BATMAN: The New Continuity

It's been awhile since I've done this . . .

That's the first thought Commissioner Gordon had as he waited on the roof of Police Headquarters. It was the first time the Bat-signal had been lit in months. Ever since Gordon realized that there had been more than one man in the Batsuit, he had been very wary of calling the vigilante he used to be proud to call his friend. Now, though, it seemed he had little choice. He needed to contact Batman; he had as much as been told so. There was no better way.

Even though it had been a long time, Gordon hadn't forgotten the routine. He waited alone on the roof for ten, perhaps twenty minutes. And, just as he was about to give up and go back inside, Batman would speak up from the shadows, step into the light like a phantom from thin air.

This time was no different. Gordon had switched on the signal over ten minutes ago. He put his hands in the pockets of his trenchcoat, turned and started for the door. Just as the Commissioner was reaching for the doorknob, he heard someone clear their throat.

Turning around, he saw Batman emerging from the darkest corner of the rooftop, the Dark Knight's entire body cloaked in his midnight-blue cape, only his exposed chin and mouth betraying the fact that he was human. He stepped easily across the roof, meeting Gordon in the middle. When Batman moved, surrounded by his cape, he didn't seem to touch the ground; it was as if the man was floating. He made no sound--none at all; that always amazed Gordon, no matter how many times he met with Batman.

"It's been a long time, Gordon," Batman said. Gordon walked up and stood three feet away from him.

"You're right; it has. It is you in there, isn't it?"

Batman nodded, looking down at himself. "It's me, Jim."

Gordon reached into the inside pocket of his trenchcoat. "I just wanted to be sure. Letting a stranger who I'd never met before play dress up with your costume and run around my city didn't do anything for my confidence in you."

"They weren't strangers, Gordon. You had met them both before. And, remember, I was a stranger to you too, once."

Gordon pulled an envelope from his pocket; it was addressed to Batman, care of the Gotham City Police Department. "You mean you aren't still one?" he commented as he passed the envelope over.

Batman took it an removed a single sheet of paper. He brought it up close to his face, and ran his gloved thumb over it carefully. "Laser paper," he stated in an analytical tone.

Gordon nodded in agreement. "He could've bought or stolen it from anywhere, even from inside the Asylum before he escaped."

"Right." Batman unfolded the paper; a short message was scrawled on it in blue ink. It read:

If you have the time,
I can tell you twenty stories.

                              --R & --B

Batman only had to puzzle over it briefly. He folded up the note, stuffed it back to the envelope, and handed it back to Gordon. He then turned and started back for the edge of the roof without another word. Gordon followed. "Do you know what it means?"

Slowing his stride, but not stopping, Batman turned his head back in Gordon's direction. "Yes. But I'm not telling you yet. Suffice it to say the Riddler isn't acting alone this time . . ."

Batman kept on walking, and seemed to walk right off the roof. Gordon followed along, stepping where he had stepped. Looking over the edge of the roof, Batman was nowhere to be found. "Not acting alone?" Gordon demanded from the darkness. "What the hell am I supposed to do with that?"

Of course, there was no answer. And, Gordon only half expected one.

Supermarket, Voyage Avenue, 1:05 p.m.

Nightwing and Robin were on the roof, watching as Batman swung over to the side of the City Archive building, then threw another line up to the roof of the adjacent Gotham National Bank main branch building and pushed off. He held the line in his hands, between his open legs as he approached the mid-point in his swing, then brought the line up over his head and brought his legs straight together as he began to climb. Bringing his legs up, Batman swung easily onto the roof of the supermarket.

"So, what's going on?" Robin asked immediately.

Batman looked back behind him; the Bat-signal flickered, and then disappeared. He turned back to Robin and Nightwing. "It's the Riddler; he escaped from Arkham a few hours ago."

Nightwing let out an exasperated sigh. "Well, it's nice to see the Penguin taking the security of his newest acquisition so seriously. Any details?"

Batman shook his head. "Nothing on the escape. I didn't stick around. He left a riddle, of course. Addressed specifically to me, and indirectly to the two of you."

Robin looked a bit surprised by that. "Us? As in, Nightwing and me?"

"Yes. Listen to the riddle: 'If you have the time, I can tell you twenty stories.'"

Nightwing folded his arms in thought. "That's not one of his more impressive efforts, is it? He's used that time thing before. It obviously means a clock tower."

Robin nodded in agreement. "Right; because of the 'stories' reference. He means a clock tower, twenty-stories high. Something's going to happen at a clock tower."

"Or we're supposed to go to a clock tower," Batman added. "There are three clock towers in Gotham City that are twenty-stories in height. There's one on the Phelps Tower on Angleford Street, another incorporated into the Harrison Building in Robinson Park, and the third is the Chrono Tower at Central Square."

Nightwing nodded. "Yeah, now I see what you mean. Three clock towers, three of us. How convenient."

Robin looked expectantly at Batman. "So . . . what now? Do we each take a clock tower?"

Batman nodded. "That's exactly what we do."

Nightwing didn't agree. He held up his hands. "Wait. Why can't we go together to each tower and face whatever's there as a team? Why go alone?"

"Because," Batman answered calmly, "it's what the Riddler wants. There's a reason he specified three separate locations. He means to split us up, and since we have no idea what he's planning, I believe it's best to do as he says."

Robin nodded. "I agree. If we all three show up at one tower, whoever's there could warn whoever's at the other locations."

Nightwing exhaled. "Great. Okay . . . so, who gets what tower? Do we go eeny-meeny-miney-mo? One-potato-two?"

Batman turned and started back for the edge of the roof. "I'm going to the Chrono Tower; it's in the most densely populated area. You two split up on the others. Keep radio contact." Batman shot off a grappling hook, and swung off.

Nightwing watched him until the Dark Knight blended away into the shadows. Turning to Robin, Nightwing said, "So . . . paper-rock-scissors?"

Robin smirked and pulled his grapple. "I'll take the Phelps Tower. Fair enough?"

Nightwing shrugged, and reached down to the utility compartments that circled his right calf. He removed his own grapple and began scanning the nearby buildings for a target. "Okay. Deal. I'll take the Harrison Building. See you after . . . whatever we're getting ourselves into."

Robin fired off his grapple. It took hold on the stone ledge of roof several hundred feet away, and Robin took the line taut in his hands. "See you, Nightwing."

Nightwing watched again, this time as Robin melted away in the darkness. He resisted the urge to talk to himself, and after a few seconds fired off his own grapple. In another moment, he swung off into the dark as well.

Arkham Asylum for the Criminally Insane, 1:16 a.m.

Mr. Cobblepot had gone home after the Riddler's "escape." This was not only so he could get some much-wanted rest, but also to avoid the uncomfortable questions by police. So, Quentin was left with the situation.

But, it wasn't that difficult of a situation. The asylum's generator died during the night, the computer network that controlled the security in the New Arkham wing went down as a result. The Riddler, who apparently didn't take his sedative, was the only inmate awake to take advantage of the breech. And, he did just that, surprising the guards outside. From there, he followed an easy path to freedom.

The cop who carried on the initial questioning seemed to take the story as it was given to him. He didn't probe too deeply, didn't press, didn't try to prove or disprove the statements Quentin gave him. But, when Detectives Bullock and Bock arrived, the interview became a bit more difficult. Questions like, "Why wasn't there a back-up power source?" or "Do you normally post inexperienced guards to look over your highest-risk inmates?" came up.

Quentin replied that, for the answers to those questions, the Detectives should consult the Asylum's Chief of Security, who wasn't currently on the premises. In fact, he was conveniently out of the country, taking a paid European vacation. The police weren't so easy-going all of sudden. But, what did it really matter? The Riddler would be back in his cell within twenty-four hours, if all went as planned. If Bane, Riddler, and company succeeded in killing Batman and his companions, then the Riddler would be caught by the police. Bane would vanish back to wherever he'd come from. If Batman survived, then he would most likely deliver the Riddler back to the police personally. Either way, the man's escape wasn't a real issue for Quentin.

The police were still lingering outside, but Quentin had managed to steal back into his office. The phone ran just as he was sitting down. He took his seat, and picked up the handset.

"Quentin," he greeted whoever was calling.

He heard the voice of Edward Yardley on the other end. "Quentin. Just checkin' in. We're all set up at the Harrison."

"Is this a land-line?"

"Yeah, it's a pay phone about half a block away. What, you think you're dealing with an amateur here?"

Quentin shook his head. "Well, fuck it. You can take an insult, right?"

"Good as anyone, if it comes from the right person."

"So, who else is where?"

"I just beeped Riddler; he's at the Phelps Tower. All set."

"And, Bane?"

"All set up at the Chrono. He insisted on taking that one, said he knew that was where Batman would show up."

"Just between us, that Bane gets under my goddamn skin. He acts so . . . superior, like he's asking for the boss's help as a favor to the boss."

There was a short period where neither man said anything. "Gotta get back. I'll check in afterwards, one way or the other."

The line clicked, then went dead. Quentin hung up as well, then threw his feet up on his desk and reclined in his chair. If this thing went good, Quentin would be credited as part of the team; if the whole plan fell apart, it would be Riddler or Bane's fault. What a great job . . .

Harrison Building, Robinson Park, 1:24 a.m.

As Nightwing had expected, the Harrison Building was dark and quiet. Harrison was an office building, renting out it's space to whoever was willing to pay. There were accounting firms, insurance offices, attorneys. On the ground floor was an ingeniously located office-supply store.

"According to the computer's information, the top three floors below the clock haven't been rented for the past several years," Nightwing heard Alfred report through his earpiece. "The other tenants have used the space for storage. I would be most cautious in these areas, sir."

Nightwing nodded as he looked up towards the steepled top of the building. "Roger, Alfred. Talk to you in a few."

"Good luck, sir."

Nightwing switched off the radio channel and pulled his grapple. He fired a line up to the ledge of a sixteenth-floor window, and pressed the Retract button to assist him in the climb. As the fingers of his right hand curled up over the window ledge at the top of his ascent, Nightwing touched the side of his mask with the first two fingers of his left, switching on the mask's night-vision lenses. The light from the pale moon filtering in through the window was magnified, the room inside lit by a pale green tint.

Nightwing situated himself on the sixteenth-floor ledge, balancing on one knee. After a moment, he stood. With a small hop up, he grabbed onto the window of the seventeenth story, and pulled himself up with his arms only, until the window was at eye-level. Inside, a group of three men paced back and forth across the store-room. There were cardboard boxes stacked everywhere, plenty of dark corners and hiding places; it was difficult to tell whether or not there could be more people inside. One thing was certain; the three that were visible weren't making any attempt to hide themselves. They weren't going for the element of surprise. In fact, it looked to Nightwing as if they were waiting to be surprised.

Far be it for me to disappoint them . . . Planting his feet against the wall of the building, he pushed away, swinging up. When he was halfway through the swing, Nightwing released the window ledge of the seventeenth floor, tucking into a ball. He went into a somersault, straightening as he reached the highest point in his climb and reaching out for the eighteenth story ledge. His hands found the mark, and he shifted his weight, changing the direction of his swing. His feet came back solidly, bracing against the side of the building once again.

Row of boxes stacked up to both sides of the window, forms a makeshift hallway; left side shorter than the right. Best to crash in, hit the floor, then dive over to the left behind them. If anyone's there, deal with him or them first, then take it from there. One step at a time.

Nightwing took a deep breath, held it, then pushed away from the building again. He straightened his legs and released his grip on the eighteenth story window, crashing through the glass of the seventeenth floor window feet-first. As soon as he was totally through the window, he shifted his weight, straightening himself parallel to the wall in a standing-up position. Just before he hit what he thought would be the ground, he caught sight of a box sitting right where his feet were headed. A box that he hadn't seen, and as a result he'd totally misjudged the landing. His feet crashed through the top of the box, which was full of novelty name glasses; each one had "Anne," or "Steve," or any other name you could think of printed on them in a bright red Roman font. Nightwing's weight smashed most of the glasses, and he totally lost his balance.

The three men he'd seen from outside opened fire on him with some very loud machine guns. So, Nightwing did the only thing he could do: He threw his arms around his head, got to his feet, and dove back out the window. Executing a somersault, he reached out and grabbed onto the ledge of the sixteenth story window just as it was rushing up past him. Pulling himself onto the ledge, he looked up: Naturally, one of the less-intelligent gunmen was leaning out the window, staring down at the darkness. "Where'd the son of a bitch go?"

Nightwing stood and leapt back up to the seventeenth story again, grabbing onto the window ledge with one hand, and grabbing onto the thug with the other. The gunmen was shoved first up, his head impacting with the bottom of the window pane, then back into the room. Nightwing sprung back through the window, stepping on the man's stomach hard, and snatching the gun form his hand. Tossing the gun out the window, Nightwing then started forwards towards the other two gunmen, who had wisely kept their distance from the window.

Both gunmen opened fire. Nightwing shielded his face, and felt the sting of bullets impacting with the kevlar on his arms and midsection. When he was three feet from one of the gunmen, Nightwing brought his right leg up and extended it fully in a mighty front-kick that sent the thug forcefully back into a stack of boxes filled with packs of ink pens. Turning his attention to the other gunman immediately, Nightwing took hold of the barrel of the gun, pointed it to the floor, then wrenched it from the man's grip, backhanding him across the face. That move was followed up by a hard thrust of the palm against the chin, then a knee to the stomach. The third gunmen collapsed to the ground, moaning in pain.

Nightwing took the guns of those two thugs and started back to the window. As he did, he heard something. It sounded like . . . rubber on concrete. There were others . . . at least three, maybe four.

There were four, two on either side of the "hallway" in front of the window. They appeared suddenly, opened fire immediately. Nightwing could've escaped out the window, started over again. But, that would take too much effort. Instead, he spun around and kicked over the wall of boxes stacked to his right, then dove over and down in that direction.

Front Liners, Nightwing thought as he landed on his hands and rolled over into a standing position. The Penguin and the Riddler . . . perfect.

There were seven Front Liners; three were down, four were left. One of them had followed the route Nightwing had created through the boxes, which was what Nightwing was hoping for. He floored that man first with a hard side-kick to the jaw. Turning around to face most of the room, he saw two of the remaining men coming at him. They wasted no time in opening fire with their machine guns, and they were smart enough to only aim for his head.

Nightwing rolled back over to the left, below the window, and pulled a batarang from a utility pocket around his calf. He slid back across the floor on his stomach, as low to the floor as possible, and flung the batarang at the two Front Liners. The projectile found its mark, striking and imbedding in the hand of one of the men, causing him to drop his gun. The second gunman looked briefly at his partner, and Nightwing sprung towards him. The Front Liner recovered and shot at Nightwing in mid-air. The bullet hit the kevlar of his arm at a distance of less than a foot, tearing through the armor and grazing the flesh. Nightwing floored the gunman, driving his fist down hard into the man's face, but not as hard as he could have.

There was one left, and, of course, he was nowhere to be seen.

Perfect, Nightwing thought as he stepped out and started to make his way around the room, his muscles tensed and ready to strike at the slightest indication of another person. Nightwing moved with long, light steps, one foot at a time. When he reached a corner, instead of stepping around at the mercy of whoever was on the other side, he eliminated the corner by knocking over the boxes. He'd done this three times already to three different corners. Every time, no one was there. This only served to turn up the anxiety level.

Nightwing continued on, knocking over boxes, taking out another hiding place, then another. If he didn't find the last Front Liner soon, he'd have to knock over every box in the room. Of course, it was most probable that the Front Liner was making himself a moving target, silently shifting from spot to spot whenever Nightwing got too close. Maybe this last one wasn't looking for a quick kill. But, if he was still here, he wasn't looking for a fast escape either.

It was just then that Nightwing realized something. Actually, "realize" was probably too weak a verb to describe what happened. Something hit him like one of those 16-ton anvils that Bugs Bunny was always dropping on poor, unsuspecting supporting characters. That something was the realization that, of all the Front Liners lying unconscious on the floor, Edward Yardley was the one who was still standing somewhere.

Yardley was the most intelligent and dangerous of all seven men. He wasn't the largest, the most physically imposing. He had basic combat training from the military, but that was it. That was most likely why he seemed to be trying so hard to avoid a physical confrontation. He was a never-miss shot with a gun, an expert on chemicals, explosives, ammunition. And, he liked to play games.

I hope he's having fun, Nightwing thought as he knocked another row of boxes over. There were still a lot of dark corners, and a lot of places for a man with a gun and a sharp mind to sit and wait.

Phelps Tower, 1:30 a.m.

Robin had seen the Riddler and several men in suits whom he didn't recognize peaking out the small square window at the top of the tower's giant clock face. They were waiting for someone, and weren't being too careful about hiding themselves. There was no alternative that he could see; Robin would have to go up to the clock and face whatever was there.

There were two ways: take the stairs inside, or climb up the outside. Normally, the second option would be the only option. Afterall, inside there were any number of things that could be booby-trapped, dozens of places for snipers and hidden assailants to camouflage themselves. But, in this case, it looked like the Riddler was expecting to see Robin (or someone in a costume) trying to enter through the window. And, taking the stairs was definitely preferable to climbing up outside and being shot in the head.

The easiest way inside was right through the front door. Frederick Phelps jr., or Little Freddy, as the media named him, had assumed that every criminal in Gotham would try to break in through his building's back door. So, that back door had been equipped with some of the most high-tech security and surveillance equipment available. Some of it wasn't even available to the public yet. The more cutting edge, the more the chance that it'd show up at Little Freddy's back door.

The front door was guarded by simple video equipment, and a crude contact-sensitive alarm. Easily disabled. And, there were guards, of course: one for each four floors. Three of those five were flunkies from the Police Academy, two were retired beat-cops in their sixties. Again, not a problem. But, that was the dilemma; the foreseeable obstacles weren't obstacles at all. It was whatever Robin couldn't predict that would do the most damage.

There was nothing else to do; Robin started for the front door. The front entrance of the Phelps Tower, like most office buildings in big cities, was entirely composed of glass set into steel frames. Tiny electronic sensors ran through the glass, making it impossible to cut your own entrance without tripping an alarm. But, so many buildings had this feature incorporated into their entrances that it was really only a rudimentary security procedure. It was bare minimum. There were also electronically controlled locks that could be accessed with either a key-card or entering a five-digit code into a number pad. The key-card access made it simple for any experienced hacker with a laptop to break in. The security of the Phelps Tower certainly made the owner and employees feel better, but to any criminal worth his salt, it was barely a consideration.

Robin stepped up to the front door, stopping several feet from the entrance. He touched a sensor on the edge of his mask, and in a moment he saw everything in infrared. To Robin's relief, but not surprise, there was no laser grid surrounding the door. He switched off his infrared and approached the door. When he was feeling along the concrete sides of the doorway, something caught his eye. That something was a small round hole bored into the side of the concrete. It was drilled into the wall at a 30 degree angle. Robin pulled a small flashlight from a storage cell on his right sleeve and shone it down in the small hole: the light reflected back at him.

There was a glass lens inside the hole. This meant that there was a laser grid in place; Robin noticed several more holes like this along both sides of the wall, in different spaces, and drilled in at various angles. The security, or at least this element of it, had been disabled. Uneasily, Robin put his hand on the handle of one of the glass doors, but hesitated to open it. It was very possible that the laser grid had been disabled just so that Robin would proceed without a sense of caution and trip the other alarms.

He stood there for almost a minute, indecisive. Robin wished he could at least have an idea of what would happen if he opened the door. Of course, there was no telling what waited for him inside. Robin realized that he was allowing for the fact that he would actually make it inside.

This is the Riddler, he thought as he shifted his grip on the door's handle. So where's the riddle? Whatever's waiting for me . . . it's inside. Robin wasn't happy about this conclusion, but at least he knew what to do now. Taking a deep breath, he pulled open the front door and stepped inside. . . . Nothing. No alarm. No trap. It this wasn't an invitation, then nothing would be.

When Robin stepped inside, the lobby was dark. A moment after, the lights in the ceiling flickered on, and the floor was brightly illuminated. There was a strip of dark red carpet running from the entrance up to the information desk that was set near the back wall of the cavernous lobby. To the right of this carpet was a rectangular, black magnetic sign. White letters attached to it's surface read:

WELCOME!
PLEASE SIGN IN AT THE INFORMATION DESK!!
THANK YOU!
--MANAGEMENT

The letters affixed to the sign were somewhat crooked, which suggested that whoever set it up was in a hurry. But, that wasn't surprising; the Riddler had only escaped less than two hours ago. Of course he would be hasty in setting his plan into motion--he would have no choice.

Robin approached the information desk; there was a paper note taped to the shiny pseudo-marble surface. Hastily scrawled in black ink, the note read:

<----This way to the express elevator!

This way to the stairs!---->

They can both take you to the same destination.

To the left of the long information desk was the express elevator. To the right, the doorway leading to the stairs. Which way? An elevator was a mechanical device, easy to booby trap. The stairs were undoubtedly safer. Under normal circumstances . . . Robin realized. Who knows what the Riddler had planned . . .

Robin picked up the note and started for the stairs. Halfway there, he stopped. Not sure why, but knowing he had to, Robin brought the note out again and flipped it over on the back side. Written in pencil was:

Remember, a little hard work never killed anyone.

What does that mean? He was headed for the stairs; climbing stairs was more work than riding in an elevator. What's the point? Robin was about to open the door to the stairwell when a thought struck him: what if he wasn't meant to ride the elevator? Instantly, he started back the other direction. He punched the up button on the elevator, and instantly the doors slid open. Robin was looking at the back wall of an empty elevator shaft. The car was nowhere to be seen. Leaning down, Robin saw the elevator itself sitting one floor below, on the basement level. The cables ran up from the top of the car to the top of the shaft, twenty floors up.

Robin looked at the note again; suddenly, the stairs didn't look like all that much of an exercise. Stuffing the note into his glove, he reached out and grabbed onto the bundle of cables, then stepped out into the shaft. Since there was no telling when the elevator would start up again, Robin began his climb vigorously in earnest. Instead of climbing all the way up on the cables, he dropped down a floor and stood on the top of the elevator. He fired a grapple up at the top of the shaft. The cord didn't reach the top, but it wrapped tight around the cables, about one floor below the clock chamber. Robin held on tight to the grappling gun and pushed the retract button.

The powerful spring in the grapple whisked Robin up towards the top, and he reached his grappling hook in just under eight seconds. From there, he reached up and took hold of the short ledge that jutted out from under the doors leading to the twentieth floor. Bringing both feet up to the ledge, Robin cautiously stood. He pressed his fingers into the small crack between the two sliding doors, and began to force them open. They wouldn't budge. Robin removed a thin metal projectile, shaped like a stylized R, and inserted the narrow point of one of the edges into the crack. He pried a half-inch opening between the doors; now they could be opened.

Immediately, Robin realized that there was no light coming from behind the doors. Of course, he was more than hesitant to open them now--not that he was exactly anxious before. He touched a sensor on his mask, and his nightvision switched on. But, all he saw was a thick green haze instead of a wall of black. The windows must have been blocked when he entered the building.

Okay, so he thought of the nightvision, Robin said to himself, But did he think of this one? Robin deactivated his nightvision, and switched to an infrared view. He saw everything according to the heat it emitted now. Ha! Robin thought, complimenting himself, or perhaps his luck. Didn't think so! The infrared lenses showed him five large red and yellow masses: people. All five were holding devices that were either gray or black, letting off very little heat. These were most likely metal; guns. There was also a faint orange glow near the middle of another large metal structure; someone was hiding behind something, against something.

Robin slid the doors open so that the crack between them was just over a foot and a half wide; he slipped through, then slid the doors shut tight again. The red masses were in motion, and they were moving with purpose. Great, Robin thought as he started to feel along the wall of the clock chamber, looking for a place to hide from whatever means of detection these men were using, maybe they did think of the infrared thing . . .

One of the red masses was beginning to float closer to Robin, raising its cold weapon in his direction. A gunshot yelled out, echoing off the walls. Robin dove hard to the left, sliding across the ground in the dark. He heard the bullet ricochet off of one of the concrete walls, then against something metal; there was a sharp DING.

Robin slid his knees up beneath him, then shifted to a squatting position and stood. He grabbed his head instinctively, letting out a cry of pain as his head struck something hard and sharp, like a hard-angled corner. He felt up above, and touched metal; he was touching the gears of the clock. Most of them were built into the ceiling of the clock chamber, but there were two that turned alongside the large pillar which in turn cranked all of the other gears into motion. Judging from his own height, Robin estimated that the two large gears along the pillar were about four feet off the floor, near the center of the clock chamber.

Another gunshot, another ricochet. Robin ducked under the large gear until his side was up against the center pillar. He saw glowing red feet beginning to surround him; so far, three pairs of them. "Who shot that last one?" said someone in an urgent whisper.

"That was me," answered another hushed voice. Robin found himself wondering why the thugs were going through the futile motions of lowering their voices; with the resonance of this concrete and metal room, the faintest whisper could be heard clearly in every corner.

"Well, did you hit him?"

Robin saw another set of feet come to stand around the large center gears. "I don't think so. Maybe he ducked under there."

Robin slid around to the other side of the pillar; he was now beneath the second of the two large gears. Only four of the five standing men were circling the gears, so an opening was left on this side. Taking the opportunity, Robin slid out that space between thugs, stood and turned immediately, ready for battle. He took the offensive immediately, kicking one of the red masses of heat squarely where his stomach should've been. The man doubled over, and Robin felt for his shoulders, taking firm hold and driving his knee into the thug's forehead.

Two of the remaining gunmen were behind Robin. He leaned forward and brought his left leg up, kicking first one then the other in the face. They stumbled back, and Robin threw the thug he was holding onto the floor; the gun clattered briefly beneath him. Robin kicked the two staggered thugs one after the other, the first one in the stomach, the second in the knee. He took their heads in either of his hands and smacked them hard together like two coconuts. The fourth of the five was approaching from behind the two that currently held Robin's attention; Robin shoved both men back into that one. All three stumbled to the floor.

The first of the thugs that Robin had taken down was up again, gun in hand. Robin spun a hard reverse kick into the man's midsection, then took him by his hair and ran him hard into the top of one of the gears. The man slumped over, his upper body laid out on the slowly turning gear. As the giant cog slowly rotated, the thug slid off onto the floor.

Robin stepped up onto the gear, and struggled a moment to find his balance in the dark. When his stance was steady, he waited for the fifth of the red heat masses to approach. Instead of walking up to point blank range, the remaining thug drew a bead on Robin and began firing rapidly at him. Robin flipped backwards off of the cog, landing solidly on the floor. He fumbled a batarang out of his belt and flung it hard in the direction of the red shape. The batarang impacted in the man's leg; the infrared showed a bright, bright red region near where the projectile had found it's mark.

Robin jumped back onto the gear, rolled over to the other side, and clamped both hands onto the wounded thug's weapon, wrenching the gun from his grasp. Robin drove a knee into the thug's stomach, then yanked the batarang from his thigh, eliciting an agonized yell. Robin clubbed him hard in the back of the head, and the man collapsed to the ground.

One of the three Robin had floored earlier was back up. He grabbed Robin in a bear-hug from behind, and attempted to squeeze the life from his body. Robin stepped his right foot forward, and leaned over, flipping the thug over. The man hit the floor, landing on his rear-end. Robin wrapped a chin-lock around the thug, then pulled a small glass capsule from his utility belt. He cracked the glass between his first two fingers, and a gas that was invisible in the light or the dark escaped into the thug's nose. The man fell unconscious almost immediately, and Robin pushed him forward.

The next instant, the lights were back on. Robin quickly squeezed his eyes shut and switched off the infrared. He looked at the clock chamber for the first time as it really was. Five men were lying on the floor. And, someone was clapping.

"An impressive display for one so young and baselessly confident," came the voice of the Riddler. Robin turned around and saw the green spandex-clad form of Edward Nygma, standing in the clock's automated control booth. The sixth heat mass I saw . . .

Robin took in a breath and tried to say his piece with that confidence the Riddler had just credited him with; he hoped it wasn't without foundation. "What is all this, Riddler? Why the three locations? Why split us up?"

The Riddler stepped out from the booth and strolled around, circling the central pillar. Robin began circling in the same direction, keeping his enemy on the opposing side of the gears. "This is but a single facet of a much larger plan." The Riddler thought a moment on that, then corrected himself. "Perhaps not that large a plan, at least not as schemes go. But, suffice it to say, there is more to this than you and I and your two masked partners."

"What more is there?" Robin asked in a probing tone.

The Riddler wore an understated grin. "Oh, what a riddle that one is. If only I could tell you . . . but if I gave you all the answers, where would be the fun?"

Robin clenched both hands into fists. He didn't like having to interview this psychopath. "What's the point of your game this time? What's at stake?"

The Riddler stopped, grinning widely now. He shook his head. "That's what makes this entire operation such a beautiful one. Nothing is at stake here . . . except you."

Robin stopped in the middle of a step, almost stumbling. "Then . . . what do I have to do?"

The Riddler stepped back into the control booth and returned in a moment carrying an iron box. Robin cringed when he saw that a bundle of five wires extended out a hole in the back of the case, running back into the booth. The box was sat down on the floor, and opened. Inside was a red digital clock display, beside that was a ten-digit numeric keypad. This didn't look good.

"I've had to surmise your age, since that mask does a commendable job of preventing one securing a positive identification of you. I assume that you have either very little or no experience with the Algebra area of mathematics. If not, then this whole exercise is pointless, I suppose."

Robin watched as the Riddler pushed the 3 key on the timer, then stepped away. A small jet mounted to the inside surface of the box shot out a fast, steady stream of thick black smoke. Robin heard the voice of the Riddler. "I'd advise you not to move until the smoke dissipates; the bomb is rigged with a motion-sensor that will detonate the explosive if it detects movement before the air is clear. That shouldn't take more than three minutes. After that, you will have an additional two minutes thirty seconds to solve the little expression I've left you inside the timer. The correct solution to the equation will disarm the bomb when entered in the keypad. I would tell you good luck, but since I will be a safe distance away by the time the time has expired, it doesn't really matter. Farewell."

Robin couldn't be sure, but the Riddler was probably already gone; he wasn't saying anything.

Harrison Building, 1:34 a.m.

Nightwing had taken down nearly half of the walls of boxes in just a few minutes. If Yardley was around, he'd soon be found--not that Nightwing was looking forward to this. He stopped where he was--near the center of the room--and looked all around, turning in a slow circle. All he saw were the unconscious bodies of a few of the Front Liners. No one was moving.

He took two more steps forward, then stopped. Wait . . . something was moving. Someone was moving. It had been a shadow, a glimpse out of the corner of Nightwing's eye. A flash of movement . . . ahead to the right. Nightwing immediately pivoted on his right heel, spinning around and starting back in the direction he'd been coming from. There was a pile of boxes up near the north side of the building; Nightwing was walking around towards it, moving south. When he reached the wall, he'd turn and head back north, towards the pile. If someone was there, they wouldn't be able to make a move without being noticed.

As Nightwing approached, something behind the pile did move. Nightwing recognized him as Greg Huxtous . . . and Greg had gotten himself another gun. He opened fire suddenly, spraying ammunition straight ahead. Nightwing dove to the left, landing on a pile of boxes. The cardboard crates weren't empty, either; Nightwing wasn't sure what was in them exactly . . . but it was hard, whatever it was. He kept with his momentum, rolling forward onto his hands, then flipping up to his feet and sprinting for the wall of the room that faced the east. Huxtous kept spraying lead from his machine gun, and Nightwing charged for a stack of boxes that had escaped his search so far. He leapt, diving over the stack head-first.

Nightwing landed on his hands and rolled over onto his feet. He was about to stand when he saw something glisten in the corner of his eye. In a flash, he turned to see Edward Yardley squatting a few feet away, Uzi in hand. Instinctively, Nightwing's leg shot out, clipping the muzzle of the gun. Yardley squeezed the trigger, and the gun fired a flurry of bullets up over Nightwing's head. Nightwing leaned forward, grabbing Yardley's wrist to neutralize the weapon with one hand, and punching him hard in the jaw with the other. Yardley flew back, and Nightwing grabbed the gun, hurling it behind him.

Huxtous came bounding across the room, gun blazing. Nightwing grabbed Yardley by the collar, pulled him up and stood behind him. Seeing his leader, Huxtous stopped shooting immediately. Nightwing shoved Yardley forward hard, and followed him, kicking the gun from Huxtous' hand, then elbowing him in the cheek, punching him in the chin, and wrenching his arm over his head. Nightwing held the arm and flipped Huxtous to the ground. He pinned Huxtous to the ground, pulling the man's arms behind his back and tying them tightly together with several lengths of poly-fiber cord.

As he was tying Yardley's hands, Nightwing looked over at Huxtous and grinned. "Don't feel too bad . . . you just met me. You'll get used to losing after awhile."

Phelps Tower, 1:35 a.m.

The slip of paper Robin had found in the timer's case had this Algebra problem scribbled on it:

237 + X(22) - (7 x 7) = 5,567,645

   Find the value of "X"

Initially, Robin had tried to contact Alfred for help with the solution, but the timer emitted a high-frequency radio wave that disrupted any signals he tried to send. The wave also disrupted the uplink from his palm-top to the main computer. Without the uplink, the palm-top was useless, equipped with only rudimentary programming that was necessary for start-up and the initiation of the link.

Robin quickly sat back in front of the timer and squinted his eyes shut. "Please excuse my dear Aunt Sally," he thought. "Order of op . . . first parentheses. All right, Drake . . . this is easy," he mumbled to himself. "Forty-nine. Then, get rid of the two-thirty-seven . . . just . . . only have to worry about that six-forty-five on the end for this one . . . four-oh-eight! Okay . . . " Robin pressed his right thumb and index finger to his forehead, then gently massaged the bridge of his nose. "Minus forty-nine . . . yes . . . okay, five-five-six-seven-three-fifty-nine. And, that's divided by the twenty-two, right? Right . . . great . . . No!! Plus the forty-nine. Add the forty-nine . . . so it's four-fifty-seven instead of three-fifty-nine . . . Now divide . . . dammit . . ." Robin glanced at the timer's display: 37 seconds.

Robin ripped a roll of paper from a utility compartment on the top of his glove, as well as a small pencil. He set about doing the long division. "Dammit! There's a decimal . . . what if there's a decimal? . . . "

Finally, this is the answer he arrived at:

253,066.2273

"What about the decimal?" he asked himself frantically, seeing the number 15 become 14 become 13 on the timer display. He then took another glance at the timer: it was only a four-digit display. "Four digits. The first four digits . . . that has to be it." With only a 9 left on the counter, Robin punched in the numbers 2, 5, 3 . . . then paused. "This has got to be it," he told himself again. With six seconds left, Robin entered the 0. . .

After a heart-stopping pause . . . the timer's counter went blank. Robin fell back, lying on the floor, the timer just inches from his toes. He breathed an exasperated sigh of relief. Then, he sat up and realized that he had only six seconds left to live before he punched the 0. And, if the bomb had exploded, not only would Robin have been killed, but so would the five unconscious thugs that had helped to "soften up" the Boy Wonder for the Riddler's actual, more psychological assault.

Not thinking anymore, Robin got to his feet, sent a message to the police, and set about tying up the five men on the floor.

Chrono Tower, Gotham Central Square, 1:37 a.m.

Bane was inside; Batman could feel it. The feeling had nothing to do with his years of training, his honed instincts, his observation of the situation. It was something that Batman just knew. There was an undeniable connection between the two men; their lives had become intertwined before they'd even met face to face. Now, for the first time since they'd found themselves on the same side against a gang of venom-enhanced thugs, they were about to meet again, this time most assuredly as enemies.

The Chrono Tower had been built twenty years ago, when Central Square was totally re-built. Before, the place had been patterned after New York's Time Square, with businesses and theaters; a place of commerce. After the re-design, Central Square was a pure, unabashed tourist attraction. It was the only part of Gotham that the city government went out of it's way to keep clean. Central Square was always the shining crown jewel of the city, and it had an even more undeniably artificial atmosphere than the borough of Roxbury.

Central Square was composed basically of museums and tourist information centers. The Chrono Tower's first fifteen floors made up an enormous museum dedicated to the building of some of Gotham's most famous monuments. There were floors dedicated to the Gotham Twin Towers, the Flugenheim Museum, the Monarch Theater, City Hall, the County Courthouse, even a floor recounting the design and construction of the Chrono Tower itself. The top four floors below the clock was just office space and storage for the various museum exhibits.

There was no telling where Bane was in the building, or if he was alone, or even what he had in mind. Whatever it was, it almost certainly centered entirely on Batman himself. Of all the macabre villains Batman had stared down in his career, Bane was the man who stood out as the one enemy who wished more than anything else to do harm to Batman. It was the most personal of all vendetta's against Batman. Even the Joker was more interested in the games, the strange euphoria he seemed to get from committing those awful crimes than he was in Batman himself. Batman was always merely a foil, something for others to try to run down in pursuit of a larger goal.

Not with Bane. Never with Bane; all he saw was Batman. But, if that was still the case, why wouldn't Bane try to break into the Batcave, face the Dark Knight one on one. Why bring in the Riddler? Why involve Robin and Nightwing? The answer, if it was here, would be inside the Chrono Tower.

There was a window in the clock-face, right below the number 12. That would be the easiest entrance. Batman was looking at the Chrono Tower from across the street, the roof of the Museum of Industry. He took aim at the center of the giant clock, where the hands came together, and fired a grapple. The grappling hook caught the edge of the bottom of the hour-hand, and clamped down hard. Batman fastened the other end of the cord to the roof of the Museum, then took hold of the taut line and stepped off of the roof.

He moved up towards the clock face along the cord, hand over hand. The steepness of the angle of the climb became very apparent about mid-way through, but it required only a bit more effort on Batman's part. He reached the center of the clock face and pulled himself up to stand precariously on the edges of the hands. From there, he reached up to the ledge of the window and pulled himself up to look inside. The clock chamber was dark, of course. But, it was lit up the next second by gunfire. Machine guns, high caliber. Batman ducked down, kneeling on the clock hands and preparing to slide back down, either to the Museum's roof, or down to street level.

The gun flash had revealed at least four figures inside the clock chamber. Probably generic thugs, Batman thought to himself. The Penguin owns Arkham now . . . I'd say the Riddler's escape almost ensures his involvement. That would certainly explain where the gunmen had come from.

Batman gripped his line again and planted his feet against the surface of the clock face. Before he could push off, another round of gunfire flew at him, this time from the roof of the Museum of Industry. Batman felt the taut cord in his hand go slack. With only a fraction of a second to decide options, Batman instinctively leapt straight up. His fingers caught the bottom of the 2 in the number 12; the numbers jutted out two inches from the clock face. Using this uncertain grip, Batman took one hand from the 2 and reached for his grapple. He found it, and fired up at the steeple that crowned the Chrono Tower. The cord wrapped around the ten-foot metal point several times before the grapple grabbed on. Batman coiled the cord around his right wrist several times, then started his climb. In seconds, he was holding onto the steeple at the top of the tower.

Looking down, he could see that two of the gunmen from inside the clock were already climbing out the window and up to the steeple in pursuit. It was beginning to look like these were more than generic thugs. One of them opened fire. Batman felt the sting of bullets impacting with the kevlar material of his tunic, and began searching for an escape. The headquarters of the Gotham City Historical Society was thirty feet across and about one-hundred feet down. But, it was the only immediately-seen alternative. Batman clamped a grapple onto the steeple, took the cord firmly in his hand, and leapt out into space.

The freefall lasted for almost a second. The cord snapped taut, and Batman let go before the recoil hit. He fell again, grabbing the edges of his cape. The cloak billowed out behind him, catching the air like a parachute, slowing the fall. Batman hit the roof feet-first, then rolled forward until his momentum was gone. He stood, and looked back.

He felt the butt of a gun smack him hard across the face, then again in his stomach. Batman stepped back and looked at his attacker: one of the men who had been climbing up from the window in the clock face. How had he gotten down here so fast? No time for that now. The gunman had just hit Batman in the jaw with the gun; now he fired it. Batman stepped forward, ducked down, and then swept up and forward, taking the gun with his right hand and uppercutting the man with his left, all in one fluid motion. The gunman staggered back, but soon recovered and threw his right hand hard at Batman. The punch was blocked easily, and Batman fired back with a knee to the gut and a powerful backhand against the face that knocked the man off his feet.

Two more men landed on the roof. Batman looked with astonishment as they ran towards him, guns blazing. He looked beyond the two men for a moment, and saw how they'd made the distance from the Chrono Tower to here in such a short time: a long cord running from a hook imbedded in the roof of the Historical Society all the way up to the window of the clock face. They fired their own line.

They fired their own line, and had done so entirely without Batman's notice. You're too preoccupied with Bane. Stop it. Focus on the task in front of you.

The two new gunmen opened fire. Batman turned and ran for the edge of the roof. He dove over, flipping around in the air and reaching up with his arms as he cleared the edge of the roof. His fall lasted less than a half-second, as he hands grabbed the parapet. He now hung over the edge, his back against the building, his hands up over his head, holding on for his life.

Footsteps. Batman brought his legs up over his head, onto the roof. His feet grabbed the weapon of one of the gunmen between them and twisted it away. The gun dropped off the roof and clattered to the alley below. Batman, fighting blind, landed a square kick to the jaw of the disarmed assailant that sent him staggering back several feet. That's it. Don't run; turn it around. Take the offensive and end this right now.

Batman pushed his legs up all the way onto the roof and rolled into a standing position. The second gunmen was behind him. Batman smacked the back of his fist into the attacker's nose, and while the man was blinded by his rapidly forming tears, the Dark Knight brought his left leg around behind those of the thug, then held the man by the shoulders, shifting his weight and throwing him hard to the ground. The gunman hit his head on the roof and fell unconscious.

There had been others, Batman had seen. But, they were gone now. Bane wasn't here, either. But he had been. Batman had felt it.

Beneath Wayne Manor, 4:07 a.m.

Bruce was still wearing the Batman costume, but had removed the cowl; it hung behind his head against the cape. On the television was WWGC News Overnight, with Michael Chen reporting. The barrel-chested, tan Oriental spoke with a light, almost falsetto tone. Dick often found him quite amusing. "We here at News Overnight have been informed several minutes ago that the police have completed questioning of Edward Nygma, and have returned him to his cell in Arkham Asylum. Nygma, known to most of us in the media as the notorious Riddler, escaped several hours ago and apparently was responsible for planting a bomb in the Phelps Tower. Early reports are conflicting, but apparently the Batman had a hand in diffusing the explosive device."

Bruce turned the volume down on the television and caught a glimpse of Tim pulling his left shoe on as he hopped out of the vault, Robin suit folded and under his right arm. He slipped on the shoe, then started for the brightly-lit tunnel that opened up in the wall of the Cave to the left of the spiral staircase. The tunnel would take him across to his own property without a chance of being seen by the security of either Wayne Manor or Drake Mansion, thus helping his return home stay a conspicuous one.

"I'm outta here, Bruce. I can still catch another three and a half hours before I have to get up tomorrow."

"Good-night, Tim. See you tomorrow."

Tim stepped one foot into the tunnel, then stopped. He turned back around and looked at Bruce, who was sitting quietly in front of the computer terminal. "So, Bruce . . ."

"Yes?" Bruce looked at his partner; the boy seemed uncomfortable about something. "What is it, Tim?"

Tim tried to speak, but stopped himself. He stammered a moment, then pointed back absently into the tunnel. "Oh, well . . . it's just that there's a . . . bulb out near the middle of the tunnel. I . . . we ought to change that sometime tomorrow."

Bruce nodded. "That's all?"

Tim started into the tunnel right away. "Yeah," he said back. "'Night, Bruce."

Bruce listened to Tim's footsteps echo through the tunnel until they were no longer audible. When he knew he was alone, Bruce stood and pulled the cowl back over his face. He strode out, away from the computer terminal, and stood in the center of the Cave's main plateau. When he spoke, it was with a dark anticipation. "Come out now, you animal."

For a moment, there was absolute silence. Nothing. And then, Bane stepped out of the shadows that hung near the entrance to the vault. He stopped, and stood ten feet from Batman, eyeing his opponent from behind the reflective red eye shields of his mask.

"How long have you been here?" Batman asked, muscles aching for action but not moving an inch.

"Since you triumphed at the clock tower. I wished to see you in action from afar once more before I killed you."

Batman looked grimly at the shadows from where Bane had come. "You could have grabbed Robin back there, killed him. If you truly hate me so much, why pass on such a crushing blow?"

"My business in this place is not with Robin. Nor is it with the other vigilante with whom you consort. It has never been. My reason for being here is you."

"Then, the Riddler's escape? Working with Cobblepot?"

"If you suspect that I hoped to eliminate both of your partners, then I must admit the notion held some faint appeal. But, it wasn't about separating you three from each other; it was about separating you from them."

"So you could watch."

Bane nodded. "And remember for all time what it was that I would be destroying this night. The last time we met in this arena, I was an arrogant man controlled by a foreign influence. Now, I am free of the hold of venom. My mind is clear, as is my objective."

"How comforting to see that the objective hasn't changed," Batman said, spitting out the words. "You don't think it's arrogance to--"

"Silence!! This is not a time for discussion. You have escaped death many times due to the mistakes made by your enemies, their lack of foresight. This time, if you survive, it will not be because of my underestimation. This time, your life depends entirely on you."

Bane sprung forward with alarming quickness. He was on Batman before it was even clear what was happening, pinning the Dark Knight to the ground, his huge hands around his neck. Bane seemed intent on making this quick. Batman wasn't; he clamped onto Bane's wrists and pulled with all his might, forcing the huge intruder to release his grip with sheer strength. With his neck free, Batman slid between his enemy's legs, still holding his wrists. Batman stood up behind Bane and jerked his hands up hard. Bane fell forward, his head taking most of the impact against the stone floor.

Batman climbed onto Bane's back, holding him down and bringing his wrists together. When the Dark Knight reached back into his belt for a length of cord to bind the monster's hands, Bane struck, grabbing Batman by the utility belt and pulling him forward. Batman hit the floor and rolled, standing and turning around to face Bane again. Bane stood and advanced slowly. Batman moved back and to the side, trying to keep as much distance from Bane as possible. The intruder was growing angry, but he wouldn't get sloppy; he was far too intelligent for that. Angry or calm, Bane was always calculating and in control. That's what made him so dangerous.

Both men moved opposite one another, keeping approximately a seven-foot circle between them. Bane stepped into the center of that invisible circle and reached out for Batman. He managed to grab Batman by one of his shoulders, but the Dark Knight kept the other side free, soon pulling away. Instead of retreating, Batman dropped to the floor, kicking Bane hard in the stomach with one leg, and then sweeping the big man off his feet with the other. Bane hit the cave floor hard, taking the full brunt of the fall on the small of his back.

Bane was visibly shaken by the fall, and Batman took full advantage of the bigger man's momentary lapse, climbing onto Bane's chest and driving a hard right fist into his masked face. Batman gathered up the top of Bane's tight-fitting shirt and lifted his massive chest up from the ground, then slammed him back down hard. "They're going to come for you, Bane," Batman said bitingly. Bane responded by bringing up his left hand and backhanding his enemy across the face. Batman's head jerked violently to the side, but he held his ground, responding with a hard backhand of his own. "They're going to come for you and take you away--" Batman continued in an angry, taunting tone, "--and lock you up in a cage where you belong. And this time they'll keep you there for the rest of your life."

Batman brought Bane up to him and headbutted the big man hard. Bane fell back, dazed. "And if they ever do let you out, you'd better remember . . . I'll be waiting for you." Batman's right fist drew back and crashed into Bane's skull again and again. The Dark Knight let the rage that had been welling up within him escape through his blows; all the anger and frustration and regret that had built up inside him since the day these two men first met was released, bit by bit with each crushing punch.

Punch after punch, Batman felt his knuckles going numb--one might have been broken, but he didn't care. Suddenly, Bane's left hand snapped up, catching Batman's hand in mid-air. Bane squeezed and twisted, threatening to crush everything below the wrist. Batman grabbed Bane's mask with his left hand and smacked the monster's head back into the floor of the cave. Bane held his grip, and Batman pushed his head back against the floor yet again. Bane reached up and caught Batman by the left arm as well, brought his feet up to the Dark Knight's stomach, and flipped him back over his head onto the floor.

Bane rolled over onto his stomach and reached out, grabbing Batman by the ears of his cowl and slamming his head back into the floor. Bane crawled forward, driving his forearm hard into Batman's midsection. Again, then again he pounded Batman's stomach. In response, Batman swung his legs up around Bane's head, wrapping his powerful thighs around his opponent's neck and forcing Bane off of him. Holding Bane's head still firmly between his legs, Batman began once again pummeling the bigger man's head, hoping to knock his adversary into unconsciousness.

Bane planted his hands on Batman's legs, then forced them apart with sheer strength. Once he was free from Batman's hold, Bane turned around and took him by the shoulders, throwing him down onto the floor and pinning him down. Bane drew his fist back and drove it down into Batman's skull. The Dark Knight turned his head to the side at the last moment, and Bane's powerful fist only landed a glancing blow. Angered by the resistance, Bane took hold of Batman's neck once again and began lifting and pushing his head into the floor. As he did so, Bane began to mumble. Batman was dazed, beginning to slip in and out of consciousness--he couldn't quite make out what Bane was saying, or who he was talking to.

"Can you see it? Are you watching me, bastard? Do you see what you should have done?" Batman closed his eyes, then opened them, then closed them again. Each time, it took longer for him to open his eyes. "Can you see it, Father?"

Batman forced himself into consciousness. Bane's father? No time to ponder the meaning of all this now; the enemy was distracted--now strike! Batman drew back his fist and crashed it into Bane's jaw, throwing the big man back. Again, Batman sent his fist into the enemy's face. Bane stood and staggered backwards. "Watch it, Father. See what should always have been . . ."

Batman took a step forward and threw another punch, connecting with Bane's stomach. The big man doubled over, and Batman landed a sharp uppercut that knocked Bane off his feet. Batman walked up and stood over his fallen opponent. "Your father isn't watching tonight, Bane. There's no one left."

Batman turned on his heel and started back for the computer terminal. With Batman's back turned, Bane rose steadily to his feet and charged up behind him. Batman turned to see his risen opponent approaching, enraged. Bane grabbed Batman by the cape and threw him forward, driving his head into one of the keyboards mounted into the computer console. Wasting no time, Bane took Batman by the head and threw him hard against the row of small monitors to the left of the control console.

"Murcielago!!" Bane screamed, grabbing Batman by the shoulders of his cape and starting towards the edge of the cave plateau. Batman was dragging his feet, forcing Bane to bear the whole of his weight. "Now I will end the curse of your existence!"

Bane stopped at the edge of the plateau and lunged forward, throwing Batman over the edge. Bane hadn't noticed that Batman was holding onto his shirt. The Dark Knight landed still on the plateau, lying on his back. The momentum of that maneuver carried Bane forward over the edge. He fell silently into the darkness of the un-lit secondary plateau. The only noise was the sound of his body impacting with the limestone.

Batman scrambled to his feet and ran to the elevator. "Harold! Stay inside! Don't come out!" he yelled as the elevator hit the second level. He stepped out and flipped on the lights, then charged out onto the plateau. He stopped short, almost tripping himself. Bane was gone. There was a small stain of blood on the stone where he had fallen, and a faint trail running from the stain to the edge of the plateau. Several hundred feet below the Cave's secondary plateau was a jagged natural floor that Batman had never utilized. If Bane had gone down there, he was certainly dead.

Batman pulled off his cowl and let himself collapse to the floor. He was injured in the face and chest, but his exhaustion was far more prevalent now. As he fell asleep, Batman's thoughts were filled with the face of Bane. Even though it was impossible, Batman knew he would see the face of his enemy again.

He could feel it.