BATMAN: The New Continuity

"This fuckin' sucks, and that's all I can say about it."

Tim slid his hands into his pockets and watched calmly as Hudson mimed a vicious kick to the base of the CD rack in front of him. "Come-on, Hud-man," Tim pleaded gently, trying to be the tender voice of reason, "so they don't have 'Recovering the Satellites'." He looked to his left up the rack. "Check this out, they've got 'From the Cradle'."

They were standing in the Pop/Rock section of Columbia House.

Hudson squared his shoulders and gave Tim a look that communicated some serious annoyance. "I've already got that one, and it bites. Besides, I'm here for Counting Crows; not Clapton." Hudson brushed past Tim and started on his way out of the music store. "You're done in here, right?" he asked Tim over his shoulder.

Tim plucked the copy of From the Cradle off the rack and into his hand. "Yeah, Hud-man. Just a sec, let me pay for this." Tim walked over to the cashier's counter, feeling Hudson's unbelieving eyes on him the whole way. When he laid the CD on the counter and reached for his wallet, Hudson sidled up behind him.

"You're just buying that to piss me off," Hudson said into Tim's right ear as the young female cashier slid the CD across to her and started to remove the plastic shell that held it while it was on the rack.

Tim looked over his shoulder at Hudson, regarding his best friend as if he had no idea what he was talking about. "Why would my buying 'From the Cradle' piss you off?"

"Because I just told you that it bites, that's why," Hudson insisted. "Why else would you want it?"

The cashier had taken notice of their conversation, and wore a faint smile when she asked Tim for $12.55. Tim opened his wallet and starting looking for the ten and the five he knew he had in there amongst the myriad singles. "You know," he started to say to Hudson, "I heard 'Recovering the Satellites' when it first came out. This guy I know likes Counting Crows, too, and he bought it when it first went on sale." Tim found the ten and the five and slid them over to the cashier.

"Out of fifteen . . ." she said to herself.

"And, I wasn't too impressed with it," Tim continued. "The one you have, 'August and . . . whatever' is a lot better, if you ask me."

"'August and Everything After'," Hudson corrected rather harshly.

Tim nodded right along. "Right, that one. Their first one. It's a lot better, if you ask me."

"Two forty-five is your change," the cashier said, handing Tim the money. He took it and stuffed it into his pocket, then took the bag that held his new CD from her. He turned and gave Hudson a sympathetic look, and they started out into the mall. "Um, guys?" the cashier asked before they'd taken more than a few steps.

Hudson ignored her and tried to keep on going, but Tim grabbed him by the shoulder and held him, then turned around. "Yeah?"

She watched Hudson as she spoke, but he kept his back turned. "If you want that CD, I can order it for you," she offered. "That one you wanted. 'Recovering the Satellites'. The one we don't have."

Hudson turned around and shook his head at her. "No, that's all right. Thanks anyway." He clamped his hand down hard on Tim's shoulder, pinching him hard, and coaxing him out of the store.

"You are a clueless prick, you know," Tim said, shrugging out of Hudson's grip.

"How do you figure that?" Hudson asked, eyes narrowed, not seeming to follow.

Tim shook his head hopelessly as they walked. "That girl back there liked you, if you would've bothered paying attention a little," he told his friend, chiding him. "I mean, I saw it."

Hudson looked at Tim skeptically. "Bullshit."

"Bullshit all you want; it's true. I could tell," Tim insisted.

Hudson dismissed the idea with a wave of his hand. "Like I care, anyway. She would be all I need right now," he said bitterly. "No thank you."

Tim regarded Hudson with sympathy, then shook his head disapprovingly. "Just because Erika turned you down -- that's no reason to be such an ass to everyone."

A look of absolute bitter disgust came over Hudson's face, and he stared straight ahead as they continued to walk. "Tim, just shut the fuck up right now, okay? Because you've got no idea what you're talking about here."

"Oh, right," Tim said sarcastically, "I have no idea at all what it's like to be--"

Hudson held up his hand, and his voice was firm and serious when he said "Let's just talk about something else, all right?" He looked over and met Tim's eyes. ". . . I'm fuckin' serious, man."

Tim held his friend's gaze for a few seconds, then gave a relenting shrug. "Sure. Sure, man. Whatever," he said agreeably.

They walked through the mall quietly for awhile. Tim looked down at his right hand and remembered the newly-purchased CD in the bag. ". . . talk about something else," he started off, half to himself. "How can you like Eric Clapton, and not like 'From the Cradle'? Isn't it his favorite album?" Hudson was about to answer, but Tim continued. "And, now that I'm at it, why is it that you, the big Counting Crows fan, is just now trying to buy their last album, which has been out for well, well over a year?"

Hudson walked on quietly for a few steps, a thoughtful expression slowly giving way to a careless one. "Well Jesus, Tim," he began, tilting his head to the side slightly, "I don't want to be a slave to the music."

Tim shook his head, then started to scan the mall curiously. "Where's Ives?"

Hudson's House
14155 Kaye Road
Gotham Heights
9:55 p.m.

"But still," Hudson said, his incredulity clinging to him as Tim brought the van to a stop in the driveway, "how could he -- how could anyone -- pay money for 'The Sound of Music'?"

Tim shifted the van into park, then sat back and looked at Hudson wearily. "I don't know. Do you want me to come in with you for a few minutes? Talk?"

Hudson shook his head. "No, no. . . . 'The Sound of Music'?!? . . . I mean, first Ives tells you that he's gay, right? Then, he says that he's not, that he was just going through a . . . a . . . ?"

"'An uncertain period'," Tim prompted, sighing.

"Right, right," Hudson picked up quickly, "'an uncertain period'. And today, we go to the mall and he buys 'The Sound of Music'?" Hudson stopped, stammered in confusion for a few moments, struggling to find words. "Is this back to the other side again? Did he just not have the nads to say it again?"

Tim sighed again. "I don't know."

"What heterosexual man buys 'The Sound of Music'?" Hudson asked.

Tim knew the question was intended as a rhetorical one, but he was more than a little anxious for this conversation to end. "Gene Siskel and Roger Ebert both like that movie," Tim said, "and they're straight. . . . Ebert is, at least."

Hudson put his hands up and shook his head profusely. "Whatever. I'll get outta your car." He opened the door and slid out. "Thanks for the ride and everything."

Tim looked after him. "Hud-man," he said before Hudson could slam the door shut. Hudson looked up expectantly. "You're gonna have to talk about Erika eventually."

"That's what you think," Hudson scoffed. He regarded Tim pointedly for a moment, then softened. "Later, man."

"See you tomorrow," Tim managed to get out before Hudson shut the door.

The Apartment of Clark Kent
Metropolis
10:36 p.m.

Nightwing had been sitting in the dark for fifteen minutes, and Batman hadn't said a word the entire time. And, he insisted the lights stay off.

They were standing against the wall of Clark's living room, right next to the windows that looked out onto the city. They had been standing, rather; now only Batman stood, Nightwing having slid down the wall to sit down after about five minutes. Now, he drew his knees up to him and gave a worn-out sigh.

He inhaled a preparatory breath and nodded his head back against the wall. "You know," he began speculatively, "if this were up to me -- if I were running this show, I'd just turn the lights on." Batman said nothing, not that Nightwing had expected a response. "I mean, honestly," he continued, "does Clark really need the 'dark knight' schtick?"

Nightwing didn't see it, but the muscles in Batman's jaw twitched ever-so-slightly. "'Schtick'," he repeated flatly.

"Well . . . 'schtick' might not be the best expression for what you do," Nightwing corrected. "But," he went on, "regardless of what you call it, does Clark really need it? Isn't he a friend? Or at the very least, an associate?"

Batman gave no answer, and Nightwing was about to let the question drop for the sake of tranquillity when he heard "Contemporary."

Nightwing looked up abruptly. "What?"

"Contemporary," Batman repeated. "Not . . . 'friend' or 'associate'. 'Contemporary'."

"Oh. . . . Hmmph," Nightwing grunted. "Well, at any rate, I think it would be a lot easier if we would've just came in here, turned on the lights, sat down on the couch, and waited for him to get in." A grin came over his face as he began to imagine the scene. "Two grown men in black kevlar costumes, laid back on the couch, legs crossed . . ." Nightwing tittered weakly to himself at the prospect. "Why are we even in costume?" he wondered aloud after a few quiet moments. "It's not like Clark is some mook who we're--"

"I comprehend," Batman interjected, sounding a little annoyed. "You're trying too many ways to make the same point. I grasp that you think it is slightly ridiculous to be waiting here in costume, and perhaps I can see something of your point. But this is how I've -- we've -- always done it, and now is not the time to question that." Batman squared his shoulders. "We'll discuss it later. Besides, we did have to survey the bridge before we came here."

Nightwing flipped his palms up, grudgingly relenting. "Okay. Sorry."

"No need to apologize," Batman assured him.

"Just let me, please," Nightwing said strongly, then put his hands down and shook his head dolefully, partially at what he had said; the costume remark was now obviously an unnecessary addition to what could've been a perfectly civil one-sided discourse. "I'm sorry."

This time, Batman said nothing.

Neither man said anything until after the apartment door had opened and Clark had stepped in. He flipped the lights on and kept his back to Batman and Nightwing as he shrugged his coat off and hung it on the rack next to the door. "Thanks for coming, guys," he said cordially.

Nightwing stood, an impressed smile on his face. Clark smiled back, touching his right index finger to the frame of his glasses meaningfully. "I know it was short notice . . ." he added apologetically.

"We've already been to the Hobsneck Bridge," Batman informed Clark, cutting right to the heart of the matter, as always. "I collected several of the shurikens from Azrael's gauntlet that were imbedded in the bridge's wall and median." He reached back onto his utility belt and produced a flat yellow box with a flip-top, holding it up so Clark could see it. "I've completed my analysis."

Clark stayed on his side of the room, eyeing the little box warily. "And you found?"

Batman glanced at the little yellow box. "It's radiation-shielded; don't worry. And, yes, it is composed at least partly of kryptonite."

"'Partly'?" Clark asked disconcertedly, making his way across the floor to the couch. He looked at both of the other men and indicated the couch, as well as the other chairs in the room. "Sit?"

Nightwing obliged, stepping past Batman and easing into the plush chair positioned perpendicular to the couch. Batman remained standing, and Nightwing was certain that Clark had expected no dissimilar reaction.

"I conducted the standard acid tests to identify the substance," Batman continued. "The reaction was positive, but weak. I suspect it's a composite that includes at least one other metal. Kryptonite is a fairly rare substance, and it's possible -- indeed, expected -- that they were unable to find enough to produce the shurikens in a pure form."

Clark shook his head ruefully. "However much they found, it was certainly more than enough; I'm still not feeling one-hundred percent. And I was so dazed on the bridge, I'm surprised I even had the wherewithal to shove him that time."

Nightwing leaned forward in the chair and held his hands between his knees, interlocking his fingers. "No offense, Clark, but when I heard that it was Azrael who knocked Superman off a bridge . . . I did find it a little hard to take at first."

"You're not the only one who was surprised," Clark said, cracking a modest grin, laying his right hand against the side of his head. He shook his head again, and Nightwing was starting to see how disappointed the man was with himself. "Honest, as soon as I felt that first wave of . . . of weakness, of nausea from the kryptonite, it was as if I just . . . lost consciousness. From then on I was dreaming, with a thousand ideas running circles in my head." Clark held his hands out in front of him, holding air, as if he were struggling to grasp the next words he would say. "Here I am fighting with this costumed thug who I've never seen before, he's cutting me, shooting kryptonite into me. . . . I thought about just getting out of there, regrouping; but, I couldn't just leave him there amongst all those people. Besides, the faster I moved, the more dizzy and nauseous I got . . ." He threw his right hand up in front of him helplessly. "I don't know . . ."

Batman was looking down at the floor, shaking his head. "It's time to move past that now," he said. "There are more important things we need to focus on. It's not how Azrael beat you that matters, but how we find him." Batman turned his back on Clark and Nightwing, and walked over to the windows of the living room. He looked outside. "The Hobsneck Bridge was blown by set explosives, probably dynamite," he began cogitatively. "As Azrael, Jean-Paul Valley was never that calculating. He would hunt his marks, not trap them."

"Why would he be hunting Superman in the first place?" Nightwing wondered aloud, leaning back in the chair, throwing his right arm over the back.

Clark shook his head. "When I put on the Superman costume, I made myself a target," he said. "Motive could be the obvious aspect of this."

Batman turned around and shook his head in strong disagreement. "Jean-Paul disappeared after I sent him down to Louisiana. Somehow, he must've found himself back under the influence of the Order of St. Dumas."

"What is that, exactly?" Clark asked.

"Suffice it to say they're a very old, very powerful, twisted off-shoot of Catholicism," Batman explained. "Azrael is an identity that they pass down within their organization over the generations, each son taking over for his father. He functions as a form of law enforcement, working in the interests of the Order, carrying out execution on those who betray or interfere with their affairs."

Clark shrugged uncertainly. "So, why is he targeting me, then?"

Batman shook his head grimly. "That depends on what you did to provoke the Order. But, we can deal with that later. Motive will have to be secondary until we find Jean-Paul."

Nightwing nodded. "I agree with that. But, where would we even start? Azrael shows up, knocks Clark off a bridge, and disappears. Where's the lead?"

"I'm not certain," Batman said, turning to Clark. "How long where you under the water after you were knocked over the side?"

Clark pushed his lower lip out thoughtfully. "No more than a few minutes, I think. Although, I was pretty out of it . . ."

"Would you say it was long enough for Azrael to leave the scene if he thought you were dead?" Batman asked, folding his arms across his chest, parting his cape slightly.

Clark nodded. "Sure, if he left immediately. But, if this guy's a trained assassin, I would've thought he would stick around to verify that he'd taken out his mark."

Batman shook his head. "I'm assuming the gathered crowd, plus the arriving police and rescue vehicles prompted him to exit as soon as possible."

Clark seemed to think a moment, then nodded in agreement. "Right. I remember hearing sirens pulling up before I was even out of the water."

Nightwing brought his arm back around in front of him and leaned forward again. "If you were under the water for a few minutes, though . . . I mean, if I knock a guy into the water, and I don't see him come up pretty soon after, I figure him for a goner." He inhaled and looked first at Clark, then at Batman. "I think we should assume that Az thinks he accomplished what he came here to do."

Nightwing saw Batman's eyes narrow. It was hard to tell sometimes, with the cowl, but the gesture wasn't so subtle that it was imperceptible to someone who'd seen it enough times before. "If that's true," Batman began gravely, "Azrael might have left to return to the Order already."

"I gotta tell you," Nightwing said after a second, "I'm not real big on following him back to St. Dumas Central, or whatever."

"Nor am I," Batman said, bowing his head slightly. "I haven't the faintest idea where the Order's base of operations is located, anyway, other than the very general knowledge that it's somewhere in Switzerland."

Clark sighed, staring distantly down at his carpet. "I could probably find it if I had to," he said absently. "Not that I'd know what I'm looking for."

"We will have to follow Jean-Paul back to the Order eventually," Batman stated, flat, unequivocal. "As long as he's under the control of The System, he's a threat. It's time to cut it off at the root."

Nightwing's eyebrows shrugged, daunted. "Should be fun figuring out how to do that . . ."

Batman brushed that aside for now, saying "We'll have to deal with that later. Now, we have to find Jean-Paul, then worry about him leading us to the Order."

"All right," Clark said, speaking up, breaking with his distance, "if he's getting ready to leave Metropolis -- if he thinks he did kill me, then the best thing to do, as I see it, is to get his attention."

"Agreed," Nightwing said. "But -- and, believe me, I don't mean to sound like some clueless skipping record here -- but, how do we do that? If he's just flying around, doing Superman stuff . . . how are we sure Azrael would even see that? He could be on a plane back to the Great Neutral by now."

"'The Great Neutral' refers to the United States during World War One, if I remember my history right," Clark corrected, "being they didn't enter the war on either side until its final eighteen months."

Nightwing conceded to Clark, holding his hand out to him in a show of acknowledgment. "Right, I remember that. I just thought that since Switzerland is famous for its lack of . . . subjectivity in conflicts between other nations, the term 'Great Neutral' would be applicable."

Clark nodded. "Of course. I knew what you were-- . . . what your meaning was, but I was just making sure you knew the term's origin. That's all."

"No, no problem," Nightwing assured him.

Nightwing glanced over at Batman, who stood silent throughout the brief Switzerland exchange, and whose face bore a look of deep consideration. "I think you touched on something crucial when you said 'plane'," Batman said, still sounding as though he were deep in thought.

Nightwing raised his eyebrows, a little impressed and a little surprised at himself. "Did I?"

Batman nodded. He unfolded his arms and reached down with his right hand to his utility belt, snapping the yellow plate just to the right of the buckle plate down and open, revealing a number pad. He began dialing a number.

Clark watched curiously. "You could've used my phone, you know," he said graciously.

"I doubt that's a scrambled line," Batman remarked as he finished dialing. He lowered his head a bit, standing perfectly still, waiting.

"Calling Oracle?" Nightwing asked, already knowing the answer, asking more for the benefit of Clark's understanding than anything else.

Batman gave a nod, then held up his palm at Nightwing. "Quiet." He reached down to the number pad and disconnected the call, then promptly redialed. More waiting, for approximately thirty seconds, during which Nightwing and Clark exchanged uncomfortable, slightly amused glances.

"It's a real bitch if you just wanna call Oracle to chat," Nightwing whispered, hiding his mouth from Batman with the back of his right hand. The remark and the gesture elicited a faint, silent laugh from Clark.

When that necessary time had passed, Batman's fingers went back to the number pad and punched in five numbers. More waiting, more silence. "Oracle," Batman finally said, in his equivalent of a cordial tone, speaking on the phone built into his cowl now. ". . . No, but it is urgent. I'm calling from Metropolis," Batman told Oracle, folding his arms again as he spoke. He turned his back on Nightwing and Clark and walked to the windows again. "I need to know how many flights left and are still to leave Metropolis for Switzerland today and tonight, and what times."

Avian Paradise Casino
Gotham City
11:57 p.m.

The Penguin sat behind his desk, feet up, regarding the lithe, impressive Asian man standing in front of him. "How is your last name pronounced?" he asked, reading off of the letter that Sir Edmund Dorrance -- the King Snake -- had sent along with the newcomer.

"Tee-Hi-Ro," the man replied quickly. "It's Japanese."

"Yes," the Penguin said, nodding. "I thought so." He put the letter down, brought his feet to the floor, and stood. He walked around the desk and stood next to Michael Tihiro, a full six inches shorter than the other man. "Sir Edmund writes very highly of you in his letter. I admit I don't know him as well as I'd like, but I don't think he's the sort to praise people easily." The Penguin reached into the left inner pocket of his white tuxedo jacket and removed a long, thin, black cigarette holder, and stuck it between his teeth. He pulled a brass cigarette case from the jacket's right inner pocket, removing a single cigarette.

"I've trained for many years under King Snake's direct tutelage," Tihiro explained. "Any exceptional skills I may possess are due to his instruction, and nothing else."

The Penguin's lower lip jutted out, and his face took on an impressed expression as he lit the cigarette on the end of the holder with a silver Zippo, then pocketed the lighter in his breast pocket. "If you're as good as King Snake claims," the Penguin began, then took the cigarette holder out of his mouth and exhaled a long trail of smoke, "then you're both to be credited. And thanked."

After another long breath off the cigarette, the Penguin looked to Groverton, standing next to Quentin, behind and the to right of Tihiro, gesturing for him to get the box off of the pool table behind him. Groverton nodded dutifully, turning on his heel and grabbing the box off the table with both hands. He at first held it out to the Penguin, but was directed toward Tihiro instead. The Asian took the box from Groverton, immediately lifting the top off, revealing what Groverton had begun to refer to in his mind as "the bootleg Batsuit," for want of a better term.

"Will it fit?" Tihiro asked, regarding the costume in the box with mild, hopeful skepticism.

Groverton nodded. "It was altered to your size earlier today when Sir Dorrance informed us of your coming," he informed Tihiro, who responded with a satisfactory nod.

Tihiro looked up from the costume at the Penguin. "Shall I try it on now?"

The Penguin nodded, taking the cigarette holder from his mouth again and using that hand to indicate his bathroom door. "By all means." Tihiro turned and started promptly for the door, closing it behind him once inside. The Penguin turned immediately to Quentin, who stood with his hands in his pockets, having observed everything up to this point with moderate interest, which was how he seemed to regard most things. "I'll want you to accompany him for the next several nights," he told Quentin, pointing to the bathroom door, "to see if this arrangement has potential, and if so, what precisely that potential is." A long breath off the cigarette, and an even longer, drawn-out exhalation. "This was dropped into my lap rather abruptly, and admittedly I'm not certain as of yet what to do with it."

Quentin shrugged. "Sure. It'll be nice to get out of the suit for a change."

"Yes," the Penguin said knowingly, taking another drag from the cigarette, "I thought you would appreciate that."

"A bit redundant, though," Groverton observed, "don't you think?"

The Penguin regarded his assistant with interest. "How so?"

"Two men, both wearing Batman costumes? That lacks a certain originality, does it not?" Groverton suggested.

The Penguin looked at Groverton quietly for a moment or so, then nodded thoughtfully. "You have a point." He shifted his gaze to Quentin. "What can we do about that, do you think?"

Quentin glanced from Groverton over to the Penguin. "I've still got my old outfit," he said, pointing over his shoulder with his thumb. "The blue number I used to wear on the tournament circuit before that Neron dicklick slapped the Batman get-up on me."

"Didn't you tell me 'that Neron dicklick' saved your life?" Groverton asked, regarding Quentin suspiciously.

Quentin nodded. "Yeah, he did. . . . What, I'm supposed to be the guy's best friend for life now, or something? I dunno what the fuck even happened to him."

"You don't have to love the guy," Groverton explained, "but a little gratitude -- just a little bit -- might be in order, don't you think? He saved your life."

"Fuck 'im," Quentin replied flatly, shrugging. "Gratitude's overrated."

The Penguin nodded. "He has a point," he said, looking first at Groverton, then at Quentin. "But, loyalty is not. . . . Costume change sanctioned," he said, holding out an approving palm to Quentin. "I'll pass the word along about your differentiation of wardrobe."

Quentin gave a modest nod. "Sure. You want me to go get the costume now? Get changed?"

The Penguin nodded affirmatively. "Yes. Be back here in fifteen minutes, no more. I don't want to waste time tonight."

Groverton walked over and stood directly in front of the Penguin as Quentin turned and started for the elevator. "Playing it by ear?" he wondered, glancing over at the bathroom door, still closed, for an instant.

The Penguin exhaled another long trail of smoke. "Elongated bat-ear, to make abysmal use of figurative language," he answered. "Mr. Tihiro is a most fortunate . . . acquisition, for dire want of a better term."

"What are the terms, Oswald?" Groverton asked, looking at his employer and friend seriously.

"I own the suit, Sir Edmund owns the man who'll be wearing it. So, in deference to our quasi-partnership, King Snake and I will be sharing him," the Penguin said. "He'll act in our common interests, I suppose, whatever those turn out to be."

"And partnering him with Quentin?" Groverton probed curiously further.

The Penguin shrugged innocently. "Tihiro knows his master's interests; Quentin knows mine. This way, they can be on the watch for both."

"What about the genuine Batman?" Groverton wondered, eyeing the Penguin keenly.

The bathroom door open, and Michael Tihiro emerged in full costume. He was tall and imposing, the cape draped over his shoulders, obscuring his body, the cowl giving his head a rigid contour. He parted the cape and flipped its sides back behind him. The bodysuit clung to him tightly. He was thinner than the Penguin knew the actual Batman to be, but looked just as dangerous in his own way; lithe, quick, cunning.

"The genuine Batman, . . ." the Penguin began slowly, speaking to Groverton but looking at the suited Tihiro with a smile of understated wicked anticipation, ". . . perhaps, can be replaced."

Friday
Trans Atlantis Airlines, Flight 704
Metropolis International Airport
12:34 a.m.

Once again, Brother Innocent found himself stuffed into a set of restrictive, close-fitting Western garments. He decided long ago, on his first venture outside the Order, that he could never understand a people who wore such uncomfortable clothing. What a masochistic society.

The flight had been scheduled to take off for Bern at 12:25 a.m.; Innocent had pleaded with Brother Mercior (as far as good form allowed him, anyway) to book him on a sooner flight out of the country, perhaps an earlier one to somewhere else in Europe, and then on to Switzerland. But, Mercior insisted that Innocent and Jean-Paul take the most direct route back to the Order that was possible, even if it meant spending a few extra hours in Metropolis.

Jean-Paul had sat passively by the window for twenty minutes, not saying a word, hardly moving. He looked to be watching the technicians on the artificially-lit runway below, scrambling to ready the plane for take-off. He watched them, enthralled. Innocent saw Jean-Paul watching and realized what kept him so glued to the scene: The System would be telling him exactly what was being done, and what had to be done further; Jean-Paul was watching to ensure there were no mistakes made in the preparation for flight.

"Brother Mercior will be most pleased at the success of your assignment," Innocent told Jean-Paul, "as will Brother Rollo." Jean-Paul turned his head away from the window and looked blankly at Innocent. "Your place in the Order is reaffirmed."

Jean-Paul continued to look at Innocent, blank. "Thank you," he said in a distant voice after awhile. He turned back to the window and resumed watching the flight preparations. After only looking through the glass for a moment or so, thought, he turned back around and penetrated Innocent's eyes with a pointed, anxious, confused stare.

Before Innocent could ask what the matter was, he heard the hatch being opened. Standing from his seat, he looked up the aisle and saw one of the female flight attendants pushing the hatch open to let someone in. Innocent sat back down, perplexed, and leaned over Jean-Paul to look out the window, up the fuselage of the plane. He saw no staircase or ladder leading up to provide anyone access to the cabin hatch, but he did catch a brief glimpse of red before it disappeared inside.

"Excuse me, ladies and gentlemen, I do apologize for this," intoned a strong voice, "but this will only take a second. No one has to move or get up. Just stay seated."

Innocent looked up to the front of the cabin and saw a tall, well-muscled, impossibly familiar looking figure. Jean-Paul saw it too, and had heard the voice, and stared up at Superman with absolute disbelief.

"Nobody be alarmed," Superman advised gently as he made his way down the aisle, staring first at the overhead baggage compartment to his left, then to his right, with narrow-eyed concentration. "If I find anything that could potentially endanger lives, I'll have it out of here before you've even had time to worry about it."

Superman was gone in another minute or so, apparently having found nothing. He apologized again to the compliment of the plane, taking full responsibility for the delay, and exiting discreetly, out the cabin hatch in a blur of blue and red. Before he left, though, he looked down the aisle at Jean-Paul, and Innocent could've sworn he'd seen Superman wink.

Innocent stood again and stepped out into the aisle. "Miss?!?" he called loudly to a stewardess who was just emerging from the cockpit. He reached down and grabbed Jean-Paul by the shoulder, standing him up. The stewardess approached Innocent patiently. "My friend has taken gravely ill. He has a . . . rare affliction. We need to get off this plane immediately."

"We're about to take off, sir, but I'll see what I can do," the stewardess answered politely.

"Yes," Innocent said sharply, nodding as she started back up the aisle toward the cockpit, "see."

32 Swan Court
Metropolis
12:39 a.m.

Batman remained perched on the edge of the building's roof, cape draped over his body, looking like some gargoyle who had just awakened to the world. Nightwing sat next to him on the parapet, legs dangling over the side. Both men looked down on the airport runway, a moderate distance away, where the flight that was to carry Jean-Paul back to the Order of St. Dumas was sitting, readying for take-off; Batman held a small pair of binoculars to his eyes.

"Think he got their attention?" Nightwing asked when he saw the blue streak zip away from the plane and start toward their position in a wide, fast-moving arc.

Batman didn't answer at first, continued to watch the area around the plane intently. His gaze didn't waver when Superman arrived an instant later, having traveled so fast from the airplane that he just seemed to materialize on the rooftop next to them.

"I think that got their attention," Superman said satisfactorily, folding his arms and walking to stand directly behind Batman. He narrowed his eyes slightly and looked to be watching the same area around the plane. "They're rolling in the stairs," Superman said after a moment.

"I can see it," Batman said tersely, not looking up.

They watched silently for another few seconds, during which Nightwing was content to watch them watch. He considered reaching for his own set of binoculars, but decided that he wasn't interested enough in what was happening down there to look for himself, especially since two men were already doing that for him. Besides, Nightwing had a relative idea of what was happening at the airplane. At least, he hoped he did.

"There are two men descending the stairs from the cabin," Batman said, adjusting the magnification of his binoculars slightly, squinting, struggling to make out the details of the scene. "That must be Jean-Paul . . . and an attachment from the Order."

"Blonde, right?" Superman asked.

"Uh-huh," Nightwing answered, standing, stretching his legs and hopping down off the parapet onto the rooftop.

Superman nodded confidently. "That's him, then."

Batman collapsed the binoculars into a compact rectangle, and snapped them back onto the side of his utility belt as he stood and moved away from the roof's edge. "They're betraying a lack of confidence in Jean-Paul by sending an acolyte here with him," he said, standing between Nightwing and Superman.

Nightwing nodded in agreement. "Yeah, as I understand it, they always sent Azrael on assignments alone." He thought for a moment. "Could it be that maybe Jean-Paul's reconditioning -- or whatever -- isn't complete yet?"

Batman appeared to consider that idea for a moment, gazing distantly off to the side. "You might have been a test of obedience, Clark, as well as a target," he said, not looking up, just nodding to himself after another second's thought.

"Flattering," commented Superman dryly. "So, what now?" he asked, yielding authority to Batman, a gesture which drew an impressed look from Nightwing.

"We follow those two back to wherever they're going," Batman responded immediately. He turned to Superman, facing him but not looking directly at him -- the same way Nightwing had always seen Batman talk to anyone -- then turning away after a moment and starting back to the edge of the roof.

"That shouldn't be a problem," Superman said, not sounding too worried.

7th Avenue
Gotham City
1:31 a.m.

There was an alley about a half-block east of the 7th Avenue branch of Citibank, long and small, running back along the sides of two large brick apartment buildings, and Robin had found it perfect for stashing the Redbird whenever he took the downtown patrol by grapple and line.

He brought the car to a stop at the end of the alley, and gave the image of Alfred on the main console monitor a final look. "Will you be up for a little while?"

The butler nodded. "I shall, I suspect. Don't hesitate to contact me if you find yourself in trouble, please."

Robin smiled, the same smile he always had when Alfred's natural paternal tendencies triggered a tinge of embarrassment -- comforting embarrassment -- in him. "Promise, Alfred." He raised his hand to break the connection, the smile still on his face. "I'll see you when I get back in."

Alfred nodded, the same nod of quiet concern that he always gave whenever Robin -- or Nightwing, or Batman -- was about to embark on patrol. Robin waited another moment, then broke the connection with Alfred. The program window that had displayed the video image disappeared, and the monitor again displayed the car's status screen. Robin powered down the console, shutting off that monitor, and shut off the Redbird's engine.

Another minute or so, and he was on the roof of the apartment building to his left, 1254 7th Avenue. And after that, another few seconds for him to pull his grapple, find a target, then fire off a line and swing out over the rooftops.

554 Baines Circle
1:50 a.m.

"You know if King Snake ever ran across a guy named Carlito Mayez?"

Tihiro shook his head. They were perched on the parapet of the McCartney Building, an apartment/office tower that stood forty-four floors, rising easily over the rest of the nearby structures, and providing an ideal lookout across most of Newtown. Tihiro noticed that several feet of his cape were hanging over the edge of the roof and down along the building. He quickly pulled them back in. "Not to my recollection," he responded thoughtfully.

Quentin nodded, having figured as much. He adjusted the rigid, close-fitting mask on his head, shifting it to fit a bit snugger, to allow him a better look through the eye-holes. "Christ," he complained as he did so, "I forgot how long it'd been since I wore this thing." He stopped adjusting the mask, satisfied for now, although he knew he would have to modify the suit slightly once he was in tonight, or else the mask would soon make itself a constant annoyance, not to mention a liability. Plus, the chest still bore the Azrael insignia that the Order of St. Dumas had insisted he wear. "Anyway," he continued, "I used to make a living on the underground tournament circuit in Europe and Asia. Ever see that movie 'Bloodsport'?"

Tihiro looked over at Quentin, but gave neither a positive nor negative response.

"Anyway, it was sort of like that, only not so sugarcoated and shit," Quentin went on. "I was in fifteen fights to the death, and I won every one of 'em, wearing this costume. . . . But, see, the thing is, it was almost sixteen."

"Was it?" Tihiro asked, clearly seeming to feign interest. Quentin wondered if King Snake had been the one to instill in him such obviously artificial courtesy.

"That guy I mentioned, Carlito Mayez -- I was supposed to fight him in Barcelona, Spain, about two years ago," Quentin continued. "He would've been number fourteen, but he never showed up. And man, the crowd on hand that night were pissed, too. I had to fight my way outta there. As it turns out, some guy named Lewis Wilson, this wannabe killer from California or somewhere, became number fourteen about two months later."

"This is all leading somewhere, I'm assuming," Tihiro said, sounding a little weary of the story. "Otherwise, if you're attempting to establish a quick bond between us by sharing about your past, it isn't working."

"This Mayez guy is living in Gotham now, I found out a few days ago," Quentin said first, then stopped and looked at Tihiro strangely. "What was that 'quick bond' shit you just said?"

Tihiro sighed. "Nothing. Just that, if you were trying to speed up you and I becoming friends, it wouldn't work. Friendship must be earned, trust must be compiled over time and experience -- there can be no shortcuts."

"Oh," Quentin said, nodding slowly in agreement. "Sure, sure." He sighed. "Anyway, I work at the asylum with some of Cobblepot's other guys, right? Normally, I just talk with the big guys in the maximum security section. But, earlier this week as I'm walking down a hall in the old building, some new inmate yells out at me. He's like, 'Hey, are you Quentin?' And, I'm like, 'Yeah, that's me. Who the fuck are you?', right? Turns out this guy is a new arrival to Arkham from some state hospital in New York or whatever, and he knows this Mayez -- they used to, like, do gang-rape and shit like that in Brooklyn. The police catch 'em, and they end up being committed. Only, this Mayez escapes, but somehow keeps in touch with his buddy, tells him about me. So, now this guy's tellin' me about how his old buddy Mayez is, like, hidin' from me, terrified after wussing out at Barcelona, afraid I'm gonna kill him."

Tihiro nodded with understanding. "And now this Mayez is in Gotham City?"

"Bingo," Quentin said, punctuating it with a nod. "This guy in Arkham tells me that Mayez told him he was hanging out with Ferdy Dominguez and his boys here in Newtown."

Tihiro watched Quentin expectantly for several seconds. "And . . . ?"

"I figured, these guys, the Dominguez's, aren't doing Cobblepot -- or King Snake -- any good, and them not being around sure wouldn't hurt nothin'. Plus, with my personal beef with Mayez, I thought they'd make a pretty good trial run for you and me tonight."

"I see," Tihiro intoned thoughtfully.

"I know right where they crash, and there's only about six of 'em," Quentin assured him. "Just dirt-level drug and gun dealers, those guys -- about as small-time as you can fuckin' get, so they won't give us any big trouble."

Tihiro eyed Quentin skeptically. "That doesn't sound very challenging . . ."

"It ain't about challenge, tonight," Quentin argued, "it's just about you getting used to wearin' that suit -- fuck, me gettin' used to this suit again, too. We can't just jump in and start hunting Batman and shit, killin' fuckin' cops right away, right?"

"You have a point," Tihiro answered, sounding persuaded, more persuaded than he'd sounded interested earlier, at least.

Quentin nodded to himself. "Yeah, I guess I do." Neither of them said anything for a little while. Quentin was waiting for the other man to speak, but Tihiro said nothing, just clenched his jaw and looked out over the city, as if he were surveying it, taking it in.

"Any-fuckin'-way," Quentin started, standing up, "the Dominguez's usually crash at a place on Duke Avenue, about six or seven blocks from here."

Tihiro nodded readily and stood up, the cape of the pilfered Batman costume draping down and around his body. Duke Avenue was straight ahead, to the north; Tihiro reached down to his utility belt . . .

. . . and came up with nothing. Quentin reached back behind the cape of his suit and pulled out a wrist-grapple, similar to the one he now wore over the right forearm of his costume, and held it out to Tihiro. "There," Quentin said as the other man took it, examined it a moment, then finally slipped and locked it onto his arm above his wrist, "at least until we figure out that fuckin' belt."

Both men took aim and fired their wrist-grapples, twin lines shooting out into the dark beyond the rooftops, and swung away.

LexCorp Intercontinental Hotel
2:22 a.m.

Before the existence of worldwide satellite communication, there had been no telephones inside the Cathedral of the Order of St. Dumas. The structure rose up in the middle of a vast, perpetually snow-covered plain, and telephone lines weren't just undesirable -- they were impractical. With the coming of the satellite phone, Brother Rollo had declared that only he, as head of the Order, would be allowed to use one to coordinate the activities of acolytes outside the Cathedral, those outside acolytes temporarily equipped with cellular phones, which had to be turned back in to Rollo himself upon return to the Order.

Rollo was using one now to berate Brother Innocent over Azrael's failure. Innocent had expected nothing other than what he was getting, but it was his duty to inform the Order of any necessary alterations to the mission. The entire time Innocent was passively absorbing Rollo's angry reprimand, he kept his eyes set on Jean-Paul, imagining that his harsh indignation was burning a hole through the other man's head.

Innocent turned off the cellular phone, three seconds shy of having been violently dressed-down by Brother Rollo for a full fifteen minutes. "Brother Rollo, in his boundless generosity, has granted us another day for you to accomplish your mission, Azrael," Innocent intoned flatly to Jean-Paul, all the time staring at him pointedly.

Batman saved the current window displayed on the screen of his palmtop computer as a trace file, then flipped the device shut and snapped it back over the buckle of his belt.

"Lost it?" Nightwing asked. He and Batman were standing on one of the 22nd Floor balconies of the London Building, an office high-rise across the street, looking into the hotel room where Jean-Paul was staying. Superman hovered beside the balcony, his right elbow resting on the wrought-iron railing.
The question brought about a faint nod from Batman as he pulled the mini-binoculars from his belt, popped them open, and held them to his eyes as he looked into the hotel room. "The name of the man traveling with Jean-Paul is 'Innocent'."

"Too bad I don't know the guy well enough to judge how ironic that is," Nightwing commented dryly. This time, he slipped his own pair of small binoculars out of a utility compartment around his left calf, and looked across the street through the window as well. "Hmmm . . ." Nightwing groaned thoughtfully as he found Innocent in his sights, "I'd bet he looks better in a purple robe. . . . Jeans don't suit the guy."

Batman put his binoculars away. "I got a latitude and a longitude from that satellite signal," he said, throwing his cape over his shoulders and crossing his arms. "It's not as specific as I was hoping for, but it certainly narrows down the area in which we'd have to look."

Nightwing shook his head. "All I can say is, it's something lucky for us that he had to check in like that, because I can't see either one of those guys willingly leading us to their super-secret Swiss headquarters. Not even close."

"It is fortunate that solution presented itself," Batman commented disinterestedly, flipping open a batarang and clipping the end of a polymer line to it. He reared back and flung the batarang hard up at the railing of a balcony several floors above that of Jean-Paul's room. When the line was secure, he turned his head in Nightwing's direction. "Try to hook your line a few feet over from mine," he instructed, pulling his own line taut in his hands. "Keep your feet up, crash through the left-hand door in full swing."

"Yeah, got it," Nightwing responded absently as he clipped a line onto a small grappling hook and flung it up at the same balcony where Batman's batarang had hooked itself onto. The grapple wrapped the line around the top of the railing several times, and took firm hold. Nightwing tugged the line for security. "Okay."

Batman stepped first one leg up on the top of the balcony railing in front of him, then another as he reached to grab the line further up. "Clark," he began, as he seemed to focus on the window of Jean-Paul's hotel room, "I didn't see where the luggage was, so the costume and the shurikens could be anywhere in there. Just keep your distance until all's clear."

Superman nodded once, giving Batman a slightly overstated salute. Nightwing saw the gesture, and grinned, then stepped up on the balcony railing beside Batman.

"If you have to cut his heart from his chest to prove that he's finished, then by St. Dumas, do it!!" Brother Innocent implored Jean-Paul at the top of his lungs. "If you have to present Brother Rollo with the defiler's head, then by St. Dumas, do it, Azrael! There is no margin to excuse your failure."

The passive calm that had held Jean-Paul since leaving the Order seemed to break for a moment, and he rose quickly from his seat on the edge of the bed, staring down at Innocent defensively. "I beat him," Jean-Paul insisted, "I defeated him. I knocked him off the bridge!"

"And yet he lives still!" Innocent retaliated. "Explain how your vict--"

The twin glass doors that led out onto the room's balcony suddenly shattered in unison, glittering shards crashing onto the carpet around two dark figures.

Innocent, stunned only for a moment by the loud intrusion, turned almost at once to Jean-Paul, who faced the two invaders with a quiet, fiery intensity. Jean-Paul made a motion to lunge for them, but Innocent held up a palm, colliding with his forehead. "Cease, Jean-Paul!" he commanded firmly, then screamed "Azrael!!" as loud as his voice would carry the word.

A deliberate, calculating calm fell over Jean-Paul the next instant, and he stepped back into a relaxed defensive position.

The nearer of the intruders, recognizable at once to Innocent as the Batman, stood quickly, but only for an instant, dropping immediately back down to his knees as his partner leapt long over his shoulders, splitting the air and sending a flying kick toward Jean-Paul, who sidestepped the maneuver, grabbing his attacker's leg in mid-air and wrenching him hard to the ground.

The Batman had been in motion toward Jean-Paul as soon as he'd been cleared of his partner's leap, and now slid viciously underneath Jean-Paul, putting all of his weight and momentum into a committed sweep of both legs. Jean-Paul's feet left the floor. He was soundly floored, but rolled instantly to his feet, avoiding a hard follow-up strike from the fist of Batman's already-recovered partner.

The Batman's partner snapped back to his feet and took a large backstep in Jean-Paul's direction, kicking his left leg hard out. Jean-Paul blocked the blow without much effort, holding the leg. The Batman's partner allowed his right foot to light on the floor only a moment, jumping up into the air, making his body horizontal and rolling completely over, his right foot connecting hard with Jean-Paul's jaw just as the left leg was being released.

Nightwing put both hands down and landed well on the floor, pushing back up to his feet and turning back to face Jean-Paul. By the time he was back up, a batarang was in mid-air, headed for Jean-Paul. The projectile hit its mark, the line carried behind it wrapping tight around Jean-Paul's right forearm.

Batman yanked the line tight, pulling Jean-Paul awkwardly off-balance. Nightwing clamped one hand onto the bound forearm, coiling Batman's line with the other hand, then looping that tightly and quickly around Jean-Paul's left arm. Kneeing him high and hard in the gut for good measure, Nightwing quickly tugged for more slack, which Batman immediately gave him, and began wrapping Jean-Paul's arms together.

There was a blur of motion in the corner of Nightwing's eye, and he turned in time to see Batman pulling his grapple and firing it from across the room at Innocent, who was standing on the bed behind Nightwing, preparing for a last-ditch leap. Batman's grapple dug into the flesh of the man's left thigh, and a sharp jerk of the line brought Innocent off the bed and onto the floor in the midst of a brief spurt of blood and a loud, primal groan of pain.

When Nightwing turned away for that short instant, Jean-Paul pulled away and backpedaled a few steps. As his arms looked to strain against the line that bound them, Jean-Paul leapt into the air, landing a glancing blow on Nightwing's jaw that sent him back a step.

Batman retaliated with a hard-tossed batarang over Nightwing's shoulder, which just missed grazing Jean-Paul's head.

Innocent had struggled to stand on one leg, and was readying himself for a lunge at Batman's knees. Jean-Paul, as well, was advancing on Batman. Nightwing caught Innocent by the waist in mid-lunge and hauled him back from mid-air. Losing his balance slightly, both men fell back over the bed and through the bathroom door, Nightwing managing to turn Innocent around to take most of the brunt of the impact as they forced their way into the door.

Jean-Paul kicked swiftly up at Batman, just missing his jaw. Batman caught his leg and drove a swift fist up into the underside of the knee. Jean-Paul fell forward, inadvertently letting his weight shift to the injured leg. He collapsed to the ground, but rolled backwards away from Batman, standing uneasily on his good leg.

Batman stepped forward with his right leg and spun around, connecting with Jean-Paul in the side of the head, sending him rolling over the bed toward the bathroom.

Nightwing saw Jean-Paul fall through the open door and stagger to his feet. Batman was advancing toward the bathroom, stepping over the bed. Jean-Paul seemed to be acting purely on instinct, turning his back on Nightwing and lunging for the door. The door slammed shut, and Jean-Paul turned back to Nightwing.

Quarters were incredibly close. Nightwing found himself pinned against the wall Innocent, who refused to budge. With Jean-Paul in front of him, he grabbed two handfuls of Innocent's shirt and shoved him head-first forward. Jean-Paul and Innocent collided. Fixing on the first, most obvious available weapon, Nightwing pulled the heavy ceramic lid off of the toilet next to him and held it in front of him. Taking a hard, deliberate step forward, he brought the lid across Jean-Paul's forehead.

The lid cracked into two pieces, and Jean-Paul fell back against the door, unconscious, pulling Innocent down with him. The bathroom door tried to open a moment later, Batman behind it, but was blocked. Nightwing grabbed Innocent by the collar and hauled him away from the door, then did the same with Jean-Paul, pushing them both into a corner of the small space.

Batman stepped in, the remnants of the toilet lid at his feet. "Are you all right?"

Nightwing nodded. "Not a scratch." He looked down at the cracked toilet lid, then over at Jean-Paul. "I think he might have a concussion, though."

Batman eyed Jean-Paul, narrowing his eyes and nodding with understanding. "All right." He raised his head and turned a bit toward the wall at his immediate right. "Any idea where their bags might be, Clark?"

Superman stepped through the door less than a second later, not entering the room entirely having seen how crowded it was already. "The Azrael suit is in a leather bag in the closet," he said immediately, then stepped back out of the room to let Batman through.

The closet was right next to the bathroom, its back wall also one of the walls that the bathtub was nestled next to. The closet door was on the opposite side, exactly perpendicular to the entrance to the room. Batman opened the door, while Superman aided Nightwing in dragging Jean-Paul and Innocent out of the bathroom, then remained a cautious distance from the closet.

The hotel room's phone sat on a small wooden stand in between the two beds, and it rang now.

Batman looked up at it for a second, seeming to treat it as an item of little interested. He opened the door to the closet.

Nightwing and Superman looked at each other uncertainly. Finally, after the third ring, Nightwing shrugged and rolled over the unconscious forms of Jean-Paul and Innocent to the other side of the bed. He picked up the phone just as the fourth ring started. "Hello?" he asked, trying to sound a little timid. He listened a moment. "Oh, did they really?" he asked, then cupped his hand over the bottom of the handset and whispered to Superman, "Complaints from the neighbors." He listened another moment. "Yes, well apologize to all those who complained for me will you, please? . . . No, it won't happen again. We just got a little carried away, and we're both spent now."

The phone was dropped back into its cradle, and Nightwing folded his arms in amused satisfaction. He and Superman shared an adolescent grin.

Dropping it on the floor in front of him outside the closet, Batman knelt over the leather bag and zipped it open. He looked inside a moment, then zipped it shut. "The suit's in there." He turned his head in Superman's direction. "Can you see anything helpful to us in any of these other bags?"

Superman narrowed his eyes, folding his arms across his chest, a look of concentration on his face that Nightwing definitely understood -- there was the wall of the closet to look through, plus the outsides of however many bags there were. That probably took some pretty precise x-raying.

"No," Superman said after a few seconds, shaking his head, his eyes opening fully again. "The rest is just clothes."

Batman nodded succinctly and stood, the bag in his right hand. "Nightwing, come take this." Nightwing stepped past Superman and took the bag from Batman, then stood beside him while Batman regarded Jean-Paul and Innocent on the bed thoughtfully. "You can go outside and put that in the trunk," he told Nightwing after a moment.

As Nightwing turned and started with the leather bag toward the shattered glass doors, he heard Batman say to Superman, "Can you take one of them?"

"I can take both of them," Superman answered, his tone suggesting quite understandably that it would be no trouble at all.

"Take one of them," Batman said, moving toward the bed and pulling Jean-Paul up into a seated position by the collar of his shirt. "We're only going across the street."

Hamilton-Regal Building
6899 DuPont Avenue
Gotham City
2:46 a.m.

From thirty stories up, Gotham looked deceptively benign -- if perceived on the visual level only. The screams, and the sounds of alarms, and gun blasts were just as evident here as they would be on the street; the air was still just as too-hot or too-cold against your face; and if it happened to be raining, the water still pounded down onto you.

It wasn't raining now, and Robin stopped a moment on the roof, lingering to savor what would surely be a fleeting silence. The only sound for the moment was the gentle whistle that accompanied a faint, hot breeze.

When the silence ended, as Robin knew it would, it wasn't as he'd expected it to. "I thought that was you," a familiar female voice said.

Robin turned to regard the Spoiler, strolling casually toward him from the other side of the roof. He gave a quick, abbreviated wave, and flashed a cordial smile.

"I saw a shadow with a cape going roof-hopping while I was over there," Spoiler explained, pointing back in the direction she'd come from. "It looked about your size."

"How observant," Robin commented wryly, then regarded her somewhat curiously. "What are you doing in this far, anyway?" he asked, folding his arms as his voice took on something of an investigative tone. "We're a hair more than a short distance from the suburbs."

Spoiler shrugged. "It relaxes me sometimes, just being in the costume. . . . Today was a rough one."

"Oh yeah?" Robin asked, genuinely interested/concerned. "Schoolwise or homewise?"

"Schoolwise," she answered, her voice tinged in disgust just a bit. "Teachers suck, you know?"

Robin nodded in overstated agreement. "Everyone under the age of nineteen knows it -- it's a universal law."

"So, busy tonight?" Spoiler started to say, but was cut off right about at "ton--" when Robin held up his hand suddenly, hissing "shh!!"

"What?" she asked.

Robin palmed the buckle of his utility belt. "My phone is ringing," he explained, whispering, although logically he was aware that it was unnecessary. The phone had rung once already, and now it rung again. Someone on another extension picked up, and Robin heard the groggy voice of Mrs. McIlvaine say "Drake residence," and make it sound like a question.

"Hey, I'm sorry about this, but is Tim home?" a voice answered, sounding very tired, but not in a physically fatigued way.

Robin flipped open the front of his belt buckle and pressed a small rectangular button right below a number pad. "I've got it, Mrs. McIlvaine," he said, making himself sound groggy from sleep. "It's all right."

"It's not a decent hour, Timothy," the housekeeper said scoldingly.

"I know," Robin said apologetically. "I won't be on long, I promise." There was a click as Mrs. McIlvaine hung up. Robin cleared his throat and asked, "Hudson?"

Spoiler had folded her arms, and now watched with interest.

"Sorry about that, man," Tim's best friend said. "I just . . . I dunno, I couldn't sleep. I'm laying here in bed for three hours, tired as shit, and not a wink."

Robin pressed his index finger against his right ear and mouthed "This might take awhile," silently to Spoiler, then turned away from her to face the edge of the roof. "What's wrong, Hudson? Do you want to talk about it? . . . Well, obviously . . ."

"I don't know what I want to talk about, man," Hudson said, ". . . But, I can't get to sleep to save my ass."

"What are you thinking about?" Robin asked, his forehead wrinkled with concern. "Anything?"

Hudson sighed, and Robin wondered if his friend was ruefully shaking his head at the phone. "I'll give you three guesses," Hudson told him cynically.

Robin couldn't help but smile and remind Hudson, "I told you you'd have to tell me about it eventually . . ."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah . . . and I told you to shut the fuck up about it, didn't I?" Hudson responded wearily.

"Come-on, Hud-man," Robin coaxed gently, "just tell me what she said. You can't even sleep over it, for God's sake. And you did wake me up to call me."

"Why the hell did you answer the phone, anyway?"

"I heard it ringing, and thought 'who else could it be?'," Robin explained. "Now, tell me what happened. It's been almost two weeks . . ."

Hudson gave another heavy sigh, and Robin waited patiently for almost ten seconds while he searched for the words. "I did ask her to go to the concert with me . . ." Hudson started slowly, maybe a little reluctantly. "She said no. Not that I had been counting on her accepting my invitation, or anything. But, still . . ."

"Sure," Robin said with understanding. "I bet that really hurt. Hell, it must've killed you."

"You'd think so, wouldn't you?" Hudson asked, not quite believing it himself. "I mean, yeah . . . yeah, it killed me. But, that's not even the worst part."

"Really?"

"Let me tell you. . . . Last Thursday, after Erika turns me down -- I'm not in the best mood. I'm walking to lunch, and it just so happens that Erika and her friend Kim Grange -- you know her?"

Robin was caught off-guard by the question, and nodded awkwardly after a few seconds. "Uh, yeah."

"Anyway," Hudson continued, "Erika and Kim walk out into the hall like two or three people in front of me, and I can hear them talking."

Robin wasn't certain at all what was coming next, but he knew it couldn't possibly be good. He gave a reluctant "Oh yeah?"

Hudson sighed again; this must've been the difficult part -- in Robin's admittedly limited experience, in talks like this there were always parts that were especially hard to relate, the most painful or telling or . . . whatever. "You know Steve Kennel, Senior?"

"I assume you mean 'Senior' as in Twelfth Grade, not 'Senior' as in he's got a son who's 'Junior'," Robin commented. Hudson didn't say anything, so Robin added "Yeah, I know him."

"Thank you," said Hudson, sounding a little annoyed. "Well, Erika knows him, too . . ."

"Whoa . . ." Robin uttered as a reflex, not sure he'd said it until a moment or two after the fact. "You mean they're dating?"

"And how," Hudson said, sounding genuinely heartsick. "Her and Kim made it sound pretty serious. Pretty . . . permanent."

Robin scoffed. "Come-on, Hud-man . . . you're forgetting that we're high school Sophomore's here -- 'forever' is roughly equivalent to four months, as far as I've seen."

Hudson gave a short, weak laugh that sounded to be superficially self-deprecating, but which Robin suspected went a lot deeper than that. "I'm such a fuck, man . . . such a clueless fuck," Hudson said, and followed that with another weak, depressing laugh.

His brow was so wrinkled with concern now, Robin thought his mask might come unglued. He put green-gloved fingertips to his forehead and kneaded gently as he tried to think of something to say to his friend, some comfort -- small though it would be -- to offer. There was none, of course. "You know that I can't do more than listen here, man," he finally offered to explain his silence. "But, I'll do that whenever you feel like talking."

"Yeah," said Hudson, "I know. . . . Anyway, I'll get off here, let you get to sleep."

Robin nodded solemnly. "You try to get some sleep too, man."

Hudson scoffed. "I can try, I guess."

"Anytime you want to talk about it . . ."

"I know, I know. . . . Thank you, Tim."

The line went silent. Robin touched another button on the small control panel on his belt that hung up the phone, then flipped the buckle shut again. He sighed heavily, brought down along with Hudson by the conversation. He turned to face Spoiler, who still watched with arm-folded interest. She tilted her head inquisitively to the side as she regarded Robin, not saying a word.

"It's a cellular extension of my home phone," Robin said, knowing what she was about to ask. "I hear through the earpiece, and there's a mike right here--" Robin pointed to a spot just below the collar of his red tunic, right above the highest of the five gold stitches that were one-atop-the-other on the top half of his chest.

"Well isn't that just cute," Spoiler observed, definitely sounding envious, and definitely doing it on purpose.

Robin grinned as he looked at her. "Batman and Nightwing have them too," he informed her, "if that hurts or helps any."

"I swear, you guys are like the LexCorp of vigilantes, or something," Spoiler said, still envious.

"Yeah," Robin said, nodding in mock-agreement, "except we're not hiring right now." He shot her a wry smile, which prompted her to respond with another flip tilt of her head.

"You guys think you're so--" Spoiler managed to say before again being cut off by an abrupt "shh!!" and a halting hand from Robin. He pressed his finger against his ear again and listened intently to what he was hearing.

"Another phone call?" Spoiler asked glibly.

Robin shook his head. "No. Burglar alarm."

"You get those, too?"

"If it's capable of alerting a police station, and if I'm close enough," Robin answered. He listened a moment more, then brought his hand down and looked to Spoiler. "It's at Nine-Oh-Seven-One Duke Avenue," he told her. "That's . . ." He concentrated his thought for a moment. ". . . about six blocks from here."

Spoiler watched as Robin pulled his grappling gun from his belt and moved to the east-facing side of the roof. "And . . . ?" she asked expectantly.

Robin turned and gave her a withering gaze. "I could use some help, yes," he admitted, waving her over to him. "Just watch yourself, all right?"

"Just like I always do," Spoiler answered, which was just what Robin was afraid of.

Kilcher's Jewelry
9071 Duke Avenue
2:49 a.m.

"Pretty good front, huh?" Quentin asked, turning to Tihiro, who stood beside him just inside the door of the store. The alarm, a drawn-out high-pitched tone, blared from a speaker above them in the ceiling.

Tihiro looked up at the speaker. "They know we're here," he observed, glancing over at Quentin.

Quentin nodded. "They do. But, this place doesn't have a back way out," he explained, having to raise his voice a bit to make himself heard over the alarm. Tihiro glared up at the alarm, and aimed his wrist-grapple up at it. "No, no!" Quentin yelled, pushing the man's arm down. "Leave it on! The cops won't be here for, like, ten minutes. Leave it on and it'll fuck with 'em."

Stepping ahead and motioning for Tihiro to follow him, Quentin started toward the back of the jewelry store. Behind a curtain, he found a locked door. He stepped aside and looked to Tihiro, pointing to the door. "Maybe it'd have more-- . . . be better if you went first," he said to the man in the Batman costume.

Tihiro nodded and stepped up. He delivered a hard, sudden front-kick to the door, sending it crashing open.

Carlito Mayez liked to say he'd seen a lot of shit in his time, but this sure as hell hadn't been part of it.

His good buddy Ferdy Dominguez had owned and seen to the operation of Kilcher's Jewelry for the last two years or so, describing his role in the business as "silent partner" whenever anyone asked him what the hell the deal was. When Carlito had found himself back in Gotham City just recently, Dominguez -- an acquaintance of an acquaintance from Spain -- had been more than willing to let him have a bed to sleep in for a few days. Carlito Mayez appreciated that.

But, what the hell was this? The alarm had been blaring for a good thirty seconds now. The first reflex of Mayez had been to jump up and make for the door, but Ferdy himself (There were four other guys in the room, friends and family of Dominguez) had grabbed him by the arm and dragged him back down into the chair. "Just stay here, yo!" Ferdy'd admonished him. "It's just a break-in." Ferdy reached into his jacket and pulled a 9-millimeter handgun, snapping back its chambering mechanism. "They come back here, we fuckin' ventilate 'em!"

When the door had been kicked open, Carlito had held his palms tight against his ears, anticipating a resounding bang from Ferdy's gun. But there was nothing. Carlito looked over at Ferdy and saw that he was staring with utter disbelief at the door. Sliding his gaze over to the door, Mayez saw Batman standing there, fists raised in a martial-arts position, surveying the room.

Ferdy cried out "Fuck!" and turned to his brother, Livon, immediately to his left. Livon pulled his own gun, and they both took aim at the door. Before they could pull off one shot, though, Batman was spinning toward them on one foot, his other foot swinging around violently. That foot caught Ferdy in the side of the face, snapping his head brutally to the left. It must've broken his neck, too, because after that Mayez didn't see him move at all.

"Oh Christ!! . . . Oh Jesus fucking Christ!!" Carlito cried out, choking up, as he saw who was stepping into the door behind Batman. "What the fuck are you doing here?"

Quentin stepped into the room behind Tihiro and walked up to stand over Mayez, who was slumped, terrified, in a chair, next to the body of Ferdy Dominiguez. Livon Dominguez raised his gun, but had it kicked from his hand before he even took aim. Tihiro leapt over the chair and grabbed Livon by the collar, dragging him to his feet and throwing him hard across the room into the wall, where he impacted solidly and slid to the floor. Tihiro spun around to face the other three men who still stood.

"You are mine, you shitless fuck," Quentin told Carlito Mayez coldly as he leaned over him and drug him out of the chair to his feet. He doubled Mayez over with a hard punch to the stomach, then jerked him upright again by the hair, staring at him, less than an inch from his eyes. "Was it my reputation that scared you? Hmm?" Quentin asked him, breathing heavily, seething at him. "I mean, you seemed to recognize me right off there, huh?"

Quentin held Mayez out at arm's length and struck him hard across the face with the back of his hand, drawing blood on the man's cheek and mouth. "Did you go to my matches when you could? A lot of us went to each other's matches."

Mayez said nothing, so Quentin shoved him back down in the chair, then pounded down on him hard square in the face. "You'd better fuckin' answer me!"

"I did, I did . . ." Mayez said, nodding profusely, holding his hands up pitifully in front of him, as if he thought it would do some good. Mayez turned his head to the side and spat his own blood out onto the floor.

"You let yourself get outta shape, motherfucker," Quentin observed snidely down on Carlito Mayez. "I'm starting to see how your pussying out on me might've made a lotta sense." He grabbed Mayez by the ears and pulled him up. He headbutted him hard, Quentin's rigid mask making a loud noise against Carlito's forehead before it drove him back into the chair, limp.

Quentin bent over and grabbed the 9-millimeter from Ferdy's dead hand. Mayez made a weak effort to stand, leaning forward. Quentin shoved him hard back into the chair and lowered the gun on him, the muzzle sitting on a straight line toward Carlito's head. "This is too good for you," Quentin told Carlito. The next second, he pulled the trigger twice. Mayez's head flew back violently, then he slumped forward, lifeless, staining the chair with his blood.

Two of the three others were on the floor, unmoving, and Tihiro held the third by the throat, backed-up in the corner of the room. Quentin stepped over the two men and stood right behind the man in the Batman costume. "Are those two dead?"

Tihiro nodded, but didn't take his eyes off of the man whose throat he had. Quentin nodded thoughtfully. "Okay. Step away from that one, then. I'll catch you outside."

Tihiro had a somewhat confused -- not to mention disappointed -- look in his eyes, but he seemed to trust Quentin, and released the man from his grip. Tihiro left the room.

"Did you see that man?" Quentin asked the one other man left alive in the room. The guy nodded, looking so scared that Quentin's eyes lowered their gaze a few feet to see whether or not the guy had pissed himself. "You know who that is?" The guy nodded again, and then so did Quentin. "You tell all your friends about him. About us. You fuckin' got that?"

Another nod.

Beneath his mask, even though this man couldn't see it, Quentin smiled with wicked accomplishment. "Good," he said. He stepped away from the scared man, turned and left the room. Tihiro was waiting for him outside, by the jewelry counter.

Robin heard Spoiler's feet hit the rooftop just over two seconds after he let go of his line and dropped there. He ran to the edge of the roof of the building that housed Kilcher's Jewelry. Two men had just stepped out and were starting briskly down the sidewalk. It was dark, so Robin couldn't see them very well in the moon-cast shadow of the building. He motioned to Spoiler to stay put for now, then vaulted over the edge of the roof and down to the sidewalk.

Running to catch up with them, Robin pulled a throwing-R from his belt and flung it with a length of cord attached at one of the figures' feet, wrapping tight around the ankles and tripping them solidly. As the first figure fell, Robin ran up hard on the second one and slid down, sweeping the legs out and felling them easily. Robin scrambled to his feet in time to instinctively dodge a hard savate kick, then an equally hard punch an instant later.

Robin snaked his right arm up to catch another hard kick that whipped just over his head, holding the caught leg in the crook of his elbow and wrenching that attacker down to the ground. Rolling atop the strong, struggling adversary, Robin straddled his shoulders and delivered a hard punch to his face. Robin's fist struck rigid, molded plastic, and he drew it back up to him in pain, instinctively.

A solid punch connected with Robin's jaw, knocking him hard back. An instant later, Robin was jerked to his feet and spun around. His eyes focused on a dark blue-gloved fist as it drew back, then they moved over and saw the head of this attacker. Robin's aching jaw fell open, and he only had enough presence of mind to dodge his head two or so inches to the right, avoiding a hard frontal blow for a stinging glancing one.

A small foot came from nowhere and struck the dark cowled head in the side, sending him reeling back. Robin gathered himself quickly and delivered a roundhouse kick to this attacker's stomach, doubling him over. Robin felt strong arms grab him in a bear hug from behind, crushing his arms against his ribcage. Pushing off of the sidewalk with his tip-toes, Robin swung his legs up in front of him, over his own head, and scissored them tight around the head of his attacker. Using that leverage, Robin slipped his upperbody down out of the bear hug, planting his palms on the sidewalk and using the scissor hold to flip the bear-hugger off his feet and over onto his back.

Standing, alert, definitely shaken and confused, he found Spoiler on the other side of the two figures. "Go!" he yelled to her. And she went, leaping up to grab hold of the canvas awning over the entrance to a nearby building, and flipping herself up on her way to the roof. Robin turned and pulled his grappling gun. He ran down the sidewalk and fired a grapple up onto the roof of the Kilcher Jewelry building.

When he was on the roof, Robin heard one of the men down on the sidewalk say, "Fuck it, let 'em go." And then, those two were gone.

Spoiler came up beside Robin, eyeing him silently, apparently at a loss for words. "Who were--"

Robin shook his head. "I don't know."

"The one looked like he--"

"Yeah," Robin said, nodding, "he did."

About five minutes later, when Robin was certain the coast was clear, he and Spoiler walked into Kilcher's Jewelry. Upon standing in the doorway and surveying the bloodied back room, Robin could only manage a whispery "God . . ."

Spoiler said nothing.

In one corner of the room, amongst four dead men, was one who was still alive. He sat slumped in that corner, knees drawn up to his chest, his entire body shaking, petrified, in shock. Robin asked him what happened; he said nothing. When Robin asked him who had done this, however, he looked up. A look of pure primal fear was in his eyes that almost forced Robin to look away. "He did it," the man said in a faint whisper. "Batman did it."

En Route to Roemer Private Airfield
Metropolis
3:13 a.m.

The car was a rented Mercedes Benz, and Bruce drove it himself through the still wide-awake streets of Metropolis at nearly 60 miles an hour. Clark, seated right beside him, glanced over with what looked to Dick to be resigned, casual interest.

"What now?" Clark asked.

Bruce kept his eyes on the road. "Now we fly to Switzerland, find the Order of St. Dumas, and . . . move on from there."

Clark shrugged. "Flying to Switzerland shouldn't be a problem."

Bruce shook his head. "We're not going the way you're thinking," he said strictly. "My private jet is still here, and the pilot is always on twenty-four-hour call. We do have to be able to account for how Bruce Wayne, Clark Kent, and Dick Grayson got to Switzerland."

Clark nodded. "I suppose that makes sense . . . So, what's the plan?"

Dick leaned forward from the backseat and looked at Bruce with naive curiosity. "Do we have a plan?"

Bruce nodded. "Our strategy is continually evolving," he explained calculatingly. "Initially, I had intended for Jean-Paul to lead us back to the Order. However, having acquired the coordinates from Innocent's cellular phone, I think it would be much safer to follow those."

Dick gave a satisfied nod. "And leave Jean-Paul and Innocent in the trunk?"

"They will be fine," Bruce answered confidently.

Clark turned his head and said to Dick, "I've been listening to their heartbeats, just in case."

Dick noticed Bruce's hands tighten around the steering wheel just then.