BATMAN: The New Continuity

Bruce smiled apologetically at the pilot, whose name was David Enyin. They -- Bruce, Dick, Clark, and David the pilot -- were standing outside Bruce's private jet, a commercial-size 727 with a large cargo area built into the bottom half of the fuselage.

The cargo hold's gate was lowered open, touching the ground to form a ramp for access. Bruce looked up with naive concern into the hold, where his rented Mercedes Benz now sat. "Will you be able to take-off with that in here?" he asked. "Will it be too much of a -- of an added weight?"

David Enyin nodded, looking up at the car without concern. "It's a big plane, Mr. Wayne. It's built to carry a whole cabin full of people -- there'll be three of you, plus George and Stu and I," -- George Turner was David's co-pilot, and Stuart Fletcher was his navigator -- "so it shouldn't be a problem at all."

"Good," Bruce commented with a pleased smile. "I really do love that car! Drives like a dream; I may buy it." The pilot trotted up the steps that stood along the side of the plane, and into the cabin. Bruce followed, Dick behind him, Clark behind him. "I never noticed this before," Clark commented to Dick on the way up, "but you've cut your hair since we saw each other last."

Dick nodded. "Yeah, I'm keeping it a little shorter now. Easier to manage, looks better . . ."

Clark shrugged, reached back and fluffed his own shoulder-length black hair briefly. "I don't know, I sort of liked it the other way."

"Yeah?" Dick asked, turning his head to regard Clark behind him as they both followed Bruce into the cabin. George Turner came back, closed the hatch and sealed it. Ten minutes later, the plane was in the air -- the Mercedes, and the contents of its trunk, in the cargo hold -- bound for Bern, Switzerland.

Beneath Wayne Manor
Gotham Heights
5:55 a.m.

"You're sure you were already awake?"

Alfred nodded. "Positively, Master Tim."

Tim walked out of the costume vault, dressed in his blue-jeans and tee-shirt, finding Alfred standing just outside the entrance, waiting for him. "I just didn't want to have woken you," Tim explained. He moved past Alfred and walked over to the computer console. Instead of sitting down, he put both hands on the top of the chair, took a step back, and leaned his weight forward on it.

"I suppose," Alfred began after a few seconds of quiet, "we can assume that we know what became of the box stolen from Master Dick's motorcycle."

Tim grinned painfully, because he couldn't think of anything else to do. He nodded as he grinned. "You said it." He bowed his head, squeezed his eyes tightly shut, and didn't say anything for awhile. When Tim did speak again, it was only after he'd sighed very heavily. "This is so bad . . ."

Alfred stepped up behind Tim and put his hand comfortingly on the boy's shoulder. "This is a difficult situation, no doubt," he said, his voice unequivocally serious. "But, you have dealt with situations of comparable gravity before, Master Tim. You, on your own, have faced daunting matters such as this before, and you prevail now as then." Tim looked back and met Alfred's eyes just as the butler added, "I do believe that."

Tim put his hand on top of Alfred's and looked gratefully at him. "Thanks, Alfred." Tim turned around, shrugging off Alfred's hand, and walking aimlessly away from the console and toward the center of the plateau. "Now all I have to do is figure out how . . . I don't even know what the first step should be."

Walking up behind Tim, Alfred put his hand firmly on the boy's shoulder. "Sleep," he told him, "you've school in two hours. Go home."

Sighing heavily, knowing that he wouldn't be able to sleep, Tim looked back at Alfred and nodded. Then, he shoved his hands into his pockets and started toward the opening to the tunnel that ran across beneath the Wayne estate to the lawn in front of Drake Mansion. It was a longer walk than usual this time.

Over the Atlantic Ocean
6:01 a.m. ET

Dick had been asleep on the white plush couch mounted along the side of the long, spacious cabin -- when he suddenly awoke. Not "suddenly," really; more like his eyes abruptly opened, and he was all at once aware that he had been napping just a moment before, but now wasn't the least bit tired. He looked around -- the couch being situated near the middle of the cabin wall, Dick could see approximately half of the cabin in front of him -- and saw no one.

Sitting up on the edge of the couch, Dick turned his head in the other direction and saw Clark and Bruce seated across from each other in comfortable stuffed chairs, a small coffee table between them. Dick stood, and his knees popped. He walked across the floor toward them.

Clark, who sat with his back to Dick, turned and acknowledged him with a smile and a nod. "Good morning."

Dick checked his watch, then nodded. "You said it." He looked at the black ceramic mugs that Clark and Bruce held in their hands, then looked over at Bruce. "Anymore coffee?"

Bruce nodded and took a sip from his own mug. "There's another mug and about one-half of a pot left in the kitchen," he said.

Dick found himself yawning deeply, then started back toward the wooden door that separated the kitchen area from the rest of the cabin. Clark stood from his seat and started back with him. "I'll be back in a sec, Bruce -- I need a refill," he said, taking his mug with him.

In the small nook that was the kitchen -- basically an oblong cubicle with a small countertop that had cupboard space beneath it, two hot burners, and a coffee pot. A short refrigerator stood against one wall. Dick and Clark could both fit into the kitchen, and there was plenty of room if Dick back against one wall and Clark stood against the front of the fridge. Dick filled the black mug he found, then passed it to Clark.

"Where's the cream in here?" Dick asked, pulling open the cupboard beneath the counter. Clark turned around and pulled the little fridge open, removing a small carton of non-fat milk. He held it out to Dick, who took it and opened it. "Well, I still call it cream . . ."

Dick took a sip of the coffee, swallowed, and frowned at the mug. "Augh. . . . Too much cream, too much cream . . ."

Clark, who apparently took his coffee black, took a sip from his mug, then sat it down on the counter and reached out for Dick's. "Too cold?" he asked as Dick handed the coffee over, nodding. Clark lowered his glasses to the tip of his nose and stared intently for a moment at the liquid in the mug. Dick watched as Clark's pupils began to glow a dull red, like small iron burners heating up. A second or so later, a thin trail of steam began to rise up from the middle of the liquid. Clark looked up from the mug, pushed his glasses back, and handed the coffee back to Dick with a modest smile.

Dick sipped the coffee cautiously -- it was hot enough now, to be certain. "Thanks," Dick said. He indicated Clark's eyes with a wave of his hand. "That must come so much in handy."

Clark shrugged. "I usually don't have to heat up coffee like that," he explained, "since I drink it straight like I'm supposed to." He shot Dick a grin.

"Okay, okay. . . . But, like, do you even use a stove when you're just, like, at home?" Dick asked, taking another sip of his hot coffee.

Clark lapsed into faint laughter. "I use it to heat up soup sometimes," he said, "or boil water if I'm in a hurry and doing two things at once. Or, if the donut shop sticks me with cold coffee on the way to work in the morning." Clark sipped his coffee. "But, I usually try to do things like a normal person would. . . . That sounds so pompous -- I am a normal person."

"Bruce would certainly agree with that," Dick said, grinning after having just swallowed another mouthful of coffee.

Clark now wore a slightly embarrassed smile on his face, and Dick regarded him curiously. "Do you know what happened the first time I tried to use my eyes to heat up a cup of coffee?"

Dick shook his head, but was definitely interested. "No," he said.

Clark laughed briefly at himself, embarrassed and wistful at the same time, it seemed. "I must've . . . used too much juice, or something -- I burned right through the bottom of the cup!"

Dick had been about to take another sip of coffee, but stopped and laughed at the thought of hot coffee dripping from the bottom of a scorched coffee cup, a mortified Clark Kent looking quickly to make sure he hadn't been seen.

"True story," Clark assured Dick. "It was a pretty stupid thing to do on my part, in retrospect -- it was a paper cup."

Dick smiled and laughed again. They both walked back into the main cabin, and Clark retook his seat across from Bruce. "Where was I?" Clark asked.

"On Sunday you stopped a two-car fender-bender on Interstate Eighty-One from turning into a six-car pile-up," Bruce prompted, finishing his own mug of coffee and placing it down on the tabletop with finality.

"Right," Clark picked up immediately. "After that . . . what came after that?" He put his hand to his chin and took on a look of deep concentration. "I think the next accident I prevented was late Sunday; two trains were on the same track, heading for each other. By the time they realized what was wrong, it was too late for them to brake . . ."

Bruce regarded Clark skeptically. He asked "How would two trains find themselves heading in opposite directions on the same track?" but wasn't talking to anyone in particular. Then, he shook his head at himself and stood from the table, walking past Clark toward the front of the cabin.

Dick took Bruce's seat across from Clark. "So, what have you two been talking about?"

Clark sipped his coffee. "Trying to determine why the Order of St. Dumas would send Azrael after Superman," he answered, having swallowed. "Bruce thinks I must have inadvertently interfered in their affairs, which are apparently many."

"Not really that much of a leap," Dick commented. "Why the focus on accident prevention? Or, did you two just start that?"

"Bruce is assuming that I was Jean-Paul Valley's first target since returning to the Order," Clark started to explain. "So, the Order has been without an Azrael for some time. Bruce is assuming that the Order continued to mete out their own version of justice on those who betrayed and interfered with them -- but without their assassin, they had to be much more creative."

Dick nodded with understanding. "Ah-ha." He stood and brought the mug to his lips, finishing the rest of his coffee. "Speaking of Azrael . . ." He looked to the front of the cabin, saw Bruce sitting in a chair in front of a computer console mounted in the wall. "Hey Bruce," he announced loudly so he would be heard, "I think I'm gonna go down below, see if the boys are having fun in the car . . . or something -- just imagine I said something wittier."

One of the two spiral metal staircases that led from this upper level of the cabin down to the cargo area was accessed by a floor panel at the back of the cabin (the other staircase was accessed by a similar panel at the front, near where Bruce was). Dick bent over and pulled up the panel.

6:54 a.m. ET

"Okay, the category is 'Comedy,'" Clark began, then lowered his eyes to read from the book in his hands with the classic TV Guide cover on the front. "'All in the Family' was based on what British series?"

Dick scoffed. "Oh, come-on! Too easy -- it's right on the credits at the end!"

Clark nodded. "That it is. . . . So, what is it?"

"You think I don't know? You think I don't know it, don't you?"

"Oh, I'm sure you know it," Clark assured him, "but you can't have the Comedy card you so desperately need until you give me the answer."

A smile came over Dick's face, one of self-assured confidence. "'Till Death Do Us Part,'" he said, then yelled a triumphant "Yes!!" Dick reached up and plucked a card from the Comedy pile on the middle of the game board, and slid it under the allotted space on his edge of the board.

Clark pushed his lower lip out, impressed. "Okay. My turn?"

"Just go easy on the dice -- it's a cardboard box."

Clark grabbed the dice in his hand and tossed them very lightly into the empty cardboard box that held the folded-up game board when being stored. The dice hit the side of the box and fell into the bottom, having jostled it only slightly. "Six," Clark said, looking at the dice.

"Excellent -- less than a quarter-inch's movement," Dick said, eyeing the box, impressed with Clark's restraint. Clark moved his little blue game piece six spaces forward onto a square identified as Drama -- an image of a classic TV Guide cover featuring the cast of The A-Team. Dick opened his question book to the list of Drama questions. "What was the last question I asked you from Drama?"

Clark thought a second. "Um, Who played 'The Outsider.'"

"Okay, got it." Dick found the next question and cleared his throat. "Okay . . . Noah Beery played Jim Rockford's father 'Rocky' on 'The Rockford Files.' What was Rocky's given name?"

"Oooooh . . ." Clark moaned thoughtfully, his face wrought with concentration. "Jeez . . ." He held up his hand. "Hold on, lemme think about this . . ."

Dick clicked his tongue rhythmically against the bottom of his mouth, imitating the sound of a clock ticking away.

"Okay, okay . . ." Clark inhaled sharply and held his breath, wincing as he was about to answer. "Is it 'Joseph'?"

Dick smiled and threw the book down on the table. "You got it!" He held his hand up and exchanged a high-five with Clark, then withdrew his palm and looked at it a moment. "What the hell did I just do?"

"What?" Clark asked, confused, concerned.

"You could've torn my hand off my wrist, couldn't you?" Dick asked, gripping that wrist with his other hand. "I should've warned you, or something."

Clark lapsed into brief laughter. "Dick, if I couldn't control myself, I'd have left hundreds of dead or dismembered people in my wake for the last twenty years. My friends who don't know about my secret don't have anything to sweat over, and neither do you."

"Yeah, I know . . . it's just this burden of knowledge I have, I guess," Dick said, "knowing that I could meet death in innumerable excruciating ways if I pissed you off."

Clark shook his head. "Nah . . . It was just a high-five, Dick. The secret to that is to just move my hand a little bit, and let the other person do most of the work."

An ornery grin came over Dick's face, and he was helpless in its grip. "Is sex handled in similar fashion?" he asked, then started to laugh as if he'd had absolutely no control over what he had said.

Clark only smiled and handed Dick the dice. "Your turn."

"Right. . . ." Dick took the dice and rolled them in the box. "Four." He started to move his little green piece around the board. "You know," he said as he did so, "it still amazes me that the TV Guide Game never caught on! I mean, had you asked me to predict, I'd have said it'd be bigger than Risk!"

Dick leaned over sideways to his right, looking up toward the front of the cabin, where Bruce still sat in front of the computer console. "Hey, Bruce? Do we have Risk onboard?"

Not surprisingly, Bruce didn't even acknowledge the question.

Shrugging, having gotten just what he'd expected, Dick returned his attention to the game board. His green game piece now stood on a Sports square. "Question, please."

Clark consulted his question book for a moment. "Okay, first Sports question. Name the only pitcher in World Series history to pitch a perfect game."

"Aw, come-on," Dick said, throwing his hands up, grinning in amazement at how stunningly easy the question was. "That's Don Larsen."

Clark didn't respond at first; he was suddenly distant, as if listening to a far-off sound. When Dick started to ask him what was wrong, he held up his hand for silence. "Wait . . ." he said quietly, turning his head instinctively to the left, as if he were turning his ear toward the sound. Then, Clark stood -- possessed with purpose. He turned immediately to look toward the front of the cabin.

Dick stood as well, merely watched with mute interest.

"Bruce," Clark began earnestly, "I need off this plane."

Bruce looked back in Clark's direction. "What? Why?" He stood and started toward Clark.

"I need off the plane, Bruce," Clark repeated insistently, touching his ear as if he were hearing the sound again.

Bruce was apparently at a momentary loss; he narrowed his eyes and started to think.

"Now, Bruce!" Clark yelled, stepping toward him forcefully. "There's no time!"

"If you open the hatch, you'll blow cabin pressure," Bruce reminded Clark calmly. "You can't leave until we land the plane."

Clark shook his head profusely. He turned and started toward the back of the cabin. He stopped at the door that accessed the bathroom, examined it. "This is what, steel?" he asked, looking at Bruce, who nodded.

"Can you afford to make some major repairs to the fuselage of this plane when it gets back to Gotham?" Clark asked as he stepped one foot into the bathroom, quickly adding, "And come up with a good enough cover story for why there was a large hole in the side?"

Bruce nodded again. "I suppose."

Clark stepped fully into the bathroom and started to shut the door behind him. "You'll have to," he said, then closed and locked the door.

Less than a minute later, there was a violent sucking sound from behind the suddenly very secure bathroom door. Dick moved to one of the windows on the other side of the cabin, and saw the familiar blue and red form of Superman soaring off quickly into the distance, fast becoming nothing more than a blur of airborne color.

Gotham Heights High School
Gotham Heights
8:36 a.m.

Tim kissed Ariana and told her he would see her later, then they split up to go to their respective lockers -- just as they did every morning upon arriving at school. Tim watched Ari walk down the hall toward her locker, and when he was satisfied that she'd gone far enough so that she couldn't see him anymore, he turned around and walked straight back toward the doors.

Along the wall next to the doors were several pay phones, all of which were empty. Tim stood in front of the closest one, grabbed up the handset, and quickly punched in ten numbers.

After listening to rings for almost three solid minutes, Tim gave up and hung the handset back up. He left the phones and started back to his locker.

Over the Swiss Alps
10:02 a.m. ET

"I definitely like the jet better," Dick remarked as he adjusted his position in the small seat yet again. He, Clark, and Bruce sat in the tight cabin of a twin engine private plane which Bruce had purchased not two hours ago upon their arrival at the airport in Bern. "As a gift for my friend Mr. Tarasco here," Bruce had explained to the plane's amazed former owner; Clark was now apparently an amateur pilot.

Bruce piloted the plane, Dick seated next to him functioning as the co-pilot and monitoring the screen of Bruce's palmtop computer, which displayed their current latitude and longitude via a satellite link-up. "Position," Bruce said, not taking his eyes off the flight instruments.

"Approximately eleven minutes due south of the general coordinance you read from the phone," Dick answered, reading the palmtop's screen.

Clark gave a pessimistic sigh. "I've been watching all the way to the horizon in all directions, and I haven't seen anything that could even remotely be what we're looking for."

"We're not even to the general area yet," Bruce reminded Clark calmly. "Wait until we're in position."

Clark shrugged and sat back in his seat. He turned his head and glanced over his shoulder: Jean-Paul and Brother Innocent were still bound securely back-to-back, unconscious on the floor in the rear of the cabin. Transferring them from the trunk of the Mercedes to the back of the small plane had been a simple matter of waiting for Michel (the pilot from whom Bruce had purchased this plane) to leave the area, then carrying the two captives from trunk to cabin. When they began to stir several minutes after take-off, Dick had inoculated them with another dose of sedative that should keep them unconscious for several more hours.

"So, Clark," Dick started, continuing to face forward in his seat, "what was the big emergency in the jet a few hours ago? Or were you just looking for an excuse to test out your latest 'how to get out of a flying plane' procedure?"

Clark laughed faintly. "I've never had to use that technique before," he admitted, "but I've had it in my head for years. I'm glad it worked."

Bruce turned his head ever so slightly to the right, the most he'd physically acknowledged either Clark or Dick for the entire flight. "I assume you somehow welded the bathroom door shut to preserve the cabin pressure inside," he said.

"Yep," Clark answered, nodding slightly. "I repaired the breech I had to make in the hull, too -- although it's still pretty plain that there used to be a manhole-size hole there. I hope you can explain that somehow."

"I'll claim I had no knowledge of it and blame it on someone at the Bern airport most likely," Bruce said thoughtfully. "I'm certain I've done something to anger someone who would be able to vandalize my plane like that."

Dick nodded in agreement. "Shouldn't be a problem," he said, not worried, adding "But if it is, you can always blame it on those damn punk kids." Dick and Clark shared a slightly amused smile; Bruce, as per usual, gave no reaction. "So anyway, what was it that made you leave?" Dick asked Clark again.

"A potential plane crash," Clark said, his voice so casual toward the event that he could have been a mechanic describing the repair of the most minor of engine problems. "It was a small commercial flight that lost two of its engines. I guided it down to a runway in Ireland where everyone should be all right."

Bruce inhaled. "It was an act of heroism like that which most likely got you into this situation," he told Clark, who now leaned forward with interest in his seat. Dick, also, now eyed Bruce curiously. Sensing the interest, Bruce went on to explain, "The train collision you prevented on Sunday would most likely have killed everyone in the first several cars of both trains."

Clark nodded along, but didn't seem to follow. "Right. Most likely . . ."

Bruce continued, "One of the passengers of the south-bound train was a Dr. Ethan Suttleford."

"A scientist?" Dick asked.

"A geneticist," Bruce specified. "I did some searching, and discovered that he had recently resigned from the research team of GenCorp, a well-financed genetics research company centered in Maine."

"And you think GenCorp is a cover for the Order's own genetic research," Dick said, following Bruce's logic.

"We'd be foolish to assume that the Order of St. Dumas was able to cultivate their considerable knowledge and influence entirely from within the walls of their headquarters," Bruce said. "Who knows what kind of biological or genetic research they're interested in." Bruce paused, his eyes narrowing darkly, looking straight ahead. "Who knows what Suttleford knew . . ."

"'Knew'?" Clark asked. "But, I prevented the collision."

"Dr. Suttleford died in a head-on collision in the back of a taxi cab in New York City on Wednesday night," Bruce explained. "The Order got to him, then dispatched Azrael after you for interfering in their first attempt on Suttleford."

Clark looked back at Jean-Paul and Innocent again. "That was nice of them. . . . I don't usually imagine that saving a life would put me in a worse position than not saving one."

"Position," Bruce said to Dick again.

Dick checked the screen. "Approximately nine minutes south of the general coordinance," he answered.

Clark narrowed his eyes and concentrated, looking through the hull of the plane, continuing to survey the snow-covered mountains below all the way to the horizon.

Office of Commissioner Gordon
Gotham City Police Headquarters
11:29 a.m.

Gordon looked up upon hearing a knock on the window of his door. "Come in," he yelled, looking up from his desk only briefly before rolling his eyes back down to the dossier he'd received this morning detailing the only eyewitness's account of the massacre of the Ferdy Dominguez gang; he still wasn't quite willing to accept what he was reading. He heard the door open a moment later, and looked up again.

"This'll just take a sec, Commissioner," assured Evander, the young man who had been refilling the water cooler in Gordon's office for seven months now. He carried a full plastic jug of water over his shoulder. As always, Gordon stood to offer assistance, and, as always, Evander waved him away, insisting that he'd do it himself. He put the filled jug down on its end for a moment, lifted the emptied jug from the cooler, and put that on the floor by the door. He unscrewed the cap to the new jug, lifted it carefully, turned it over and plugged it down into the cooler in one fluid motion. Not one spilled drop, as always.

Evander grabbed the empty jug, gave a modest smile and tip of his cap to the commissioner, and left the office. When the door closed after him, barely twenty seconds had passed since he'd first set foot in the room.

Gordon's eyes were still lingering on the closed door when his phone rang, the button for Line 1 flashing. He picked up the phone and tapped open that line. "Gordon," he announced, trying to sound cordial and succeeding for the most part.

"Commissioner Gordon," said a pleasant, ingratiating voice. "Good. You're in. I'd hoped to catch you."

"To whom am I speaking?" Gordon wondered, adjusting the handset slightly in his grip.

The voice on the phone politely cleared his throat, then continued, "This is Oswald Cobblepot calling from Arkham Asylum."

A shadow fell over Gordon's face. The voice of Cobblepot was still ingratiating, but now sounded disgustingly so -- overt and false. "Mr. Cobblepot," Gordon responded graciously, mentally biting his tongue. "What can I help you with today?"

"I believe a Miss Summer Gleeson spoke with you earlier this week about paying a visit to one of our patients currently incarcerated at the asylum," Cobblepot said, "one Christopher Wilpod."

"Yesterday, as a matter of fact," answered Gordon. "She said you required police clearance for her to interview Wilpod. I gave no objection."

"Yes," Cobblepot said, "so she told me via telephone following her meeting with you yesterday. She's scheduled to meet with Wilpod later today. I was hoping, perhaps, that you could dispatch several of Gotham's finest to the asylum to . . . augment our guards already on-duty." Cobblepot paused, as if waiting for a reply. Gordon said nothing. "Merely ensure Miss Gleeson's safety, of course," Cobblepot added awkwardly.

Gordon sighed, letting his annoyance (to put it mildly) with the man on the phone slip through for a moment. "Very well, Mr. Cobblepot," he said heavily, "I'll send a few uniforms to Arkham to meet Miss Gleeson when she arrives." Now, Gordon paused. "Will that be satisfactory?" he asked when Cobblepot said nothing.

"Yes," replied Cobblepot. "Yes, most satisfactory. Thank you."

"I'll have one of the officers phone the asylum in the next few hours to get the specific time when Miss Gleeson will be arriving."

"Yes. Excellent."

Gordon readied his hand, his muscles already twitching to hang up the phone. "Good-bye, Mr. Cobblepot." He put the handset down hard, hanging up the phone before Cobblepot had a chance to say anything else. He ran his hands over his face, tensing the muscles in his face, drained from the civil facade he'd erected to hide from Cobblepot just how much he detested the man.

The phone rang again a moment later, and Gordon looked at it with something like contempt from across the desk. His annoyance faded when he saw that the buttons for Line 2 and Line 4 were both flashing, as if occupied. Gordon knew better, immediately picking up the phone and pushing down the Line 2 and Line 4 buttons simultaneously. "Hello," he said earnestly.

"Commissioner," came a young voice. "Good, you're in."

Gordon thought a moment. "Robin?" he guessed.

"Yes," the young man replied, "it's me. I tried you earlier, but you must not have been in. It was early . . ."

"Nevermind that," Gordon said, coming off somewhat more forceful than he'd intended to sound. "What is it?"

"I can't talk for very long," Robin cautioned, "but I really felt the necessity to talk you, after what happened last night." Robin paused. "Do you know what I'm referring to?"

Gordon nodded, his eyes moving instinctively to the open dossier in front of him on his desk. "Yes," he answered. "I'm reading about it now, as a matter of fact."

"Oh?" Robin asked, a trepidation in his voice.

Gordon sighed. "Yes. Imagine how thrilled I was to be greeted with this when I got to work this morning. . . . It took me an hour and a half of stalling before I could even make myself open the damned thing."

"Commissioner," Robin began uncertainly, "I can only assure you that he had absolutely nothing to do with this. And, he had no knowledge of it, either."

Gordon shook his head regretfully. "It's a shame I even need that assurance . . ." he said, his hand going to his forehead. "I appreciate it, though. Why am I not speaking to him directly about this, then?"

Robin paused for several seconds, as if reluctant to answer the question. Gordon waited silently. "He . . . isn't in Gotham City currently, Commissioner. He and an associate of his and mine are off on . . . on a personal matter, I suppose you could call it."

"I don't suppose asking for more specifics on that would do me any good," Gordon said cynically.

"I'm sorry, Commissioner. I wish he were here, believe me," Robin confessed. "At least he might have a next step in mind for me."

Gordon raised his eyebrows with interest. "'Next step' implies there's been a first step; has there been?"

"In a manner of speaking," answered Robin slowly. "I called you."

Gordon began shaking his head again, at a loss to comprehend the situation. "Once word gets out that your partner supposedly killed a whole roomful of street scum, things could get very rough for him," Gordon warned the young man. "My men in Major Crimes had a hell of a time calling off Arthur Reeves regarding the Harris murder -- hell, that wasn't but a few days ago. He's going to pounce all over this once it hits the fan."

Another long pause on both sides. "I wish I had a plan of action here," Robin said, a helplessness in his voice.

"I appreciate the call," Gordon told Robin. "I'll do whatever I can for him," he added, feeling a need to reassure the young man, "although I'm not certain how much that will be."

"I have to go," Robin said, an urgency in his voice. "But, I feel better having called you."

Gordon gave a nod. "I'm sure we'll talk again soon about this. At least, I have a bad feeling that we'll need to."

The phone went dead. Gordon hung it up.

Gotham Heights High School
11:36 a.m.

Tim tried to hide it, but was acutely aware that there was no way he could adequately disguise how absolutely drained he felt right now. He practically fell back into his chair, and leaned forward on the lunch table. He felt Ives' eyes on him almost immediately. "Yes, something is wrong, by the way," he said to his friend right before covering his face with his two palms.

The next sound Tim heard was the crunching of lettuce; he looked up to see Ives chewing on a bite of his rather thick ham sandwich, regarding him with a thoughtful concern. "You know," Ives said, giving a hard, premature swallow before continuing, "I've had my problems of late, too."

Hudson, seated on the end of the table -- close to Tim -- rolled his eyes at Ives. "Yeah, no shit."

Ariana approached the table, carrying her tray from the lunch line. Tim's eyes landed on her as they would on an oasis in a desert, and as soon as she had reached the table, he stood took her hand. "Come-on," he said, leading her at once away from the table, toward one of the doors out of the cafeteria.

Ari followed, willing, if confused. "Where are we going?" she asked as Tim pulled her out into the school's commons area.

"We need to talk."

Tim looked around quickly at the various hallways that presented themselves. He finally picked one, the hall nearest his right, and started toward it. "Is there a class in the library now?" he asked as they went.

"Yeah, there is," Ari said, nodding. "Henson's signed up all day -- McCormack mentioned it second period."

"Dammit," Tim muttered, stopping in mid-step and turning right back around and starting back up the hall, pulling Ari with him all the way. "All right," he told himself, "I know someplace else . . ."

"Someplace else for what?" Ari demanded, although she still followed along behind Tim without resistance. "Where are we going?"

Tim and Ari walked back into the commons, and Tim pulled her straight across the floor toward the doors that opened into the school's auditorium.

The auditorium was dark, and Tim walked past the light switches. He released Ari's hand and walked forward cautiously in the dark, feeling along the wall, squinting to see in the dim light. "Hold on, Ari," he said. He found a door and turned the knob, and smiled with relief when he found it was unlocked. "Come over here," he whispered to Ari, waving her over as he opened the door and reached inside, feeling along the wall for a light switch. He found one, and illuminated the tiny room behind the door, where stood a metal staircase that wound around itself up to the scaffolding high above the auditorium floor.

Ari walked up to Tim, and he let her go up the staircase first, advising her to watch her head as she went, then followed her. At the top of the stairs was a door, and running past that, a rubber-matted catwalk with tubular iron railing. At several points on the railing, where one could look down best over the rows of seats onto the stage, were mounted various spotlights, all dormant now, of course.

Tim took Ari by the hand again, and they walked along the catwalk away from the staircase and the door, toward a point where this one intersected with another catwalk. They walked onto that catwalk, which led to a sort of island -- a large, square section of scaffolding, suspended from the ceiling at a point above the center of the auditorium floor, accessed from the edges by any of several catwalks that stretched across from the main one that ran past the staircase.

"Hudson showed me this place," Tim explained, his voice still a whisper. "It's more private than the library, anyway."

"I can't even think how many times I've looked up at this place," Ari said, looking over the edge of the island down at the seats impossibly far below. She turned to Tim, a deep sympathy suddenly evident on her face. "What is it?"

Tim had brought Ari here to talk to her, to vent frustration, to take advantage of a sympathetic ear -- but now found himself at an absolute loss for words. He opened his mouth several times to speak, each time closing it without a word.

Ari just watched quietly and waited to listen.

"I'm in kind of a difficult situation," he said finally, aware as soon as he'd said the words of how laughably inadequate they were. "Okay, that's an understatement," he felt compelled to add.

"Something . . ." -- at this point, Ari's voice became a self-conscious whisper -- ". . . Robin related?" She looked at Tim after she'd finished speaking, seeming to wonder for a moment whether it had been a mistake to ask the question.

Tim nodded at her, grateful -- he'd hoped she would be the one to bring Robin up, because he was still no good at that with her; despite telling her about his secret life after-hours, they rarely discussed it. "I know I can trust you absolutely with whatever I tell you," he said, hoping it didn't sound as much like an effort to reassure himself as it really was.

"You can, Tim," Ari said, effectively reassuring him. "You can. With anything."

"Right." Tim, determined to just say what he had to say, took what he'd hoped would be a relaxing breath (the actual relaxing effect was negligible), and exhaled slowly. "Someone killed four people last night, and it looks like Batman did it." It wasn't until a moment later, having run over the words in his head, that Tim realized how wrong that had sounded.

Ari regarded him with absolute shock. Speechless for only a second or so, she muttered an astonished "Shit . . ." staring wide-eyed at Tim.

Tim slapped his hand to his forehead and shook his head profusely. "No, no . . . that came out wrong. I know Batman didn't do it," he explained, eyes squeezed shut, "but it was meant to look like he did. And, right now, there's no way for me to disprove it."

"Oh," Ari said with an even mix of understanding and relief, "well . . . that's a little better."

"Relatively, yes," Tim reluctantly conceded with a shrug. "But . . ." He puts his face in his hands again, massaging the corners of his eyes for a moment. "Oh . . . Jesus . . ." he moaned, leaning back against the island's iron railing.

He felt Ari's hand go to his shoulder and squeeze it gently. Tim looked up and met her eyes, those eyes filled with compassion -- and helplessness, too -- and put his own hand on top of her. After a moment, he managed a weak, grateful smile. She leaned in and kissed him, and he pulled her to him for a moment. When the kiss was over, his eyes lingered on her face for a moment, then dropped to the floor. He shook his head slowly, lost. "I just had to . . . tell someone, you know?" said Tim, looking back at Ari. "Someone who isn't, like, intimately involved in all this."

Ariana regarded Tim softly. "You don't want me intimately involved?" she asked.

Tim looked at her sharply, shaking his head sternly. "Pray that you're never intimately involved in any of what I have to deal with," he told her, suddenly aware of how bitterly he was regarding the identity of Robin at the moment. He shook his head again. "Trust me -- it's no fun."

Tim checked his watch: 11:46 a.m. "Better get back to lunch," he said, half to himself, as he started back for the catwalk. Ariana followed him. "Hudson already thinks we were doing something other than talking, no doubt."

Ariana followed him along the catwalk back toward the staircase. She said nothing, and Tim didn't notice the faint smile that lingered for a few seconds on her face.

Arkham Asylum
12:58 p.m.

Summer Gleeson drove a green Ford Explorer -- that was the first thought that Jon Goodson was conscious of when he saw her pull up to the asylum's guest parking lot. Jon had been a police officer for eight years, walking the beat the whole time. He was now thirty-one years old, and he'd had what his mostly amused friends described as a "thing" for Summer Gleeson since she first came to prominence as a TV personality in Gotham City about five years ago.

She was thirty-one years old, too. At least, that's what Jon had learned -- from no less than four separate sources.

Zed Montaigne, the officer who had come on this assignment with Jon, knew of his fellow officer's particular fascination, and regarded him with a smirk as they stood at their cruiser, waiting for the approaching Miss Gleeson to reach them. Jon returned Zed's gaze sternly, shaking his head as a subtle way of telling his partner to knock it the hell off. Zed relented after a moment, a smile of childish satisfaction faintly evident on his face.

"Hello, officers," Summer Gleeson said in a cordial yet detached tone of voice, offering her hand first to Zed -- who shook it -- then to Jon -- who shook it for what he hoped she wouldn't think was too long a time. She took her hand back and clasped both hands in front of her. "Shall we?" she suggested, nodding past both men toward the entrance to the asylum.

"Of course," Zed said. He started up toward the asylum's front entrance. Jon hesitated a moment, then stepped aside and held his palm out as a gesture for Summer to go ahead. She smiled and obliged, starting on her way to follow Zed, stepping past Jon, who in turn followed a few feet behind her.

Jon asked the asylum guard for his keys. After a moment's hesitation, and a nod of approval from his immediate superior, who looked on, the guard handed the key ring over. Jon peered through the viewslit: the patient sat calmly on the edge of his cot, wrists and ankles shackled. He looked sedate enough. Jon inserted the appropriate key and unlocked the steel cell door.

Summer started immediately into the cell. Jon held up his arm, blocking her. "Whoa -- us first," he said, gesturing to himself, then to Zed. "That's why we're here."

"He's cuffed and leg-ironed," Summer said, looking through the open door at the man in the cell. She turned to the guard and asked, "How long is the chain he's on?"

The guard, whose name-tag identified him as Hamilton, turned to his boss, whose name was Greene. "About three feet," Greene said in a low tone to Hamilton.

"About three feet," Hamilton repeated to Summer, nodding.

Summer turned back to Jon. It was as if she could sense the affection he held for her -- Jon wondered if it were really that obvious. "I'll stay near the walls," she told him. "I promise." She ended with a slow smile, which Jon forced himself to look away from; not only was she aware of his crush on her, she was using it.

Jon exchanged a glance with Zed, who seemed indifferent to the matter. He looked back to Summer and gave a relenting nod. "All right. But, we'll be watching through the viewslit the entire time."

"Key in hand, no doubt," said Summer.

"You'd better believe it," Jon assured her. She smiled at him again, then turned and walked into the cell, a notepad and pen clutched close to her chest by her right hand.

When Jon didn't shut the cell door right away, Hamilton, the guard, stepped forward and pulled it closed. He plucked the keys from Jon's hands and locked it. As soon as Hamilton was out of the way, Jon stepped forward, slid the viewslit open, and peered inside.

Summer stood just a few feet from the door, obscuring Jon's view of the patient inside. But, he heard chains rattle slightly, sounding listless. "Hello," was the first thing Summer said -- just "Hello" -- her voice taking on a meek tone as she said it.

Jon couldn't see whether Christopher Wilpod was smiling or not, but it certainly sounded like it when he spoke. His chains rattled again slightly. "Hi, little girl," Jon heard him say.

Over the Swiss Alps
1:45 p.m. ET

"I see something," Clark said, breaking a long silence.

Dick looked over in time to see Bruce squint at the horizon. "Where?" Bruce said, apparently not seeing it. Dick stared ahead out the window, and saw nothing as well.

Clark leaned forward in his seat, his arm extended forward between Bruce and Dick, his finger pointing out the window. "You wouldn't be able to see it yet," he said, "but it's almost directly ahead now. I saw it just as we came out of that last roll."

"Position," Bruce said dispassionately to Dick.

Dick checked the computer. "We're in the general area," he responded at first. "At least, I think so," he was quick to add. "We've been criss-crossing the same minute for about the last hour and a half."

"Just hold this course," Clark advised, still staring straight ahead out the window. "You should be able to make it out in a few minutes."

Bruce looked away from the window briefly, glancing at the palmtop computer Dick held in his lap. "What is it you're seeing precisely?"

Clark thought a moment, his gaze remaining steady. "It's a tall stone structure. Like a castle or a cathedral," he began. "It's sitting on top of one of the smaller peaks up ahead. Very complicated construction. Grotesque-looking, definitely."

Bruce nodded. "That must be it."

Dick looked at them both strangely. "Exactly how many enormous stone castles were we expecting to find out here in the Alps?"

Clark shrugged. "I'm not really that familiar with the area," he offered defensively.

1:58 p.m. ET

The terrain surrounding the structure being snow-covered and mountainous for miles in all directions, it had been necessary for Clark to exit the plane and assist in its landing. He held the small craft on the underside of its fuselage and guided it gently down to the ground in a relatively flat spot approximately one quarter-mile down the small peak from the cathedral. Clark's assistance was a necessity if the plane was to fly again, and if all were to survive the landing, and yet Dick definitely sensed Bruce's annoyance when Clark first left his seat and flew out of the cabin.

Superman waited outside the plane, oblivious to the cold and seemingly unaffected by the thin air as well. Garbed in specially insulated and electrically heated costumes, Batman and Nightwing emerged from the plane, dragging the unconscious forms of Jean-Paul Valley and Brother Innocent after them. "We going to wake these guys up, or . . . ?" Nightwing asked as he laid Jean-Paul down in the snow at his feet and shut the cabin door.

Batman stood up straight, letting Innocent's head ease back into the snow. "I thought Clark would handle that, actually." He turned his head slightly in Superman's direction, but remained standing with his back to him. "If he doesn't mind."

"No," Superman answered with a careless shake of his head. "I assumed I'd be giving you two a lift the rest of the way, too."

Batman shook his head. "That won't be necessary."

"Hmm?" Nightwing interjected. He leaned forward at the waist as if he hadn't heard what Batman'd said. "Pardon?"

"You and I can walk," Batman said. "It's not that far."

Nightwing stared at him for a long time, mute, then shifted his eyes to Superman in disbelief. "We're walking," he said flatly, unable to grasp the words.

"No you're not," Superman said, shaking his head with assurance. He turned to Batman. "This is ridiculous. Think practically."

Batman turned and stared ahead at the cathedral, which stood ominously just a short hike up the gentle slope of this small peak. "I am thinking practically," he answered confidently. "Were time a factor, it would be necessary for us to reach the cathedral as soon as possible. But, time not being a factor, I don't see any reason why Nightwing and I can't walk the additional distance ourselves."

"Wait a minute," Nightwing said, holding up his hand, walking around in front of Batman so they would be eye-to-eye as he spoke, "we have no idea what's waiting for us up there. For all we know, they're expecting us. Maybe time is a factor."

"I'm operating on facts, not assumptions," Batman countered. "Neither one of those two has been in contact with the Order of St. Dumas since we took them from their hotel room. Therefore, it's my expectation that we'll be surprising whoever is in there."

Superman folded his arms. "What if the hotel room were being monitored?"

Batman shook his head. "Between the three of us, we would almost certainly have detected any surveillance."

"What if we missed something?" Superman asked, unrelenting. "I'm certainly not infallible -- you'd be the first to admit that, I'm sure."

Nightwing still stood directly in front of Batman, staring at him probingly. "Come-on. You know that it makes absolutely no sense at all to not take every reasonable advantage of having Superman here!" Batman said nothing, just continued to stare ahead at the cathedral. "If you really want to walk the rest of the way in the snow, then you can go ahead," Nightwing told him pointedly. "But if I can get a ride, I'm taking it, and I'll see you up there." Nightwing turned away from Batman and took a few steps toward Superman, who was kneeling down to heft Jean-Paul up over his right shoulder, which he did a moment later.

"All right," Batman said, although not a trace of ebb was present in his voice. "We'll go up with Clark." He looked at Jean-Paul on Superman's shoulder, and then at Brother Innocent still lying in the snow. "You'll also have to ensure these two remain in check and cooperative once we get inside."

"We'll have to wake them up?" Nightwing asked uncertainly.

Batman nodded. "We aren't taking them along to return them," he answered. "Once inside, we'll have to know where we're going."

"I could x-ray the place before we all approach," Superman offered.

The offer was summarily rejected with a shake of Batman's head. "You wouldn't even know what to look for. None of us would. Only those two."

"There is another way to find out what we're looking for, I think," Superman suggested.

Nightwing crossed his arms. "What are we looking for, anyway?"

Batman's eyes fell on Jean-Paul again. "A person inside that building that can dismantle The System," he said, although Nightwing knew that he had to realize it was by no means just that simple. If they were to succeed, they all had to realize that.

When Jon Goodson turned his eyes away from the viewslit literally for the first time in over an hour, it was only to briefly regard Zed, who still stood beside him and appeared to be bored absolutely to death.

"What the hell are they saying?" Zed asked as Jon turned his attention fully back to the door.

Jon shook his head. "I don't know," he replied in a low whisper with a faint shake of his head. "I can't hear."

"They're whispering to each other?" Zed asked.

Jon nodded. "Uh-huh."

Zed stepped in behind Jon and tried to peek over his shoulder through the viewslit, but Jon's position afforded him no view. He strained for a few moments more to see, but finally gave up and leaned back against the wall next to the door, where he'd been standing more or less for the last hour. "Can't you read their lips, or something?" he asked, sounding frustrated.

Jon looked at his partner for the second time in the same minute, eyeing him with annoyance for a moment before turning back to the viewslit. "Right, like I can read lips. Damn imbecile." Jon looked at Summer Gleeson and Christopher Wilpod in silence for a few seconds, then sighed. "Hell, as long as he behaves himself and she doesn't get too close, what does it matter what they're saying? It's her interview. Let 'em talk about whatever they want."

Zed gave a concerned half-shrug. "Maybe he's, I dunno, hypnotizing her in there or something."

Goodson didn't look away from the viewslit this time, but the look on his face made it seem like what Zed had just suggested was the most ridiculous thing Jon had ever heard. "Man, you were quiet over there for an hour. Why are you talking so much now?"

"What?" Zed offered defensively. "As if it's impossible . . ."

"As if what's impossible?"

"Him hypnotizing her in there! As if that's impossible."

Jon's brow was knit with a condescending skepticism. "Come-on . . ." he pleaded quietly, his eyes still on the viewslit. "That's the dumbest load of . . . of bull I've ever heard from you. Just shut-up, all right?"

"Why couldn't he be hypnotizing her?" Zed persisted. "They've got eye contact, he's doing most of the talking -- right?"

Jon tried for a bit to resist, but finally had to look over at Zed for a third time, annoyed. "Please shut the hell up, okay? Jesus . . ."

Zed rolled his eyes and leaned back against the wall, apparently resolving to wait out the rest of the meeting in silence. He did; the door opened and Summer stepped out of the cell less than three minutes later. She said nothing, but seemed a bit shaken. She looked at Goodson, gave him a clearly artificial smile, and stepped past him to start down the hall. The guard, Hamilton, stepped in a moment later and locked the cell door tight again.

Somewhere in the Swiss Alps
2:09 p.m. ET

Brother Innocent opened his eyes and saw that the rocky, snow-covered ground looked to be no less than a few hundred feet below him. He was so high that there was a thin layer of water vapor that floated between the ground and Innocent's eyes. After taking almost a full minute to gain the presence of mind just to turn his head, Innocent tilted his chin down toward his chest and saw nothing but sky beyond his body. He was hanging upside down. Wrapped tightly around his right ankle, he noticed after what seemed like a very, very long time, was a loop of thin cord. It supported all of Innocent's weight, and was beginning to cut into his skin.

Innocent opened his mouth and a single syllable, that must've been barely audible to whomever the hand belonged to, escaped: something like "oh," but not so crisp.

"You're awake. Excellent," said a dark male rasp from somewhere above him. Innocent looked up along the length of his own body, but saw nothing but his own suspended foot; he realized now that he must have been hanging off the edge of a cliff. "Exposure to this degree of cold without adequate clothing can lead to hypothermia," the voice offered dispassionately, then paused a moment. Innocent felt a pair of hands grab him by the shirt and pull his head toward his feet. The shirt now held all of his weight, and he was upright and face-to-face with his captor: Batman. Innocent's feet now dangled over the edge of the cliff, while Batman's were planted relatively safely a few inches from the edge. "Tell me about The System," Batman said flatly a moment later. "Who inside that structure controls it?"

It took Innocent a second or two to digest the question, and even when it had registered he was still instinctively reluctant to answer. He mustered a look of stubborn resolve, and shook his head in stiff refusal at the man that held him.

Batman gave a subtle nod of acceptance, regarding Innocent calmly. A second later, he had swept Innocent's feet out, dropping him hard on his back in the cold snow. Batman was on Innocent, atop him, holding him down with his weight. Innocent gasped for his breath, and found it after a momentary struggle. Batman stared at him intensely for what seemed like a very long time -- at least a full minute -- saying nothing. When that long, tense silence was over, Batman reached behind him into the belt around his waist and produced a small cylindrical object that tapered to a narrow, flat edge on one end. He held this inches from Innocent's face, but that was all for now.

"The Order knows of my companion. Don't they?" Batman asked knowingly, his mouth curving into what was almost a sadistic smile. "They know of his abilities. That's common knowledge, even to xenophobes such as you and your fellow acolytes."

Innocent said nothing. His eyes were centered intently -- not on Batman, but on the object in his hand.

"One can't help but be curious, however," Batman continued, a subdued-yet-detectable trace of morbid excitement rising in his voice, "if the Order is just as familiar with his methods of operation . . . his interrogation techniques." Batman looked at the object in his own hand, then back to Innocent. "Are they?"

Innocent remained silent. To avoid the trauma of looking Batman full in the face, he continued to focus on whatever that was in the vigilante's hand.

"One of the most common misconceptions about him is that he employs the technique of flying men up to great heights, dropping them, only to catch them mere moments before fatal impact with the ground -- as a means of extracting information." Batman paused, shook his head, and again looked at the small tapered cylinder in his own hand. "The more you get to know him, the more you understand his nature -- as I do -- the more . . . benign that method of persuasion becomes."

Batman's thumb pushed a small slide-switch on the cylinder forward, and a hot blue flame appeared at the object's tapered end. He tore Innocent's shirt open with his free hand, and held the flame mere inches from his now-naked chest.

"We don't work together often, he and I," Batman started to explain. "It often leads to conflict. But, I've seen him with witnesses and snitches enough to know his basic procedure." He slid the switch forward a bit more; as a result, the blue flame grew longer, and its heat was more obvious on Innocent's skin. He saw the very tips of a few of his chest hairs beginning to melt. "This is just a small cutting torch," said Batman of the object in his hand. "It does a poor job of reproducing his ability, but I've found it adequate on several occasions. . . . Of course, this device lacks the control he has over his power." Batman paused as he brought the flame closer to Innocent's chest, burning the hairs beneath it. "It's easy to slice straight through flesh and into bone if the flame is too hot. I designed it as a tool to cut through metal and other similar materials."

Innocent squeezed his eyes shut tightly for a moment, then opened them. The flame was now hot on his skin, the end of the torch less than a half-inch from him. A patch of flesh was now hairless, turning bright red, and starting to blister. Innocent bit his lower lip, drawing blood, and watched the flame move slowly over his chest, expanding the edges of the bare patch ever-so-gradually.

"I can recall one time more than others," Batman related neutrally as he guided the torch, "when he was interrogating a tight-lipped young would-be Mafia informant. He was just a boy -- this informant -- and couldn't have been older than twenty-one or twenty-two. I remember, he had no hair on his chest. Even so, he was interrogated with the usual technique." Batman paused, and put the torch's flame even closer to Innocent's chest.

Innocent let out a sudden, raw, painful yell as the flame kissed his flesh. It felt like a hole was being burnt straight through him, straight through to his heart.

"With no chest hair to singe off, he went straight to the boy's bare flesh," Batman continued, then paused for awhile. He held the flame in its current place; it began to raise blisters on Innocent's skin. "If I remember correctly, he needed four -- perhaps five -- separate operations -- skin grafts -- to repair the damage. There was still extensive scarring, tissue damage. And, no small amount of pain, either, I'm sure."

Another instinctive, alarmed yell escaped from Innocent's throat. Batman was holding the small torch so close now that its tapered head was itself nearly touching Innocent's skin. Now, Innocent's eyes went, with growing alarm, from the torch at his chest to the face of Batman. Batman's face was totally without emotion, his mouth now a flat line. The tip of the torch pressed against skin, and sizzled like a brand on a bull. Innocent threw his head back hard against the snowy ground. His eyes rolled back in his head, his mouth opened in a mute scream.

Batman retained his cold, calm demeanor. He continued to hold the hot torch to Innocent's skin, and suddenly opened his mouth to speak. "Tell me about The System," he said again. "Who inside that structure controls it?"

2:21 p.m.

Nightwing stood next to Superman, both still standing approximately a quarter-mile down the slope from the cathedral, as Batman returned, carrying Innocent across his shoulders. Innocent was conscious, but clearly shaken. Batman released him, and the rattled man staggered for a few seconds before collapsing into the snow. Batman looked down on him contemptuously. "The System doesn't originate from the cathedral," Batman said.

"So, what are we doing here?" Nightwing asked, resisting the urge to throw his arms frustratedly in the air.

Batman stood simply, his cloak draped over his body. "A man named Brother Mercior was in charge of Jean-Paul's . . . re-conditioning. He's somewhere inside." Batman's expression was grim. (It was always grim, but especially so now.) He glared down at Innocent, and then turned and looked at Jean-Paul, who still sat unconscious in the snow a few feet away.

Nightwing thought that, when he returned to Gotham City, he would suggest to Harold that some pockets be added to the hips of his costume. Trying to slip into a casual demeanor, Nightwing realized how awkward it was, his outfit not having normal pockets into which he could slip his hands -- which he would normally do in a situation like this, just to appear as calm as possible. Moving past that after a moment . . .

"He didn't happen to tell you where Brother Mercior is, did he?" Nightwing asked, putting a naively hopeful twist to the tone of his voice.

Batman shook his head.

Superman folded his arms and regarded first Batman, then Innocent, pessimistically. "I don't suppose there would be a directory of quarters, or something like that . . ."

Nightwing shrugged -- it seemed to make sense in a kind of way; this wasn't a hotel, afterall. Besides, the fact that they were now apparently going to have to search the entire cathedral up and down for this Brother Mercior fit so perfectly with the rest of the situation. Nightwing certainly hadn't expected this to be easy. He mentally scolded himself for giving into undue optimism.

Superman turned abruptly around, as did Batman an instant later, and Nightwing an instant after that. Nightwing was met by what must have been the most unusual and yet horrifying sight he'd seen in a long time: Advancing toward them down the slope from the cathedral was an army of several hundred acolytes; all were dressed in religious-looking robes, and all were armed with what looked to be very modern and very dangerous machine guns.

Nightwing slid his gaze from the advancing acolytes over to Batman, who watched the coming army stiffly. Then, Nightwing looked over at Superman, who stood perfectly still. A moment later, as Nightwing watched, the Man of Steel was gone in a blur.