BATMAN: The New Continuity

"Is that the same salamander you had with you when we first brought you here?"

Waylon Jones, the man immediately familiar to most Gotham City residents as Killer Croc, gently caressed the head of the tiny red lizard that stood in his palm. He lifted his eyes and shook his head at Groverton. There was a softness to Croc now, a gentle demeanor that certainly didn't suit the image of him which most people had. "No," he said, his voice a whisper as he gently rubbed the creature.

Groverton turned his eyes from Croc to Quentin, beside him. They exchanged a silent glance. "What happened to the first one you had?" asked Groverton, trying to sound genuinely sensitive. "The red one?"

Croc looked up, and it struck Groverton just how much deeper his almost inhuman eyes seemed now. "He died," Croc said with a profound acceptance. "He died a few days after I got here."

Quentin looked over at Groverton, apparently able to hide how uncomfortable he was from Croc, but not from Groverton, who looked back at him empathetically. "I'm sorry to hear that," Groverton told Croc.

The silvery surface of the coin had been tarnished by time, but a few spots on its twin faces still glistened in the light as it flipped end-over-end on its way toward the open palm beneath it. It was caught a moment later, and its owner bothered not even to look at its face before he balanced it on the end of his thumb and flipped it again.

Oswald narrowed his eyes. He slipped his hands into his pockets and assumed a casual posture as he regarded Two-Face. A sharp, singular purpose showed in Cobblepot's eyes, and he grinned faintly as he looked at the other man. "So?"

The coin was caught a second time, and Two-Face held it in his closed fist. He uncurled his fingers and looked down: the smooth, unmarred head looked back at him. "You can ask your question," he told Cobblepot, but didn't take his eyes off the coin.

"When you once held a position in this city comparable to my own, you knew a man named Jacob Arken," Cobblepot began in a breezy, preparatory tone. "Do you remember him?"

Two-Face seemed to think for a moment, although it was difficult to tell -- he never once took his eyes from the coin in his hands. "Yes," he answered after a time. "The name sounds familiar."

"He was one of your lieutenants approximately three years ago," Oswald said, to clarify. It was a clarification Two-Face did not appreciate; for the first time, he looked up from the coin in his hand and glared at Cobblepot as if his intelligence had just been profoundly insulted. Nevertheless, Cobblepot still added "He was affiliated with Antonio Sarone's organization."

"We remember," Two-Face said somewhat harshly. "What about him? What about Arken?"

Cobblepot inhaled before saying anything else. He exhaled slowly between his lips, and looked off to the side as he mentally composed his next few sentences. "Jacob Arken is associated with Mossman's drug trafficking operations currently, according to several of my more reliable sources." A self-satisfied smile, which Cobblepot made no attempt to hide or suppress, came over his face. "Mossman's operations are centered in New York City, and run as far north as Quebec. Due to my alliance with King Snake, Mossman's operation has been circumventing Gotham as a part of the route north."

Two-Face again had the insulted look in his eye, and he glared at Cobblepot from beneath his brow. "What's the point, Penguin?"

"The point is, one of King Snake's smuggling routes runs through the town of Karsted, in New Jersey, a relatively short distance from Gotham," Cobblepot started to explain. "But, now, as a result of Mossman's avoiding Gotham, his road north runs through Karsted, as well."

Two-Face flipped his coin; it landed in his open palm, scarred head staring up. "Our patience is exhausted," he said flatly.

"Sir Edmund phoned me several hours ago to inform me that his third shipment in as many weeks had disappeared on its way north. Through Karsted," said Oswald, after which he paused and looked at Two-Face's eyes meaningfully, hoping he wouldn't have to explicitly dictate the next aspect of his purpose. Even so, he did add, after several seconds, "Sir Edmund's shipments are my shipments . . ."

Now Two-Face gave a nod, understanding. "You're a long-winded speaker," Two-Face observed frankly. "You have difficulty getting to the point."

Oswald held up his hand, dismissing Two-Face's observation a moment later with an indifferent wave of that hand. "Beside the point," he said. "I doubt that Arken himself is actually in Karsted," Cobblepot said after a moment, getting back to the reason he'd come to Two-Face's cell in the first place. "But, your history with him suggests that you know him better than anyone else immediately accessible to me. . . . I was hoping you would be willing to assist in finding Arken's connection in Karsted, and eliminating it."

Hesitating for hardly a moment, Two-Face flipped his coin up and caught it: the scarred head was up. He looked at Cobblepot and shook his head, leaving absolutely no room for persuasion. "We won't help you."

Oswald regarded Two-Face quietly for a moment, watching him, waiting. After a few seconds, during which Cobblepot's confidence in his purpose didn't once waver an inch. "It would mean your leaving the Asylum," Cobblepot offered, making it sound like as much of a bribe as it was intended to be, "possibly for an extended period of time."

This time, Two-Face waited a few seconds -- appeared to think before he flipped the coin again. He did flip it again, and caught it. He closed his hand around it, looked down, and opened it to see the coin's smooth, unmarked head. "Very well," he said to Cobblepot.

Cobblepot smiled at the other man. He gave a nod, both of thanks to Two-Face, and of satisfaction to himself. He left the cell a moment later.

11� Ford Avenue
Karsted, New Jersey
2:26 p.m.

"Yo, Jakey?" Conrad Wilton called for the second time. "The fuck are you, man?" Jakey had called Connie less than an hour ago, told him to come over immediately and be sure to bring along his electronic address book; they had some phone calls to make.

This run-down, barely furnished basement apartment -- this was where Jakey lived and conducted the greater part of his business; but Connie saw no sign of him now. The apartment was just a single room, a bed in one far corner, a toilet and sink in another far corner, behind an oriental-style collapsing divider; there weren't very many places Jakey could've been, assuming he was here.

Behind the divider -- in the bathroom, as it were -- was the only part of the room Connie couldn't see, and therefore the only part of the room Jakey could've been, unless he'd decided to skip out less than an hour after telling Connie to get the hell over here. "Yo, Jakey," Connie repeated, walking toward the oriental divider.

"Connie? That you, boy?" called Jakey from behind the divider.

"Yo, man. It's me."

"Bring that personal planner thing? That thing you have that I asked you to bring?"

"Right here in my hand right now, brother," Connie said, pulling the flat, black electronic organizer from one of the front pockets of the big New York Giants jacket he wore.

"I'll be out there in a minute, man," Jakey explained. "Just takin' a shit is all. Just hold-up, all right?"

Connie nodded, shrugged agreeably. "Cool." He turned his back on the divider and started across toward the bed on the other side of the room. He'd taken five steps in that direction when he heard the gun go off and felt a fiery pain high up on his back. The pain lasted only an instant; Connie was prone on the ground in another moment; and his eyes closed a final time just a moment after that.

In the time it took Connie Wilton to die (about two seconds in all, from the moment the gun went off), Jacob Arken was standing over him, bending over to pull the electronic organizer from his dead fingers. Arken opened the little black device, pressed the On button: the small LCD screen displayed a menu, the third option of which was identified as "Address Book".

The screen changed to a prompt, instructing Arken to enter a password. He typed 2-P-A-C-S-U-K-D in on the organizer's small keypad, and pressed enter.

The first entry was that of a man named Sam Buehller of Wheeling, West Virginia. Following that one were over a dozen other names of men, living up and down the eastern United States.

Jacob flipped the organizer closed, nodding with satisfaction as he slipped it into one of the front pockets of his shirt. He looked around the room, his eyes falling on the bullet hole now through the side of the oriental screen. Jacob shook his head ruefully; that had been an expensive divider.

Somewhere in the Swiss Alps
2:26 p.m. ET

A second ago the world had been a blur. Now, Nightwing stood in a small, square, stone room, Batman and Superman close beside him. Superman stood at the room's one window, nothing more than a rectangular opening in the stone wall, looking down at the rugged, snowy ground. After a moment, he turned away from the window, faced Nightwing and Batman.

"They seem a little stunned," remarked Superman as he started across the floor toward the room's only door. "They must not know as much about me as they think."

"Who among us does?" offered Nightwing with a wry, faux profundity.

Superman raised his eyebrows. "Deep," he told Nightwing in a deadpan tone. He stood in front of the door and squinted slightly. His eyes rolled gently from one side to the other, he tilted his head first slightly up then slightly down, and when his survey was complete he opened his eyes wide again and turned back to his two companions. "We're somewhere on the third floor. The hallway outside this door looks clear."

"Did you see any acolytes on any lower levels?" asked Nightwing, folding his arms and leaning against the wall, then standing upright again and moving a few feet aside when he realized how close he was to the window.

Superman nodded. "But none on this level. We should be able to leave the room."

Nightwing nodded. "Good. Okay. . . . The ones you saw -- were they wearing name-tags or anything? Because I don't know how the hell else we're gonna find . . . ?" He looked to Batman for help.

"Brother Mercior," Batman supplied. He turned, dourly, to Superman. "I'm not certain how optimistic I am about finding him, either."

Superman planted his hands on his hips and sighed heavily. He reached out and opened the door. They walked out into the hallway, Superman first (a concession Batman allowed without protest, Nightwing suspected, for no other reason than to avoid conflict while inside the proverbial snake's den), then Nightwing, with Batman bringing up the rear. "It might come down to stealing a few robes," Superman said dryly as they walked toward a set of stone steps at the end of the hall.

"Clich�d strategy, isn't it?" said Nightwing.

"Irrelevant if it's effective," Batman stated flatly.

Nightwing sighed, shrugged, and started down the stone stairs a few footsteps behind Superman. "Finding Mercior is why we're here . . . I suppose it's too much to ask to be original while we're doing it."

Avian Paradise Casino
Gotham City
4:12 p.m.

Quentin waited on the curb outside the building's back entrance while Groverton locked up the car and ran around to join him. When they got to the door, Groverton pulled his key from his pocket and slipped it into the lock. The speaker above the door emitted an affirmative beep a moment later, and they proceeded inside.

The elevator ride up to Oswald's office was as quiet as it usually was. The friendship that had grown between the two men over the last several months had taken on a peculiar personality; they behaved as one would expect two friends to while outside the casino, and remained tight-lipped toward one another when in the physical jurisdiction of their boss (except for the occasional off-hand, under-the-breath remark between them while Oswald's back was turned).

Oswald's office seemed as empty as it normally did -- as any space as vast as this would unless filled wall-to-wall with people -- when the elevator doors slid open. Visually the room was empty, that is; the familiar sound of clicking billiard balls was evident from the moment they stepped off the elevator. Walking around to the pool table that stood in the left third of the office, Groverton saw Oswald pocket the six ball cleanly in one of the side pockets. Standing at the foot of the table, holding a cue patiently in front of him, was Sir Edmund Dorrance -- the King Snake.

Having pocketed the six, Oswald looked up and gave a cordial half-grin to Groverton, and one to Quentin. Cobblepot took up a small square of chalk from the lip of the table and chalked up the tip of his cue, walking around the table, stepping purposely past Michael Tihiro, who stood motionless next to King Snake, dressed simply in a black suit and sporting plain black sunglasses. "I don't suppose you play," Oswald remarked speculatively to Tihiro, who offered no response whatsoever, vocally or otherwise. Cobblepot gave a sideways nod and turned his focus back to the table. "No, I suppose not."

Oswald, eyes narrowed, surveyed the table a moment. He then took up a stance behind the cue ball, leaned slightly forward, and took his shot. The cue rolled forward, glancing off the eight ball and sending it in turn toward the seven, which appeared certain to land in one of the corner pockets. Instead of rolling cleanly into the pocket, the seven bounced lightly off of one of the cushions and rolled to a stop just inches from the edge of the hole.

"Your turn, Sir Edmund," Oswald said practically from behind his teeth.

Groverton watched as Sir Edmund began to walk methodically around the edge of the table. He shared a confused look with Quentin, then turned back to King Snake. "Sir Edmund? I apologize, but excuse me . . ."

King Snake stopped and turned acutely to Groverton. It was quite an unsettling feeling -- although sightless, it appeared as if Sir Edmund were looking directly at Groverton from across the table, and listening intently.

"I mean no disrespect, Sir Edmund, but . . . you are blind . . ."

Sir Edmund blinked thoughtfully for a moment (he behaved so convincingly like a sighted man, it was uncanny), seeming to give Groverton's statement far more consideration than it deserved. After a time, he nodded. "You are wondering how it is that I am able to play this game without making a fool of yourself."

Groverton was about to say "Yes, precisely," but stopped himself at the last second. He regarded Sir Edmund thoughtfully, hanging on what had been the King Snake's last words. "Don't you mean to say 'myself' with that, Sir Edmund?" Groverton asked respectfully.

Groverton felt a hard, sudden pain on the side of his head, and twisted around brutally, stumbling to the floor. It was about two seconds later that he realized that King Snake had cracked him in the head with his pool cue. Quentin helped him to his feet. King Snake had been standing over him, but no longer seemed to be looking at him. "I meant to say 'yourself,' Mr. Groverton," King Snake corrected calmly. "And, the answer is 'no.'"

King Snake turned back to the pool table, running his fingers lightly along the edge. He stopped when he stood right behind the cue ball, and held out his hand expectantly. Tihiro snapped to it, lifting another cue stick from a rack on the wall (Sir Edmund's first cue lay in two pieces on the office floor now), and delivering it within seconds to his open hand. Sir Edmund lifted the cue into position and shot the ball all in one singular motion. The cue ball rolled forward and pocketed the seven easily.

Before another thirty seconds had passed, Sir Edmund had pocketed the eight and the nine ball, thus winning the game. He laid his cue on the table, then promptly reached into his pocket, producing a snake-skin billfold. "I do apologize for the cue, Oswald," he said off-handedly as he took two one-hundred dollar bills from the wallet and laid them on the table. "It could not have been helped."

Cobblepot reached out and took the two hundreds, pocketing them without a word. He took his cue and placed it back on its rack. "Not a problem, Edmund. I thank you for the match. I don't often face genuine competition at billiards; I suspect Groverton lets me win most times," he said, looking down at his wounded aide, who had gotten to his knees by now.

"Now that your lieutenants have arrived," Sir Edmund started to say, reaching out his arm, onto which Tihiro promptly draped a long, black leather overcoat, which Sir Edmund immediately started to don, "perhaps we can move on to the initial reason for my visit."

Oswald gave an agreeable nod. He started across the floor toward his desk, saying nothing until he sat down. Cobblepot leaned back in his leather chair, folded his hands across his stomach, and regarded Sir Edmund, who still stood near the pool table. "Yes; to what do I owe the honor, my friend?"

Sir Edmund adjusted the collar of his overcoat a moment; it was impossible for Groverton to believe that this was a blind man, so assured and at-ease was he. "Business, as always," King Snake answered Cobblepot, slipping his hands into the pockets of the long leather coat. "I understand Tihiro's first night in the pilfered Batman costume went well enough."

Dorrance paused, obviously awaiting an answer. For a response, Oswald turned expectantly to Quentin, who stood silently next to Groverton. "Yes, yes," Quentin answered quickly after a few seconds (which it took him to realize it was his turn to speak). "I think it's safe to say the word's out by now that Batman was one pissed-off M-F last night."

Oswald's eyes went back to Sir Edmund, who was smiling and nodding with faint approval. "Excellent, then. I have a use for these two tonight, Oswald -- if you have no objection?"

"None whatsoever," Oswald said with an amicable shake of his head. "Consider them both to be at your full disposal."

Sir Edmund turned around and started for the elevator door, Tihiro close in tow. "Excellent, then," he said as he walked. "Could your lieutenant possibly come stay with Tihiro and I this evening? In preparation?"

Cobblepot gave an indifferent shrug of his eyebrows. "Quentin? I don't see why not." He turned inquisitively to Quentin. "Do you?"

"No," Quentin said, shaking his head.

"Very well," Oswald said, pointing Quentin to the elevator after Dorrance and Tihiro, "Get thee hence."

Quentin pounded Groverton gently in the center of the chest with the base of his fist, a friendly gesture he'd been making for the last few days, and one which Groverton foresaw becoming a habit (not that he minded particularly, just found it rather quaint). As he was starting away from him, Groverton got Quentin's attention; Groverton looked meaningfully at King Snake for a moment, then back at Quentin, and blinked his eyes several times.

Nodding with apparent understanding, and while Groverton watched intently, Quentin rushed to catch up to King Snake, his awkward body language making him seem to stalk him. As Tihiro turned away to push the elevator button, Quentin passed his hand several times in front of Sir Edmund, keeping his palm at least three inches from the man's face. After a second or so of this, Dorrance gave a shallow, restrained sigh.

"I am blind," he said with resignation, "but not totally without perception. Please don't insult me." Quentin immediately clasped both hands together in front of him and assumed an upright, obedient, and somewhat nervous posture. Sir Edmund didn't seem to notice. "Were you to hold a number of fingers up, I would be as clueless as the average ninny behind a blindfold as to how many there were; but I, unlike that blindfolded fool -- who would have to be told that there were, in fact, fingers before him -- would know that a hand was before my face."

The elevator doors slid open. From across the office, both Groverton and (Groverton noticed) Oswald watched the scene between Quentin and King Snake with tense, mute fascination.

"Were I not in need of your services tonight," Dorrance continued as they walked into the elevator car, "you would most likely be screaming on the floor at this time, rapidly bleeding to death through the wound in your badly broken arm." The doors began to slide shut. "You owe much to my sense of practicality," was the last thing Groverton heard King Snake say.

Alone with him now in the office, Groverton turned uncertainly to Oswald, who was regarding him with a benign calm from behind his desk. "Not among the most intelligent things he's ever done," Oswald commented.

Groverton agreed.

Somewhere in the Swiss Alps
5:43 p.m. ET

"I'm not finding a window here," Nightwing said as they turned and started down yet another long, dim, torch-lit hallway. "Mind taking a peek outside up there?" he asked Superman, who walked a few feet ahead of him.

All three men now sported the same long, hooded, loose-fitting robes over their respective costumes that every acolyte in the cathedral wore. The three acolytes to whom the robes had belonged were currently (Superman assured Nightwing and Batman) bound and unconscious somewhere in the basement of the mammoth stone structure.

"It's dark outside," Batman answered before Superman could.

Nightwing glanced behind him at Batman, somewhat skeptical, but not really surprised that the answer had come from him. "How do you know?"

"It's nearly midnight in this time zone," Batman answered without a moment's hesitation. "We've been wandering through this building for almost three and a half hours."

"And what luck we've had," Nightwing remarked with a cynical twitch of his eyebrows.

Superman gave a tedious sigh. "I think our luck would be much improved if we could find another acolyte who could point us in the right direction."

Nightwing turned and looked up and down the hallway; he saw that Batman, standing next to him, was doing the same thing. "These doors are all the same, and I haven't seen an open one yet; they must be personal quarters for the acolytes," observed Batman.

Batman stopped in front of one of the doors and looked past Nightwing up at Superman. "Isn't it time for you to go check on Jean-Paul and Innocent?" he asked.

Superman stopped and turned to face him. "Maybe. I don't have to go now though, do I?"

"I think we've wasted more than enough time negotiating identical corridors in this place," Batman said, a touch of bitterness in his voice. "Go make sure Jean-Paul and Innocent are still out of the way; and while you're gone, go see if those three in the basement can be of anymore help than they initially let on." There was no room for alteration in Batman's orders: he meant business, and even Superman could do nothing but follow.

Superman left them in a streak of color; immediately upon his exit, Batman turned to the door in front of which he stood and kicked it below the knob, knocking it soundly off its latch and swinging it open. Beyond the door: a simple, square stone room; nothing on the walls, no rug on the cold floor, a single cot pushed into one corner, a shelf holding no more than a dozen books on the other. An acolyte, short and slightly overweight (although it was hard to tell through the robe), jumped up abruptly from a meditative position on the floor and turned around, regarding Batman, and Nightwing behind him, with alarm. It was an expression Nightwing shared.

Batman, throwing off the hood which had covered his cowled head, stepped forward into the room, arms in front of him. He grabbed the stunned acolyte by his ample collar and pushed him against the back wall of his small quarters. "Brother Mercior," Batman spat out as he pushed. "Do you know Brother Mercior?" He tugged at the back of the acolyte's hood, pulling it off and revealing a shiny, bald white head.

The bald acolyte shook his shiny -- and, now, quickly perspiring -- head profusely. He stopped abruptly after a few seconds and seemed to correct himself, nodding several times. "I know of him, but I do not know where he is," he muttered hurriedly, all the while meeting Batman's stone-cast gaze with his frightened and confused eyes.

"On what floor would I find his quarters?" Batman demanded.

The acolyte stammered a moment, shook his head helplessly. "I couldn't -- I couldn't -- please . . ."

Nightwing watched silently from the doorframe. Batman was quite for a moment or two, as if thinking. "I am a messenger of St. Dumas," Batman told the acolyte finally, with conviction. "I must see Mercior immediately."

"I -- I . . ." the acolyte stammered, obviously unable to think straight enough to form a sentence at the moment.

"St. Dumas is watching," Batman cautioned the acolyte. "If his prophets are not allowed to reach their quarry, he will know who is to blame. Think of the fate that would befall you."

Having taken a moment to ponder his fate, the bald acolyte looked at Batman sorrowfully and nodded. "You will find his quarters on the top floor, adjacent to those of Brother Rollo, and the Chapel of St. Dumas."

Batman suddenly seemed to calm. He took a step back from the acolyte. "On your knees, servant," he commanded quietly as he started to withdraw from the room. "There are dark days ahead. Pray to God and St. Dumas for mercy." Batman pulled the hood back over his head and left the room, closing the door after him.

Nightwing watched in silence a moment longer, lingering by the acolyte's door as Batman marched up the hall. "So," he said as he started at a quick-step after Batman, "I'm wondering why we didn't do something like that a helluva lot sooner."

Batman shook his head disdainfully as he continued up the hall ahead of Nightwing. "Clark thinks we can pussyfoot through this gothic horror and accomplish what we came here for without anyone knowing we were ever here. He's either naturally short-sighted or severely self-deluded."

"Speaking of whom," Nightwing picked up, taking a few long steps to bring himself in-step just behind Batman, "what do we tell our third guy about our stirring-up of the ol' hornets' nest?"

Again, Batman shook his head, this time indifferently. "I've stirred-up nothing," he said flatly. A stone staircase was up ahead. Both men started up it without pause, Nightwing letting himself fall two steps behind Batman so as not to trip them both with their robes. "The acolyte in that room most likely won't leave at all tonight," Batman continued.

"Then why wait so long? Until Superman was gone?"

"I wasn't in the mood for a leadership debate," Batman answered immediately, perhaps having anticipated the question.

Like an actor who had missed his cue by just long enough to make his appearance now an awkward one, Superman suddenly materialized on the stairs, two steps behind Nightwing. "Jean-Paul and Innocent are still tucked-away and harmless," he informed them, continuing, "and none of the three robe-donors were too forthcoming."

Batman continued to climb the stairs, not acknowledging Superman's return in the least.

Superman leaned forward to Nightwing, asked "Where are we going?"

Nightwing nodded toward Batman. "Just follow him; he knows where he's going."

"How?" Superman asked.

"Just follow him," Nightwing repeated in exactly the same tone, "he knows where he's going."

Beneath Wayne Manor
5:43 p.m.
Gotham Heights

Tim's eyes narrowed as he perceived the big computer screen. Displayed in overlaying windows were three newspaper stories, one from each of Gotham's three major newspapers, pertaining to last night's slaying of the Ferdy Dominguez gang. Tim sighed heavily as he read them one at a time.

The reports were vague, needless to say. What amazed Tim was that, even though there had been only one survivor of the attack (Miguel Dominguez, Ferdy's cousin) from whom testimony could have been taken, each of the three articles presented three distinctly different versions of the event. The Gotham Globe reported that two members of a rival gang had found Dominguez's lair and exacted vengeance on a drug-related matter. According to the Gotham Gazette's story, one individual was responsible for the murder of the Dominguez gang; the New Gotham City Times reported two men responsible. One thing that all three articles had in common, though, was that at least one of the men responsible for the slaying was Batman, or (as the Globe, alone among the three, had suggested) an incredible facsimile.

Tim reached up and took a drink from the glass of water that stood on the console. Behind him stood Alfred, the silver tray with which he had delivered the water held beneath his left arm. "Certainly an individual with impeccable timing," the butler observed grimly.

"Individuals," Tim corrected. "Trust me; I was there. A few minutes too late, okay -- but I was there."

Alfred shrugged. "Perhaps that tardiness was a blessing."

Tim grunted cynically, shrugged with his eyebrows. "Not for Ferdy Dominguez -- that's for sure." He slumped back in the chair and gave a heavy sigh. Shaking his head to himself, he muttered, "Bruce and Dick being here would be helpful right about now. Talk about impeccable timing . . ."

Alfred raised his eyebrows. "Indeed." The Englishman paused a moment, shifting the tray from beneath his left arm to beneath his right. "If it puts you at ease, even a bit, I feel compelled to tell you that I don't expect either Master Bruce or Master Dick would be having an easier time of dealing with this crisis than you, Master Tim."

"I haven't even dealt with anything yet," Tim said, swiveling the chair away from the computer console and standing, side-stepping Alfred and walking across the plateau toward the entrance to the access tunnel on the other side.

Alfred watched from where he stood, not moving for the time being. "Leaving, then?"

Tim stopped and turned around. He looked at Alfred with a weary gaze and nodded. "I'll be back tonight. I need to catch a nap, though. I mean it."

Alfred nodded. "Tonight, then. Pleasant dreams."

Tim didn't say anything else. He started into the tunnel.

Somewhere in the Swiss Alps
5:46 p.m. ET

"He is gone. He's been gone for five minutes."

Brother Rollo was becoming indignant. He was in the same room in which he'd been standing, along with Brother Mercior and Brother Epictetus (Rollo's personal assistant), for the last several hours, ever since the intruders' presence had first been detected. It had always been the plan of the acolytes to guarantee the security of their leadership by hiding Rollo and his "cabinet" (as it were) in the bowels of the cathedral upon invasion. The cathedral had never been invaded by outsiders who posed this kind of threat before; hence, this was the first time Rollo and his underlings had been ushered down below.

Brother Innocent and Jean-Paul Valley -- the Azrael -- were just outside the door, bound and gagged, immobile in the relative darkness of the dungeon. A third man in a acolyte's robe had been present until several minutes ago, and then only for a short time. He had been appearing and disappearing every half-hour or so since tucking Innocent and Azrael away here. Though dressed as an acolyte, the man moved with such inconceivable speed when he entered and exited the scene that there was only one real possibility where his identity was concerned.

The arrival of a third, and then a fourth person in the cathedral's basement was a momentarily confusing sight for Rollo (who had been monopolizing the tiny viewslit in the iron door since arriving in the room), until he realized that the new arrivals couldn't have been the intruders: they walked past Innocent and Jean-Paul and made straight for the door, and, therefore, for Rollo.

The first newcomer knocked on the door (which appeared as a seamless section of the wall to anyone outside), averting his eyes from the viewslit in a gesture of respect for who was on the other side. "Brother Rollo. We must speak -- I have pertinent information. About the intruders."

Rollo looked at the acolyte outside the door with sudden, intense interest. "Speak."

As Rollo watched, the second acolyte who had appeared on the floor stepped forward, his head bowed in profound respect and submission. "Brother Rollo. I am Theodore, humble servant of St. Dumas."

"Speak, Theodore," Rollo demanded impatiently.

"The bat-demon invaded my room," the humble acolyte said, half under his breath.

"The Batman is one of the intruders, sir," the first acolyte offered.

Rollo nodded, frustratedly. "I know this," he spat out, then turned his focus back to Theodore. "What did the Batman say?"

Theodore hesitated a moment, looked back nervously at his companion, who nudged him onward with a silent nod. "The bat-demon . . . he seeks Brother Mercior."

Brother Rollo glanced behind him in time to see the tense look that had just overtaken Mercior's face, but would be banished from his visage in another second or two. Looking back out the viewslit: "Anything further?"

Brother Theodore shook his head. "No, Excellency, nothing more."

"Never refer to me by that title again, Brother," Rollo ordered venomously, "lest you find yourself in the Lake of Fire before the blade of St. Dumas himself."

Theodore clasped his hands together prayerfully and backed away from the door, muttering "Many humble apologies, sir. Many humble apologies," over and over again as he went.

The two acolytes started out of the room. As they went, he who had been the first to approach Rollo directed a glance at Innocent and Jean-Paul. "Shall I free them, Brother Rollo?" he asked.

Rollo shook his head as he peered out the viewslit at them. "Leave them as you see them," he commanded. "Return to your rooms immediately, and do not leave them. And be certain you aren't seen."

Both acolytes bowed respectfully in Rollo's direction and left the floor, climbing the stairs with all due haste.

Alone, for all practical purposes, with his two companions in the room again, Rollo turned away from the door. "He knows you, Mercior," Rollo said gravely. "The Batman knows your name. How is that?"

Mercior shook his head, silent, perhaps stunned. "I do not know, sir," he offered after a time. "I can only assume it was Innocent."

Rollo nodded bitterly. "Then Innocent will meet slow death," he decreed, turning briefly toward the door.

"The Batman," Mercior began, slowly, "and his companion -- the alien -- Superman -- they have a third partner. I saw him when they first arrived outside the structure."

Eyes narrowed, skeptical but curious, Rollo regarded Mercior. "Why is this significant?"

"The third man is called Nightwing," Mercior explained to Rollo. "His real name is Dick Grayson. His presence here is most serendipitous."

Strongly interested now, Rollo leaned forward a bit and glared at Mercior. "You will explain."

Mercior shook his head, seeming almost modest, as if the information he held was not so important as he may have led the Master of the Order to believe. "He may discover his business with us is to be of a more personal nature than he ever suspected."

Rollo eyed Mercior with intensity, clearly demanding more of an explanation.

Mercior supplied it: "Exalted Rollo, we should do our best to see that the intruders find themselves in the records room once they reach the top floor, which is no-doubt where they are going in their search for me."

"The records room," Rollo repeated, eyes narrowed.

"After that, it rests in the hands of God and St. Dumas if what I've foreseen with Dick Grayson is to come to fruition this day," Mercior said.

It was explanation enough for Rollo; he was quiet for the next minute or so, until he ordered Brother Epictetus to leave the seclusion and safety of the room and make certain his fellow acolytes above knew what their current course of action was to be.

Having climbed two more flights of narrow stone steps after the impromptu interrogation of the acolyte by Batman, the three faux servants of St. Dumas were confronted with a narrower, and darker, staircase than the previous ones had been.

"We're near the top," Superman said, looking with concentration at the wall. "Two more floors to go to the chapel."

It would have certainly made more sense to Nightwing to have Superman (and his supernatural visual acuity) leading the way at this point, but he made no mention of it to Batman, who had shown no reluctance or trepidation whatever to start up the dark flight of steps when he first faced it. He merely looked behind him, perhaps to be certain he hadn't lost anyone, and turned back to the steps, reaching inside the large hood that covered his head with his fingertips, to activate (Nightwing assumed) the night-vision lenses built into his cowl. Every little bit helped, Nightwing supposed, and switched on the night-vision device built into his own mask. Superman, in the absence of necessity, did nothing but follow the other two up the stairs.

"Stop," Superman ordered firmly when they were approximately halfway to the top. Nightwing and Batman both obeyed immediately. Batman, in particular, was motionless.

"What is it?"

"Don't walk on the next step, Bruce," Superman cautioned. "Just stay where you are. Let me take you both the rest of the way up."

Nightwing saw Batman turn around, standing on the same step, and shake his head stubbornly at Superman, viewing him in the greenish tint of the night-vision lenses. "I can walk rigged steps. I've done it before. Just tell me where to step."

"This is ridiculous," Superman muttered, prefacing the statement with a frustrated snort. "For God's sake, Bruce, just let me take you up the rest of the--"

"Don't use that name, Clark," Batman commanded harshly.

Superman smirked cynically. "The fact that you don't recognize the irony in what you just said makes me want to cry."

"Tell me where to step, Clark," Batman ordered. Nightwing caught for an instant that the man was now struggling to maintain his flat, neutral tone of voice.

"Enough of this," Superman said decisively.

A moment later, Nightwing found himself beyond the dark stairs, facing light again. "Ouch! Jesus!" he cried, squinting his eyes tightly shut until he could deactivate the light-amplifying night-vision lenses a moment later.

"Sorry," Superman said, somewhat guiltily, as Nightwing blinked several times to bring the world back into focus.

"No problem," Nightwing said, dismissing Superman's apology with a wave of his arm. "Thanks, actually."

Batman apparently didn't share Nightwing's gratitude. He stood close to Superman, regarding him sternly, his jaw muscles tighter even than they normally were when he wore the cowl. "When you were leading us through the bowels of this place, x-raying every stone, even though I should have, I said nothing--"

"No," Superman interjected, "you waited until you had an opportunity, then summarily assumed command."

"No one ceded 'command' of this operation to you in the first place," Batman countered firmly, staring down Superman and not budging an inch. Nightwing found himself taking a step back from them.

"I never assumed command in the first place," Superman said, defensive, "but doesn't it make sense for the one man among the three of us who can see what's behind every closed door to be in the lead of the expedition?"

"Why not stay back out of our way and x-ray past us along with the door, Clark?" Batman shot back immediately. "Or, is it even easier for me to see through you than it is for you to see through me?"

Superman, looking disgusted, turned away from Batman for a moment, then looked back, strongly, right at him. "The door behind you at the end of this hallway leads into the chapel; the rest look like storage closets and living quarters; that's seeing right through you, Bruce."

Batman gritted his teeth, clearly struggling to restrain his anger (it was one of a very few times in his life that Nightwing had seen such a struggle be so visible). After a long, silent stare at Superman, he turned around and faced the door at the end of the hall of which the other man had spoken. "What about Mercior's quarters? Can you tell which one is his? Are there any acolytes here now?"

"One at a time," Superman said absently, as he stared with concentration past Batman for a few moments more. He relaxed, met Batman's eyes. "I don't see anyone. We're alone up here as far as I can tell."

"That's not the least bit suspicious," Nightwing said pessimistically.

"I can't tell which quarters belong to Mercior," Superman told Batman. "They all look like identical rooms, for all intents and purposes."

Batman turned and started back this hallway, which was much wider than those on the lower floors, and down the center of which ran a long scarlet carpet. "Nightwing and I will check these rooms. Clark, you go into the chapel, see what you can find. Somewhere there has to be some kind of master directory to the quarters here."

With Batman already starting toward the first door on the left side of the hall, and Superman making his way to the chapel entrance, Nightwing went on his way to the right side of the hall, opting to start at the opposite end from Batman. He took a few big steps to catch up to Superman as he went on his way. "I'm glad you two decided not to slug it out back there, because I'd've had to take his back, and I was not looking forward to that," said Nightwing.

Superman smirked, not looking over at Nightwing, but straight ahead. "I'd've gone easy on you," he assured him. "I've never known you to be a stubborn jackass before."

Nightwing shrugged. "We don't hang out enough -- that's all it is. Get to know me, you'll change your mind."

"At least you can't possibly be as bad as your partner."

"'Mentor,'" Nightwing corrected.

Superman turned and looked at him, puzzled. "Hmm?"

"Not 'partner,' but 'mentor.' The partnership ended when I put on long pants."

"Oh," Superman said, turning his attention straight ahead once more and nodding with understanding. "Sorry, I didn't mean to touch any nerves there."

Nightwing shook his head, saying, "Don't sweat it. I just wanted to ensure you had all the details of the current working relationships straight."

A grin crossed Superman's face, and he scoffed, "In that case, maybe you can clear up the nature of my working relationship with Brother Indignant back there."

Nightwing shrugged with his eyebrows. "A case of . . . grudging mutual respect?" he suggested, not sounding too certain.

"Sometimes, even that sounds a little too much like wishful thinking," Superman said as Nightwing veered off to the right, having reached the last door on his side of the hall. "Good luck," Superman said as Nightwing tried the door, and, finding it locked, opened a utility compartment around his wrist and removed a lockpick. "Remember: I'm only an urgent whisper away if you find anything."

"I'll certainly be keeping that in mind as I'm ransacking one barren stone room after another," Nightwing said, more to himself than to Superman, who had already disappeared inside the chapel door.

The lock on the door was a crude one, and took only a fraction of a second to pick. Inside, Nightwing found only a bed, an empty washbowl and (blessedly) empty chamberpot, and a sparsely populated bookshelf. In one corner of the dim room (which, like the rest of the cathedral, was torchlit), a single, thin pillow was placed on the floor, which Nightwing assumed the acolyte who lived in this room used to kneel on during prayer.

The room after this one was not a living space at all, but what appeared to be a storage room for important records of the Order. It's lock was a more modern one than the other: it took almost a full second to be picked open. Inside, it was no larger than the acolytes' rooms were, and its stone walls were lined from floor almost to ceiling with old-looking wooden filing cabinets. The records must've pertained to personnel, or something else on a similarly small-scale; Nightwing imagined the Order's financial or historical records would've been much more extensive, far too voluminous to fit in a small room such as this.

Empty air filled Dick's ear, and he realized his two-way radio had just activated. "Bruce, Dick," came Superman's voice through Dick's earpiece. "There are about seventy acolytes coming up the stairs toward this floor right now," he warned urgently. "And, they're as heavily-armed as our welcoming party was."

Nightwing leaned out the door of the room just in time to see the first of the acolytes appearing at the top of the dark staircase. He assumed they must've known the way -- where to step -- by heart. Batman was emerging from a door further down on the other side of the hall, and Nightwing caught sight of him immediately. "Over here!" he called, and Batman turned at once toward him.

As Batman crossed toward Nightwing, the first emergent row of acolytes assuming a kneeling position and fired their automatic weapons. Another row of acolytes, standing behind the first, opened fire a moment later. Gunfire tore through the robe Batman wore, impacting against the bullet-resistant armor of Batman's costume as he ran. He slipped into the room, and Nightwing immediately slammed the heavy wooden door shut.

Obviously seeing at once why Nightwing had called him into this room, Batman began helping to slide one of the heavy wooden filing cabinets over against the door. As he did so, there was a distinctive tapping sound on the stone floor. When the barricade was in place, Batman paused and looked down at the foot of his robe. On the floor, now rolling to a stop, were several bullets which had failed to penetrate Batman's armor and had been caught in the folds of the robe. As Nightwing began to heft another cabinet toward the door (the acolytes outside where already shooting and pounding away at the barrier), Batman knelt down quickly and picked up one of the bullets. Even in the dim torchlight, it had a definite greenish-tint.

"Clark, stay where you are. At least for now," Batman said, speaking into the microphone in his cowl.

The answer came through on Nightwing's earpiece as well: "Understood."

Batman assisted Nightwing in sliding the second filing cabinet against the door. When the task was done, they both took a step back and examined the makeshift barricade. "We need something to brace it," Batman said immediately, "or it won't take very long for them to get in here."

Nightwing looked one of the cabinets still against the wall up and down. "The length of the room looks like it'd be about two of these laid endwise," he said. Batman apparently agreed, and they both pulled another of the wooden cabinets away from the wall, this time lowering it down to the floor and sliding it against the base of the others already blocking the door. A second cabinet almost fit in the space on the floor between the first and the wall; to secure it, Batman pushed it down as far as the wall would allow it to go, then wedged the corner in one of the mortar grooves between the stones.

With the cabinets in place against the door and on the floor, the small room was essentially cut in half, Nightwing standing on one side, Batman on the other. "Should I go around outside and come get you?" Superman asked through the two-way radio.

"Just stay-put for now, Clark," Batman advised. "If we leave, we'll just have to get back in somehow. I'm not leaving until we accomplish our objective."

There was a pause, a silence that lasted approximately three seconds, before Clark responded: "Understood," in a flat tone.

Batman shed the acolyte's robe and tossed it into the corner of the room. Nightwing did the same a second later, throwing the rough garment disdainfully atop Batman's. Turning back from the corner, Nightwing's eyes fell on one of the filing cabinet drawers -- and froze. It was the third drawer of the cabinet on the floor, and its paper label read: GRAYSON - HUDLER

Nightwing stared at the drawer, at the label, stunned, perplexed. After what seemed like a long time standing still, he straddled the cabinet, reached down, and pulled the drawer up and out, along with the files it contained.

1000 Bronte Avenue
Wheeling, West Virginia
5:58 p.m.

"Christ . . . not more cops."

The doors on the white 1994 Grand Am slammed shut one after the other, and Detectives Dennis Smythe and Nicholas Laurence started toward the taped-off crime scene in front of what local residents had nicknamed The Buehller Building.

"It's only two more cops, Mr. Buehller," Officer Long gently reminded the man standing next to him. "I wouldn't complain if you want to find out who killed your brother . . ."

The man standing next to Officer Long as Richard Buehller, older brother of the deceased. He was short, fat, bald, and he looked on his brother's dead body laying on the sidewalk several feet away with what Long mentally described to himself as "a grim wisdom" (Officer Long was a would-be writer). "I already know who killed him," Richard Buehller said ruefully.

"What was that, sir?" Detective Laurence asked, having overheard. Laurence looked inquisitively to Long, who nodded toward the man beside him.

"Richard Buehller, Detective," Long introduced. "Elder brother of the victim."

Detective Laurence gave a slight nod to Buehller. "I'm sorry for your loss." He paused a moment. "Did I hear you say to Officer Long that you had some information regarding this-- regarding your brother's killing?"

Buehller glanced at the detective for a moment, then his eyes fell back on his brother's body. "I can tell you why he died. I can tell you who killed him. . . . Sort of, I can tell you who killed him." A deep breath. "But it won't do you a damned bit of good."

"Detective," called another voice, that of the on-scene medical examiner, "can we turn him?"

Laurence looked blankly at the M.E. for a moment, then over at his partner, Smythe. "You done, Dennis?"

Smythe nodded.

Laurence looked at the M.E. again and shrugged. "Go ahead. Flip 'im."

The medical examiner, with the help of two assisting officers, took the limp body of Samuel Buehller and rolled it over. The dead man's shirtless body had been lying face-up on the pavement. When it was rolled over, and the bare back revealed for the first time, there was almost an audible groan from all present. The M.E. looked up soberly at the detectives. "Well, if we didn't know he was planted here before . . ."

Carved into the skin of Sam Buehller's back was a message, a message in dried human blood: THIS IS ONLY THE START

There was silence at first, as everyone surrounding the body looked down at the man's mutilated back, pondering it. Officer Long saw Detective Laurence turn to Richard Buehller, who was staring, transfixed, at his brother's corpse. "He's not talking to us," said Laurence to Buehller, "is he?"

Richard Buehller didn't say a word.