headed. That's where he belonged.

St. Arthur's Hospital, 7:27 p.m.

For a moment, Dick thought that he had gotten here too late. Heidi's son was no longer in the nursery when he arrived, and the nurse remarked that the child had just been taken home.

Then, on his way back to the elevator, Dick had spotted Mrs. Barrell at the gift shop. She was buying flowers. "Mrs. Barrell!" Dick said in an urgent whisper as he trotted up to her. She smiled as she saw him. The infant was being held by a nurse, standing beside her.

"Oh, Dick! It's nice of you to see your namesake off." She pulled a wallet from her purse and paid for the flowers, a dozen roses. She took the roses and presented them to Dick. "Here, would you hold these for me, please?"

Dick took them and held the flowers out at arms length. "Who're the flowers for?"

Felicity Barrell put her wallet back inside her purse and took back the flowers. "Thank you. These are for our hotel room, Mr. Barrell and I. It's at the McCarthy International, and it's so drab." She looked beside her at the nurse holding her grandson. "Let's go, dear. Dick, you'll walk me out?"

"Sure thing," Dick said, falling into step beside her. "Listen, Mrs. Barrell--"

"Please," she said kindly, holding up her hand, "call me Felicity."

Dick smiled. "Mmmm, no, I think I'd rather call you Mrs. Barrell."

Felicity just shrugged. "Very well."

"I take it that you already named him? The baby?"

Mrs. Barrell smiled and looked lovingly at Dick. "Yes indeed. Richard Jonathan Barrell. It's the only way I know of to truly, truly thank you."

Dick's face went dour, and he looked around, searching for what to say. "Mrs. Barrell . . . Mrs. Barrell, I don't want you to name him after me."

They stopped in front of the elevator. Mrs. Barrell pressed the down button, then looked over at Dick again. "Well, I know you're not comfortable with something like this, but--"

Dick held up his hand and tried to say what he was going to say as gently as he could. "Look, Mrs. Barrell . . . I know it's an honor, what you're doing. But I don't want it. I don't deserve it, and I don't want you to name your grandson after me. Do you . . . do you understand? I'm not being modest, here. I don't want this."

The doors to the elevator opened, and Dick, Mrs. Barrell, her grandson and the nurse who was carrying him all stepped inside. Mrs. Barrell looked at Dick with disbelief, and maybe a little confusion. "What do you mean? Young man, you saved my daughter's life, short as it was. Now, she owed everything to you. Since she cannot repay you for it, this is the least I can do."

Dick pressed on. "Mrs. Barrell, I don't want anything from you, or your daughter. I don't want to be repaid, and even if I did, her friendship was enough for me. I'm not sure you realize how important this is to me. I don't want Heidi's son named after me. Please . . . respect me on this."

Mrs. Barrell was now becoming a bit shaken by Dick's insistence. She remained steadfast, however. "I will not respect this . . . foolishness. I'm doing you a great honor, the only thing I can do to thank you for saving my daught, and you will let me do it!"

Dick sighed. "All right . . . look, Mrs. Bar--"

"No!" she said loudly, startling the young nurse and shaking her infant grandson. "No," she said again in a lower voice. "I'll hear no more about this, not now, not ever."

Dick would've said something more, but he knew it would have done no good. She wasn't listening.

1001 Border Avenue, 7:35 p.m.

Nicknamed "the bunker," this building was one of the few apartment buildings on Border Avenue to not be condemned by the city. Still, the walls were peeling, plaster was falling from the ceiling in a slow rain of tiny particles. Where the floors were carpeted, the carpet was filthy. Where the floors were covered with linoleum, the linoleum was torn or pulled away from the walls. Only three of the apartments had running water, and that water wasn't drinkable.

Bane felt right at home. He didn't have to pay rent to anyone, since the building was abandoned. He didn't have to worry about neighbors, since he had none. Crime in this area was actually low, since there was nothing to steal. But, Bordertown was a regular hangout for streetgangs. They came here at night for meetings or initiations of new members, away from the eyes of the police. Not even the Gotham cops liked coming to Bordertown.

It was perfect. Since Bane had no possessions, he didn't need to settle in. He planned to sit quietly in the dark in meditation for the first hour or so, then go back out onto the streets, explore his new neighborhood, get to know the regulars. Most of all, Bane needed to find out who was in charge of Gotham now. When he had left this city to search for his father several months ago, Black Mask had been the kingpin, ruling the underworld of Gotham City with an iron fist. But, that could easily have changed by now. Gotham was anything but stable.

His father had said, "Seek out your enemies. Destroy then before they destroy you." In essence, "Don't run from your foes; turn and take the offensive, or you'll end up like me." Bane didn't want that. He knew who his enemies were. He knew what he had to do. But, he was also an intelligent man, and realized that he couldn't carry on this fight alone. His enemy was a formidable one, who lived off of the power of the night. His enemy had risen from defeat at Bane's own hands to regain all that he had lost, and perhaps more.

Bane had beaten him once, but had been arrogant enough to allow him to live. He could have killed him, he could have ended his torment when he stood over the man's broken body. But, he let the opportunity pass. He wouldn't let it go by again. First, Bane would find Black Mask--or his successor--and secure his allegiance. Afterall, the enemy of Bane and the enemy of the underworld was a common one.

Once that was done, he would finally kill Batman.

9:47 p.m.

When Bane left his new home, he was wearing his mask. He was also wearing a pair of black leather gloves, fingerless with metal-studded knuckles. Except for the venom tubes that used to run up from his hand to the back of his head, this was the same costume that Bane had worn a year ago, when he ruled Gotham.

Border Avenue was the main vein of Bordertown, and it was nearly empty now. The sun had been down just over an hour and a half, and it wasn't dark enough yet for the criminals who congregated here to show their faces. But, Bane didn't care. If he had to seek them out, that would be all the better.

Walking along the sidewalk, the old buildings of this dead neighborhood rose up around him like walls; Bane felt as though he were inside a large colosseum, with the sky as the ceiling. The street was lit only by the half-moon, which was currently hiding behind the heavy clouds that seemed to always hang over Gotham, and even heavier over Bordertown; all the streetlamps were either burned out, or long since stolen.

Up ahead of him was an apartment building; two of the upstairs windows were lit. Border Avenue turned to the right up ahead, and that building was right across the street. Bane kept walking straight, and right up the steps and through the door without altering his course. Inside the front door was a small room, a door on each wall. Bane opened the door that was straight ahead, revealing a stairwell. This is what he was looking for.

The stairs led to a similar room as Bane found downstairs; a door on each wall, each one leading to an apartment. The lit windows were on the right side of the building, so Bane stepped up to the door in the right wall. Backing up away from it a few feet, he turned to the side and kicked in the door. Instead of kicking near the knob, Bane kicked on the other side of the door, ripping it from its hinges. The door fell into the apartment, and Bane stepped in calmly overtop of it.

Four young men were inside, the youngest looking around fifteen years, the oldest not yet eighteen. They were sitting in various places in the apartment's living room, two on the floor, one on the couch, one in an easy chair in the corner. Bane stepped in, and it was evident they'd been smoking something; the air was so thick it could be seen. Looking around, Bane saw that three of the four boys were simply staring blankly at a spot three inches in front of their faces; entranced. The other one, older than the youngest but younger than the oldest, was holding a plastic apparatus in front of him, concentrating on the open end of it. He didn't even seem to notice Bane.

Bane stepped up to this boy, picked him up by the collar of his tee-shirt, and snatched the plastic device from his hand; a crack pipe. Bane crushed the pipe in his fist and threw the remains against the wall of the apartment. "You choose to do this to yourself, boy?" he demanded of the would-be addict, who still didn't seem to realize what was happening; he had obviously taken a few hits off of the pipe already.

"What the . . . fuck . . . ?" the boy mumbled, looking up slowly from Bane's feet to his hooded head.

"Nevermind you now," Bane said, holding the boy by his shoulders and standing him steady in front of him. "Who rules this city?"

"What . . . ?"

Bane shook the boy firmly, slapped him lightly across the cheek. "Who rules Gotham, boy? When I left, Black Mask ruled. Who rules now? Where can I find them?"

"Black . . . fuck, man. I . . . aw, Jesus . . ."

"Who rules Gotham, boy? Answer me!"

The boy was now totally incoherent. Bane looked in his eyes, which were becoming glazed over, his eyelids fighting to say open. Bane released the boy's shoulders, and he fell immediately to the floor.

Bane turned and left; he'd have to find out what he needed to know from someone else. But, he would find out.

Avian Paradise Casino, 11:07 p.m.

Oswald Cobblepot had been asleep for just over an hour. Beneath him, on the floors below his penthouse, the business of his casino was continuing on into the night. The casino didn't close until 2:00 a.m., and it would be packed with gamblers right up until the final patrons were shoved out as the doors were locked.

Cobblepot was an unusually sound sleeper. Groverton, carrying urgent new regarding a Penguin-engineered heist, had come bursting into the bedroom one day several months ago. The lights were turned on, and Groverton had to yell in his employer's ear before Cobblepot even missed a wink.

All things considered, then, it wasn't really surprising that the Penguin was asleep when Groverton came screaming up the emergency stairs and into the bedroom. "Oswald!!" he yelled urgently, flipping on the lights and running to the bed.

Cobblepot hardly stirred.

Groverton took the Penguin by the shoulders and shook him harshly. "Wake up!! Now!!"

The Penguin's eyes opened lazily, and he looked slowly from a point straight ahead, over to the side at Groverton. He yawned, and then said with great annoyance, "What?"

Groverton turned around with nervous energy as he heard the elevator doors slide open. "Get up! He's here! Now!!"

The Penguin flipped his covers off and swung his legs out to sit on the edge of his bed. After a moment, he stood in his ankle-length night shirt. "What the devil are you--" He looked up at his bedroom door to see an enourmous, musclebound figure filling the doorframe. The Penguin recognized him immediately. "What . . . are you doing here, if I may ask?"

The large man stepped two feet into the room, then stopped. He seemed to be keeping a respectful distance from Cobblepot. "I hope you will forgive the intrusion," he said in a low, cold voice, colored with a South American accent. "You may call me Bane."

The Penguin nodded and brushed a lock of his thick, stringy black hair away from his eyes. "I know who you are. I doubt if there is anyone dealing in my type of business who doesn't recognize the man who defeated the Batman."

Bane shook his masked head firmly. "I did not defeat him; he lives, he moves, he operates still. His continued existence constantly defeats me."

"Well, then . . . I assume that's why you've come to my home at eleven in the evening."

Bane nodded. "I was given a bit of sound advice recently, told to seek out those who would be my enemies. That is why I've returned to Gotham. The Batman would call me enemy, and so I must rid myself of the danger he represents."

The Penguin raised an eyebrow and nodded. "It certainly makes sense. Why particularly do you need my help?"

"You rule Gotham City now. I once controlled all that you do, and I know what an enemy Batman and his vigilante brethren must be to you." Bane took a deep breath. "My life was once ruled by a drug. When I broke free of the hold of venom, I learned much of my life, much of honor, much of how I needed to change. Before, I was a self-obsessed, arrogant monster. Now, I see that I cannot do it alone. I see my limits, and I accept them--embrace them."

Cobblepot clasped his hands behind his back and strolled slowly around the end of his bed to the other side. Groverton, now facing Bane directly before him, sat down uncomfortably on the bed. "Bane, you are, it seems, a changed man. I know it must be a difficult thing for a man such as you to come here and ask for my help." The Penguin looked briefly at Groverton, and all around the bedroom, stopping on Bane's sheathed eyes. "If it's my help you're requesting, then it's my help you shall have."

Bane nodded and stepped back into the doorframe. "Shall we discuss the details in the other room?"

The Penguin motioned for Bane to step aside. Bane walked out of the bedroom and stood beside the door. Cobblepot walked out and turned into his dressing room, flipping on the light and closing the door. "Give me a few moments to dress. I'm thinking of a much better place to discuss these plans of yours than here." There was the sound of a closet being opened. "Groverton?!" the Penguin called.

Groverton stepped out of the bedroom. "Yes, Mr. Cobblepot?"

The closet shut. "Would you get Quentin on the telephone, please? Tell him we'll be coming in tonight, and we're bringing a guest."

Arkham Asylum for the Criminally Insane, 11:46 p.m.

The wing known as New Arkham was virtually cut off from the rest of the asylum, via some of the strictest, tightest security of any institution of its kind in the country. This near-separation had served Arkham's new owner very well; free from the eyes and ears of the other prisoners and guards (except for the survelliance system, but that could be easily disabled), there was no need to disguise conversation in the usual way.

The mirrored plates in front of the cells had been reset, so that everyone could see each other. Seated or standing several feet away from the reinforced glass plates of their cells were Two-Face, the Riddler, Killer Croc, and Raven. In the hall was Quentin, who walked slowly back and forth from one end to the other; Groverton, who found a spot near the center and stood there, hands clasped behind him; The Penguin, who stood at the end of the hall, looking at each cell individually, ready to approach whoever was speaking; and Bane, who stood with his arms folded several feet from Groverton. "Sorry to keep you all up this late," the Penguin began, starting up towards the other end of the hall, "But it's time for the four of you to earn your keep, so to speak; and for Mr. Quentin to earn his job."

The Penguin stopped after walking past Bane, and gestured towards the big man. "You all know this man, I'm sure."

Each of the four nodded, but the Riddler and Croc responded more assertively, crossing their arms. The Riddler turned his back to the glass plate and walked towards the back of his cell. "We ain't gonna have to help him are we?" Croc demanded, looking spitefully at Bane.

Bane turned to face Croc's direction and gave him a respectful nod. "Hello, Croc. We find ourselves on the same side."

The Penguin nodded. "Yes. We won't just be helping him, he will be doing us a favor as well."

"It will be a mutual endeavor," Bane added, looking around at Quentin and the four inmates.

The Riddler walked back up to the front of his cell. "What are we being asked to do?"

At this point, Bane took control of the conversation. "The Batman and his cohorts are enemies of all of us. I have returned to Gotham City to eliminate these enemies, and I have asked your help."

The Riddler was indignant. "Why should we help you? We are safe, here at Arkham. I've actually grown to like it here, taken very well to my new quarters. Batman is the natural predator of all criminals, but in here I am safe. Why should I put all of this in jeopardy . . . to assist you?"

The Penguin strolled over to the Riddler's cell, stood two feet from the glass, and leaned forward. "Please remember who now owns this asylum, Mr. Nygma. Please remember who transferred you from your old cell to your new . . . quarters." The Penguin was silent for a moment. "Mr. Nygma, Batman is my enemy. My enemies are your enemies."

The Riddler seemed to think this over for a moment, then took a deep breath. "It seems you have a point, then."

The Penguin nodded. "Good." He turned around and addressed everyone. "So, the question . . . it seems to have become an eternal one. How do we kill Batman?"

"It's not just Batman," Two-Face reminded everyone, turning his coin over and over between the index and middle fingers of his right hand. "Don't forget Robin."

"And Nightwing," Quentin added, walking over to stand next to Two-Face's cell.

Bane sighed. "Counting myself, there are six of us who are capable--any one--of killing the Batman. But, we have rarely focused our direct intentions on doing that, and that alone."

The Penguin cleared his throat. "I'm afraid that all six of you won't be able to be directly involved. That would require a rather extensive field trip. If the absence of the five most dangerous inmates in Arkham Asylum isn't noticed, then the presence of at least a few of those five in Gotham City would be. I don't think I'm ready for a major breakout, not so early in my tenure."

There was a long silence.

"I believe I have an idea," the Riddler spoke up, rubbing his chin thoughtfully, "but it would require a relatively minor breakout . . ."

Sunday
The Robinson District, 12:49 a.m.

Nearly six blocks north of Robinson Park, three shadowy figures climbed into a third story window.

Thirty seconds or so later, three more shadowy figures entered through the same window.

The apartment was one of the nicer places in this section of Gotham. It was owned by Devon McIntyre, internationally renowned artist. Her work had been exhibited in Paris, Vienna, Tokyo, Toronto, and many other cities all over Europe and Asia. Unlike many artists, Ms. McIntyre had a great personal attachment to her work, and when they were finished touring, the paintings went either to the McIntyre Museum in Roxbury, or to her apartment.

Of the two locations, her apartment was a favorable target; the museum was in the rich borough of Roxbury, and had a sophisticated security network. Devon, always the sentimental one, still lived in her old neighborhood, in an apartment with only minimal security precautions. Minimal security, and several pieces of valuable artwork.

The first three shadowy figures were lithe, sleek. Melanie Hexle, Diane Nilcrest, and Teri Hartz. They were all attractive, all single, all blonde. Twenty-eight years old, they'd gone to high school together. In fact, for much of their lives, they'd done everything together. Last year, they robbed the Museum of Fine Art in New York, and barely escaped before the police arrived. Given that near-failure, this time they chose a much easier target.

Devon McIntyre usually went to sleep at around nine in the evening, so she could get up at five the next morning and go through her yoga exercises before the daily morning jog through Robinson Park. Even better, McIntyre kept all of the artwork in her apartment in one room, on the other side of the bathroom from the bedroom. As Diane started working on the lock of the art room, Teri began to wonder if maybe it wouldn't have been smarter for them to wait until McIntyre left for her jog, then rob the apartment. She quickly banished the concerns; no time for that now.

Just as Diane was almost through the lock, the largest of the other three shadowy figures stepped forward from the dark recesses of the apartment. Melanie, who was bending over to watch her partner work more closely, felt a firm hand on her shoulder. She let out a sudden gasp, then turned slowly around. She found herself looking into the cold white eyes of Batman.

"Lose your key?"

The other two women turned around at the sound of that dark, raspy voice. On reflex, Melanie brought her knee up hard in Batman's direction--she couldn't see him very clearly at all in the dark, and was just hoping to hit something. She felt him grab hold of her knee, and soon found herself face down on the floor, with Batman pinning her down, binding her hands.

The other two shadowy figures sprang forward. Robin saw Diane's leg spin out; he ducked slightly to the left and caught her foot, wrenching her to the ground. He pulled a length of cord from his utility belt and began tying her feet.

Nightwing was left with Teri, who had abandoned both picking the lock and defending herself and her friends. She faked a quick move to the right, then dove across the floor to the left, landing on her hands and completing a somersault, then running for the window. She obviously had training. Nightwing followed, pulling a cord and batarang from his right gauntlet and flinging it at her. The cord wrapped tight around Teri's ankle, and she tripped, falling hard to the floor. Nightwing was beside her in another instant, wrapping the rest of the cord around her wrists.

"Was it my breath?" he asked her, grinning. He breathed onto his palm, then sniffed, and shook his head. "Can't be that."

Robin started for the window as Nightwing took Teri by her wrists and hauled her up to a kneeling position. "Got her?" Robin asked.

Nightwing gave a nod. "All tied up. Yet another woman who feels she has to run away from every good looking guy who gives her a second look."

Nightwing was the last to emerge from the apartment. He leaned out the window, tossed a line up to the roof, and climbed up to join Batman and Robin. "Well," he said, gathering his cord back up and placing it back in its utility compartment, "I think that went rather well. We should use that one as the model, from now on."

Both Batman and Robin were staring at something above them. Nightwing was almost hesitant to look at what they were seeing. "Aw, man," he said with foreboding as he slowly turned his eyes in the direction of . . . whatever it was. "What is it this--" Nightwing stopped short, catching his words in his throat. "Oh . . . that."

They were looking at the Bat-signal.

Dick got a haircut! Yay! I've been thinking about doing this for awhile now, and the release of Nightwing #1 clinched it. Since he's got a haircut in the comics, why not give him one here? Of course, in TNC, his hairstyle was done by a trained professional . . . at the local Supercut. For a better look at Dick's new do, check out this pic!! Or, if you prefer, you can check out the same GIF on my newly re-styled Nightwing's Corner of the Batcave! I highly suggest checking it out.

And, stay tuned for Episode 21!