BATMAN: The New Continuity

Dick always liked to hold her down for the first few minutes whenever they would fuck. Her arms would strain, she would resist, push against him, try to get up. She would push her head back against the pillow, and her neck would crane, her mouth open as she moaned. Dick felt her legs go tight against his sides, and he put one hand on her thigh and held it to him as he continued to move atop her. Both her hands went to take hold of his firm, naked ass.

His lips found her neck and he kissed her deeply there, then brushed aside a stray lock of red hair and kissed her cheek right beside the corner of her mouth. Then someone cleared their throat, and Dick looked back behind him with annoyance.

"And just what is it you think you're doing, Master Dick?" Alfred asked. The Englishman was seated in a plush leather recliner situated about five feet from the foot of the bed, his legs crossed, his hands laid placidly one-atop-the-other on his right leg.

Dick looked back at Alfred, then down at the girl beneath him, then back again at Alfred. "I'm fucking Rainy Day Woman number thirteen, what does it look like I'm doing?"

Alfred shook his head harshly, angry. He pointed at the girl. "Red hair, tits that can't be smaller than a bloody D-cup -- that's Rainy Day Woman number fifteen, you dumb bloody fuck!"

Dick rolled his eyes and rolled off of the girl and onto the floor. He looked down at himself and saw that he was already dressed. "Thirsty?" he asked Alfred. The butler nodded, stood from his transparent pink plastic inflatable chair, and followed Dick through the door, down both sets of iron-grate stairs, and into the kitchen of Larry and Balki's apartment.

"Don't worry," Dick told Alfred as he poured them both an indeterminate yellow beverage, "the boys are at work, so don't worry. They won't come home and find us and get pissed and kill us, or anything."

Alfred took his glass of red wine from Dick with a look of reassurance, and took a sip. When he'd finished the drink, he tossed the glass hard into the sink, its plastic shape bouncing once before it settled into the bottom.

Dick motioned for Alfred to follow him, then hopped up on the countertop and pulled open the small window above the sink. He squeezed out the small opening and began briskly descending the oak stairs that led from the window ledge down to the street. "Doors are a concession to weakness, don't you think?" Dick asked, looking back over his shoulder at Bruce, who was trotting down after him.

Bruce jumped down the final five steps and stood opposite Dick in the study of Wayne Manor, both men standing right in front of the big fireplace. "You'd know all about conceding to weakness, wouldn't you now?" Bruce asked, full of attitude as he turned his head to the side and put his face right up to Dick's, their noses touching for an instant. Dick shoved him hard away, then turned and walked toward the fireplace.

Dick bent over at the waist and stepped into the fireplace, standing up into the chimney. He hit the lights and looked around, finding himself in an impossibly long hallway. He turned around to face the opposite direction, and stood mere feet from a set of double doors, their windows labeled "Waiting Room -- Maternity." Dick pushed the doors open and walked inside.

The waiting room was full of people, all men, of course, prospective fathers. One man in particular caught Dick's attention, a man in his late twenties who sat alone near the back of the room, his legs crossed, the top leg bouncing nervously. Dick went to him, sat down next to him. "Waiting for your wife?" he asked the father-to-be.

The man nodded uneasily. "Yeah. And my son. Both of them."

Dick patted the man comfortingly on the shoulder. "It'll be okay. I'm pretty sure. They should both be okay, so don't cry about it."

"I'm not crying," the nervy man said, and he wasn't.

A nurse burst into the waiting room, her surgical smock covered in blood, as were her hands. She moved past the rest of the people in the room, not even seeing them, and went straight for the man next to Dick. "I'm sorry sir, but your wife is dead. There's nothing we could do." Dick looked at the nurse again: her smock was clean. The nurse turned and exited the waiting room.

They stood up, and Dick and the nervous man were out in the hallway again, just beyond the closed doors of the waiting room. The man put both palms to his forehead and sank to his knees, letting out a heart-splitting wail of anguish. He knelt on the floor at Dick's feet, sobbing, and Dick looked down on him, numb. "Oh my God!" the devastated man cried, looking up through his tears at Dick. "My God, she's dead!! Henrietta's dead!!"

"Henrietta?" Dick asked, first incredulous, then furious. Before he was quite certain what he was doing, Dick had jerked the crying man to his feet by the collar of his shirt and had him backed up against the wall. "That's not her name!" Dick yelled. He took a step back and punched the man hard in the stomach, then took him by his hair and smashed the man's face into his (Dick's) knee, holding him by the hair. The beaten man stumbled back against the wall, his face bloody.

"What's her name?!" he screamed at Dick, his voice cracking. "Tell me her fucking name!"

Dick smacked the man hard across the face with the back of his hand. "No!!" he yelled back as the man recoiled back against the wall.

"Why not?!" the man shot back, holding his palm against his smarting cheek. "Tell me her fucking name!"

Dick stepped backward until he was backed up against the opposite wall of the hallway. He looked at the other man and said, "Fuck you. I don't want to say it."

"Tell me her fucking name!! Say her fucking name!"

"No!!" Dick screamed for a moment at the top of his lungs, staring down the man across the hall, hating him. "I'm not going to say her name! Not in here! I don't want to say it in here!"

Dick turned away from the man and started away from the waiting room, up the endless hallway. He turned abruptly to his right after about thirty feet and started down another hall. This hall gave way after only a few feet to a wide expanse of open space, a plane of rust-red soil stretching out to the horizon in all directions. Even the hallway he'd emerged from was gone. Up above was a sky of black, sprinkled with stars.

Dick picked a direction and walked. After a few steps, the red soil beneath his feet was replaced with a smooth black surface, and the black sky above was filled with the colorful forms of the nine planets, orbiting around in the endless space above the plane. The black surface Dick stood on was a rectangle, about three times as long as wide, and it carried him through space as the entire solar system seemed to dance in front of him.

A phone rang. Dick turned around and saw a public telephone, Gotham Bell, standing on a far corner of the black surface. It rang again. He walked across the surface of the rectangle and picked it up.

Thursday
The Apartment of Dick Grayson
12:07 p.m.

Dick rolled over twice and swung his legs backwards off the edge of the bed. The phone rang again as he was starting groggily toward his bedroom door. He shuffled into the kitchen and picked up the handset on its fourth ring.

"Good morning," he said, his voice tired and deep, "and let's hope that's not just wishful thinking."

"Is this Dick?" came a female voice that Dick, although he knew it was familiar to him, couldn't quite place.

Dick rubbed the back of his neck with his free right hand, holding the phone to the side of his head with his left. "Yeah. . . . Yes, this is Dick. Why? Who is this?"

The woman cleared her throat. "This is Lilhy. I live in the house with Jean-Paul and Brian? Do you remember me?"

"Oh," Dick said, recognition dawning on him now, "yeah. Certainly, I remember you. Sure." He nodded several times, as if to drive the point home for himself.

"You . . . kissed me once," Lilhy reminded him, perhaps to make certain Dick didn't think he was talking to another Lilhy.

"Yeah, I definitely remember that." Dick smirked a moment to himself. "What's up, Lilhy?"

Lilhy stammered at first, struggling a bit to start her next sentence. "We -- . . . I was . . . I thought perhaps that, if you aren't too busy, you might be willing to come over to the house and assist us with some household problems we're . . . we've been having lately."

Dick shrugged at the possibility. "I don't have any real plans for this afternoon, but what kind of problems are we talking about here?"

"Several days ago, Brian purchased a vehicle for us to use here at the house for transportation, a model called a Cherokee."

"As in a Jeep Cherokee? Like, a sport utility vehicle" Dick asked.

"Yes, I suppose," answered Lilhy, sounding a bit uncertain. "The trouble is that it no longer seems able to run properly. Brian claimed the engine was giving him troubles, and now he is unable to even start it."

"Okay. I take it Brian isn't really the mechanically-inclined type?"

"I wondered the same thing aloud to him while he was . . . I believe the expression is 'under the hood.' He seemed annoyed at that."

Dick nodded. "Sure. Any man would be."

"Brian is a psychiatrist -- and he claims to be a poor one of those -- not an automobile mechanic," Lilhy commented somewhat regretfully. "I really must apologize, but I didn't know who else to call."

"You could just call up a mechanic, you know; someone professional who'd know a lot more what to do than I probably would," Dick offered.

"I considered that," Lilhy answered thoughtfully, "but I'm not the most business-savvy person. And, neither is Brian, as a result of his being -- I believe the expression is 'out of the way' -- for so long."

Dick raised his eyebrows half an inch as an idea entered his head. "Can't Jean-Paul fix it? Or, isn't automotive repair one of the pillars of The System?"

Lilhy was quiet for a few seconds. When she spoke, there was reluctance in her voice, and sadness. "Jean-Paul is still away."

Dick stopped a moment and looked down at the floor, then up straight ahead in disbelief. "He's still away?" he asked, totally surprised. "As in, he's not back from . . . whatever that was that he left for?"

"No," Lilhy answered firmly. "He has been gone for nearly two months now. Neither Brian nor I has heard from him."

"Whoa . . ." Dick put his right hand to his forehead and continued to look at the floor, mouth wide open, at something of a loss. "Lilhy . . . have you -- have either of you called anyone? The cops, maybe?"

"Brian suggested that we report Jean-Paul as a missing person," Lilhy started to explain, "but I felt it would only lead to a futile search. If Jean-Paul wished to return by now, he would have. No one will find him if he hasn't yet accomplished what he left here to accomplish."

Dick shook his head. "I don't even want to know what that means . . ." He lowered his right hand and tried to slip it into his pocket, thus reminding himself that he was only wearing a pair of boxer shorts. He let his right arm hang still at his side, and let out a sigh. "Okay, Lilhy. Um, I'll be over to your house sometime this afternoon. I might stop by Wayne Manor and pick up Harold; he knows more about cars than I do."

"Thank you, I would appreciate that," Lilhy said with rigid gratitude in her voice.

Dick smiled. "Sure, no problem. I'll see you in a few hours, I guess."

"Yes . . . good-bye."

The line was silent for a few seconds, then went dead. Dick heard the dial-tone and pressed down the cradle of the phone for a few seconds, then brought the hand-set back to his ear and punched in a number.

The phone rang twice before it was picked up. "Wayne Manor," Alfred's voice announced cordially.

"Hey, how's it going, Alfred?"

"Up early this morning, Master Dick?" Alfred asked drolly. Dick could almost see the butler's dry frown as he heard the question. "To answer your question, I find myself rather well today. And you?"

Dick shrugged one shoulder and turned to lean against the wall next to the phone. "Still a little groggy, but all right. Is Harold around?"

"I've not seen him leaving his workshop yet today," answered Alfred, "But, if it is your intention to speak with Master Harold over the telephone, I might suggest getting a bit more sleep."

After fighting it for a moment, Dick let himself lapse into a faint bemused laughter. "Lilhy called me today; she needs me to come over and look at this new car Brian bought for them. Something's not right about it. Tell Harold if he's not busy I'll want him to ride over there with me, since of the two of us, he's the only one who knows how to do more with a car than fill up the gas tank and change the oil."

"I'll certainly deliver the message. It's right on my way; I'm just about to deliver Master Bruce his lunch."

"Oh? That's good; I didn't want you to have to go out of the way or anything. What's on the menu for Bruce to wait until it's cold to eat today?"

Alfred inhaled deeply. "Actually, today I'm serving him a chilled green salad and an orange, neither of which should be affected too adversely by a change to room temperature."

"That's pretty smart," Dick said, impressed. "It's amazing you didn't think of doing that sooner than today."

"It certainly is," Alfred agreed readily, adding "although this revelation hardly compares to my toilet-tissue-related discovery several weeks ago."

Dick said nothing, just held the phone in a paralyzed daze, his mind rapidly filling with increasingly grotesque ideas.

Alfred obviously sensed Dick's apprehension. He waited until enough time had passed to constitute an ironic pause, then added, "That discovery being that toilet tissue is quite useful for cleaning the fine blown glassware on display in the east wing, . . . Master Dick."

"Well sure," Dick said, nodding profusely, "sure that's what you were getting at. I knew that. I knew that the whole time, I just thought I'd give you a minute there to clarify; that's all that pause was."

"Of course, Master Dick," Alfred said, his smile evident in his voice. "I'll inform Master Harold that you'll be needing him."

"All right, I'll see you when I get there, Alfred. Much appreciated."

"Never a bother."

Dick hung up the phone and took one step toward the refrigerator before stopping and turning around, deciding to shower first, then grab a quick lunch. He marched from the kitchen back into the bedroom.

LexCorp Intercontinental Hotel
Metropolis
12:58 p.m.

The loyal servant of St. Dumas who had come to Metropolis with Jean-Paul Valley was called Brother Innocent, one of Brother Mercior's most promising apprentices. He had also spent more time outside of the ice cathedral's walls than most of his fellow acolytes; he was familiar with the world abroad, which was not to say he liked it. He hated the commercial, the carnal, the sinful decadence of the world he'd found outside the Order. And currently, he hated the jeans and cotton shirt that he was forced to wear in order to better assimilate himself into this grandly corrupt society, the clothing so common in its appearance and so physically restrictive in its design.

"Never again succumb to corruption, Azrael," Innocent had warned Jean-Paul over and over again on the flight to Metropolis. "Never give-in to the sins of this world again, or you'll find yourself burning in the lake of fire beneath the sword of St. Dumas for all time." Brother Innocent had preached assiduously to Jean-Paul for the entire flight, going over and over the most basic teachings of the Order, admonishing him to never, ever veer from the path of St. Dumas again.

Jean-Paul had listened passively for the entire repetitive sermon.

Now, Jean-Paul sat acquiescently on the edge of one of the beds in his hotel room, his hands clasped between his knees. Brother Innocent emerged from the bathroom, wearing his acolyte robe, the clothes he'd been wearing bundled beneath his arm. "I couldn't stand having that . . . unclean raiment against my skin any longer," he explained, pulling his suitcase -- the only luggage he had brought from Switzerland -- onto his bed, and opening it. From a pocket on the inside of the case's top, Innocent pulled a brown business-sized envelope. He tossed it over onto the other bed, next to Jean-Paul.

Jean-Paul picked it up and opened it. Inside was: several large photographs of Superman, some posed, some of the man in action; a seven-page single-spaced character profile of Superman, based on assessments of his heroic actions, intended to give Jean-Paul a better understanding of his enemy; and, a map of the city of Metropolis, on which were marked the most common observed paths of flight of Superman, and locations where he was most often sighted. "To assist you in your objective, Azrael," Innocent explained, standing, clasping his hands together and hiding them in the oversized sleeves of his robe. "I suggest you read those while I pray. After that, you may don your guise and set out to work."

Brother Innocent walked over to the room's only window and knelt before it. He brought his hands out of his sleeves and put his palms together, his fingers pointing up toward Heaven. He prayed to Christ, asked that He be strong and righteous in his judgment of this world, and asked for His love and blessing, both for his own sake, and for St. Dumas.

Sitting on his bed, Jean-Paul began to read.

Beneath Wayne Manor
1:34 p.m.

Dick walked from the bottom of the steps straight over to the edge of the plateau, looking down to the Cave's lower level. "Hey, Harold?" he called down, "Are you ready to go?"

The little blonde man emerged a few steps from the black shadow that obscured the area around the entrance to his workshop and looked up at Dick. He pointed to the watch on his left wrist, then held up five fingers.

Dick nodded, comprehending. "Five minutes?"

Harold nodded and smiled, holding the tips of his thumb and forefinger together, giving Dick the okay-sign. He turned and stepped back into the shadows. Dick heard the door to the workshop close.

As Dick waited for Harold at the edge of the upper plateau, his hands hung patiently in the side pockets of his jacket, he saw Bruce emerging from the gym, his face beaded with sweat, a towel hung around his neck. Bruce looked up and saw Dick, and continued walking toward the elevator, not pausing a moment. "How's the motorcycle running?" he asked, looking straight ahead as he walked.

Dick inhaled and shrugged, watching as Bruce stepped onto the elevator and it started its climb. "It hasn't given me any trouble yet in the past twenty-four hours or so. Ran okay for me on patrol last night."

Bruce gave a suited nod. The elevator reached the top, and Bruce stepped off and started right for the computer console, dabbing off his forehead a bit with the towel. "Whenever you decide to make the security modifications to it, call here and I'll make certain Harold has the time to help you with it."

"Sure, sure, Bruce," Dick said. "Thanks."

Bruce sat down at the computer console and swiveled the chair to the left so that he faced the clear space on the console, where his lunch still sat untouched on its tray. Bruce took the orange up with his right hand.

Dick regarded him with a smirk. "Taking an early lunch, huh?"

Bruce brought the orange to his mouth and bit into it, taking a bite out of it, rind and all, as most people would eat an apple. Dick winced, turned his head half away, even shielding his eyes in mock disgust. Bruce swallowed and took another bite, just as before. "My God . . ." Dick began slowly, sounding as if he'd never witnessed anything so ghastly, "how can you eat oranges like that? I swear, I'll never get that."

After he had swallowed, Bruce brought the orange up to his nose and breathed the smell of the citrus deep into his lungs. "The rind and partitions between the locules contain proteins that strengthen the blood vessels," he explained briefly, then bit out another large piece.

"Really?" Dick said, skeptical, cocking his head to the right. "Have you known that your whole life, or were you up late last night watching The Juiceman on cable, too?"

Bruce didn't respond, not that Dick had expected him to; he just swallowed and took another bite out of the orange. Dick glanced back at the elevator: no Harold yet. "I asked Alfred if it was all right if we took the van," Dick said, turning back to Bruce, who had eaten almost half of the orange by this point. "I might not be able to handle Harold and his tools and stuff all on my bike."

"If it's all right with Alfred, it's all right with me," Bruce said, his voice sounding a bit strained, having just swallowed a large bite of orange.

Dick turned around and looked to the elevator again: the platform had descended to the lower plateau; Harold must've been on his way up. Dick turned back to Bruce. "Looks like the superdwarf is on the elevator. . . . I guess I'll go out and bring the van around."

Bruce nodded, still concentrating on his orange.

Dick lingered for a moment. "Yep . . ." He spun around slowly on his left heel and started for the staircase.

Office of Commissioner Gordon
Gotham City Police Headquarters
2:05 p.m.

The phone on Gordon's desk beeped. He hit the speakerphone button and the voice of Gloria, his secretary, spoke to him. "Are you in?" she asked.

Gordon sighed. "That depends; who is it?"

"Diane Christi," Gloria responded.

Gordon nodded with sour recognition. "In that case, I'm in the middle of a meeting with Lieutenant Duffy from Seventeenth Precinct Homicide."

"Lieutenant Duffy left twenty minutes ago," Gloria said in a lingering, reminding tone.

Gordon shook his head at the phone. "You must've been seeing things."

"Understood . . ." Gloria said, her voice trailing off coltishly.

"Thank you, Gloria," Gordon said just before he tapped the speakerphone off. He let his fingertip linger on the edge of the button for a moment, looking at the phone and then past the phone, deep in thought. He looked up, his train of thought abruptly interrupted by the sound of his office door being opened. Gloria stepped inside and closed the door behind her. She walked up and sat down in the chair in front of Gordon's desk, regarding him, her hands folded on her lap, from behind a knowing, sympathetic smile.

Gordon sat back in his chair, sliding away from his desk, watching Gloria, meeting her eyes, waiting for her to say something. She didn't. "Yes, Gloria?" he asked, finally.

"Just thought I'd let you know I'm taking my coffee break now," she said, not budging an inch from the chair, still smiling at Gordon just the same as she had been.

"Fine," Gordon said flatly, "then, please, take your break."

"I'm not interrupting your conference with Lieutenant Duffy, am I?" Gloria asked, her smile slowly widening. "I'd hate to be interrupting."

Gordon tapped his right index finger impatiently on the top of his desk a few times, biting his lip at his secretary. He stood up all at once, his chair sliding back away from him and gently hitting the wall. "What do you want, Gloria?"

Gloria shrugged her shoulders gently. "I thought maybe we could talk, that's all."

"You can talk," Gordon said sharply. He reached behind him and pulled his chair back beneath him and sat down. "Say your piece and get out."

"The bundle I gave you two days ago was the fourth set of divorce papers I've received here," Gloria said, her voice full of motherly concern, despite the fact that she was almost twenty years Gordon's junior. "Sarah won't just keep sending them ad infinitum. Do you think about that?"

Gordon shook his head, but not in response to her question. He put his index finger to his lips and looked on Gloria with narrowed eyes. "I said you could talk."

Gloria sighed, seeming disappointed. She looked at Gordon with large, melancholy eyes. "You can't avoid divorce by just not signing the papers. If she wants it, Diane's too good of a lawyer not to get it for her."

Gordon lowered his head into the fingertips of his left hand, and propped his left elbow up on the edge of the desk while he massaged his forehead. He looked up, his hand still on his forehead, and his gaze moved past Gloria. "There's someone outside," he said, his eyes then sliding over to his secretary.

Gloria shook her head sadly. "Jim, if you really want me to leave, you don't have to --"

Gordon shifted his left hand away from his forehead and pointed out his door with that forefinger. "I'm serious."

Gloria turned around and looked out into the lobby; a tall, young, attractive woman with long, full red hair stood in front of Gloria's desk, waiting patiently, dressed sophisticatedly in a tailored pantsuit.

The commissioner's secretary stood and stepped quickly out into the lobby, slide-stepping in behind her desk. "I really do apologize for the wait," Gordon heard Gloria say as the two women shook hands, "but the commissioner and I were having a meeting for a few minutes in his office."

The other woman shook her head and smiled with understanding. "That's completely understandable. Would it be possible for me to speak with the commissioner for a few minutes?"

"Well, maybe. I'll check with him." Gloria stepped one foot back in Gordon's office, then stopped and turned back to the woman in the lobby. She pointed at her, waving her finger with faint recognition. "You look familiar . . ."

The woman smiled and offered Gloria her hand again. "I should, I guess; I'm Summer Gleeson from Channel Eight."

"Oh! Yes, of course! I can't believe I didn't pick up on it at first!" Gloria exclaimed, seeming embarrassed at not having recognized Gotham's most recognizable television personality. Gloria started to turn back toward Gordon's office again, but once again stopped herself. "Is this for anything news related?" she asked, sounding a bit concerned. "Because if this is on the record, you really should have called for an appointment."

Summer Gleeson shook her head and smiled. "No. It's actually a personal matter that I'd like to discuss with Commissioner Gordon, if I may."

"Oh, well that shouldn't be a problem," Gloria assured Ms. Gleeson, turning and walking a few steps into the commissioner's office. Gloria silently mouthed "Do you want to talk with her?" to Gordon.

Gordon looked over Gloria's shoulder at Summer, standing patiently in the lobby, then nodded at his secretary. "Tell her she can come in for a few minutes," he said quietly.

Gloria stepped to the side, and Summer Gleeson walked into the office, greeting Gordon with a broad smile, her hands clasped modestly in front of her. Gloria discreetly exited the room, closing the door behind her. "Thanks so much for seeing me without any notice prior," Ms. Gleeson said. She lighted her fingertips on the back of the chair in front of Gordon's desk. "May I sit?"

Gordon indicated the chair with his hand and nodded. "Please." When she had sat down, he leaned forward, interlocking his fingers and resting both arms on the top of the desk. "What is it you want, Ms. Gleeson?"

Summer Gleeson cleared her throat politely before she started to speak. "I received a call yesterday from the assistant editor of NewsTime, an acquaintance of mine from college, and he offered me the opportunity to write an article for their year-end issue."

Gordon nodded impatiently. "How does this lead to you sitting in my office right now, Ms. Gleeson?"

"Right," Ms. Gleeson said, smiling in spite of herself, "my apologies. The article would be an interview with Christopher Wilpod."

Gordon's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Why would NewsTime want to hear from Wilpod now? He's been locked up for six years."

"You would think he would be old news, but when he was a hot story, he always refused to speak to the media," Ms. Gleeson explained, continuing, "Recently, though, his doctors have reported a willingness to tell his story."

Gordon shook his head. "I'm still not convinced that there's really that much of an audience for this . . ."

Gleeson shrugged. "He killed sixteen people in a single weekend from Miami Beach to Metropolis -- the worst anyone at Arkham has ever done without a gimmick."

Gordon sat back from his desk, his hands still clasped in front of him, his elbows propped up on the arms of his chair. He regarded Ms. Gleeson thoughtfully for a moment. "I don't have any objection," he said after a few moments and a deep breath. "But, you really should be talking to the P-- . . . to Mr. Cobblepot; he owns the asylum now, and it's up to him and his people."

Ms. Gleeson stood from the chair and looked down at Gordon. "I have your blessing, then?"

The commissioner gave a slightly contradictory shake of his head. "I said I have no objection . . ."

"That's good enough," she said, offering Gordon her hand. He stood from his chair and shook it. "I've already been to see the people at Arkham. Mr. Cobblepot insisted that I receive clearance from you personally before he granted me admittance to Wilpod."

"Of course," Gordon said suspiciously as he sat back down. "He's quite a guardian of public safety . . ."

Ms. Gleeson turned and started to walk out of the office. She opened the door, stepped out, and looked back at the commissioner as she pulled the door after her. "Maybe I'll get you to comment on that topic on the record some day," she said with a smile as the door closed.

Gordon shrugged his eyebrows, then leaned back in his chair and put his hands behind his head. "I wouldn't count on that," he whispered to himself as he heard the door leading out of the lobby open and then close.

Atop the Daily Planet Building
Metropolis
3:01 p.m.

"Have you arrived now?"

Azrael touched his gauntlet-clad left hand to where his hood and mask covered his ear. He nodded at the sound of Brother Innocent's voice. "I am here," he answered. Azrael stood up straight, looking out over this bright, unfamiliar city from the base of the giant globe ornament that crowned the skyscraper.

"The offices of the Daily Planet comprise the second-largest building in the city," Innocent explained through the earpiece in Azrael's mask. "It was the most suitable look-out immediately accessible to you from the hotel. Your target has been known to come to this building from time to time, and he often flies by it on airborne patrols."

Afternoon in Metropolis, the streets beneath Azrael were alive with cars and people. He narrowed his eyes as he looked down on them, seeing the people and the vehicles of the city from this height as barely-perceptible shapes moving from place to place. If this was where the vengeance of St. Dumas was to be meted out, it was doubtless there would be injuries to innocents. Azrael quickly banished those thoughts from his mind; they weren't allowed.

"You will wait at your current position until further instruction, Azrael," Innocent continued, taking a more commanding tone. "There are more of our fellow acolytes, loyal agents in service of the Order, stationed throughout this city. They will contact you just as I have if your target is sighted. They will be your guides, to better coordinate the effort."

Azrael nodded. "I understand."

"Remain in position, Azrael," Innocent intoned again. "Remain vigilant, and I will contact you again shortly. St. Dumas be praised."

3:23 p.m.

Brother Innocent's voice came through the earpiece, breaking the long silence. "Azrael, acknowledge."

Azrael stood tall. He had been squatting on the north-facing ledge of the Planet building, scanning the skyline of this strange city. "I am here," he said into his mask's built-in microphone.

"Proceed immediately to the Hobsneck Bridge," Innocent commanded. "Your target should be arriving there shortly."

"Understood." Azrael stood and started across to the west side of the Daily Planet's roof. He could see the Hobs River in the distance, on the other side of a sprawling urban landscape. "Magnify five times," Azrael commanded out-loud. The lenses in front of his eyes shifted and re-focused, and Azrael was now looking at a much closer and clearer Hobs River, a body of water snaking through several blocks of urban decay and condemned buildings: Metropolis' Suicide Slum.

Stretching across the river was the bridge, lines of traffic running over it in both directions. "Magnification normal."

Azrael raised his right gauntlet over his head and lowered it deliberately, aiming it for the base of a large satellite dish that crowned a tall hotel complex across-and-down the street from the Planet. He snapped his wrist up sharply and the gauntlet fired a grappling hook out from its underside, a polymer line pulled along behind it. The grapple latched onto the base of the dish. Azrael pulled on the line, and satisfied that it was secure, stepped off the roof and glided out across the city.

The Desk of Clark Kent
The Daily Planet
3:37 p.m.

Clark held the phone against his ear with his left shoulder and opened the top-left drawer of his desk. "Yeah, Pa, I've got it." He reached inside and removed an opened Federal Express package, holding it in front of his eyes as he spoke. "It arrived by FedEx a few hours ago."

He tossed the FedEx box on his desk and adjusted the phone slightly against his left ear, holding it with his left hand now, pushing away from his desk slightly. "I can take it to Winston's in a little bit, but first I've got to figure out how to squeeze another ten lines out of this . . . this follow-up I'm doing for the second page. . . . No, Perry wants it to run two full columns on a half-page, and he doesn't want to have to pull anything with the layout to make it look bigger, so -- . . . 'Why'? Well, because -- . . . I know it's second-page, but not everything I write can be banner headlines, Pa. . . . No, it won't take that long -- I'm almost done, I think. . . . Yes, then I'll flash right down there. . . . No, I wasn't -- I actually didn't think of it that way until you just said something. . . . Okay, Pa, I'll -- . . . What? . . . Saturday night? Sure, that'd be great. . . . Absolutely, barring unforeseen circumstances. . . . Heh. Right, right. Well, it's not like I hold any control over that. . . . You too, Pa. . . . Yeah. Bye."

Clark hung up the phone and picked up the FedEx box again, contemplating it silently for a moment. He reached inside, pulled out a rectangular box covered in black velvet, and looked at that for awhile, thought of what lay held inside it, and what that meant to him. Breaking from his quiet musing, Clark put the velvet box back into the FedEx package, and put the package back in the desk drawer, then turned back to the computer screen on his desk.

Another ten lines; that was a lot of writing when you were already finished the story, Clark thought to himself, rubbing his chin as he considered the screen. He finally shook his head and held his fingers hesitantly over the keyboard. Typing nothing after almost a full minute, he pressed both palms to his forehead and squinted, tensing every muscle in his face, thinking hard.

Then, there was an eerily familiar sound that reached Clark's ears, beginning in the distance but quickly fading into clarity. Clark started to stand.

Perry White stepped out of his office, a puzzled look on his face. He looked around the room a moment, then settled on Clark, who turned around to meet his boss's confused look. "Chief?"

"Did you just hear something, Kent?" Perry asked, eyes narrowed. "Some kind of a rumbling sound, or . . . ?"

Clark stood up from his desk and started toward the door that led out into the hallway. "I'm not sure, Chief," he said with an uncertain shrug as he walked. "I'm taking a bathroom break, all right?

Perry sighed, stumped, and withdrew back into his office. "Get me that follow-up before tomorrow morning, Kent," he said before the door closed.

Hearing the door to Perry's office shut, Clark quickened his step, although not nearly as much as instinct was urging him to. He moved quickly toward the door, opened it, and stepped out into the hallway. Relieved, he saw that the hall was empty. Clark moved in a flash to the window at the end of the hall, lifting it up and leaning out. He withdrew back inside a moment, looked behind him: the hall was still empty.

Turning to the window again, Clark pulled his glasses from his face. He was out the window and up to the roof of the Planet in a blur of white. Before another half-second had passed, Clark Kent's clothes had been shed and hidden inside the great hollow globe atop the building, and Superman had left the rooftop in a flash of blue and red.

Approximately fifty feet of the center of the Hobsneck Bridge was beneath the water, along with all the cars it had carried, when Superman arrived there less than a second after he'd left the Daily Planet. A quick scan of the water beneath the bridge by x-ray vision revealed nine cars under the river rapidly filling with water, their drivers and passengers frantically pulling on doors and fighting to get out.

In a blur and a splash, Superman was beneath the water and at the side of one of the cars. Several of the occupants of the other cars had managed to free themselves and were swimming quickly for the surface, but four of the cars were still closed, their occupants still fighting to escape. Superman moved swiftly from car to car, cutting through the water as fast as he could, tearing the doors off the cars and pulling the drivers and passengers from their seat belts, helping them on their way to the top of the river.

Superman had been under the river for less than fifteen seconds when he broke the water's surface and began helping people to the shore. When, approximately thirty seconds later, everyone was safely on land, Superman turned back to what remained of the bridge. One car was hanging precariously on the edge that had been created by the loss of the center section, its front wheels over the open water below.

The next instant, Superman was up on the bridge behind the car, gripping its back bumper firmly and pulling it safely back onto the bridge. When the car was safely away from the edge, Superman lifted up the back end of it and stepped quickly beneath it, putting his hands on either side of the car and hefting it over his head. He lifted off the ground and glided swiftly but carefully over to the other side of the median, placing the car into a lane leading away from the edge, across toward the other side, away from the gap in the bridge.

A sharp pain shot suddenly through the back of his neck, and Superman sank to his knees, a grimace of agony on his face. Instinctively, his hand slapped to the back of his neck, plucking a sharp object from his skin. He flung it far out into the river without looking at it, but whatever it was, it had burned the skin of his hand. He knew from past experience that there was only one substance it could've been made of.

"On your feet, interloper," came a dark, commanding, emotionally neutral voice. Superman stood slowly, rubbing the back of his neck, and turned around to face the source of the voice, a tall figure, clad in red, golden armor over his chest, golden gauntlets arming both forearms, his face covered in a black and red mask, his head and his shoulders shrouded in a black hood, a set of thin black metal stylized wings protruding from his back. "The Angel Azrael has come to bring you punishment!" the newcomer's dark voice boomed.

Superman regarded Azrael suspiciously. "Should I know you?" he asked, planting his hands on his hips, putting forward a confidence that, after that shot in the neck, he wasn't completely sure he had.

"Know that men call you defiler!" Azrael called, his voice taking on a harder edge as he brought both hands up in front of him. Sharp triangular blades sprung from the top of either gauntlet, and Azrael held his arms akimbo, legs spread, his stance combative. "You have interfered in affairs which were none of your concern, and now you face the justice of St. Dumas!"

Flames suddenly erupted from each of Azrael's gauntlets, and the blades were wrapped in fire. He took a step toward Superman, his right arm drawn back.

"You really should re-think this," Superman advised, not budging an inch. "I'd hate to have to hurt you here."

Azrael lunged toward Superman, slashing at him with the right gauntlet. Superman easily sidestepped the blow, moving behind Azrael in a blur and grabbing him by the shoulder. Superman spun his adversary around and clamped his right hand around Azrael's neck, lifting him off his feet. "Put the flaming knives away, huh?" he asked in a civil tone.

One of the golden gauntlets waved in front of Superman's face, and he felt a sudden wave of nausea overtake him. He dropped Azrael and then fell back to his knees. Azrael raised one of his flaming blades up high and advanced. Superman mustered a burst of strength and shoved his enemy hard away, sending Azrael flying nearly a hundred feet up the bridge, where he landed hard on his feet after several somersaults to right himself. Superman looked over at Azrael, coming toward him again. He stood slowly, shook his head, trying to move past the feeling of weakness that threatened to overtake him now.

Superman squinted at Azrael's right gauntlet, and twin beams of concentrated heat shot from his eyes toward the flaming blade. The blade began to glow and then to melt in the instant before Azrael jerked his right arm away and quickly swung his left arm up, aiming with that gauntlet and firing three shurikens out in rapid succession. Superman blurred to his right, easily avoiding the attack, but was now so dizzy that he had to lean slightly on the restraining wall of the bridge to hold himself up.

Azrael ran forward, firing off another volley, this time of six shurikens, which Superman again avoided by moving with superhuman swiftness to the other side of the bridge, although he nearly tripped over the median wall when leaping over it this time. Superman aimed another burst of heat vision at Azrael, this time targeting the left gauntlet. Azrael tumbled out of the way without much trouble, rolling across the asphalt into a kneeling position, from which he fired a hard and constant stream of shurikens.

Superman moved to his right, at first avoiding the shurikens. But Azrael quickly adjusted his aim and began to reach the target, shurikens hitting Superman in the arms, chest, and back, slicing through normally impenetrable skin and imbedding themselves in his flesh.

Weakened, barely able to stand, Superman doubled over and stumbled across to the median wall, slumping against it. Azrael advanced on him, raising up the blade of his left gauntlet and slashing down. Superman avoided the blow at the last instant, rolling away from his attacker along the wall. Azrael's blade struck the hard concrete wall, cutting through almost an inch of it before breaking off. Retracting what was left of the blade, Azrael went down low and uppercutted Superman hard on the jaw, knocking him backwards over the wall.

Superman scrambled to his feet as fast as he could, and found himself backpedaling toward the bridge's restraining wall, behind him. He backed into that wall hard, and watched, weakened, helpless, as Azrael leapt over the median wall and fast-stepped toward him. "Now, you share the fate of all those who act against the Order of St. Dumas!" Azrael announced, planting both hands on Superman's shoulders and driving a knee hard up into the weakened hero's abdomen. Azrael drew back his partially-melted right gauntlet and threw a hard and precise punch that landed square in the middle of Superman's face, sending him toppling over the wall of the bridge and down to the water below, where he hit with a splash.

By the time police and rescue workers arrived several minutes later, in response to the incident at the bridge, Azrael was gone. Superman, as well, was nowhere to be found.

13142 Mountain Drive
Gotham Heights
4:10 p.m.

"Jean-Paul never told me precisely what he was leaving for," she said, then took a cautious sip from the mug of hot tea she held with both hands.

Lilhy and Dick were seated at the kitchen table of the house which Lilhy shared with Brian and Jean-Paul, the house where Sandra, the former Dr. Shondra Kinsolving, had lived for a time. Lilhy had made tea, and although Dick never particularly cared for hot tea, he had a mug of it anyway, just to be polite. He brought the mug to his lips and took a small initial sip, swallowing immediately, the hot liquid burning his throat on the way down. Dick glanced quickly from the cup to Lilhy, then back to the cup, and shook his head uncertainly. "Didn't . . . Jean-Paul tell you where he was going? Or . . . anything?"

"No," Lilhy said with a regretful shake of her head. "He told me that Batman needed him, on a mission for the Dark City. No specifics."

Dick took another sip and gave several nods of recognition. "Batman sent him to Louisiana on an . . . errand."

"An 'errand'?" Lilhy asked, tilting her head to the side, regarding Dick inquisitively, clearly needing more of an explanation.

Dick read her look and smiled, relenting. He took another sip of tea, a larger one so he could finish it sooner. "All right, I'll tell you what I know . . ." he began after he'd swallowed. He cleared his throat. "There's a guy named Waylon Jones, a physical mutant who, in the past, has done a good job of being a major prick to Batman, myself, Robin, and the non-vigilante general public of Gotham City -- his bad-guy name is Killer Croc."

Lilhy nodded with recognition, which caused Dick to regard her with a somewhat puzzled look. "Jean-Paul told me some of what happened while he wore the mantle of the bat," Lilhy explained, "and Killer Croc was a name he mentioned."

"Okay," Dick continued, "so, Croc was living in a swamp outside of Houma, Louisiana. Batman figured out that some people were going down to Houma to bring Croc back up to Gotham, and he sent Jean-Paul -- well, Azrael -- down there to make sure that didn't happen." Dick took another deep sip of tea and swallowed it quickly. "Killer Croc is an inmate at Arkham Asylum even as we speak, so . . . so I suppose Jean-Paul didn't have the best luck with that . . ."

Lilhy took a sip of her tea, then held the mug in front of her, looking down solemnly at the dark liquid. "We didn't know each other for that long a time, really," she said, her voice barely above a whisper, "although sometimes I could swear that it must have been longer."

Dick didn't follow at first. "Hmm? . . . Oh, you mean you and Jean-Paul." He took another big sip of tea, then looked down at the mug: maybe one big gulp left. He swallowed, and brought the mug to his lips a final time. "I sometimes forget that it hasn't been that long," he said immediately before starting the last sip, which forced Dick's head back as far as it would go, emptying the mug. He let out a deep, satisfied sigh as he set the mug down on the table. "Thanks for the tea; that was pretty good."

"It's an Irish blend," Lilhy said, standing up from the table and taking Dick's empty mug. "It's Brian's personal favorite. . . . Do you want another cup?"

Dick shook his head vigorously. "No, no . . . that was fine. Just one is fine, thank you."

Lilhy put Dick's mug in the sink, then took her own up from the table and held it while she leaned back against the kitchen counter. She took a quiet sip of her tea, saying nothing. After a few seconds, Dick felt her gaze settling on him. Dick took in a deep breath and held it, making a fist with his right hand and knocking on the table for several nervous seconds. "Okay," he said, standing up from the table, "I think I'll take a walk out to the garage, see how Harold and Brian are doing with your car."

"Yes," Lilhy said earnestly, pouring the rest of her tea down the drain and putting her mug in the sink as well, "I'll go with you, see how things are coming along."

They both started out into the hallway, but Lilhy stopped him after a few steps. "Dick . . ." Dick turned and faced her, meeting her eyes for a moment, then shifting his look to the side slightly. "Thank you for talking with me like this," she said. "Brian is an excellent conversationalist, but he tends to . . . hover around the same few topics."

"Sure, no problem," Dick said, shrugging as he started out again. "I've always been just a phone call away," he heard himself adding as he stepped out into the hall.

The door leading out into the garage was at the end of the hallway, on the right coming from the kitchen. The door opened and Brian stepped inside as Dick and Lilhy were making their way down the hall. He turned sideways to let Dick and Lilhy pass by more easily, and started for the kitchen. "Is there any tea left, Lilhy?" Brian asked before they were to the door.

"There is still some already made," she answered, turning to Brian as Dick opened the door and held it for her. "It should still be hot."

Harold was out in the garage, currently sitting in the driver's seat of Brian and Lilhy's new Cherokee, a toolbox beside him on the passenger side. Dick walked around to the driver's side behind Lilhy, watching Harold through the windshield. "Taking your time, aren't you, Harold?" he asked in a loud tone of voice.

Harold slid out of the seat and looked at Dick, shrugging helplessly. He then beckoned for Dick and Lilhy to come and stand with him, and pointed inside the cab. Lilhy stepped up and looked inside. Her eyes widened subtly, and although she kept her composure, Dick could read from her face that she was impressed by what she saw. "My . . ." she remarked, not even trying to hide the awe in her voice.

Lilhy stepped aside to let Dick have a peak. "Harold, you made a few trips out to the van, didn't you?" Dick asked in a mockingly patronizing tone as he looked at the re-vamped interior of the Cherokee.

Harold had completely overhauled the cab's dashboard, replacing the needle gauges for speed, temperature, fuel, and so on, with digital read-outs that would be far more accurate and reliable. The center console had undergone extensive alterations as well, a multiple-disc CD-player/radio installed, as well as digitized heat and air conditioning controls, and a digital time display.

Dick patted Harold on the back and shook his head. "Couldn't resist, could you?"

The little man gave another shrug.

"Okay, so this is what took so long," Dick started to say, his gaze darting around the interior of the Cherokee, "but what was it that kept the car from starting in the first place?"

Harold looked to see that no one was in the way, then shut the Cherokee's door and shuffled past Dick and Lilhy to the back of the garage, to the big plastic trashcan. He reached into the trashcan and pulled out an empty bottle of motor oil, jiggled it back and forth, eyebrows shrugging meaningfully.

Dick stared blankly at the empty bottle of oil for what seemed like a long time. "No oil?" he asked, incredulous. "That was it?" He broke into a broad grin and forced himself to look at the floor, then looked up at Lilhy, his head tilted forward, regarding her from beneath his brow. "That's kind of funny . . ."

The door to the garage opened and closed, and Dick looked up to see Brian making his way around to stand with everyone else, a cup of tea in his hand, a single thin spire of steam wafting up from the center of the liquid. "It's my fault, I'm afraid," Brian said with a self-deprecating grin. "I never even checked the oil after I bought the thing." He took a brief sip of tea. "Honestly, it never crossed my mind."

Dick pointed at Harold until he had the dwarf's attention, then indicated the door that lead to the outside. "Are you done Harold? Ready to hit it?" Harold gave a nod and started around to the Cherokee's passenger side. Dick waited until Brian had safely swallowed another gulp of tea, then gave him a gently reassuring pat on the back. "Hey, I'm no mechanic either, believe me," he said.

Harold grabbed his toolbox from the passenger-side door, gave a short wave to Lilhy and Brian, and made for the garage door. "Many thanks, Harold," Brian said after the dwarf, raising his cup of tea respectfully. Harold nodded and smiled, then opened the door and started outside for the van.

Dick went for the door as well. "Lilhy, you call me if you want to talk, all right? Anytime -- almost anytime."

Lilhy nodded, smiling warmly at Dick, her hands clasped in front of her. "I will, Dick. Thank you."

Harold was already in the van when Dick got outside and climbed in behind the wheel. "Hungry?" Dick asked him as soon as he was in and the door was shut. Harold pushed his lower lip out thoughtfully, seemed to consider the question a moment, then nodded. "Burger Park okay?" Dick asked. Harold nodded willingly. Dick grinned. "My kind of dwarf, Harold." Dick started the van. "You're my kind of dwarf."

Avian Paradise Casino
4:21 p.m

Groverton stepped off the elevator with a rectangular box under his arm, and walked across Cobblepot's penthouse to his desk. Quentin stepped out of the elevator three steps behind him, blonde hair pulled back into a pony-tail, dressed in the usual white tuxedo that Cobblepot insisted he wear while playing civilian.

"Oswald?" Groverton called, tossing the box onto the desk. "We're back from Dr. Stratton. The box is on your desk here."

Groverton hadn't noticed the sound of the water running until now, when he heard it turn off. The shower. He turned to Quentin. "He must have worked up a sweat playing pool all day," he remarked with a wry raise of his left eyebrow.

Quentin laughed faintly, then nudged Groverton with his elbow. "Right, now say that in front of his face, you gutless shit."

"Shut-up," Groverton said witheringly, shaking his head and turning to watch the bathroom door. He took a deep breath, then sighed. A sudden smile came over him, and Groverton began to laugh to himself. "I hope he puts a robe on, and not just a towel again," he whispered, barely able to get the words out.

The bathroom door opened and Oswald Cobblepot stepped out, a towel over his wet head, his body wrapped in a black terry robe. "Good-day, gentlemen," he said cordially, then began vigorously drying his hair with the towel. When he was done, he pulled the towel down and let it hang around his neck. "The box is on my desk?"

Groverton nodded his head toward the desk. "Yeah. The result forms should be in there, too. Right on top."

Cobblepot walked over and stood behind his desk. He lifted the top off the box and regard its contents: inside the box was the Batman suit the Joker had left with him two days ago. Laid on top of the folded suit was a single sheet of paper, a computer printout with the header FABRIC ANALYSIS (PAGE 1 OF 1) in the top right-hand corner. Oswald picked it up and held it to his eyes, reading with interest. Groverton saw his shoulders fall slightly when he'd read the entire sheet. Cobblepot looked up from the sheet and met Groverton's eyes with a mixture of disappointment and disbelief.

"What?" Groverton asked, his look shooting back and forth between Oswald and Quentin with concern. "What is it, Oswald?"

Oswald said nothing, just held the paper out for Groverton to take it.

Groverton did, and held it with both hands as he read it. He stopped when he reached the second line of print, beneath a heading that read MASK/CAPE COMPONENT. That second line read: 100% Silk. Groverton read further; the next heading was BODY COMPONENT, and beneath that the readout: Nylon/Spandex/Lycra composite.

Quentin grabbed the paper from Groverton's hands and read it himself. He looked up at Cobblepot, absolutely lost. "What the hell does that mean?"

Cobblepot snatched the readout back and crumpled it into a ball. "It means that either Batman's survived being shot at for ten years wearing a Spandex and silk costume," he began tensely, turning his back on the other two men, "or I've been cozened and beguiled by that grinning, crackbrained cocksucker . . ." He tightened his fist around the ball of paper, then threw it as hard as he could at the windows behind his desk, where it impacted and fell harmlessly to the floor.

Groverton looked at the crumpled paper for a moment, then at the Batman suit, folded neatly in the box. "It's not impossible," he observed flatly, causing both the Penguin and Quentin to regard him strangely.

"You seriously think Batman's been doin' his thing all these years wearin' nothin' but a glorified leotard?" Quentin asked, incredulous. "Come-on . . ."

"No, no," Groverton insisted, shaking his head. "The more I stand here thinking about it, the more I see there being two possibilities -- other than the Joker trying to pull on over on you, Oswald." Groverton paused for a beat to put together his thoughts. "For all he does, and for as long as he's been doing it, Batman must be one of the most physically-fit men on the planet. And, he really isn't seen by human eyes that often, and even then usually only for a few seconds. If he knows he's being shot at or pursued, he'd be in constant motion. So, is it really that implausible that, with his physical skills, he could avoid serious injury for ten years wearing a suit like that?"

The Penguin folded his arms complacently and shook his head. "I do think that's stretching it a bit. Second possibility."

Groverton nodded. "Okay, second possibility: the suit the Joker found is for emergencies only."

The Penguin's eyes narrowed, and he looked as though he were trying to remain skeptical, but was beginning to embrace the idea already. "Elaborate."

"It's been postulated for years that Batman would have to have some kind of civilian identity," Groverton started to explain. "Since he's only seen at night, it's probable that he leaves his base of operations -- wherever and whatever that is -- already in costume, and the costume he's wearing then is probably more durable and more elaborate than this one."

Quentin nodded in agreement. "Right, like that Bats costume I wear. But, that's what makes that costume in that box look so fuckin' bogus."

"That regular costume is probably bullet- and fire-resistant," Groverton continued, "and as such it's probably pretty difficult to hide or carry around with him. And, what if he runs into a situation that calls for his presence in-costume?" Groverton looked at Oswald pointedly.

Cobblepot nodded. "He would need a costume that was more easily concealed . . . for emergencies."

"That would also make it a bit easier to believe that the Joker got his hands on it; he could have somehow gotten his hands on an extra suit, or something," Groverton added.

A look of resentful envy came over the Penguin's face. "Or," he began bitterly, "perhaps the Joker knows his true identity." Oswald shook it off after a few moments. "Groverton," he began, "call Sir Edmund and update him on all this."

Groverton nodded and turned for the elevator. Quentin turned to follow him.

"And," Oswald continued, stopping both men in mid-step, "tell Sir Edmund that I'll need to meet with him sometime very soon to discuss what's to be done."

"Right away, Oswald," Groverton said, then turned and started again for the elevator. Quentin followed, hands in his pockets.

"Is that the robe you got him for Christmas last year?" Quentin asked Groverton in a whisper.

"No, two years ago," Groverton said as he pushed the button to open the elevator doors.

Beneath Wayne Manor
5:10 p.m.

The costume vault was open and the light was on when Dick stepped off the bottom step onto the Cave's upper plateau. Harold was a few steps behind him. "Hey, Bruce?"

"I'm in here, Dick," came Bruce's voice, as expected, from the costume vault. A moment later, Bruce emerged from the vault, dressed in bluejeans and a black tee-shirt, carrying two black heavy-duty plastic utility cases in either arm. He walked across the plateau, past Dick, and sat both cases down on the stone pedestal that stood in the middle of the floor. Bruce turned immediately and started back for the vault.

Harold had apparently decided to mind his own business, and was making his way toward the elevator platform.

"Do you have plans for the next few days?" Bruce asked as he stepped back into the vault.

Dick could only assume that the question had been directed at him. "Not . . . right now," he answered, hesitant. "But, I have the feeling you're about to take care of that."

Bruce walked out of the costume vault carrying a smaller reinforced plastic case in his right hand. He walked back across to the pedestal. "I have to leave right away. I may need some help, but you don't have to come along if you don't want to."

Dick regarded Bruce seriously for a moment. "Sure I'll come with you if you need help." Dick's look softened, and his face took on a faint grin, his head tilting lazily to the side. "I would, of course, need to know where we'd be going."

"We're going to Metropolis," Bruce said. "Alfred called ahead to the airport and told them to get the private jet ready to fly; he's bringing the car around front now." Bruce grabbed one of the large plastic cases with his left hand, then put the smaller case under his left arm, and picked up the second large case with his right hand. "Go into the costume vault and get two of your Nightwing suits packed, then meet Alfred and I outside." Bruce started for the stairs, adding forcefully, "Now. We have to leave immediately."

Dick backpedaled a few steps, then turned and started fast for the vault. "What about civvies?" he asked loudly as Bruce was reaching the top of the steps.

"We can buy any extra clothes you need once we get there," Bruce called back. "Now let's move."

Dick gave a quick shrug and marched into the vault. His spare Nightwing suits were hung near the back, to his left. He knew better than to argue with Bruce or to waste time in a situation like this, whatever this situation happened to be.

Outside Wayne Manor
5:14 p.m.

Dick lifted the two cases carrying his Nightwing costumes into the limo's big trunk, then slammed it shut and scrambled around and climbed into the long car's back seat. Bruce was already there, just now hanging up the cellular phone.

Alfred was in behind the steering wheel, and looked back to Bruce before he shifted the car into drive. "All ready, sir?"

Bruce leaned forward in his seat. "All set. Let's go." He leaned back and turned his head in Dick's direction, looking thoughtfully into space. "I just finished talking to Tim; he's been briefed on what's going to happen on his end."

The limo shifted into gear, and Alfred guided it around the Manor's circular driveway and along the narrow road that connected the Wayne estate to Mountain Drive.

Dick eyed Bruce with concern. "Leaving Robin alone in our absence?"

Bruce nodded almost imperceptibly. "He's been on his own before; he'll handle it fine," he intoned with confidence. "And, I'd be naive if I believed that he would be the only crimefighting presence in Gotham while we're gone."

Dick nodded sideways; it made sense, what Bruce said. He took in a deep breath and sighed it out, then leaned against the door and looked across the seat at Bruce. "So, what's demanding our presence in Metropolis?"

Bruce inhaled and looked straight ahead, staring at the back of the front seat, where the cellular phone was mounted next to a radio control and a small television monitor. "I received a call from Clark a short while ago," he said, then turned his head to the side and looked out his window.

"Clark Kent," Dick guessed aloud.

Again, Bruce barely nodded. "Someone blew out a large section from the middle of the Hobsneck Bridge today. When Clark arrived to help, he was attacked. By Azrael."

"Whoa . . ." Dick said after trying for a long time to think of something to say. "Azrael?" he asked in complete disbelief. "Jean-Paul? He attacked . . . he attacked Superman?"

Bruce nodded more obviously this time. "Quite successfully, too; he knocked Clark off the bridge and into the Hobs River."

After an even longer silent beat than before, Dick could only come up with "How?"

"That's part of what we're leaving to find out," Bruce replied, "although we both have our suspicions." Bruce's eyes narrowed, and his face took on a grave, ominous look. "And, if Jean-Paul somehow found himself back under the direction of the Order of St. Dumas, there's no limit to the resources he had open to him."

Dick sat back in the seat, mouth open, at a loss. He looked out the window, his mind racing, and watched the trees alongside the road slide by. "Jesus . . ." he said, his own voice sounding as if it were coming from a hundred miles a way as he sighed the word. Then, shaking his head, bringing himself together, he cleared his throat and reached across in front of Bruce for the cellular phone.

13142 Mountain Drive
5:18 p.m.

Brian had been sitting on the couch watching "Spellbound" on the American Movie Classics channel. The phone was sitting on a small table at the end of the couch, and so it was Brian who picked it up when it rang.

"Yes? This is Brian."

Dick Grayson's voice came across the line, "Hi, Brian. Say, is that your first name or your last name?"

"My first name just then," Brian answered, slightly amused. "Why?"

"You know what?" Dick said, sounding a bit urgent, "If this were any other time, I'd be more than happy to get into a witty exchange with you, but right now I really need to talk to Lilhy. Is she around?"

Brian nodded as he said "Yes, she is. Hold on and I'll get her." He put the phone down on the table and stood up from the couch. It only took a few steps to get out of the living room, and he crossed the hallway and stood at the bottom of the stairs, looking up toward the second floor. "Lilhy?" he called inceptively, waiting a moment.

"Is it the telephone?" Lilhy's voice called down after a few seconds. "Is it for me?"

"Yes it is, dear," Brian answered, walking back into the living room with a feeling that put this among the more minor accomplishments of his life, but made it no less satisfying for what it was. Brian found Lilhy to be a remarkably perceptive woman in some ways, but as naive as a child in others as a result of having spent her life in such a stifling and cruel environment as that which was provided her by the Order of St. Dumas; for her, a phone call was as rare a thing as it would be for that metaphorical child, and held the same treasured meaning.

Sitting back on the couch, Brian discovered that Dick Grayson had a rather loud voice over the phone. Interested, not intending to eavesdrop, Brian picked up the handset and inspected it. Dick and Lilhy were conversing, and Brian made a conscious effort not to listen in. He merely brought the handset to his eyes and looked at it: as he suspected, the volume switch had been slid to its loudest setting.

Brian slid the switch back to the middle, where it would provide an audible, comfortable volume of voice. In order to check the new loudness setting, Brian held the handset to his ear. Again, he told himself absolutely not to listen to the conversation. It was none of his business, after all.

"I thought about mentioning this to Brian just now," Dick's voice said, as in on cue, the moment the handset reached Brian's ear, continuing, "but I think he would better hear it from you. You two know each other better than you know me."

Knowing he shouldn't, but able to justify it in some way through his now-extreme interest, Brian kept the phone to his ear and began listening intently.

"Lilhy . . ." Dick's voice began, reluctant. It was a few seconds before he finished the statement: "We found Jean-Paul."

Brian gripped the phone tightly. It was a long silence before he heard Lilhy say anything.