BATMAN: The New Continuity

Tim knew that Mrs. McIlvaine was shaking him, yelling at him to wake up. But he ignored her, somehow able to repress the grin that threatened to overtake his face. Finally, after she threatened to summon his father, Tim lazily opened his eyes. He looked up at the portly housekeeper with tired eyes, as if nothing had been happening. "What do you want?" he asked, trying not to sound too obnoxious. It was early, afterall.

"Get up, Timothy!" she called in her piercing Scottish accent, yelling at Tim as if he were outside in the yard. "It's nearly quarter after eight! Your father'll be expecting you!"

Tim sat up, supporting himself on his hands. "They serve breakfast at that place until, like, ten o'clock he said. I could've stood a few more minutes."

The housekeeper planted her square fists against her wide hips and sighed indignantly. "You need a shower, ruffian."

"Right, right. I'll be in and out in five minutes. Just lemme have a few to get up, okay? I can't feel my legs yet."

Mrs. McIlvaine turned and walked out the door, pulling it closed by the knob. "I'll be back in ten minutes; you'd best be ready to go by then," she warned as the door latched shut. Tim rolled out of bed and dragged himself into the bathroom. He turned on the shower, hot. Instead of climbing in right away, he hopped up and sat on the edge of the counter, closing his eyes to gather his thoughts a moment.

It'd been almost a week ago that Tim's dad had come home from breakfast with Dana, his young fianc�, raving about the exquisite cheese croissants from a place called Gatsby's. Jack Drake had claimed it was the best breakfast he'd ever eaten. But, the croissants were only served as part of breakfast, and breakfast at Gatsby's was only served until ten in the morning. It took about a forty-minute car ride to get there, which meant getting up early was a must.

But it was Sunday. Isn't this the day of rest? Tim asked himself as he stepped down onto the floor and climbed into the shower. I'll bet God didn't get up early for breakfast on that first Sunday. For a brief moment, Tim found himself wishing he were God, albeit for a somewhat petty reason. Oh, I can't help it, Tim explained to himself, I'm tired for . . . goodness sake.

6753 Phelps Avenue, Cleveland, Ohio, 9:33 a.m.

Jean-Paul had slept from 2:50 p.m. on Saturday to 8:30 a.m. this Sunday morning. He needed the sleep, welcomed it. It had been unexpectantly dreamless, quiet and peaceful. Jean-Paul had anticipated a restless, fitful night; he had finally caught up to the man he'd been hunting for weeks, the man who viciously murdered his own son, raping and leaving him to die in the woods.

Victor Benson, alias Victor Bartog, would be leaving his home in a few minutes to go to his job as a groundskeeper at Cleveland Stadium. There was a day-game today, beginning at 1:00 p.m., against the Baltimore Orioles. Benson would have to be there a few hours early to help prepare the field.

Jean-Paul was sitting on a wooden bench across the street from Victor Benson's apartment building, waiting. He wasn't sure why he was here, or what he was going to do--it was obvious that attacking the man in broad daylight, out of costume, would be unacceptable. So, for now, Jean-Paul was just waiting.

It had been Diane Benson's wish that her son's death be avenged by the death of his killer. She, a police officer, had approached Jean-Paul and asked him in no uncertain terms to find her ex-husband and kill him. She wanted a justice that the law didn't seem able to provide. But, Jean-Paul wasn't sure if he wanted Azrael to be the one who doled out that justice. The last time Jean-Paul let himself take a life, it began a snowball effect that nearly destroyed his sanity. Azrael, as a presence, was almost another personality. He was Jean-Paul Valley, but with one difference: he was competent. All of the reflexes, intuition, skills that Jean-Paul possessed, they were Azrael. And, when kept in check, he was a helpful presence--a potentially tremendous force for good. But, when allowed to go too far--when allowed to go so far as kill another human being--the consequences could be disastrous.

But what of justice? Should Jean-Paul put his own concerns ahead of a mother's request for retribution?

Was murdering the murderer really the only justice? What of the justice of law? Of God? Was killing motivated by morality any different or better than killing motivated by rage and lack of control?

Too many questions, Jean-Paul thought to himself, putting his palm to his forehead. He stuffed his hands into the pockets of his dirty-green jacket and resumed his waiting. It was approximately ten minutes later when the front door to 6753 Phelps Avenue opened, and a man stepped out. He was of average height, had a slight beer-belly but was otherwise thin, and had a slightly thinning head of hair. His face was long, flat, his nose coming almost to a point, his eyes deep-set and close together.

Victor Benson. Jean-Paul stood from the bench and started down the sidewalk in the same direction Benson was walking. When he was a few hundred feet ahead of him, Jean-Paul crossed the street and started back down the other direction on the opposite sidewalk. When he began drawing closer to Benson, Jean-Paul lowered his eyes to the sidewalk and stared straight at the ground. When they reached one another, the two men bumped shoulders.

"'Scuse you," Benson mumbled, under his breath.

Jean-Paul stopped and looked back; Benson kept on walking. "Pardon? Did you say something to me?" Jean-Paul asked. Victor Benson stopped walking and turned around. He looked at Jean-Paul a moment, then seemed to forget whatever he was about to say.

"Nah," he said. "'s nothing. Forget it." He turned and started walking again. Jean-Paul watched him go until he turned at the corner and started up towards the bus stop on Washington Street. When he couldn't be seen anymore, Jean-Paul crossed the street again and walked back to his hotel.

Apartment of Dick Grayson, 10:15 a.m.

Alfred took two glasses from the cupboard and turned on the faucet. He held his hand in the water until it was cold, then filled both glasses up to half an inch below the rim. Alfred sat one glass in the center of the table, and kept the other one for himself, taking a small sip.

Dick walked out of the bathroom. He was wearing a dark blue single-breasted suit and a very light-blue shirt underneath, the collar open and an untied dark blue necktie hung on his neck. Dick walked over to the table and picked up the glass. He took a sip. "Thanks," he said, holding up the glass and nodding at Alfred. "I mean, thanks for going with me today, not for the water." He took another sip from the glass. "Well, thanks for the water too."

Alfred shook his head. "No need for thanks, Master Dick. I'm actually pleased you'll be attending the ceremony at all."

Dick raised his eyebrows sarcastically. "Oh yeah," he said, taking in another mouthful of water, "big step forward."

Alfred stepped forward and put his hand supportingly on Dick's shoulder. "I'm as serious now as I'm capable of being, sir. And, I want you to know how proud I am of you--how you're dealing with things. You've held yourself together these past days with a dignity that most men in your situation would be envious of."

Dick smiled self-consciously. "I don't think it's been quite that easy, Alfred."

The butler shook his head matter-of-factly. "No," he stated. "No, I don't believe it has been easy. That's where the part about dignity comes in."

"Thanks." Dick patted Alfred's hand, then gently slid it off his shoulder. "I'm not sure if I needed that, but I appreciate it."

Alfred smiled. "You needed it, Master Dick. And I am only too happy to oblige." Alfred sat his glass down on the table and stepped into the living room. Dick threw his head back and finished off the last of his water, taking his and Alfred's glass and placing them in the sink. Alfred returned, wearing his jacket. "Shall we go, then?"

Dick stepped past Alfred into the living room, grabbing his house-keys from the coffee table, then opening the door. "We taking the black Rolls?"

Alfred stepped out into the hallway. "I thought it would be appropriate."

Dick pulled his door shut and locked it, pocketing the keys. They walked together to the top of the stairs. As they started down, Dick sighed and looked over at Alfred. "Dammit . . . I hate funerals, you know?"

Alfred nodded. "Yes, sir."

Eternal Peace Haven for the Deceased, 11:58 a.m.

The funeral was over; Heidi Barrell was six-feet beneath the ground, beside her husband. Alfred's Rolls Royce was parked two-hundred yards away outside the cemetery gate; he and Dick were slowly pacing towards it. Dick had looked at the ground for the entire service, never looking up, never saying anything. He remained quiet on the walk back.

Dick slowed his already unhurried steps at the sound of Felicity Barrell's familiar, insistent voice. "Dick!" she called from behind him. Putting his hand on Alfred's shoulder, Dick stopped and turned around. He gave Heidi's mother a forced smile, and accepted her embrace when she reached him. Her eyes were red, and she dabbed away a few lingering tears with a ragged piece of Kleenex. "Hello, Dick," she said warmly. "I'm glad you made it."

"Me too," Dick responded, taking a step back from the woman and putting his hands in his pockets. "I think I needed to be here." He glanced at Alfred, who tactfully stepped towards Mrs. Barrell and offered his hand.

"Hello, ma'am. It's nice to meet you finally."

Felicity took his hand and shook it. "You're . . . a relative of Dick's? His father?"

Alfred smiled, laughed weakly, and held up his right hand. "Oh, no, ma'am. I'm merely a friend. I'm gentleman's gentleman to the man who raised Dick after his parents died."

Felicity turned to Dick and gave him a look of complete sympathy, seeming to forget her own tragedy. "Oh, you lost your parents?"

Dick nodded sadly. "Yeah. They were killed when I was fourteen." Dick looked up suddenly and smiled in spite of himself. "But, don't feel sorry for me, please. I mean, it was nine years ago. And, I still . . . can remember them."

There was a moment of awkward silence; no one spoke, they just glanced back and forth at one another. As usual, it was Alfred who broke the quiet. "Well," he said in a near-whisper, "I believe that Master Dick and I would like some lunch. Mrs. Barrell, you and your husband are more than welcome to join us if you like."

Dick stepped in. "Yes, really. We'd love to have you."

Felicity Barrell shook her head insistently, looking back behind her at a tall, balding man who was lingering near Heidi's grave. "No. My husband and I have other plans. We'll probably eat at the hotel before we leave for home."

Alfred put his arm around Dick's shoulders and turned him back for the Rolls Royce. "We'll be going now, ma'am. It was a pleasure meeting you, even under such circumstances."

The three exchanged waves and warm smiles, then split. Dick climbed into the passenger seat of the Rolls and ran his fingers through his hair. Alfred sat down behind the wheel and pulled his seat-belt across his chest. "Something the matter, Master Dick?"

Dick shook his head. "No. No, nothing. Just the whole funeral vibe, I guess."

The car started up, and Alfred looked over his shoulder for oncoming traffic. "I suppose it's just some lingering depression. Do you believe a turkey club sandwich with melted Swiss cheese would help to soothe your condition?"

"It couldn't hurt," Dick said, staring out the window. Alfred pulled out onto the road, and outside the trees began to pass by.

Avian Paradise Casino, 1:36 p.m.

Groverton was in his office, typing furiously. He stared at the computer screen, following the words as they appeared. He wasn't hearing sounds, wasn't seeing anything but the words. It was almost as if he was inside the document, building it piece-by-piece. The Penguin had once commented that he rarely had seen a man become so absorbed with his work.

Naturally, Groverton didn't notice the tall, thin man standing at his office door. Garfield Lynns knocked lightly on the door, and Groverton looked up suddenly, startled. He looked around his own office as if he wasn't sure where exactly he was. Then, having collected himself, he stood. "Mr. Lynns. Thanks for making it. Would you close the door, please?"

Lynns turned and shut the door, then turned back around and sat down in the chair in front of Groverton's desk. "What do you want me to do?" he asked earnestly.

"I haven't seen too many arson headlines these past few weeks," Groverton began. "Am I then to assume that you're out of practice?"

"I've . . . well, after the attention that last one brought, I thought I'd lay low for awhile. I'm still a fugitive . . . and this is a very public place."

Groverton shook his head and looked past his guest to the closed door. "You're safe here. There are many parts of this place that will never be able to bear the 'public' label."

"What do you want me to do?" Garfield Lynns repeated, just as earnestly as the first time.

Getting down to business, Groverton pulled open a drawer and produced a brown business envelope. He dropped it on his desk in front of Lynns. "Open that up and see if you recognize what's inside."

Lynns opened the envelope--five glossy black and white photographs were inside, stacked one atop the other. Three were of the same man, a short middle-aged gentleman with dark hair and what looked to be a solid build. His face was wrinkled and weary. One was a shot of the entire man, the other two were close-ups: a portrait and a quarter-profile. The other two photos were of buildings; a two-story brick townhouse in Robinson Park; and a drug store that looked to be located in downtown Gotham City.

Lynns shook his head. "I don't recognize this man or these places."

Groverton reached over and pointed at the close-up portrait of the man. "This man has 'Felix Gregarion' printed on his birth certificate, but he's been going by the name Frank Garden for about the last six years. He owns the Medicine Garden, on Algid Street." Groverton pointed to the picture of the drug store. "Until a few days ago, Mr. Garden was a great help to Mr. Cobblepot and myself, and the businesses we oversee. The Medicine Garden helped us smuggle several thousand grams of powder cocaine and heroin in and out of downtown Gotham City everyday." Groverton inhaled and slid back from his desk, leaning back in his chair. "I thought that Mr. Garden was living a rather enviable life. He has a large family, and believe me, his children wanted for nothing. But, I suppose his conscience must have gotten the best of him. He no longer seems to feel that assisting us in the drug trade is an honest and respectable living."

For the third time, Lynns asked "What do you want me to do?"

"Convince Frank Garden that he's making a mistake by turning his back on his primary benefactor. Mr. Cobblepot would like Firefly to send him a message."

Lynns nodded. "Burn down his store?"

Groverton shook his head. "Burn down his house." Groverton reached into another desk drawer and removed a small stack of papers. "These are transcripts of conversations Frank Garden has had with his family in the past three days. We've had his house bugged for the past several months, but didn't really start paying attention until he skipped out. It seems that the loving husband and father is sending his wife and children away to their relatives in Central City. They leave tonight, but he won't be leaving until sometime tomorrow. His wife and children are booked on Pan Am flight number twelve forty-two, ten o'clock tonight. They'll be out of the house by nine then, most likely. That's when you show up. You'll have over an hour to do what you do best with napalm, then disappear for a few more days."

A smile crept over Garfield Lynns' face. "No targets? No people?" he asked with a sort of blissful disbelief. "Just me and the fire and the building?"

Groverton tapped three times on his desk. "As I said, just do what you do best. Look at this as your opportunity for redemption in the eyes of Mr. Cobblepot."

Garfield Lynns stood and smiled. "I'm looking forward to it." He turned for the door. Groverton stood as well.

"Lynns, wait," he said, picking up the envelope that had contained the pictures. "You'll need these." He slid the five photographs back into the envelope and handed it over. "The address to the house is on the back of its picture."

Lynns nodded, tucking the envelope under his arm. He walked to the door, then stopped and turned back to face Groverton. "You can tell Mr. Cobblepot that Firefly won't fail again. Tell him I do my best work when there's no people."

Groverton pointed to the door. "I'll relay that message. Now, good luck."

Garfield Lynns opened the door and left the office.

Cleveland Stadium, 5:39 p.m.

Jean-Paul had been sitting at the bus stop outside the stadium for nearly two hours. Victor Benson was still inside tending to his duties as a groundskeeper, but there was no telling when he would be allowed to leave. That being the case, Jean-Paul decided it would be safer to wait.

Time didn't seem to pass as it normally did. Jean-Paul passed the minutes, and eventually the hours, continuing to contemplate his situation. If he was going to involve the police, he should call them now. Or, let the FBI know where their most wanted fugitive was working.

He shook his head. No, Jean-Paul thought flatly to himself. The boy's mother made it clear that she didn't want the justice of the law. I can't involve the cops . . .

Jean-Paul heard footsteps approaching from behind. He turned, and froze--Victor Benson was walking towards him. Dammit! He took the bus this morning . . . I should've watched for him somewhere else! Benson sat down beside Jean-Paul, as far across the bench from him as he could go.

Jean-Paul could feel Benson leaning forward and eyeing him, but he didn't return the stare. "Hmmph," Benson grunted. "Did you bump into me this morning?"

"Oh . . . I'm not--I can't remember. I know I bumped into someone. Was it you?" Jean-Paul mentally kicked himself over the initial stutter. Confidence. If you can't even talk to the man, how do you expect to . . .

Benson scratched his chin. "Think it was you. Yep. I'd remember those goldilocks of yours anywhere, anytime."

"Well, I'm still not certain. If I did bump you earlier, I'm sorry. I apologize."

"Nah," Benson said, waving his hand. "Nothing worth being sorry about. The way I look at things . . . if you didn't mean to do something, can't be held responsible for it. Can't no one hold you responsible for stuff you couldn't help in the first place. Am I right?"

Jean-Paul was quiet while he thought up a response. "That's certainly one way to look at things . . ." he said hesitantly.

The bus was approaching.

"What?" Benson asked in almost a pleading tone. "Don't agree with me, do you?"

Jean-Paul shook his head slowly, apologetically.

Victor Benson stood and started towards the bus. When he noticed Jean-Paul wasn't following, he stopped and turned around. "Coming on, pal? We could continue this little talk if you want."

Jean-Paul remained seated, waving his hands in front of himself. "No, sorry. I'm actually waiting for the next bus; my girlfriend drives it."

Benson shrugged indifferently and stepped onto the bus. "Okay, pal. I guess it was a nice chat. Probably won't see you again."

"Nope," Jean-Paul said, staring blankly at the sidewalk, "Probably not."

He watched as Benson made his way to the back of the bus and sat down. The large vehicle idled for another few minutes, and when no one else got on, it pulled off onto the street. Jean-Paul watched it until it was out of sight, then started back again for the hotel.

Drake Mansion, 5:50 p.m.

Breakfast had actually been very good, although Tim still didn't feel that the meal justified having to wake up early on a Sunday morning. It was an enjoyable croissant nonetheless, and Tim's father and Dana decided that, after Gatsby's, they'd make a day of things.

From the restaurant, the trio went out for a few hours at Brillstein and Thomas' Family Recreation Park, Gotham City's own private Disney World. It'd been fun enough, Tim thought. He got to see his father and step-mother to-be have fun on the Tilt-A-Whirl, and get just a little romantic on the Ferris Wheel. And, then there was a first--Tim and his Dad rode the scrambler, while Dana watched from the sidelines with a fascinated amusement.

Tim had been home for over an hour; Dad and Dana brought him home, then took off a few minutes later for a romantic dinner for two.

Tim sat on his bed and sighed. Fun day . . ., he thought to himself, lying back. So what now? . . . He sat up abruptly, staring at the phone. Maybe he could call Ariana. Talk to her about . . . about something. Tim reached out for the phone, and was about to pick it up when it rang. He withdrew his hand suddenly, startled. "Whoa!" he exclaimed, then picked up the handset. "Hello, this is Tim . . ."

"Tim! Hello!"

A hesitant smile crept over Tim's face as he recognized the voice. "Ives?"

"Yes indeed; nailed it on the first try!"

Tim slid over to the edge of the bed and sat there. "So, what's been going on? I haven't seen you at lunch the last few days, you know."

"Yes, about that . . . I sort of get the feeling that the Hud-man doesn't really . . . like me. Do you feel it? Or is it just me?"

Tim coughed. "Why . . . why would Hudson not like you? I mean, you're my friend. You're his friend, too."

"He's just been acting really, I dunno, cautious around me. Whenever I come around, he has some excuse why he has to exit."

"And you think it's you?"

"Well . . . I'm not sure what it is. But, it has to do with me, I'd wager."

"Ives, okay . . . why do you think Huds isn't--doesn't like to be around you lately?"

There was a short pause. Tim was afraid he knew what Ives was about to . . . "I think Hudson might be gay."

Tim caught his breath in his throat. Yep, that's what he was afraid of. He wasn't quite sure what to say. "Um . . . all right. Um . . . what . . . makes you think that . . . well, that?"

He heard Ives inhale deeply, which was a sure sign that a long-winded explanation was on the way. "Okay, just consider this for a moment, Tim. Whenever I'm around, Hudson feels the need--he's compelled--to leave. He's not comfortable around me. Now, I'm not acting any different. So, it must be something with Hudson. I mean, I'm not trying to insult him by any means--the guy is a good friend. And, personally, I don't find the term gay to be insulting anyway. But, I think Hudson might be. And, he's not admitting it to himself. I think he knows in some way, though. That's why he isn't appreciating my company lately."

Ives stopped talking, and Tim just kept on listening. The line was quiet.

"Tim?" Ives asked uncertainly. "So, what do you have to say? Agree? Disagree with my theory?"

"Ives . . ." Tim began slowly. He didn't want to say what he was about to say at all, but he felt the need to say it. "Ives, I say I'm sick of talking to my two best friends about whether or not one of them is gay, and attracted to the other one! Honestly Ives. Hudson I could understand--he's always been a little . . . off. But you . . ."

Ives was at a loss. "What? What do you mean? Hudson thought that I was a . . . what? How could he . . ."

"Ives, just hang on, okay? I told Hudson that he was just being paranoid, okay? I mean, it's not like you're really gay."

"Well . . . no. I mean . . . no. But, what if I were?"

Tim's mouth was wide open, paralyzed. "What if you were what? Gay? But, Ives, you're not gay. . . . Are you?"

Ives was quiet for just a little too long before responding. "No. No, I'm straight. . . . I think."

Tim fell back onto his mattress, his eyes squeezed shut. "Oh my God . . . Ives, what are you telling me, man?"

"Well, I mean . . . I'm pretty sure. I don't, like, look at guys or anything like that."

Tim exhaled, then filled his lungs with fresh air. "Okay, Ives. I'm just going to ask you, okay? Please, just give me a 'yes,' or a 'no,' okay?"

"But what if the question is--"

"--okay. Are you . . . or are you not . . . gay?"

"I am not," Ives said flatly. " . . . I think," he added at the last second before Tim was about to respond.

Tim choked on what would've been his words. "Well," he began sarcastically, "thanks a lot for that clear and concise answer, Ives."

"Look, I'm sorry, Tim. I . . . I called to talk about Hudson; I'm not sure how it got to this. But, I'll be honest about the gay thing--I'm being honest! I'm just not . . . sure."

"That's okay," Tim heard himself say. He hadn't even realized he had said it. "It doesn't really matter to me. And, I don't think that Hudson will care, either."

Ives didn't seem too certain. "But, what if Hudson is . . . ?"

"He's not, Ives."

"But, you didn't think I was, either."

"Ives, you aren't even sure about you. I still feel confident in jumping to this conclusion about Hudson. Just trust me on this one. Hudson is . . . not."

Ives was quiet for several long seconds. Tim hoped the quiet signified an end to this very uncomfortable conversation. "Thanks for talking, Tim. I just wanted to get all that off my chest, so to speak."

Tim nodded. Yes! Almost time to hang-up! "Sure, Ives. Hey, you realize that if you ever wanna talk, you have my number."

"Thanks, Tim. I appreciate--"

"And Callie, too. You've got her number. I'll bet Callie would be glad to hear about everything."

"I guess so . . . but if you don't mind, I think I'll keep this between us for now. I mean, if it turns out to be nothing, then . . ."

"Right," Tim said in an understanding tone. He was aching to hang up this phone. "If it's nothing."

"Bye, Tim."

"Yeah. Later, Ives."

Finally, Tim hung up the phone. The conversation with Ives had lasted less than ten minutes, but somehow it seemed strange to Tim that he was still the same age as when the phone first rang. That's what they mean by long talk . . .

His father and Dana wouldn't be back for awhile. Maybe if they were home in time, there would be time to watch a movie, or something, on cable before Tim had to "go to bed."

There had to be something to do.

Gotham City Police Headquarters, 6:02 p.m.

Commissioner Gordon was behind his desk, staring at the stack of reports on his desk. There were actually two stacks of folders, which Gordon had mentally labeled Read and Unread. The Read pile was only three folders thick, and the top one was laid open. The commissioner just stared at it.

He hated this job most of the time, and it was because of things like this. Paperwork, records, write-offs, beaurocracy--all useless wastes of time as far as Gordon was concerned. He should've been born thirty years ago, a different era, before fighting crime was a business. Before computers . . .

No, Gordon thought. He was a reasonably intelligent man, he thought. It was obvious that, if anything, the computer eliminated half the paperwork that used to be necessary. Maybe not eliminate . . . but just redefine. Same difference . . .

The commissioner felt almost grateful when he heard a knock on his office door. "Come in," he said, sliding the open report folder close to him and casting his eyes down on it with a deep expression. He heard the sound of women's heels clicking on the hard floor. Sarah was here.

"Hello, Jim," she said, closing the door.

Gordon looked up from his folder. "Sarah," he stated neutrally. He gestured to the chair in front of his desk. "Sit--"

Sarah pulled out the chair and took a seat before her husband could finish his request. "Sitting," she said. Her eyes started at the corner of his desk and tracked up slowly to his hands over the folder. "You can stop pretending to read that report now."

Gordon looked up at his wife's face; she was smiling wryly. He closed the folder and dropped it on top of the Unread stack with the others. "I should've known better than to try that with you. You know me too well."

"Yes I do," she said, the smile giving way to a more serious, thoughtful expression. "I know you too well, Jim. Is that why it's not working out?"

Gordon pushed away from his desk and sighed. He regarded Sarah with a weary gaze. "I thought that things were going to be all right now, Sarah. I really did. After what happened at the--"

"Jim, how many times have we spoken to each other since that day at the W-W-G-C building? How many heart-to-hearts have we had? How many of our problems have we even tried to solve?"

Gordon knew the answer, but said nothing. Sarah would answer for him.

"Not once, Jim, have we tried to piece things back together between us. And, if you think that one kiss is going to mend our marriage--"

"I don't think that," Gordon protested strongly. "But it was a start. Sarah, it might be slow, but it had to start somewhere."

Sarah shook her head. "It was a start, but what good is it if it doesn't go anywhere? Jim . . . you're just not making an effort here. Not even a phone call."

"Sarah, I love you. You have to know that. Even though I don't--"

"I do know it, Jim. Believe me, I know. I know you love me. And, I love you. You have to know that. I've stuck with you for a long, rough time. Barbara, Krol firing you, your run for Mayor . . . your . . . friendship with Batman. Through it all, Jim, I never once stopped loving you. I wasn't always there--and I haven't been perfect--but I tried. And I am trying, still. I just wish you would--"

"Where were you since we kissed outside the studio? Where was your phone call, Sarah?" Gordon's protests were weak.

"I'm here now."

Gordon put his hand to his chin, glanced out the window. He watched the city; it seemed to be growing darker and darker right before his eyes. The sun was still up. "Why now, Sarah?" he said, still gazing outside.

Sarah leaned forward and put her hand gently on her husband's arm. "I want us to keep on being. But you're not trying. I know you say that you want it to, and maybe you really believe that . . . but you have to put forward an effort, Jim. If not . . ."

"Why, Sarah? What happens now?"

Sarah stood, cleared her throat. When she spoke, it was in a professional tone, choked with unwanted emotion. "I talked to Diane today. I'm going to . . . file for a divorce in the morning. I . . . think it would be best for the two of us."

Gordon looked suddenly away from the window, back at his wife. He tried his best to make it a stone-cold gaze, but his eyes betrayed his shock, and his unraveling emotions. "Divorce," he stated flatly, glancing quickly at the stack of folders on his desk, then back up to Sarah.

"I thought I should tell you before they smacked you with the papers."

"That's very considerate of you," Gordon said, his voice empty. He was staring past Sarah, at the office floor.

Sarah was waiting for more of a response, but she wasn't getting one. She turned around and walked over to the door. Her hand wrapped uneasily around the knob. Before opening the door, she turned back around. "I'm . . . moving my things into an office at City Hall, so I can be a closer liaison to Mayor Grange. We . . . won't have to see each other too often."

Gordon only nodded. "I think that would be . . . that would make things easier."

Sarah left the office, closing the door without another word.

Commissioner Gordon rolled his chair up close to the desk. He propped both elbows up on the writing surface, running his fingers through his light-gray hair. Gordon removed his glasses into his right hand, massaging the corners of his eyes with his left thumb and forefinger. He put his glasses back on, then reached for the top of the Unread pile of folders.

McCaffrey's Public Oasis, 8:58 p.m.

The name of the bar, McCaffrey's, had come from the 1940's. Back then, a guy named Leonard McCaffrey had owned and operated the place all by himself. Now, Bill Rexle owned and operated the place, with the help of about seven employees. McCaffrey's wasn't just a watering hole now; the place was more of a night club, only more laid back. It wasn't as flashy and loud as its competition, which allowed the place to attract older, more mature clientele.

As with anyplace like McCaffrey's, there was a small core-group of customers. Bill had defined at least a dozen faces who he saw in here at least four nights out of the week, often all seven. There were definitely "regulars" who frequented the establishment, and Bill Rexle knew them all. He talked to them, listened, offered advice--but only when they asked for it.

There was a man sitting at the bar now, a tall, thin man who looked to be in his mid to late thirties. He was definitely not a regular. Bill had never seen this man before--in the bar. But, he certainly recognized him from the news on television and from the newspapers and from the wanted posters in the post office. Strangely enough, Bill seemed to be the only one in the bar who did recognize the man. This didn't say very much for the attention span of the American public.

"Hey, bartender," the man from the wanted posters said, sliding an empty shot glass across the top of the bar, "can I get a little Cherry Bounce?"

Bill took the glass and wiped out the inside with his towel. He shook his head. "Sorry, pal. I don't keep that stuff here."

"Why not?" the man protested half-heartedly. "I don't wanna get drunk off it! Believe me, I wanna be relaxed and alert for tonight . . ."

Bill dried out the glass and sat it back on the bar. "Is that so? And what's tonight? Big time out with a lady friend or something?"

"Okay, just gimme a rum and Coke then, okay?" The man took in a deep breath and wheezed slightly as he exhaled. "Nah, no lady tonight. Just . . . a big event, I guess you'd say. I'm going back to doing what I love."

"Yeah?" Bill said with interest as he prepared the drink. "So, what would that be?"

The man's eyes seemed to be staring at a far-off point. He spoke his next words with what could only be described as wonder. "Something beautiful."

"Uh-huh." Bill Rexle slid the man's drink across the table to him. "Drink up, pal. You gonna want anything else tonight?"

"No, I don't think so," he answered with a shake of his head. "This'll be all." Bill started back across to the other side of the bar to tend to other customers. "Oh, hey, one more thing," the man called. He reached into his back pocket and removed a small slip of paper. "Do you know where . . . Seventeen-Thirteen Spellman Avenue is? I'm not too familiar on this section of town . . ."

Bill was a bit unsettled by the question. "Spellman?" he asked for clarification.

"Uh-huh. Seventeen-Thirteen Spellman. I think it's around here, isn't it?"

Bill nodded. "Yeah. Just go about three blocks up the road out here. You'll see the turn-off onto Spellman. Just drive slow, look for it."

The man took three minutes to finish his drink, left some cash on the top of the bar, and left without another word. Once he was gone, Bill untied the apron from around his waist, dropped it over the bar, and walked out onto the floor. He scanned the room, finding one of his waitresses on her way to fill up a tray for a table near the back. "Hey, Denise?" Bill asked.

Denise stopped.

"Take care of the bar a few minutes, okay? I gotta make a phone call."

Denise nodded. "Sure thing." She looked across the room at a short brunette in a McCaffrey's apron. "Hey, Gwenda? Take care of that table over there, could you?"

Bill cut across the room and ducked back down a short hallway that began in one of the back corners. It led back to the rest rooms, and also to his private office. Bill pulled a ring from his pocket, a ring which held at least twenty-five keys to various doors and locks all over Gotham City. He slid six of the keys to the side, took the seventh between his thumb and forefinger, and inserted in the lock on his office door.

Inside the office was a plain metal desk, painted light green. On the desk were two things: a cup filled with pencils and ink pens; and a telephone. Bill walked around and sat down behind the desk, then pulled the phone over in front of him. Lifting the handset, he quickly dialed a number.

One ring . . . two rings . . .

"Hi, Les. This is Bill down at McCaffrey's. Listen, I thought you'd be interested in who was just in here . . ."

Beneath Wayne Manor, 9:52 p.m.

Bruce was in the pool, on the fifth of what would eventually be thirty laps.

Tim and Dick were on the other side of the gym, playing Ping-Pong.

"So, Ives is gay?" Dick asked with amazement as he knocked the small white ball back across the net. "I mean, I've only seen him a few times. Brainy, sure. But . . . I'd never have guessed . . ."

Tim returned the ball. "He says he's not sure, but I'm afraid that's just another way of saying that he doesn't want to admit it to himself." Dick knocked the ball back, and Tim returned it again. "Man, I do not need this right now, you know?"

Dick shook his head. "You know, I really don't . . . but it makes me realize that I might be lucky, never having a social life."

Tim laughed weakly, watching the ball bounce back at him. "You don't know how lucky you are, Dick." Tim took a step back and smacked the ball hard back across the table. Dick returned it with force, and Tim couldn't handle it. Tim caught the ball with just the edge of his paddle, and it dribbled along on his side of the table, rolling against the net and stopping.

"Point!" Dick exclaimed. "Too rough for you?"

Tim picked up the ball and served it back across. "Maybe." Dick volleyed the ball across, and Tim returned it. "So, what do I do? What if Ives is really . . ."

"Well, I'd say going out with him is pretty much out of the question . . ."

It wasn't really funny, but Tim laughed anyway out of reflex. "Yeah, no fake. Ari would love that . . . not only is she dating a vigilante, but . . . aw God, I don't even want to talk about this anymore!"

"Fair enough." Dick stepped to the side and backhanded the ball across to Tim, who returned it with force. Dick kept the volley going, knocking the ball lightly so that it just barely cleared the net. Tim had to lunge to keep the point from scoring. "So, how was breakfast?"

Dick hit the ball hard at the corner of the table. Tim struggled for it, and missed the ball. Dick raised both arms, like a football referee signaling a field goal. "Breakfast was all right. Good food." Tim collected the ball, but held off on serving it for a moment. "We went to a rec park; it was fun. It was nice to see Dad and Dana that happy. This time last year, Dad wouldn't even have been able to get on any of the rides." Tim shook his head. "But . . ." His voice trailed off.

Dick looked at Tim with scrutiny. "But . . . what? You're happy for them, right?"

"Yeah," Tim said without hesitation. "I mean . . . of course I am."

"You want your dad to be happy . . ."

"Yes, more than anything. Okay . . . almost anything. I mean . . . its just that things are so complex all of a sudden."

"Got that right," Dick said with a sigh. "That goes with the mask, though. You know that."

Tim nodded. "Right. Sure I do. But . . . I dunno, maybe I thought that telling Ariana would help to simplify things. No more secrets from her, you know? But now everything's changed again. When I first became Robin, my father's disability seemed almost like a convenience. It was easy to get away. Now . . . well, he might be close to a hundred percent in a few months. What then? And things with Dana . . . I mean, my Dad is finally well enough to do things with me, and part of me wants to have more of a relationship with him, but . . ." He shook his head fervently. "Things are just so screwed up!"

Dick shrugged. "It gets that way a lot. Just goes with the territory. You wanted to be a part of all this--" Dick looked at the ceiling of the gym and made an expansive gesture with his arms. "--you knew everything that went with it. This isn't really an easy life to live." Tim lowered his head somberly, nodding slowly. "But," Dick added, "I think you're doing a bang-up job of handling things. I mean, if I'd have had to contend with all the crap you're facing now, I'd have lost my mind! It's a big weight, but you bear it pretty damn well."

"Thanks, Dick. I really--"

Tim was cut short by the shrill beep of the Batcave's intercom. The signal was followed by Alfred's decidedly gentler tones. "Master Bruce?"

Dick laid his paddle down on the table and walked across the gym to the speaker. "Yeah Alfred, he's in the pool right now. What's up?"

"There's a new message in the electronic mail account of Sir Hemingford Grey."

Dick looked back at Bruce, still pushing through the water at full speed. "Okay. He's pretty into the workout, Alfred. I'll be up in a sec." Dick started for the door. He glanced back at Tim and pointed to the elevator. "I'm gonna go see what this is; be right back." He jogged out onto the plateau and stepped into the elevator.

Alfred was dusting off the stone pedestal near the center of the main plateau. Dick strode past him to the computer console and sat down in front of one of the smaller monitors. "Who's it from? Did you see?"

"No, sir. I neglected to read the address."

"Okay . . ." Dick said distantly as he began typing at the keyboard.

"I believe Master Bruce has a security measure in place over his mailbox," Alfred said in a gentle, reminding tone.

"Yep," Dick said, "I know it, too. Bruce might be cautious, but he's not paranoid." Dick entered the password, and a program window opened up on the monitor.

Alfred stopped his dusting. "I don't recall Master Bruce ever sharing his password with me . . ."

"Have you asked him before?"

"Well, I . . . " Alfred crossed his arms and sighed pensively. "I believe I'll ask him about that at my next opportunity."

Dick cocked his head to the side as he selected the only unopened message in the program window. "Sounds like a good idea." He opened the message and quickly read over it. As he read, the color left his face. His gaze was cold, shocked. Slowly, he stood and started instantly for the stairs.

"Master Dick?"

"I have to go, Alfred." Dick started up the stairs. "Tell Tim we'll have to finish our Ping-Pong game tomorrow . . ."

Dick was up the stairs and running for the front door before Alfred could say another word. Alfred started to follow, but knew it would be in vain. Instead, he turned to the monitor. He read the message, and instantly understood:

TO: [email protected]
FROM: [email protected]
SUBJECT: Canon BJC-600, black cartridges

Thought you might be interested to know--one Garfield Lynns is on his way to 1713 Spellman Avenue. He spoke to my source about doing something that he loves.

Just in case you're interested . . .

--Ralph

Alfred's hand went to his mouth. "Oh . . . dear . . ." He clicked on the intercom. "Master Bruce? Master Tim? It would be best if you'd join me up here at once; it's of dire importance."

1713 Spellman Avenue, 10:12 p.m.

The house was empty, dark, cold. There was no life in it; the building had no purpose. That would soon change.

Firefly was inside.

The house was owned by Frank Garden, and he and his family were the only residents. They were all gone. Perfect. No people, no complications, no interruptions. Just wood and plaster walls, Firefly, and a tank full of napalm.

He held the nozzle in his hands, pointed it at the living room couch, and a jet of bright orange flame burst forth. The cushions of the couch ignited immediately in a bright display of heat and fire. Beneath the helmet of Firefly, Garfield Lynns smiled. He pointed the nozzle slightly higher and raked the wall above the couch with flames.

The fire on the couch had found its way to the wood beneath in only a matter of seconds, and it began to crackle. Firefly turned 90 degrees and shot a stream of the powerful torch onto that wall. The flames grabbed onto the wallpaper, and worked their way down quickly to the floor. While facing this direction, Firefly sprayed the orange and purple flames over the antique chiffarobe. The old wooden chest burst immediately into a bright orange and purple ball of fire.

Grinning from ear-to-ear beneath the helmet, Firefly rushed past the flames out into the vestibule. From here, he painted the entire living room with fierce, brightly dancing fire. He turned to the stairs leading to higher floors, and raised the nozzle.

Tiny flames had just begun to curl out from within the flame-thrower when Firefly felt it wrenched from his hand. Another second, he felt a hard blow to the side of his helmet. He spun almost completely around, almost staggering back into the inferno that had been the living room. The flames were beginning to leap out into the vestibule, and it was only another minute or so until the windows shattered.

Firefly recovered, shaking his head groggily and looking to his attacker. "Nightwing," he said in a low voice. His tone was one of grave recognition. Firefly lunged forward, tackling his enemy hard around the waist. Both men fell back onto the stairs, Nightwing on the bottom. Firefly looked down, drawing his fist back to his ear and thrusting it towards his adversary's head with all his might.

Nightwing dodged the punch, taking hold of Firefly's arm and throwing him sideways into the railing around the stairs. Firefly splintered the wooden railing, landing hard on the floor. The fire that had begun in the living room was inches from his helmeted face. Instinctively, he reached behind him for the napalm tank. He felt for the hose that led out from the bottom of the tank, then followed it until the flame-thrower nozzle was back in his hand. He pointed the weapon and ejected a stream of fire out towards his enemy.

The flame caught the right calf of a diving Nightwing, causing the vigilante to stop a moment to tend to his now burning costume. The flame would've been simple to pat out under normal conditions, but with the intense heat of the house, the fire on Nightwing's calf quickly spread to his entire leg.

There was one opportunity open, and Nightwing took it. He stood, momentarily ignoring the urgent heat that wrapped itself around his right leg, and lunged forward. He took Firefly with both hands, one on the collar of the man's flameproof, the other around the nozzle of the flame-thrower. Nightwing secured his grip, then flipped backwards with as much force as he could generate. As both men hit the floor, their momentum carried them continuously forward.

They burst out the window behind them, fell approximately six feet to the grass-covered ground, landing hard. Nightwing stood and pressed his gloved hands hard against his flame-swathed leg. The fire disappeared--the flames hadn't reached his leg; the kevlar of his costume had done an admirable job in protecting him, but was badly charred.

Turning to Firefly, who was just now getting to his feet, Nightwing grabbed him by the right arm. He drove his left knee hard up into Firefly's midsection, then reached up and pulled the helmet from his head. The sweaty, dazed visage of Garfield Lynns glared straight ahead.

Nightwing pulled the napalm tank from Lynns' back and dropped it to the ground, then turned his full attention to Firefly. "Killer!" he hissed venomously as his fist crashed into the jaw of Garfield Lynns. Firefly staggered back to the ground, sitting down, entranced.

The windows of the house shattered in unison, and bright fire exploded outward. It rolled up over the outer frame of the house, engulfing the sides of the building. The flames expanded at an amazing rate, seeming to reach out for Nightwing and Firefly.

Garfield Lynns just stared, his eyes glassy. He wasn't moving, and Nightwing was severely tempted to leave the maniac here. It was a deserving fate, certainly.

"Oh, no," Nightwing said, stepping forward. He took Lynns by both arms and pulled him to his feet. "You're not getting away with it anymore." He drug Lynns away from the house, slowing down as they reached a spot on the sidewalk where the heat was beginning to dissipate with the cooler nighttime air. Turning on a dime, Nightwing hauled Lynns to his feet and connected with another hard punch, this time to the nose. Without that punch, Lynns would have crumpled limply to the ground, probably fallen unconscious; with it, he staggered back several steps, falling back on the sidewalk.

Nightwing pinned him to the ground, grabbing with a handful of his slick hair and pulling Lynns' face up to mere inches from his own. "You psychotic waste of skin . . . how long did you think you could go before I found you?"

Lynns looked wearily up at Nightwing. "Just . . . leave me . . . alone . . ." he said, barely aware he was speaking at all.

"Alone?!? Leave you alone?!?" Nightwing smiled, a cold, hateful expression. His face contorted into a wrinkled, strained picture of complete fury; it was all he could do to stop from smashing this bastard's head open against the hard cement sidewalk. "No . . . " he said, his voice low, shaky. "No . . . you messed up last time, Garfield. You killed someone when I was around . . . if I hadn't been there, you'd have killed three people, one of 'em a little baby . . . You insane . . . do you think about it? Do you have any idea what you've done?!?"

"Better . . . without . . . people . . ."

Nightwing tightened his grip, balling a fist around Lynns' sweat-drenched hair. "Better without people like you, you sick little killer. Do you know what I could do to you? Any idea about the pain I could put you through? You think your Goddamn fire takes you close to Hell . . ."

"That's enough, Nightwing," said a muffled but familiar voice.

Standing, Nightwing saw Batman behind him, a flame-protective transparent mask over the exposed section of his face. Robin stood behind Batman, also wearing a similar protective device over his face. "Let him go," Batman ordered firmly.

Nightwing relaxed his hand and stood, but he remained over the still form of Lynns. He looked down--Lynns was totally unconscious now.

"The fire department is only a minute or so away; the police won't be far behind."

"Right," Nightwing said absently. He stepped away from Firefly and started into the shadows with Batman and Robin. "I . . . wouldn't have killed him, you know."

Batman nodded as the three figures melted into the darkness. "I know," he said simply.

6753 Phelps Avenue, Cleveland, Ohio, 11:11 p.m.

The light in the bedroom window went out. The apartment was dark.

Jean-Paul was in full Azrael garb, except for the mask, which he held in his right hand. He was sitting on a rooftop across the street from Victor Benson's apartment building, waiting. Waiting for what? Something . . . maybe the courage to confront this man once and for all. Jean-Paul was hesitant to put on the mask. Often, the mere act of pulling on the face of Azrael was enough to force Jean-Paul Valley into the background of his psyche. Once there, it was difficult to get back.

Not to say that Azrael was impossible to control. Not so. Azrael was just Jean-Paul Valley in another state. But, in that state, Jean-Paul focused more fiercely on certain goals. And, if he happened to decide that his goal was to kill Victor Benson . . . it might end up as another addendum to an already sizable list of regrets.

I can't put this off anymore, Jean-Paul thought convincingly to himself. I can maintain control, and I can do . . . whatever needs to be done. I am Azrael, not the other way around.

He put the mask on over his head, then pulled up the hood. As Azrael, he stood and thrust his right arm out in front of him. A grapple sprung from the underside of his gauntlet, flew across the abyss between buildings, and landed solidly against the parapet of the far roof. Azrael tugged to check the security of the line, then stepped up on the very edge of the rooftop and activated the cord-retractor mechanism in the gauntlet. He stepped off into the empty space and swung across to the other building.

Azrael planted his feet on the side of the apartment building, the adjusted length of the cord causing the swing to carry him across almost directly beside Benson's kitchen window; six feet to the left was his bedroom window. Azrael closed his right hand around the cord and stepped cautiously to the side along the wall of the building. When he was beside the bedroom window, he fired a line from his left gauntlet and cut the one from his right loose--this allowed him a better, more secure support.

From a compartment in the bottom of his right gauntlet, Azrael removed a small laser torch. With it, he traced around the edges of the window. When the torch had traced completely around to where the cut had begun, Azrael pushed the glass in slightly. The pane fell forward into the apartment. Azrael caught it by the edge before it hit the floor, then leaned it quietly against the wall to the side of the window.

Victor Benson's bed was in the far corner of the room, and from there the window was plainly visible. The other wall of the room--the wall opposite the bed--was lined with potted plants. Small trees, meticulously-trimmed shrubbery's--Azrael found it amazing that a man so savage as Benson had shown himself to be had chosen such a delicate hobby. It was impossible to fathom what had to be going on in the man's mind. As he approached the bed, Azrael looked down at Benson's quiet face and wondered what he could be dreaming about. Peaceful dreams? Restless ones? Nightmares?

As he stood over the sleeping form of Victor Benson, Azrael realized something--he wasn't Azrael. The instincts, the drive, the ferocity of the System hadn't awakened. He was still Jean-Paul, beneath the hood and mask. Not that it made things easier. In fact, it probably complicated things immensely. Now, if Azrael left the room with Victor Benson lying dead within, it would be the fault of Jean-Paul solely, and the choice he made.

"Light," Azrael commanded quietly. The elongated diamond-shape in the center of his chest armor illuminated, shining brightly on Benson's face. "Victor Benson!" Azrael called in a loud, commanding voice. Benson stirred slightly. He opened his eyes and looked up as though he didn't believe what was happening. Azrael saw the need to help speed up the realization. He raised his right gauntlet and fired a shuriken down at Benson's head. The projectile tore through the pillow, less than an inch from Benson's nose.

Benson sat up abruptly in bed and looked back at his shredded pillow. Azrael reached down and pulled the pillow away. The shuriken wasn't there, only a tear through the top of the mattress to shown where it had gone. "What the fuck?!" Benson exclaimed, looking up at Azrael.

Azrael threw the pillow aside. "I missed on purpose," he advised Benson, although Jean-Paul wasn't too certain if he had purposely shot the pillow instead of another target.

"What the fuck are you doing in my fuckin' house? What's going on?"

Reaching down, Azrael flipped open one of the front compartments in his belt and removed a small folded piece of paper. He held it out in front of Victor Benson's face and unfolded it: the picture of Todd, the child Benson had raped and murdered--his own son. "I've come on the behalf of this boy, who can no longer seek vengeance himself for what you did to him."

Benson's face fell instantly pale, his mouth hung open. His eyes fixed on the picture of his son. "What the--" He reached out for the picture. Azrael withdrew it, then backhanded Benson mightily, sending him hard back into the corner. Benson rubbed his now-aching head with one hand, and wiped his bleeding mouth with the other. "Are you C-I-A?" he asked.

Why would he ask this now? Doesn't he realize what's happening? "I work for no one connected with the government. I am here by my own choice, to carry out justice."

"To kill me," Benson said grimly.

"To carry out justice,"Azrael corrected strongly. "I haven't come to commit murder."

"Then why have you come? If killin' me isn't murder, then what is it?" Benson seemed afraid. His lower lip was beginning to tremble, and when he spoke to Azrael he stared directly into the light on his chest.

Azrael folded up the picture of Todd Benson and tossed it on the bed in front of the boy's trembling father. "Why did you do it?" he demanded. He pointed at the picture, then looked up, directly into Victor Benson's eyes. "He was your son. Why did you do . . . the things that you did?"

Benson's eyes were beginning to fill with tears. He was afraid, and suddenly full of remorse. He began shaking his head slowly, as it he were searching himself for an explanation to his actions. "I . . . I don't know. I couldn't help it, I guess . . . I'm sorry . . . I'm--"

"Why didn't you turn yourself in? If you're truly sorry for what you did . . ."

Benson looked up at Azrael as if he couldn't believe he'd been asked that question. "What would you have done? I was scared . . . afraid to death for my life. I knew the second I stood up over him in the woods that I was going to Hell for what I did . . . I knew that second . . ."

Azrael looked down at this whimpering man, not sure what to say next. At least he has remorse for what he did, Jean-Paul thought. At least he's human. It was more--or perhaps less--than he had expected. "It was your ex-wife that told me about you. She came to me and asked me to come here."

"My wife knows I'm here? She knows where I live?"

Azrael shook his head. "No. I had to find you myself--with a bit of help. You managed to hide yourself excellently from the authorities." Azrael reached down and plucked the picture of Todd Benson from the bed, folded it back, and tucked it away in his belt.

Benson pulled his bedsheets up around himself--he was shaking. "Fear . . . is a real good thing to drive you. I just . . . couldn't stand to get caught. I know what happens to people like me in the penal system." Benson was squinting, his head turned to the side. "Could you turn that light off, please?" he asked in a small voice.

"No," Azrael said firmly. "Stand up," he commanded. "Now."

Benson withdrew further against the walls into the corner. "Why? What are you going to do."

Azrael raised his right gauntlet and fired a shuriken. The sleek, sharp object imbedded itself deep in the plaster of the wall, two inches from Benson's head. This time, Jean-Paul was sure he'd missed on purpose. "You will stand up. Now."

Slowly, timidly, still gripping the bedsheet like a small child and his beloved blanket, Benson began to stand.

"Get off the bed first," Azrael ordered with annoyance. "Then stand up."

Benson, his head lowered so as not to hit the ceiling, stepped across the bed and down onto the floor. He stood before Azrael, his chest heaving up and down rapidly. "What now? I'm ready to--"

Azrael grabbed Benson by the top of his button-up pajamas and pulled him along to the window. "You will come with me to the nearest police station. You will tell them who you are, and turn yourself in to the authorities."

Benson drug his feet, and Azrael stopped short of the window. He looked back at Benson, obviously annoyed at this sudden lack of cooperation. "You're not killing me?"

Azrael shook his head. "I didn't come here to commit murder. Now please climb out this window."

Benson stood still for a moment, regarding Azrael with suspicion and fear.

"Climb out the window, please," Azrael said again. "If I wanted to kill you, I wouldn't need to do it with your back turned."

Benson warily walked around in front of Azrael and swung one leg out over the window sill. He stopped and looked back at Azrael expectantly. "What now? There's no--"

Azrael stepped forward and shoved his left arm out the window. He cocked his wrist upwards and a grapple shot from his gauntlet. The grapple imbedded itself in the sidewalk, and Azrael wrapped the cord tight around two nails on the outside of the sill. The cord between the two points was as tight as possible, and ran down to the ground at approximately a sixty-degree angle. "Light off," Azrael commanded, and took Benson firmly by the wrist and put his hand on the cord. "You can slide down to the street. And do not try to run; catching you now would be a simple exercise."

"That cord . . . 'll tear up my bare hands," Benson protested timidly. "It'll--"

Azrael put one hand on each side of Benson's button-up pajama top and tore it open. He ripped it violently from Benson's frame and handed it to him. "Wrap this around the cord. Now go."

Hesitantly, Benson stepped forward and twirled the pajama shirt around the cord. He put both hands on it, swung his other leg out over the window sill, and looked straight down. "Oh Jesus Christ . . . I can't . . ."

Benson felt a hard push from the back, and the next instant he was sliding down towards the sidewalk. He didn't brace his legs for the landing, and hit the concrete hard. He let go of the cord and tumbled shirtless off the curb. Instinctively, he stood. Seemingly ignoring the scratches and cuts on his back and shoulders from hitting the concrete with bare skin, Victor Benson stood and made a hard charge for the shadows beneath a streetlamp several yards away.

Azrael hit the ground not quite two seconds after Benson's landing. He saw his charge sprinting for the darkness, and stepped off quickly into the middle of the street. In that moment--barely half a second--Azrael contemplated at least three options. He could run after Benson into the darkness, which was tactically a bad maneuver; Benson had proved himself a very dangerous man, and this was a strange city--no telling what was back there. Azrael could yell after Benson, commanding him to stop. If the yell was loud and commanding enough, it might slow the man down--he was obviously a coward, afterall. Or, Azrael could--

Three shurikens flew from the top of Azrael's right gauntlet in rapid succession into the darkness just as Benson disappeared into the shadows. He heard the muffled sound of one of them imbedding into brick. But the other two . . .

"Light," Azrael whispered into the microphone within his mask. His chestplate illuminated and much of the shadow behind the streetlamp disappeared. Victor Benson was lying face-down on the asphalt of the alley behind the streetlamp. Azrael approached and stood over him. He tugged at the fingers of his gauntlet and pulled it off, reaching down to check the still form for a pulse. It wasn't really necessary--there was little doubt the man was dead. One of the shurikens was buried halfway into Benson's neck, most likely severing his spinal cord. The other had split the man's skull just above where the head met the neck.

Azrael stood, the light from his chest shining on the dead body of a murderer. Was this justice? Azrael wondered briefly to himself. If it wasn't, it would have to be good enough. One thing was certain: Jean-Paul Valley had a lot to think about when he finally returned home.

For now, though, he needed to summon the police. There was a body to pick up, afterall. He made the call, reporting that a fugitive had been killed while attempting escape; his body was in the alley across from 6753 Phelps Avenue. Before he left, Azrael pulled out the picture of Victor Benson's dead son. For a brief moment, he thought he should leave it here, with the body. A symbol. A marker.

After a second, he decided to keep it.

Monday
Beneath Wayne Manor, 3:02 a.m.

Tim laid his folded up tunic and tights in the center of his cape, then folded the edges over the costume. He picked up the bundle, stuck it under his arm, and started for his exit. Bruce stepped out briefly from the costume vault. "Get a good night's sleep, Tim," he called across the cave. "I'll see you tomorrow."

"Later, Bruce," Tim called. He stepped back and looked sideways at the entrance to the vault as Bruce retreated inside. "See you later, Dick!" Tim called in a slightly louder tone.

Inside the vault, Dick yelled back. "Bye, Tim! Tomorrow, pal!"

"Master Dick," Alfred pleaded, "Please try to remain still."

Dick was sitting at the make-up table in the back of the vault, wearing only his boxers. Alfred was applying a thick, therapeutic lotion to Dick's face. There were blisters around his chin and on his cheeks from the intense heat of the fire. His right leg had been treated with the lotion, then bandaged for extra protection, as a result of the intense heat exposure caused by the flames.

"So what's the verdict?" Dick asked casually, although he was anxious to know.

Alfred massaged the lotion into Dick's cheeks for a few more moments, then stopped. He turned and picked up the bottle, screwing the cap back on. "I have learned, after two and a half decades of dealing with Master Bruce, that it is impossible to give medical advice to a man who has lived in this house. However, if you actually foresee yourself honoring this--"

Dick sighed with exasperation. "Just gimme the verdict, Alfred. Come-on."

"There will be no scarring, no permanent damage. Just apply this medicated coolant to your face and right thigh twice a day--I'd suggest when you wake up in the afternoon and before you go to bed in the morning." Alfred handed the bottle of lotion to Dick. "It will help speed the healing process, and keep the temperature of your skin down to a comfortable level. You should be back to normal by this time next month, if you follow my instructions."

Dick looked suspiciously at the medicated lotion. "That's it? All I have to do is put this gel on my face for a month?"

Alfred drew in a breath. "If you are trying to ask me if your injuries will interfere with Nightwing's activities, I must answer you with a cautious 'no'. However, I do plead that you be more careful than normal during your nocturnal activities."

Dick nodded. "Right. Thanks. In other words, I should check for low-flying planes before I start swinging around the city."

"Yes, sir. That is precisely what I was trying to say."

Bruce approached both men from behind. He was wearing a pair of loose-fitting sweats, his hands in the pockets. No shirt. He was fresh from the shower, hair wet and slicked back. "Alfred, could you go upstairs and find us something to eat. I'm a bit hungry."

Alfred picked up on the subliminal message right away. "Certainly, Master Bruce." Alfred started for the door.

"Take your time please," Bruce said before Alfred disappeared into the rest of the cave.

It seemed that most of Bruce and Dick's conversations began with either heated yelling or dead silence. This was a case of the latter. Neither man said anything for nearly a minute after Alfred left. Finally, Dick turned slightly in his seat and looked up at Bruce. "You know . . . I wouldn't have killed Firefly. I would've caught myself in time. I don't lose control like that."

Bruce allowed another, shorter silence before he answered. "I trust you, Dick. But . . . in a way, you had already lost control. When you left here, you went straight to where you knew Garfield Lynns would be. You went into a burning building with one of the most dangerous arsonists to ever draw breath . . . and you did so without protective fire gear."

"I was in a trance, I guess," Dick said in his own defense. "I went to my apartment, got dressed as fast as I could, and went straight to Firefly. I couldn't help it . . . this was an opportunity that--"

"Robin and I had to dress in fire gear just to get near that inferno. You were inside it, you might as well have been naked. It could easily have been the end of you tonight."

Dick held up his hand. "Bruce, I know. I realize what I did, all right? I was stupid. I shouldn't have let myself--"

"You were reckless." Bruce looked briefly at the floor, inhaled deeply. "Look, Dick, I know what your stake was in this. I know what Firefly did. I know what you blame him for. And, maybe he really does deserve most of the blame. And, vengeance is a powerful thing--dangerous if you don't reign it in and use it in a controlled way. But, if you were doing this to somehow quiet your own guilt over what happened . . ."

Dick nodded quietly. "I . . . this was just something that I had to do, Bruce. I couldn't not go to that house tonight. I know that I shouldn't have gone about everything the way I did, but I had to go."

Bruce walked up and stood behind his former ward. "I know, Dick. . . . I know you did."

"I wouldn't have killed him back there on the sidewalk," Dick said again. "I just hope you know that . . ."

"Yes," Bruce said, putting his hand on Dick's shoulder. "Yes, I know."