"The Future Ain't What It Used to Be"
Jason Tippitt

        Gotham City. You might recognize the name of the place, you may
have even heard stories about some guy dressed up to strike fear into the
hearts of a cowardly, superstitious lot. The original Town Without Pity.

        Sounds mighty grim, doesn't it? It is.
        And if you know anything at all about the DC Futures fan fiction
group, where we depict a society living under the boot heel of an 
all-powerful one-world government, you'll no doubt think, "Geez, Batman 
must be a hundred times darker now."
        Wrong!
        Grim and gritty was done to death so long ago that not even the
flies will land there any more. There are dark, serious moments in this 
book -- real life has more than a few of them -- but if you're looking for
something relentlessly brooding, depressing, and hopeless, look
elsewhere. Read The Crow, or dig out an old issue of Grips, or just
watch the evening news (this is an election year, after all).
        This is the story of Tim Drake, named for a grandfather you
might have heard of. Tim's had a normal life -- he never saw his parents 
gunned down in front of him. Some might complain that he doesn't act 
like Bruce Wayne -- well, he's *not* Bruce Wayne. If you're going to 
make a character act just like Bruce Wayne, just name him Bruce Wayne,
set it in the present, and forget about it.
        But for those who are willing to try something different, you're
in for a treat. Tim's a bit closer to me and you and the sulking people in the
corner muttering "Bruce never joked" than Tom Wayne's kid ever will be.
This is a suit you could see someone you know maybe wearing. This is a
mask with human eyes behind it.
        Bruce Wayne's good at what he does. But being human ain't what
he does. If you want someone with an actual emotional range, someone
with a life -- you want Tim Drake.
        Thanks, Erik, for letting us watch him run through his paces.

Jason Tippitt
June 1998

****

THE DCFuture Underground Fan Fiction group acknowledges that DC Comics
owns Batman and ALL related characters and retains complete rights to
said characters.  These concepts are used WITHOUT permission for NO
PROFIT, but rather a strong desire to peer into the future of the DC
Universe.

****

BATMAN: DCF "HERITAGE"

****

Written and edited by Erik Burnham
darvey@rocketmail.com

****

BATMAN Created by Bob Kane and Bill Finger
BATMAN: DCF Created by Erik Burnham

****

     Timothy Drake sluggishly hauled himself up the long flight of
stairs that led to his father's bedroom… Not because he didn't want to
see his dad, that was decidedly NOT the case... but because he wanted to
prolong the inevitable.  Richard Drake was dying, and Tim was deep into
denial. And even though he knew in his heart of hearts that it wasn't
true, a small part of Tim was still praying that his sluggish entry
would help his father hold on to the spark of life for just a few
minutes longer.
     Finally, Tim could delay no longer... he had reached the top of the
staircase, his father's bedroom door loomed in front of him like the
shadow of death...
     Tim reached out a hand, summoned up all his courage, and knocked.
     "Come," a weak voice replied.
     Tim entered the room to find his father and about two dozen
'well-wishers' come to pay their respects.  The scene before Tim made
him angry… he didn't see people that genuinely cared about his father,
he saw torpid sycophants trying to garner one last signed check, one
more grant, one more favor before the old man passed away.
     "Everybody, please," the old man said as loud as he could. "This is
my son, Timothy..."
     "We've met," one of the 'well-wishers' said.  Tim recognized the
man as Tino Merani; lawyer, political hack, silver-tongued bastard
extraordinaire.  Tino had always known the correct buttons to press to
get the green out of Richard Drake, but had so far been unable to
manipulate Tim to do so much as say 'good morning.'  Theirs was a terse
relationship, to put it lightly.
     "Yes, we have," Tim replied.  "And since we've already met, I can
ask - without embarrassment - for you and your buddies here to leave."
     "Of course," Tino replied with a smile as he gathered up his coat
and hat.  "These moments should be private."
     Tino offered his hand to Tim as he headed for the door.  Tim
returned an icy glare in response.  The man merely smiled again,
shrugged, and led his cronies out of the room.
     "You don't trust him, do you Timothy?" the old man said through a
mischievous smile, one that belied his terminal condition.
     "No, Pop, I don't.  There's just something about that guy that rubs
me the wrong way."
The elder Drake laughed at his son's exasperation, his raspy chortle
quickly transforming into a cough.
     Tim rushed over to the bed, a worried look draping his face, until
Richard finally began breathing normally again.
     "Timothy, I have something for you," the old man said, reaching
carefully under the bed to produce a weathered and beaten journal.
Timothy saw the reverence his father had for the book, even as the old
man offered it to him with a shaky hand.
     "What is it?" Tim asked as he took the proffered tome.
     "It was your grandfather's journal, Timothy.  It was... is... your
true legacy.  I wasn't able to follow through with it, but..." Tim
practically shot out of his chair when his father resumed his coughing
fit.  With great difficulty, however, Richard was finally able to
suppress the cough and regain control of his respiration once more.
     After taking a deep breath, he continued.
     "The money, Timothy, the vote... all of the advantages I'm
bequeathing to you, they mean nothing, Timothy.  Nothing.  That book is
all that matters. It's your heritage."
     And that was it.  Richard held his beloved son in his eye for a
moment longer, reaching out to hold Tim's hand one last time...

****

     The funeral had been four days ago. It was a lovely ceremony, with
several UN officials, a Justice League salute, and the Viennese Choir.
The whole world seemed to turn out to send Richard Drake to Heaven…
there was a profound sense of closure in Gotham, for everyone but Tim.
His father had always been such a big part of his life, and now... he
was gone.
     And the only thing that was there to take Richard's place was… more
responsibility.
     'Bad deal,' Tim thought with his businessman's mind.  Now, he had
the added duties of overseeing Drake Industries, a company his
grandfather had started… when he was barely twenty-one, according to the
countless 'make something of yourself before it's too late' speeches Tim
had suffered through as a child.
     The journal.  Tim had leafed through it briefly the day his father
had given it to him, but hadn't given it a second thought since then.
Grief was funny like that; it could make all the little details of life
disappear while it mended a broken heart.  Or tried to, anyway.
     But now, the grief - while still overwhelming - began to allow
little things to seep back into Tim's consciousness.
     Like the journal.
     Tim remembered how excited his father had seemed as he handed Tim
the book, the way his eyes had sparkled and dance when Tim accepted it.
     'The journal was obviously important to him,' Tim reflected, again
remembering the way his father had looked at the book with such...
reverence.
     'If it was that important to Pop,' Tim said to himself, 'I'm gonna
force myself to get through it.'
     Tim had expected the journal to be boring - stuff along the lines
of 'today, I learned to drive.'
     Little did he know it was going to turn out to be a real
page-turner.

****

     Wayne Manor had been abandoned for years, ever since the death of
the famous philanthropist years ago.
     Tim had met Bruce Wayne once.  For such an old man he'd seemed...
youthful was an odd way to put it, but for all of his wrinkles, all of
his cantankerous posturing… Wayne seemed as vigorous as a schoolboy.
Even at the tender age of seven, Tim had caught wind of the intensity
that burned like a torch through Wayne's ruse; whatever he was, Tim
wasn't sure.  The only thing he was positive about was that Bruce Wayne
was most definitely NOT what he seemed.
     And after reading the journal of his grandfather, Tim believed he
was close to finding out the truth behind his suspicions.
     Even though nothing specific was mentioned, the Journal gave clues
left and right if you knew how to look for them.  And Tim - sharp as he
was - had figured out his grandfather's riddles.  Whatever the big
secret was, it was here...
     ...At Wayne Manor.

****

     The lock was surprisingly easy to pick, Tim thought as he made his
way into Wayne Manor, ignoring the soft hum that emerged from the
background the second he set foot in the house.
     House.  There was an understatement - Tim mused to himself.  The
place was massive, more museum than domicile.  Tim was surprised that
anyone had EVER managed to live here.
     Still...
     The house was immaculately clean - spotless.  There was nary a
cobweb in sight and the place had been vacant some - what - fifteen
years now?  'That's odd,' Tim thought.
     The humming that had been present from the second of Tim's entrance
grew louder now, loud enough for Tim to notice.  He turned in time to
see a large metal tendril snake out of the ceiling and around him with a
blinding speed.  He was trapped.
     "Hey, let up!" Tim grunted as the tendril asserted a little
pressure.
     "Many apologies, sir, but I'm afraid that's impossible.  You have
been caught trespassing; the authorities have been alerted.  I'll let
you go when they arrive to take custody."
     "What are you talking about?  Who's there!" Tim demanded,
frustrated that he'd allowed himself to be caught.
     "No one, sir, if you're looking for a human.  However, if any
sentient being falls under the guidelines of your request, I can say
that 'I' am here."  The electronic voice replied.
     "Who are you?"
     "I am an automated defense/maintenance system; I was installed
thirty-four years ago to maintain and defend the house from intruders.
I daresay I've done a fair job of it."
     "You said you were sentient?"
     "Ah, yes.  I gained sentience through some unforeseen
circumstances… I'm afraid I'm still not privy to the truth of my
origins, I just 'woke up' one day with a mind all my own.  Master Bruce
had named me Alfred, if your next question was going to pertain to my
identity.  He found it humorous."
     "Why are you being so nice?"  Tim demanded.  "You're holding me for
the cops, for cryin' out loud, and you're making with the small talk?"
     "Just because we find ourselves in this unfortunate situation, sir,
does not mean we cannot be cordial with one another.  I've not had
anyone to talk to in years.  Forgive me if this annoys you, but I doubt
I'll have a similar chance in the near future."
     "I can't believe this..."
     "If I may inquire, sir, why were you attempting to burglarize this
place?"
     "I wasn't. I just wanted a looksee is all."
     "Ah.  And why the 'looksee?'"
     Tim wasn't going to respond; he was talking to a machine, for
cryin' out loud!  The folly of the situation was incredible.  But Alfred
wasn't going anywhere, and he was damn persuasive for a machine... he
wanted conversation and was willing to apply a little pressure on Tim to
get it.  Which he did, slowly constricting his mechanical tendrils until
Tim gave up and began talking again.
     "Look, my father just died, all right?  He left me my grandfather's
journal - gave it to me on his deathbed.  The only thing is the book -
it  reads like one giant puzzle - and all the clues point to this
place.  I just want answers.  I want to know what my pop meant by 'my
heritage.'  Are you satisfied?"  Tim asked, close to tears for the
umpteenth time in the past week.
     The computer said nothing.  For a moment, Tim thought had that he'd
imagined the whole conversation with 'Alfred'; yet another way of grief
playing with his head.
     He was almost convinced that he was going crazy.
     And then Alfred spoke up.
     "What is your name, sir?" the mechanical voice asked.
     "Tim.  Timothy Drake.  Er… the second."
     "Understood," the computer said.  "Accessing..." a louder hum
filled the air, more annoying than the one it had replaced.  Tim thought
that he'd go deaf for the din when all of a sudden, he was free.  The
mechanical tendrils unwrapped themselves from his body and returned to
their hidden housings.  Tim was in shock; he'd been expecting something
to happen, but being released was definitely NOT on his list of
suspicions.
     "Master Tim, I believe we can help each other," Alfred said.  "I
have access to the information specifically intended for you; but before
we can continue, you must disable the program block placed inside some
of this facility's ... older systems.  Do you understand?"
      "Disable?" Tim asked, unsure.
      "Yes, Master Tim.  The block is set up in the form of three
riddles, which, if answered correctly, disable the block."
     "So if I get these riddles right, you tell me what I want to know?"

     "All that and more, Master Tim.  Are you ready?"
     "Yeah, go ahead," Tim said, still reeling form the sudden turn of
events.
     "Accessing first riddle..." Alfred said, the whirring starting and
stopping faster than Tim could register.  "'In the morning I walk on
four legs; two legs carry me in the afternoon, and by evening, I use
three.  What am I?'"
     "The riddle of the sphinx?  You gotta be kidding me!" Tim said,
almost laughing.  "The answer is 'a man.'"
     "Accessing answer file... correct, Master Tim.  Very good," the
computer said encouragingly.  "Are you ready for the second riddle?"
     "Bring it on."
     "Accessing second riddle... 'As I was traveling to St. Ives I met a
man with seven wives.  Each wife had seven sacks, in each sack were
seven cats.  Every cat had seven kittens, and thus I my question raise,
how many were traveling to St. Ives upon this lovely day?'"
     "Another stumper, eh, Gramps?  The answer is one."
     "Accessing answer file... correct, Master Tim.  One more to go."
     "If the third is as easy as the other two Alfred, I'm rarin' to
go."
     "Accessing final riddle... 'The third of three shall now depart -
to leave the nest, to claim a fresh start.  This final question I pose
today, how old was he when he went away?'"
     "I... whoa, looks like I'll actually have to use my head.  Hmm… Any
hints, Alfred?"
     "If I had any to give, Master Tim, they would be yours."
     "I was afraid of that... let's see... third of three... third of
three... leave the nest... I wonder if he was talking about Robin?
History speculates that the vigilante Batman had three partners called
'Robin.'   In which case the third one disappeared... 20?  Is the answer
twenty?"
     "Accessing answer file... incorrect, Master Tim.  You may try
again." Alfred said.
     "I get another shot?  You never said that I'd get another shot!"
     "You never asked, Master Tim.  But one more 'shot' is all you get."

****

      Commissioner Mark Grayson walked out on to the roof of GCPD
headquarters, exhausted as usual.  He'd been staying late at the job
every night for... for every night that he could remember since he'd
received his appointment as Commissioner.
     All to stop the crime that had been dragging the city into despair
since... since forever.
Mark inhaled the night air as he lit a cigarette; thinking that the
pollution in the Gotham atmosphere was probably worse for him than these
'cancer sticks.'  But Mark had always enjoyed the view the skyline
provided him… it was one of the few things that calmed him in this day
and age.
     Absentmindedly, Mark glanced over at the fixtures that had once
held the Bat-Signal to the roof of the GCPD; the Bat-Signal that had
called Batman.  The
Batman that used to be a hero to this town… the Batman that used to be
welcome at this facility.
     The Batman that had killed Mark's father, Dick - the adventurer
formerly known as Nightwing.
     Mark spit at the fixtures, cursing the memory of the Bat as he
headed back inside.
Back to work.

****

     Tim was wracking his brain, trying to come up with the answer...
the answer to the riddle that would gain him another, far more
important, answer; the answer behind his heritage.
     "Wait a minute!" Tim exclaimed.  "I can't believe I didn't see it
before!  Grandpa was Robin!"
     "Master Tim?" Alfred asked, puzzled.
     "It makes sense, Alfred.  All the codes, all the riddles that I
found in the diary itself - so many of them having to do with the team
of Batman and Robin... Bruce Wayne, Wayne Manor... and of course,
Grandpa was a computer genius; he could have easily created blocks to
the records that you can't access - it all makes sense now!  The answer
to the riddle is 26!"
     "Are you sure, Master Tim?"
     "Bet my life on it, Al."
     "Accessing answer file... incorrect, Master Tim.  Prepare to die."
Alfred said in sinister tones, his mechanical tendrils reaching for Tim.

     "What?  But that's impossible... I'm sure I had the right answer
I..." Tim stammered as the mechanical arms hovered in front of his face.

     "You did, Master Tim." Alfred said, recalling his tendrils.  "I was
only playing a joke."
     "Alfred, that was NOT funny."
     "I beg to differ, Master Tim.  You should have seen the look on
your face."
      'The robot is crazy,' Tim thought.  'Maybe now isn't the time to
tell it I was completely bsing just now.' Tim breathed a sigh of
relief.  And then his eyes went wide.  His pulse quickened.
      'Wait a minute. That means Grandpa really was Robin... and that
means…'

****

     For the first time in decades, a human being was in the legendary
Batcave.
It was an awe-inspiring sight; the conquests of a long-lost crime
fighter lay about as far as Tim could see, as clean as the house above.
Alfred obviously had access to this area as well.
     "Alfred, this is... this is extraordinary."  Tim said, genuinely
impressed, as he trotted down the steps to the cavern floor.
     As soon as Tim touched the tiles, a motion detector went to work,
kick-starting the Cave's generators.  The cave sprang to life.  And a
voice filled the room.
     "Good morning, son.  I don't know if it's morning there, but let's
not fret about with details, all right?" Tim's head turned to see a
man's face on the giant view screen… a face Tim recognized.
     It was his grandfather.
     "I'm assuming you were able to crack the riddles.  Good job, Ricky
- I'm proud of you." The image of the first Tim Drake said, smiling.
     "Ricky?" Tim asked to no one in particular.
     "A supposition, Master Tim.  I believe your father was meant to
discover this." Alfred interjected.
     "Oh, gee - you think?" Tim shot back, waiting for the recording to
continue.
     "Now then, on to the heart of the matter.  Richard, Gotham is in
danger.  It always has been, but now it's worse now - Bruce has… become
disenchanted.  Dick is retired.  And as for me..." the elder Drake held
up his left arm, revealing the absence of his left hand.  "Well, I'm
damaged goods.  I'm leaving it to you, Ricky. I'm passing on to you the
mantle of the protector of Gotham City; the mantle of Batman."
     "No way..." Tim said.
     "No doubt the legend will have dampened some by the time you're old
enough to understand this, Richard.  But I have no one else to trust
with this; it's a matter of family.  All of the things you need to know
are stored in the computer; I've made sure of it.  I know you'll do me
proud, son.  I love you."
     And with that, the message ended as abruptly as it had began.

***
     "So what do you plan to do about the Drake boy?" Angel Tuscotti
asks, his calm, patient tone masking his inner fury.
     "I plan to make him see things my way," Tino Merani answered, in
between sips of brandy.  "One way or the other."

****

     "This is amazing, Alfred," Tim said, scanning through the files of
the Batman.
     "Yes, Master Tim, I would suppose so.  You've only told me -
accessing… forty three times now." Alfred responded, surprisingly adept
at sarcasm for a machine… even a sentient one.
     "Well excuse me for being overwhelmed," Tim said.  "I come here
looking for an answer and wind up a legend."
     "You're hardly a legend yet, Master Tim.  Perhaps you're suffering
from delusions of grandeur?  From what I understand, these surroundings
tend to have that effect on people..."
     "Shut up, Alfred."

****

     Meanwhile, at the Gotham Museum of History, two strange men sit on
a bench out front. Strange because, well, they're sitting out, in the
open, at night.  Not to mention the fact that their clothing is
notoriously dichotomous - a style of fashion favored primarily by former
Gotham district attorney Harvey Dent, a man that, after a long and
terrifying career as the arch-criminal Two-Face, killed himself in
Arkham Asylum.
     Over the flip of a coin.
     The very same coin that defined Dent's life - and ultimately ended
it - was now here, in the Batman wing of the museum, on exhibition for
all to see... during visiting hours, anyway.
     "Is it time, yet?" Graham, one of the strange men, asked anxiously.

     "No," his companion, Paolo, replied.  "We have another five
minutes."
     The first man nodded in exuberance, glancing over his shoulder at
the massive clock that hung above the museum's entrance.
     It was 2:17.

****

     "This is amazing, Alfred..."
     "Number fifty two, Master Tim."
     "No, really.  I can't believe some of this stuff!  The Joker, Ra's
Al Ghul, Two-Face... these files are so..."
     "Entertaining?" Alfred supplied.
     "Frightening.  I'm glad we only have common thugs 'round town these
days."
     "Master Tim, that statement brings a certain philosophy to mind;
the less one makes a declaration, the less apt one is to look like a
fool in retrospect."
     "Shut up, Alfred," Tim said as an alarm's annoying klaxon invaded
the relative silence of the cave.
     "What the hell is that?" Tim yelled through clenched teeth, his
hands covering his ears.
     "Oops," Alfred said, deactivating the volume.  "It appears that
I've forgotten to call off the local constabulary..."
     "The cops are here?" Tim said in disbelief. "Get rid of them!  I
can't afford to go to jail!"
     "I shall do my best, Master Tim," Alfred said, shifting his
concentration to the house above.

****

     GCPD Officer Alexis Fisher slowly ambled up to the door of Wayne
Manor, regretting the long trip to the secluded estate.  Fisher was a
city boy at heart, even though he was born and raised in areas like
this; areas with trees, areas where you can see the sky... and the
stars.
     Silently cursing the trip down memory lane, Officer Fisher knocked
on the door.
     "Police," Fisher said.  "You got somethin' for me?"
     A speaker outside Wayne Manor crackled to life, allowing Alfred
contact with the visitor.
     "I'm sorry, sir.  There was a slight malfunction in one of the
security systems.  There is no one here who does not belong."
     'Terrific,' Fisher thought. 'Another malfunctioning alarm.
Couldn't the rich afford anything that WORKED?
     "Uh, yes, well.  Can you maybe fill me in on the source of the
malfunction?  Still gotta write a report, pal."
     "Yes, certainly.  It was a bat."
     "A bat?"
     "A bat, yes.  Big as the devil himself, sir.  He got into the
ventilation systems and chewed through a wire, which, in turn, activated
the intruder alert program… I'm terribly sorry about all this."
     "The, uh, the bat get fried?"
     "The bat?  Oh no - he got loose in the house.  Flapping around for
quite a while, now.  Bloody huge for a simple rodent.  I don't suppose
you'd care to rid me of this pest?"
Officer Fisher was already halfway back to his car.  He'd never liked
bats.  They were too... creepy.
     'One thing's for sure,' Alexis Fisher thought as he got behind the
wheel of his police hovercruiser 'I ain't comin' back out here.'
     And with that, Officer Fisher gunned the engines, lifting off into
the sky - away from the hideous bat that was loose in Wayne Manor.
     "And they called criminals a superstitious and cowardly lot,"
Alfred chuckled, his exterior video scans allowing him to 'see' the
cop's retreat.

****

     Just like that, the power for half the city stopped flowing.  That
was part of the plan, of course, to draw attention away from the heist
by giving a few million Gothamites something to complain about... but
still, Graham thought it was pretty cool...  lights on one second, and
off the next.
     All in the blink of an eye.
     "Hey!" Paolo grunted.  "No daydreaming!  We have a job to do!"
     And with that, the two men smashed through the glass doors of the
museum, heading for the Batman wing... and the scarred, two-faced silver
dollar of Harvey Dent.

****

     "Mr. Drake?  Are you all right, sir?  You look tired." Ennis Hobbs,
Vice-President of Drake Industries said in a paternal whisper.
     "I'm sorry, what?" Tim said.  Truth be told, he WAS tired.  He'd
been up in the Batcave all night, pouring over the many secrets of the
Batman.  There was so much to know - and Tim was voracious.  He loved
being 'in' on a secret - and this was a doozy.  He'd gotten so into it,
he'd forgotten that he was to chair a meeting of the Drake Industries'
Board of Directors.  Here he was, only ten minutes into it, and already
half-asleep.  Well, maybe a little MORE than half.
     "New business?" Tim asked groggily.
     "We're in the middle of old business, still, sir," Hobbs whispered.

     Tim nodded and sank back into the plush leather of his executive
model chair, listening to others blather and drone on about the final
assimilation of Wayne Enterprises and all it's assets - mental note,
this is good -, the Restoration: Gotham project, and several other
uninteresting topics.  Tim was in a trance, nodding or shaking his head
as the tones of others decreed, losing himself in his own fatigue
spawned fantasy world, one where he was Batman, the ORIGINAL Batman,
chasing down famous criminals like the Joker, the Mad Hatter, or...
     "Two-Face." Came an anonymous voice from the boardroom, pulling Tim
back to reality, faster than a speeding bullet.
     "What was that?" Tim asked, suddenly alert.
     "Sir?" the employee asked, caught unawares by Tim's sudden shift in
mood.
     "Repeat what you just said," Tim commanded, the puissance of his
attitude surprising everyone - himself included.
     "I - I said that one of our subsidiaries, Bienos Security, got a
commission to upgrade the Gotham Museum, after last night..."
     "And what happened last night?" Tim asked.
     "There was a robbery - someone stole the coin that belonged to
Two-Face," the employee said.
     Tim nodded, smiling on the inside.  It had been less than
twenty-four hours since he'd been all but commanded to become the Batman
- and he already had a crime to solve.
Tim even managed to forget his general distaste for detective stories.
     "Is there anything else?" Tim asked.  "No?  In that case this
meeting is adjourned.  Go about your business."
     "Sir?" Came a voice from behind Tim.  It was Donna Olsen, secretary
supreme.
     "Yes, Donna?  And call me Tim."
     "I just wanted to remind you that you have a lunch appointment with
Mr..." Donna looked to her cyberpad and scrolled through Tim's schedule
until she came to the name she'd been grasping for.  "Er… Tino Merani."
     "Cancel that appointment," Tim said, heading out the door.  "Wait a
sec, Donna," Tim said, pausing. "Where am I supposed to meet Mr. Merani
again?"

****

     The Cenilmaga Club was the latest in a string of Gotham clubs that
used holographic imaging to take its rich patrons out of the dreary
atmosphere of Gotham City and into… well, elsewhere.  The Cenilmaga was
the most popular thus far as it took the concept one step further -
allowing each patron the choice of 'where' they would be dining.  The
restaurant was no more than a collection of holographic booths...
     But the effect, the ambiance, which the Cenilmaga offered, was
beyond words.
     Tino Merani was enjoying his lunch in a small outdoor café in 20th
century France when the sky parted, revealing the seams of a door.
Merani looked up from his meal and into the dark eyes of Timothy Drake.
     "Don't bother getting up, Merani.  I just came to tell you myself.
It's done.  Your business 'association' with Drake Industries is over."
     "You can't do that," Tino Merani began.
     "I can and I have." Tim said.  "Enjoy the rest of your lunch."  And
with that, Tim closed the door, restoring the Parisian skyline to its
holographic beauty.  Tino Merani growled despite himself, wiping his
chin with a silk napkin as he quickly punched a number into his
communicator.
     "Yes?" grunted a rough voice on the other end.
     "It looks like Drake has fallen under your 'jurisdiction' after
all," Merani said to the man on the other end.
     "Understood.  We shall prosecute as soon as our docket is clear."
     Tino Merani disconnected the call, returning to his salad, no
longer enjoying the surroundings.

****

     Tim stormed into the Batcave, angry.
     "Alfred!" Tim called out.
     "Master Tim!  How did you get in here?  I had no knowledge of..."
     "I used another entrance.  I did LEARN some things last night, you
know!"
     "Ah, yes.  Of course," the droid replied, embarrassed that it had
not considered this.
     "Speaking of learning, Alfred," Tim said, anger still peppering his
voice. "How come you didn't tell me about the theft last night?"
     "Theft, Master Tim?"
     "The theft at the Gotham Museum.  Last night.  Why wasn't I
informed?"
     "Here less than a day, absoLUTEly no experience and already you've
taken up Master Bruce's former manner of interrogation.  How
impressive."
     "Alfred..."
     "You've mastered his tone as well... how droll.  But the simple
fact of the matter, Master Tim, is that you didn't ask.  In point of
fact, you requested that nothing disturb you while you studied the
files."
     "The alarm, the quips..."
     "Oversights on my part, Master Tim.  I apologize."
     Tim shook his head in annoyance as he approached the computer
console, commanding all relevant information on Two-Face and his coin to
be brought up immediately…

****

     Mark Grayson almost never played hooky.  He'd always been
responsible, always lived up to his father's rather high standards.
     Tonight, he felt like taking a walk.  Even through the crime
infested streets of Gotham City.  He put on his coat and left his
paperwork for later.  He was pulling what was - in his mind - an
irresponsible stunt.  Even though he'd shouldered far more of a burden
than any man should, he felt guilty about his moment of rebellion.  So
guilty, he found himself lost in thought as he traipsed through the dark
city that he had sworn to protect in memory of his father.
     He was so preoccupied he never heard the footsteps quickening
behind him.  He never felt the needle jabbing into his back, driving him
to unconsciousness.
He never knew what hit him.

****

     "I think I have it, Alfred."
     "Have what, Master Tim?"
     "The answer to the mystery.  Apparently there's a cult out there
that's obsessed with Two-Face.  Ever hear of them?"
     "Accessing... yes, Master Bruce mentioned this cult upon its
formation, decades ago.  I wasn't aware they still existed."
     "Yes they do, Alfred.  Where's the suit?"
     "Suit, sir?"
     "The bat suit.  The y'know, the costume, where is it?" Tim asked.
     "Master Tim, I really don't think it's such a good idea for you
to..."
     "WHERE IS IT?"
     "Opposite end of the cave, sir."
     Ten minutes later, Tim had appropriated the guise of the Batman,
grim avenger of Gotham... a dark suit of fibro-flex body armor
emblazoned with the bat-emblem, a mechanically controlled cape that
granted the power of limited flight, and a cowl as black as the heart of
midnight.
     Tim felt different, more... serious.  Invincible.  He could handle
anything.
     "Where are you headed, Master Tim?" Alfred inquired as Tim - the
Batman - stalked towards the tunnel that had granted him access to the
cave.
     "To find this cult and retrieve that coin." Tim said in a voice
that seemed darker than his own.
     "And how will you get there, Master Tim - walk?  Or perhaps take a
bus?"
Tim stopped - he hadn't considered that.  He was overwhelmed with the
feeling of power the costume gave him.
     Ancient gears whirred to life, bringing the Batmobile out of its
resting-place, ready for action.
     "May I suggest this as a means of transportation?" Alfred asked.
     "I... I never learned how." Tim sheepishly admitted.
     "To drive?  Master Tim!  I'm surprised.  But no matter, this
transport is a deluxe model; verbally controlled.  I'm sure you'll have
no difficulties navigating... er," Alfred paused.
     "Spit it out," Tim commanded as he strapped himself into the
Batmobile.
     "Do you know where you're going, sir?"
     "They're in the phone book, Alfred." Tim said as he bid the
Batmobile to rocket out of the cave, speeding towards Gotham City with
all the power it could muster...

****

     Mark Grayson woke to bright lights in many colors, an annoyance
that contributed heavily to the biggest headache he'd ever had in his
life.  As he tried to reach his temples to massage them, soothe them,
and maybe drive away this shrieking pain, he came to notice that his
hands were bound.  As were his feet. Consciousness came racing back to
him in a flood of pain...
     And he remembered what happened.  He had been ambushed, although he
wasn't sure of how long ago that had been.
     He was being held captive.  But why?

****

     The Batmobile cruised through the murky skies of Gotham City with
all the subtlety of the moon's shadow, flying high above the unwitting
denizens of the dark metropolis.
Batman himself was lost in thought... after all; there was a lot of
unfamiliar territory now.  The whole legacy of the Batman was Tim's to
deal with.  He had no reason to be doing what he was doing.  He had no
intense personal crusade - like the fire that had driven Bruce Wayne.
     Tim just wanted to live up to his father's expectations.  He saw
the hope in the old man's dying eyes.  He could not deny this.  It was
impossible.
     So he was Batman by default... not by destiny.
     "Land, 421 E. O'Neil Avenue," Tim commanded, the Batmobile complied
immediately.

****

     The sign out front read 'The Brotherhood of the Coin.'  For quite a
few years now, the Brotherhood had existed, obsessed with the dead
criminal Harvey
Dent, other wise known as Two-Face.  They'd been overlooked from their
inception, well, mostly because it was a simple mens club than the cult
that they were sometimes described as.  There were dues, there was
liquor, and there was idle chatter.  That was it. They had never done
anything illegal.
     ...And the Batman was about to discover whether or not that had
changed.
     'Funny,' Tim thought as he made his way through the halls of the
lodge.  'This sneaking around stuff is a lot easier than I thought it
would be.'
     Not far ahead, Tim could hear voices.  'Soon,' he thought.  'I'll
get some answers.'

****

     Mark was finally back in control of his faculties.  The lights had
dimmed somewhat, but were still infuriating.  And his headache remained.

     Mark looked around the room - well, he tried to make out details
through the lights.  But he couldn't see much... other than a large,
dark object not far past the lights.
It looked like a judge's bench.

****

     The voices in the lodge grew louder.  Tim - Batman - could hear
them clearly, now.  They were having a meeting.  They were discussing...
basketball?

****

     "The Gotham Knights are going to go all the way this year," one
said.
"No doubt - but them bastards from New York..." another said.
     "The Knicks?"
     "No, the new ones..."
     "Pistons?"
     "Thought they were still in Detroit."
     "Naw, the city sold the team for some quick cash after the trade
war with Beantown started."
     "Oh.  Celts still playing?"
     The room was a cacophony of middle-aged men in dichotomous
wardrobe, drinking and discussing meaningless things.  A TV that no one
was really watching was on in the corner, the news relating the
disappearance of Commissioner Grayson.
     Some of the people in the room that heard the update were surprised
at the Commissioner's absence.  Some others couldn't care less.  Still
others merely talked about it as though they were the ultimate
authorities on life and all else.  These people were just happy to be
part of a group.
     Batman gauged them all.  He looked everyone over, reading as far
into their reactions as he could...
     ...And came up with nothing.  If any of these men had stolen the
coin, they would have shown it off long ago, just to have something to
talk about.
     "Excuse me," a sheepish voice rose from behind Batman, startling
him.
     "Yeah?" Tim replied, turning to see a small man dressed in the same
dichotomous wardrobe as the others.
     "You're not due until next week."
     "Due…?"
     "For Gary's birthday party.  You didn't mix up the dates did you?
The last Batman we hired always did… But the point is, what are you
doing here?"
     "Looking at a dead end." Batman replied, skulking back to the
Batmobile.
      "Well see if we give YOU a tip!" The cultist yelled.
     This was not a good way to jumpstart a legend.

****

     "Commissioner," a calmly monotonous voice called out, breaking the
silence around Mark Grayson.
     "Who's there?" Mark asked in a voice that came out weaker than he'd
hoped.
     "Ah, so you are awake.  Good," the voice continued.  "I was afraid
we would have to postpone the proceedings another day."
     "What proceedings?  What the hell are you talking about?"  Mark
yelled with as much force as his voice could muster, receiving silence
as a response.
     "Answer me!"  Mark demanded again, but all for naught.  He was
alone again.

****

     The Batmobile alighted softly in the Batcave, its frustrated
occupant exploding into the cave, and immediately attacking the heavy
bag over in the gym area.
     "I take it that your hunch did not pay off, Master Tim," Alfred
said.
     "Not at all, Alfred," Batman said, hammering away at the heavy bag
with all the strength he could muster. "I learned several things.  I
learned the Pistons are out of Boston, I learned the Gotham Knights are
gonna go all the way, and I learned that Commissioner Grayson has
disappeared."
     "How interesting, Master Tim.  However..." Alfred allowed his
electronic voice to trail off, as though he hadn't yet decided to finish
his sentence.
     "However WHAT, Alfred?" Tim asked, removing the cowl of the Batman.

     "I always thought that the Pistons were from - accessing...
Detroit."
     "Shut up, Alfred.  Where's my grandpa's journal?" Tim asked as he
further removed the guise of his alter-ego.
     "Whatever for, Master Tim?"
     "Someone stole the coin, Alfred.  Now, grandpa had a LOT of stuff
about Two-Face in that journal.  I'm thinking that maybe I can get some
kind of clue as to where I should start next."
     "Hoping that it's simply some copycat psychopath, perhaps?"
     "That would be nice.  Where's the journal?"
     "You brought it home with you, Master Tim."
     "I did? Damn.  I'll be back, Alfred."
     Tim headed out his access and back to his home.

****

     Graham waited in the dark.  He was waiting for... what's his
name... Drake.  He was waiting for Drake to get home, and then he would
knock him out with the syringe he was clutching in his left hand.  And
then he would bring Drake to Paolo's car, and then they would go.
     Graham had run through the plan in excess of thirty times while he
waited in Drake's foyer, trying to keep all the details straight in his
head.   Graham hated details.  He preferred unsubtle action, break in,
break out, damn the torpedoes and devil-may-care.
Graham was waiting as patiently as he could, but shouldn't Drake be home
by now?  He should be home now.
     Graham hated waiting.

****

     Tim re-entered his house cautiously.  He had no idea why, but
something was telling him to play it extra quiet.  Maybe it had
something to do with where he had just come from.  Maybe it had
something to do with his enjoyment found sneaking around.  Maybe he was
just getting the standard rich-boy paranoia.
     But he was listening to his instincts in any case.

****

     "And how are we doing, commissioner?" the bodiless voice asked,
appearing again to Mark Grayson.
     "Go to hell, whoever you are," Mark said.
     "Commissioner!  I am surprised at you.  After all, you have always
been a proponent of justice, have you not?  Well tonight, Justice shall
be done."
     "What are you talking about?  Justice?  What?" Mark hollered, again
to no avail.  There was no one in the room.  Mark was being
electronically monitored... communicated with via intercom.  And his
audience was at an end.
     And then, a hidden vent opened, allowing a mist the commissioner
could neither see nor smell into the room.

****

     Graham waited.  And waited.  And waited some more... but still no
Drake.  Maybe he wasn't coming home?  Maybe he was somewhere else?
'What if all this time I've been waiting for-'
     Graham wasn't even given the time to finish his thought; the
cliched priceless-vase-to-the-base-of-the-skull served to intimately
acquaint Graham and the cold marble of Timothy Drake's floor.
     "That was my mother's favorite vase, I'll have you know.  Good
thing I never liked it.  Hello, what have we here?" Tim asked himself as
he simultaneously dialed the GCPD and kneeled down to inspect the
contents of Graham's left hand.
     "Yes," Tim said upon contacting the police.  "Tim Drake.  Yeah, I
have an intruder in my house, here... mm hmm.  Incapacitated.  Yes.
Well, I'll leave him here for you.  Yes.  No, I won't be here.  Thank
you."
     Tim disconnected his communicator and looked down at the
unconscious Graham.  After binding him with his belt, Tim scanned his
yard.  Sure enough, a strange hovercar was out front.  A broad grin
erupted from Tim's face as he raced with all the speed he could muster
back to the Batcave.

****

     Paolo hated waiting.  All he had to do was wait for Graham to knock
out Drake, and drive them to court.  That's all.  But Graham had been
gone for quite some time.  And Paolo had run out of daydreams,
fantasies, and mind games to keep himself occupied.  Now he's just
bored, and so tired...
     The sound of the back door opening brought Paolo's senses back.  He
was awake now.  Graham was back, the waiting was over, and all was
well.  Paolo turned to his partner.
     "So what took you so-oh my God!"
     Graham was not in the backseat... no, instead there was a creature
that had to have stepped straight out of a nightmare.  Completely black
with a large red BAT emblazoned on his chest... it looked like a man...
but it emanated such an intimidating sense of fear...
Paolo wanted to scream as the dark thing reached towards him, clasping
his collar, pulling him towards it...
     'IT DOESN'T HAVE A FACE!' Paolo thought in a fevered panic.  'OH,
GOD!  IT DOESN'T HAVE A FACE!!'
     "You're friend couldn't make it," the thing said in a dark
whisper.  "Don't you think we'd better go along without him?"
     "Y...y...y...y...yes... I..." Paolo stuttered, unable to coherently
string anything more together.
     "Drive." The dark thing commanded.  Paolo could only nod as he
lifted off into the sky...

****

     Mark Grayson woke once more with a fresh headache. At the very
least, the bright lights were gone this time, but his arms and legs were
still bound.  And this time, he was not alone.
     As the fog faded from Mark's vision he could see that he was,
indeed, in a courtroom.  There was the judge's bench that he'd thought
he saw before.  There were a good fifteen people sitting behind Mark, to
the best of his estimation.  There was some large man leaning on the
bench... maybe a bailiff.
     There was no jury box.
     The large man audibly cleared his throat.
     "All rise," the large man said, trying to keep a smile from his
face as he glanced at the bound commissioner.  "The honorable Judge
Swann presiding."
     A thin man wrapped in the flowing robes of a magistrate stepped up
to the bench.  Mark could not believe his eyes.
     "M-Maxie?"
     The judge smiled.
     "Hello, cousin." Came the same deep, monotonous voice that had
toyed with Mark from afar.  "I trust your wait was not too long?  We do
our best to expedite justice around here."
     "Justice?  What?" Mark started.
     "Silence, cousin.  Bailiff, the charges, if you please."
     "Mark Allan Grayson is hereby charged this day with conspiracy to
destroy true justice."
     "True justice?  What are you..."
     "Cousin, please!  We've had our eyes on you for quite some time.
You talk a good game, and you log a lot of hours, certainly, at your
office.  But what have you done, truly, to aid justice?  Nothing.  Crime
is still rampant on the streets.  Too many go unpunished.  It must be
made known, my dear 'commissioner' that no one is above or beyond
justice.  Even if they are beyond the law."
     "What are you talking about?"
     "I talk no more, cousin." Max said as he pulled a small, silver
coin from his pocket.
     "Now, I act.  Will you go free, or will you be put to death?  Will
you continue allowing such mockeries of justice to occur if given a
second chance?  Or will you be forced to wonder in the last moments of
your life if someone will take care of your cat?  We shall find out,
cousin.  All through a simple flip of the..."
     A crash came from overhead, drawing the attention of everyone in
the room.  A dark figure was swinging down from a skylight no one had
previously noticed, splaying shards of broken glass throughout the
interior of this Kangaroo Court.
     The fifteen angry men seated behind Mark were immediately on their
feet, shooting at the intruder, rendering this flying man a corpse in
rather short order.
     After the maddening din of the semiautomatic weaponry had died
down, the bailiff cautiously approached the dead man that swinging like
a pendulum a mere six feet from the floor.
     "Oh, my... it's Paolo!" the Bailiff exclaimed before noticing a
small piece of paper attached to Paolo's collar.  "Quiet!  Quiet!
There's a note... 'Look up.'"
     The collected mass of the courtroom, Grayson included, were all
looking towards the skylight when the doors to the courtroom burst
open.  Everyone turned to see a mass of darkness... with a giant, red
bat emblazoned across his chest.
     "No one ever expects the front door," the darkness laughed.  He
then produced a gun from beneath his cloak, took aim, and shot every
armed member of the Kangaroo Court.
The gun was filled with some specially prepared darts, containing one of
the most powerful sleeping agents known to man.   The men were
unconscious before they felt the pricks of the darts.
     Batman took one final bead, knocking the bailiff into oblivion.
And then, the gun was out of darts.
     "It looks like I'll have to do you the old-fashioned way," Batman
said to the 'judge', smiling beneath his mask.
     Batman charged the judge's bench with a speed that surprised even
him; he'd never been that fast in his life.  It must be the adrenaline.
He leapt at the judge, but to no avail.  The thin man had already
disappeared through a hidden trap door, a definite perk to paranoia.
     Batman embarrassingly hit the wall.  But, to his credit, he was up
immediately and over to Grayson, untying his bonds.
     "Tell me you're not supposed to be who I think you are." Mark
asked.
     "No problem.  I'm Wonder Woman.  Doesn't this cape just do wonders
for my figure?"
     "What?"
     "Go home, commissioner.  You've had a trying day. Pun intended.
Leave by the front door, you'll know how to make it from there."  And
with that, Batman shot a line into the air, disappearing through the
skylight, leaving Mark Grayson with a huge feeling of disarray.

****

     Tino Merani was bathing when he heard the door creak.  Looking up,
he saw a disheveled Maxie Swann.
     "What's your problem, Swann?"
     No reply.
     "Swann?  You got Drake, right?"
     No reply.  However, this time, Swann did reveal the glint of a
blade to Merani.
     "Hey, what are you..."
     "Silence.  All was going to plan, Merani.  All was going well.  My
insufferable cousin was ABOUT to pay for his crimes when all of a
sudden... an intruder.  Who else knew of our location, Merani?  Who did
you tell?"
     "No one, I swear!" Tino said, nervously eyeing the knife.  Another
glint soon caught his eye... it was a coin.
     "We shall see, Mr. Merani, we shall see." Swann said, flipping the
coin high into the air...

****

      Timothy Drake sat in the darkened room, curtains drawn, reflecting
over his night as a crusader.  Would it be worth it to continue?
      Yes.  It would.  The answer came easily, and that was frightening.

 It was also frightening how quickly he had adapted to the methods of
the Batman.  How things he had done in his past fit so effortlessly into
his new persona.  How…
      No, that couldn't be it.  Tim didn't believe in fate, and couldn't
stand conspiracies.
 It was merely a coincidence that he had gained the mantle of the Bat…
but it was a coincidence that he would make the most of.
      He would make his father proud of him.  He would champion the city
he would…
      The crash of broken glass echoed through the room, startling Tim.
His eyes darted to the floor, where a small sphere rolled across the
shards of glass on the carpet.
      A baseball.
      Tim went to the window and saw two children at the edge of the
property, doing their best to look innocent.
      But one of them was holding a bat.
      "This is an omen," Tim said, a smile on his face.  "I shall use my
fortune to fight injustice… to become a champion to the weak… to become…
a Bat-Man!" Tim laughed at his private pun.  "Or maybe I could just toss
a million creds out to build a park and keep them kids off my damn
lawn."
      Tim tossed the ball back to the boys and retired to his bedroom,
visions of glory dancing in his head.

****

END

****