Batman:DCF "Joker's Wild" TPB

THE DCFutures 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.

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BATMAN: DCF JOKER'S WILD: TPB

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Written and edited by Erik Burnham
Introduction by Mark *Keravin* Peyton

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

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Mark Grayson was commissioner of the Gotham City Police Department, one of the most powerful positions one could hold in this day and age without major cash.

Sure, Mark had money; he was by no means poor - nor was he really rich, either. He fell into something of a middle class, as bizarre as the concept was. But it had never bothered him. He'd always felt secure with who he was, with where he was...

...But all that had changed. For the first time, Mark was dissatisfied with the amount of power he possessed; dissatisfied because he didn't feel it was enough to protect him from the ghosts of the past.

How many times had he dreamed about that monster? That unforgiving, cruel beast that had snatched Dick Grayson up and destroyed him? HOW MANY? The only comfort Mark was allowed lay in the fact that the beast was dead, no longer haunting the darkness of Gotham's night.

Or so he'd thought.

But there was once again a Dark Knight in Gotham; Mark had seen it with his own eyes. The monster had returned from the grave to haunt the city anew.

But he seemed different. He'd made a joke... and a mistake. Two things the Bat of yore never allowed. Mark took a moment and thought about the Batman he'd witnessed in action, comparing it to the Bat he'd studied on old newsvids.

Both possessed incredible strength, speed, and reflexes; no ordinary human being could have made the leap Mark saw this Bat make. Both were also cloaked in an aura of intimidation; when this man entered the room, Mark could feel the anxiety level rise sharply; he himself was frightened.

But the jokes, the mistake... this could not be the same man -- nor the same type of man. But who? Who else could it have been? Who else would take up the fool's crusade of trying to save Gotham from itself?

Mark paused at that thought, realizing that he himself had undertaken that task... just to please the memory of his father, who loved Gotham so, despite everything that he said.

Did this Bat make Mark jealous? The vigilante could do things the police couldn't, could go places the police couldn't, could act and react free from the yoke of public responsibility...

The more Mark considered, the more he came to the same point -- this was not his father's Batman. Should he then, suffer from the prejudices of the last living Grayson? Time would tell. This Batman would reveal himself again soon enough, and Mark would give him a chance -- ONE chance -- to prove himself. Like it or not, he owed this Bat his life.

And he always paid his debts. ****

Alfred shifted his consciousness from one end of the mansion to the other with the speed of a thought; from the tip of the attic to the depths of the caverns below, Alfred was everywhere and anywhere.

And the place looked great. Face it, when all you have to do is cook and clean, you become the best quickly.

Of course, that wasn't ALL Alfred had to do; at least, not any more. Recently, the grandson of Tim Drake had been spending a lot of time at the Manor -- and the caves down below. Even more, in fact, when he realized that he OWNED the property. Regardless, he had taken up the crusade; he had taken up the mantle. And he had given Alfred, in his infinite loneliness, someone to talk to.

Now Alfred felt as though he could at long last contribute to the outside world, if only vicariously, through the Batman. He could help the vigilante with difficult cases, he could assist in schedules and regimens, and he could recreate a legend!

This excited Alfred. He finally had a purpose that befit his unique status. He was alive, he had feelings. He did NOT like being cooped up one spot all day, but what could he do? He was a house, for all intents and purposes.

"Funny how these things choose us," Alfred said aloud, if only to hear himself speak.

****

Tino Merani was not in a good mood. First, this mook Swann bursts into his home with an air of drama that would've been out of place in the holovids, interrupting Tino's bath and carrying on like a child about spilled secrets.

He had failed to take Grayson out. He was babbling like an idiot about 'A Bat' and accusing Tino of everything and then some.

Tino suffered the accusations, mustering all his patience and playing along with the fool. Finally, he couldn't take it anymore. Swann knew too little to be of help and too much to let go. Tino had had to kill Swann, shooting him while he tossed that inane coin into the air.

And now, he was mad. All of his subtle machinations to remove Grayson from office, by hook or by crook, had failed.

And this Bat was a new complication. Who was he? Government operative? Underground meta? One of them damned N-Rom freaks with a Bat fetish & a streak of luck? None of this made any sense; the Batman had faded away into the lore of the city; he had become just another urban myth, something parents used to scare their children when the kids wouldn't go to bed.

But it wasn't a bedtime story that broke up the Kangaroo Court. Someone was playing some kind of sick game. Maybe some outside talent, looking to gain a foothold in the Gotham market? Prime territory. That made more sense. Tino could buy that. It was simplistic; an operative with a flair for the dramatic.

Tino picked up his personal teleline communicator and punched in a very special code...

****

Graham held himself in the corner of his cell; the bruise on the back of his head still throbbing, beating a steady rhythm of pain throughout his skull.

Why did he do it? Why did he fall in with all those people? Because that's what he wanted to do, it was what he liked to do. The skinny man had promised him respect.

Some respect. Some snot-nosed richie-rich had cracked him in the back of his head; arranged for him to be arrested. Any reputation that he had had was shot.

At this moment in time, there was NOTHING that Graham hated in the entire world more than Tim Drake. But he would get his vengeance. He would escape, and he would twist Drake's head off at the neck and wear it like a hat, yeah.

Graham wasn't vicious by nature, no. But he had been humiliated. He had had his reputation destroyed; the one thing that had kept him safe.

He had had it all taken away.

And Tim Drake would pay for this. Oh yes; he would pay.

****

Timothy Drake sat in the plush leather seat of the Batmobile, cruising several hundred feet above the Gotham skyline, admiring the ethereal glow of the city at night.

It took on special qualities from this far up; the decay of morale absent from the big picture. There was no good, no bad, no rich, no poor. There was just... Gotham. And it was beautiful.

The world took on such a special hue at night with kisses of indigo in an ebony sky, the moon and all her detached inhabitants smiling down from the heavens, and billions of stars sprinkled throughout.

It was magic.

'Maybe that's why I'm making such a good Batman,' Tim thought. ' The night always felt right, natural, as if it were calling me.'

And a good Batman he was. He'd saved in excess of eighteen lives in the past four days, including that of the GCPD commissioner himself, Mark Grayson.

That made him a success, right?

The night began to sing its song once again, a song that Tim could hear ever so clearly, even through the din of the city below. And as Tim closed his eyes and allowed the reality of his particular situation to seep in further, he came to an adamant conclusion.

It was too nice a night to not be outside.

"Land," Tim commanded, prompting the Batmobile's descent. The Batmobile alighted on the decrepit remains of what had originally been city hall. Tim hopped out of his vehicle with the giddiness of a child on Christmas morn, surveying the surrounding architecture and the wonderful, hideous gargoyles that had survived the turning of two centuries unscathed.

"Shields," Tim commanded, setting off the transformation of the Batmobile from a sleek hovercar to a large chunk of metal, indistinguishable as any type of transportation. Tim smiled and nodded, pleased that it had worked. After one final inhalation of night air through the mesh of his mask, Tim turned and leapt off the roof, sailing into the comfort of the night, the stark and familiar shadow of the Bat cutting against the softness of Gotham's night sky.

****

They called him Mr. October, and he was one of the best spies that the Justice League had ever produced. Gifted with the ability to become a living shadow, Mr. October was a natural at nighttime operations, following people... 'Shadowing' them. Another aspect of his abilities was to usurp control of bodies through their own shadows. This made him powerful. Indeed, the only safety the League truly had from Mr. October was his impeccable sense of honor.

But what was he doing in Gotham City? Simple. He was shadowing the Batman. It had taken him the better part of the week to figure out a pattern to the Bat's patrols; no doubt the Dark Knight wasn't even aware of said pattern.

But Mr. October was a professional; he noticed things about people. It was what he did best, and no one did it better. He had the Bat in his sights now, and had followed him throughout much of Gotham on a joyride through the staggering canyons of concrete and steel that no other city -- save Metropolis -- had even come close to matching. Gotham had the market on claustrophobia cornered.

Mr. October witnessed the Batman stop a mugging, a storefront robbery, and the attempted murder of a GCPD rookie that had formerly been in one of the local gangs.

All in all, Mr. October was impressed that someone would risk their lives to help another; even these wretched poor that would live another day only to try and kill each other again. But still this Batman's actions appealed to Mr. October's nobility; for a moment he had almost considered NOT contacting his superior. And, if he had thought for the briefest of moments that he could have gotten away with it, he might have. But his superior was no ordinary man. NOTHING got by him.

Sighing, Mr. October pulled out his personal teleline communicator and punched in the code that connected him with uncanny speed to the office of...

"Holmes here."

Mr. October smiled. No matter how many times he heard the baritone of that voice, it would never cease to impress him. Almost nothing impressed him.

Still, he had no time to waste admiring the boss' commanding voice.

"Sir, yes sir. I have found and followed the Bat this evening."

"And?"

"He's stopped a mugging, a robbery, and an attempt on a cop."

"Well," Alucard Holmes said, a grin in his voice, "it looks as though our baby bird has finally grown up."

"Sir?" Mr. October asked, confused.

"Never mind, my friend. You may return to the embassy."

"Thank you sir," Mr. October said. "Is there anything else you require from Gotham before I head out?"

Alucard Holmes let out a long sigh as he contemplated the question. Twice, he began to say something, before finally stopping and again dismissing Mr. October to the Justice League embassy in DC.

****

Alucard Holmes sat in the darkness of his office in the man-made island of Charidian. It was a pleasant enough home, this island, one of two such creations, gifts to the UN from the province of Atlantis.

Salimantis, the larger of the two, was the UN's home base. Charidian, on the other hand, was home to Justice, the man that could pull any string, get anything done. He allowed men like Alucard on his island to do the things he deemed beneath him.

Justice Island, as Charidian had come to be known, floated complacently several hundred miles off the eastern coast of NorAm, while its occupants made choices that devastatingly affected the world -- moreso even, some say, than the UN's.

Holmes looked out at the beauty of the moonlight dancing on the waves of the Atlantic Ocean when a shrill noise interrupted his solitude.

...Damn telelines.

For the second time that night, Alucard disconnected the visual transmitter in his communicator and allowed the caller access.

"Holmes," Alucard said, waiting for a response.

"Mr. Holmes, sir. How are you tonight?" asked the harmonious tones of Tino Merani.

"Mr. Merani, what can I do for you?" Alucard asked.

"Well, sir, that's the thing. I don't know. I had an incident here recently, and it has truly dicked up my plans for the commish, if you know what I mean."

"The point, Mr. Merani?"

"I heard something about a Bat, Mr. Holmes. I'm asking for your assistance in this matter."

Alucard nearly laughed. This man had to be desperate to be asking him for help.

"And what of Mr. Tuscotti? Do you have his blessing to ask me for my services?"

"Mr. Tuscotti has no knowledge of this, Mr. Holmes. And if we work this right, there's no reason that he ever needs to."

Again, Alucard felt the pangs of a laugh being suppressed. Merani was looking to replace Angel Tuscotti. He was apparently worried that this Bat would sabotage too many of his little schemes.

"I think I'm going to have to get back to you, Merani. You understand -- I'm just swamped out here."

"What about this Bat, Holmes? What are you going to do about that?"

"Giant bats haven't existed in Gotham for a lot of years, my friend. Before your time, I'm sure. At any rate, just relax until you see a bat-signal in the sky. And while you're dealing with this Batman, perhaps you'd be so kind as to avoid killing Santa Claus. I hear some children still believe in him as well."

Alucard disconnected the call, finally allowing himself the lengthy laugh that always accompanied any dealings with Merani...

...Who, coincidentally, was left fuming on the other end.

"So you didn't send this Bat, huh, Mr. Holmes? Well... Tino Merani spiked his communicator to the floor in anger and headed into his den to stew over the complications a long-dead adventurer had brought into his carefully planned life.

****

At this point, he was a John Doe to the GCPD. Four seasoned officers had no interest in discovering his identity, as they were too busy relieving themselves of their lunch some twenty feet away. The rest, who had a little more control, stood above the body -- left exactly as it was found for the time being -- trying to figure out... well, anything.

"You think it was maybe that guy that's been workin' New York?" one detective, a John Randall, asked.

"Legendkiller? Don't think so. You see a costume on this poor guy?" Davis Banks replied, disgusted.

"Well, come on, I don't see who else it could be..."

This prompted a sound of disgust from the third detective in the group still standing with the John Doe, Paul Chandler.

"And they promoted you to detection? What have you ever done to deserve that? Who did you sleep with? Cripes, man... it is entirely possible to have more than one psychopathic maniac running around in this section of the country that likes to get a little creative."

"I agree with you, Chandler," A hollow voice chipped in from across the way. "Looks like Gotham is starting to attract the cream o' the psycho crop again."

Detective Jon Isaacs was the closest thing to a hero the Detective Division of the GCPD had. He'd been wounded late last year saving three kids from a Patriot bombing. His return two weeks ago had been unexpected, and quite frankly, awe-inspiring. Not many cops could command the kind of respect Isaacs did; even if they'd have swallowed the bomb that nicked his leg.

"Nice to see you back, partner," Chandler smiled. "What do you make of this?" He asked as the hero limped over, aided by a handsomely decorated cane.

"What do I make of it? Simple. This guy's dead, it ain't pretty, and I'd bet my good right leg that he's not the last one that ends up this way."

The four detectives looked down at what was left of the John Doe's face, and the large, sloppy smile that the killer had carved into it...

****

The room was chilly. Morgues are supposed to be, but still -- there was no need for it to be THIS bad, Paul thought to himself.

He'd received the call half an hour ago. They had a positive ID on the John Doe... a 'Jessie Davis.' Poor sop.

Cause of death was an injection of the drug corylex... Davis bought it in less time that it would've taken him to worry about it. The disturbing part was his face; there was a large, sloppy, blood-encrusted grin carved into it. The doc wasn't sure if Davis got it before or after the drug.

Paul shuddered again, and it wasn't from the cold.

"Well, there's nothing more I can tell you guys," the head coroner, guy by the name of Geils, said. "Guy died about six hours before the report says he was picked up."

"Beautiful," the raspy voice of Detective Jon Isaacs spat out.

"Yes, well," Geils continued, "Nothing else can be told. No sexual molestation evident, weren't any physical signs of a struggle, like this guy didn't even put up a fight. I haven't seen anything this interesting in a long while."

"Interesting, Doc? You gotta funny sense o' curiosity. Where I come from, this ain't considered interesting, it's considered sick," Isaacs said, glaring as he limped his way out of the room. Paul was hot on his heels.

****

"This is not funny," Tim found himself saying to a room full of smiling faces. "I told you people I didn't want any parties 'round here."

"Oh come on, Tim! Just because you're the boss now doesn't mean you get out of the Executive Birthday Party!" Ennis Hobbs was grinning like a cheshire cat. Birthday parties were his vice, and he had made the yearly torture of Tim Drake his personal mission in life. Nothing made the man happier.

"Hobbs, one of these days, I'm going to have to fire you."

"Then who'll run the company? Have some cake. Get this man some cake!"

Tim found himself simultaneously besieged with varying slices of chocolate, cherry, and angel food cake. "Doesn't anyone have ANY work they should be doing?"

"Probably," Hobbs said, grinning again. "But I think Gotham will survive a couple of hours with us off-task."

Tim sighed. Not only was he was outnumbered, he was outmatched. Not much he could do in a situation like this except...

"Bring on the free hooch," Tim laughed.

****

"So what do you make of this?" Chandler asked in between sips of Earl Grey tea he'd ordered from the sidewalk caf� near the GCPD headquarters. Nice view. You could see the huge, gaping hole in the side of the building from here. [Editor's Note: See the Batman/Warrior One-Shot to find out how that hole got there!]

"My evaluation ain't changed a bit, Chandler."

"And that is?"

"Gotham draws the sickos," Isaacs said, punctuating each syllable with a slap to his hand. "In the old days, we'd..."

Detective Isaacs would've continued, but for the incessant cackle of the two-way over in the patrol car. Isaacs fought a losing battle in a valiant attempt to finish his anecdote, but it wasn't gonna happen.

After an exasperated sigh, he headed to the hovercar and responded. A moment passed. Paul noticed the blood rushing to the famed detective's face as he returned to their table.

"Something wrong, Jon?"

"You like the zoo, Chandler?"

"Love it."

"Then mount up."

****

Gotham City had one of the last zoos in NorAm that people of all types -- rich or poor -- could visit freely. It was an idea of Bruce Wayne's, who (rumor had it) loved going to the zoo. He put up the money, and Richard Drake kept it going upon gaining control of Wayne Enterprises. Drake too, had a soft spot for animals.

Someone, however, did not share that sentiment.

"Lions and tigers and bears," Paul started. "Oh, my..." he finished, and not as humorously as he'd intended.

"Looks like we got ourselves an amateur taxidermist on our hands huh, Chandler?" Isaacs grunted.

The lion was gutted, it's hindquarters cut away. A human's lower torso and legs were duct taped -- duct taped! -- to the king of beasts. The donor of the limbs wasn't far away. A messy jack O' lantern's grin carved in his face, laying in front of a phrase painted on the wall with blood: 'Sharing makes me happy.'

"He's getting creative," Chandler said.

"That he is."

****

Tim skipped down the steps to the Batcave, commanding the lights on as he headed for the gigantic computer screen setup that dominated the area.

"What's new, Alfred?" Tim asked as he sat down to scan the day's police reports. (Ah, the perks of having the world's greatest computer...)

"Funny you should ask, Master Tim..." Alfred said with a feigned indifference.

"Alfred, why can't I access these files?"

"I blocked them, sir, temporarily. An event has occurred today, and... I... perhaps it would be better if you were more prepared for it."

Tim's eyes darkened as the part of him that was the Batman began to take control, the gravel in his voice asserting itself.

"Spill it."

"Well, it's about the zoo, Master Tim. I recall you mentioning how much you enjoyed going there with your father, and..."

"Alfred."

"The lion and a security guard for the zoo were gruesomely murdered and mismatched... the guard was tortured in a manner similar to another recent murder victim, which..."

"They killed Binko?!?"

"Yes, Master Tim."

"Alfred," Tim said, his voice getting even deeper as he headed to change into the garb of Batman, "Get all the relevant information transferred to the Batmobile. Immediately. I'm headed for the zoo."

"Of course you are, sir. And happy birthday."

"Shut up, Alfred."

****

Angel Tuscotti hated cats. Always had. But he loved the imagery they provided, imagery he first saw on a holovid called 'The Godfather.' He bought a cat the moment he finished watching it and from that day on, took the animal out -- as a sort of ornament -- whenever he had to meet with someone. The joke was not lost on these people; it was an amusing eccentricity.

Frank Realms appreciated the joke. He liked a sense of humor; it made people much easier to deal with. And he needed Tuscotti in a good mood. He needed it in the worst way.

"So, Frank. How are things with your little gang going?" Angel asked, stroking his cat absentmindedly.

Frank Realms was in charge - had been for a few months now - of a gang called the Dark Suns. What they basically were was a large group of derelicts organized to distribute drugs and violence in the slums of Gotham City. The cops never noticed them, and if they did, never cared. The Suns stayed in the same, small section of the city and ran their business with a minimum of fuss. No real complaints from anyone that ever mattered.

"They're... interesting, Mr. Tuscotti, real interesting."

"Oh yeah? How so?"

"Well, we... we're having a little trouble down there. Someone -- and this is, you'll, I dunno -- someone is trying something funny. My Suns are getting' torn apart."

"Profit margin?"

"With the loss of help -- we're down 23%."

Angel Tuscotti stopped stroking the cat. Realms almost broke a sweat, until he saw the man begin to scratch behind the feline's ear.

"And how did this... loss of help as you call it occur?"

"That's why I came to you, Mr. Tuscotti; I thought maybe you could help to shed a little light on this. I mean, I haven't heard from my boy, Andrew, in almost a week, now. The Suns -- pieces of them, anyway -- are turning up left and right. I don't know what to think. Sir."

Realms watched the elder man nod and smile, humming to himself as if he had just been told some trivial bit of gossip -- some amusing anecdote -- from an old friend. He closed his eyes, smiling still, and broke his cat's neck, two seconds before flinging the dead animal at Realms.

"Do I look like your father?" Tuscotti said, suddenly very animated, in an above-normal tone.

"W-what?"

"Are you deaf, Realms, or just incompetent? I asked you 'do I look like your father!' Don't make me repeat myself again!"

"No, sir, but..."

"But nothing! If I'm not your father, why do you expect me to clean up your mess? I gave you this job, your coveted power over the dregs of society on good faith, Frankie. You told me you could do this job, minimum of fuss. This, Frank, deaths, loss of profit, this is NOT a minimum of fuss!"

"Yes, Mr. Tuscotti, I know, but..."

"Again, with the protests! What am I missing, here? Is there something I left out that you keep feeling the need to 'no sir, but' me over?"

Realms sat quietly.

"That's what I thought. You have nothing. Now, I don't want you to think I don't have faith in you, Frankie. So, I grant you a reprieve. I'm going to go ahead and let you go back to your business, show me I made a good decision when I gave you the job, right?"

You could hear a gnat cough in the room at that moment, for the tension.

"Frankie? Am I right?"

"Yes, sir."

Tuscotti was up from behind his desk again, smiling, patting Frank on the back, hugging him, escorting him out of the office with an arm around Frank's shoulders.

"That's it, Frankie, that's what I like to hear. You go back down to your little corner of the city, you clean house, you do what you gotta do."

The audience was over. Tuscotti closed the door on a humbled Realms and proceeded to dictate to his Secretary an order for a new cat.

****

The report was not pleasant. Duct tape? Mark Grayson sighed. He had known Gotham was in bad shape when he had accepted his promotion to commissioner of the police force, but he didn't think there was still such twisted souls hunting the streets of the city.

And the damn draft from the hole in his office was starting to bother him. He could have kicked someone else out of their offices, usurped the space, he had the authority. But no; he liked his office. It wasn't too cold with the force field on, so the hole wasn't a major distraction. BUT THE DRAFT! That little tickle of wind! It bothered him, like some shadowy character was out there, taking stock of his soul, sending the slightest of winds as their calling card, bringing with it a shiver up his spine.

"I like what you've done with the place."

Speak of the devil.

Mark turned to find himself face to face -- for the second time -- with the Batman. Well, A Batman, anyway. One that had, coincidentally, saved his life not too long ago.

"Wonder Woman, right?"

"That's me," the walking shadow replied without skipping a beat as he stepped into the office through the window, admiring the glow emanating from the gaping maw. "Love the force field, Grayson. Where'd you get the cash for that?"

"Donated. Why are you here?"

"Not much for conversation? Fine. I'm here about the zoo."

"You heard about that?"

"I hear about everything."

"As resourceful as your predecessor. What did you hear?"

"Man, lion, death, dismemberment."

"Concise."

"I try. I want any information you may have on the murderer."

"What makes you think we have any?"

"Please tell me that you know how to do your jobs."

"Oh, we do. Let's try another tack; why should I share?"

"Because I'm Batman."

"So?"

"I'm trying to help."

"Why?"

"Are you a cop or a reporter?"

"I'm not sure yet. Why should I help you?"

"You owe me your life."

Grayson thought long and hard at that. The Bat was right; there was a debt to be paid. And he hated owing people. So he calmly pressed a key on his computer, ejecting a minidisk. The report.

"You have twenty four hours before it becomes theft."

And that was that. Silently, the Batman took the disk and slipped back out the window, thinking to himself how amusing force fields were; they kept out energy and non-organics; but wind, and birds, well, they could come and go as they pleased. Grayson heard the rustling of the Bat's cape as he watched a pigeon sully his filing cabinet. Again.

****

Patty Hollander liked to jog, it relieved her stress, it relaxed her, and it made her happy. So every day without fail, she made her way to the Gotham Running Center, changed out of the suit that marked her as a lawyer and took ten miles to unwind. She'd just gotten into her shorts and was stretching when a familiar voice beckoned from behind her.

"Hello, ma'am."

"Hello -- oh, my God! I haven't seen you for so... how have you been?"

"I've been great, Holly. And you?"

"Holly?" Patty laughed at the recollection. "No one's called me that in years!"

"I know. So how HAVE you been? Happy?"

"Of course!"

"That's good to know, Holly, that's good to know..."

****

Tim could feel the darkness inside him rise. He didn't even feel like breathing. He was angry. Binko was dead. A lion, THE lion, at the Gotham Zoo that Tim had named. Sure, he'd named him in a drunken stupor, but the affection was still there. He would find the bastard that had killed the lion and the guard... And who knows how many others? Tim pored over the files on the Bat-computer, the report Grayson had lent him, everything pertinent. What wasn't he seeing? Was there any connection, or was he just imagining it because he was Batman, and expected to be the World's Greatest Detective?

A couple more clicks on the keyboard, and Tim knew exactly where he was: nowhere.

"This report isn't doing any good!"

"Master Tim?" Alfred inquired carefully. "May I ask why you even bothered borrowing the report when you could have more easily have gotten it through some technological sleight-of-hand?"

"Because, Alfred. I need the cops' trust. Wayne had it. I need that rapport, that assistance... plus, there may be notes and additions on a personal disk that don't make it to the official report."

"And are there? Additions, that is?"

"No." Tim let out a grunt of frustration and hit the keyboard.

"Perhaps, Master Tim, you're jumping the gun a bit. There have only been two -- nay, three -- victims as of yet. That's not a whole lot to go on."

"Wayne could've done it."

"Maybe, maybe not. But let's not forget two things here: one, you are not Master Bruce. Two, you haven't gotten a feel for this yet. You're still learning."

"I'd better learn a lot faster, then, Alfred. 'Cause I don't think this guy's done just yet."

"At least you've mastered the understatement, sir."

"Don't start with me, Alfred. Just get me some coffee. Oh, and you put any sugar in it, I disconnect you."

"Yes, Master..." Alfred said as his voice faded, in an impression of Igor the Hunchback that was completely lost on Tim as he delved back into his perusal of the case before him.

****

"So, how long has it been?"

"Oh, six, seven years. At least."

Patty Hollander was smiling now, completely relaxed, even though she had missed her daily run. Here he was, a face from her past, from before she'd become a hotshot attorney, before she'd joined the upper echelons of the Rich. It was kind of nice taking a trip down memory lane, even nicer than taking a run, and far, far, less common. Patty and the man she'd very nearly married sat together in a late 19th century Italian bistro at the Cenilmaga Club, enjoying espressos and each other's company equally.

"So you've been up to what?" Patty asked.

"Traveling."

"Just traveling?"

"Just traveling. And you? Got into the law, huh? Just like you always wanted."

"Yeah, it seems like a joke sometimes, what these people get me to do... look for loopholes in the law to make or keep themselves rich or richer... make someone they don't like lose money... or status, or... whatever. Sometimes I don't think I have the strength to do it."

"Of course you have the strength, Holly. You're one of the strongest people I've ever known."

Patty blushed despite herself at the compliment paid and the continued use of her old college nickname, grinning all the more broadly as her long-lost love reached over and covered her hand with his.

****

"The guard -- the one who was killed -- says here that he was an actor ... Barton Surr." Tim said, still skimming the police report. "Small time theater productions, bit parts in some films."

"Anything I might have seen, Master Tim?"

"I didn't know you were a movie fan, Alfred."

"Why, yes sir. I watch them every chance I get. And I enjoy them, too. I'd enjoy them even more, however, if you'd actually deign to purchase Holographic Televison..."

"I don't think so, Alfred. Nothin' wrong with the Hi-def TVs we have now."

"But what's wrong with Holographic? You can hardly say it's unaffordable."

"Migraines, Alfred. I'm one of the percentage."

"Excuse me?"

"The small percentage of the population, Alfred, that gets migraine headaches from watching holographic images. Where's my coffee?"

"Right here, sir," Alfred said, his mechanical tendrils silently placing a steaming cup of coffee next to Tim's right hand. Tim immediately picked it up and slurped some down, nodding his approval.

"Now then; he was an actor... and the first victim, Davis, was an entertainment broker..."

"And what is that, sir?"

"He arranged things, Alfred. Parties, film shoots, concerts."

"So we have an actor, an entertainment broker, and a lion."

"All three dealing in the field of entertainment -- for the masses. Not specifically for the rich or poor, but for the masses."

"Brilliant deduction, Master Sherlock."

"Shut up, Alfred. It's not enough to go on -- it's not ANYTHING to go on. It's a loose connection, at best. The victims didn't know each other..."

"Surr and the lion knew each other."

"Prove it. Besides, there has to be something else. There HAS GOT to be more! This just isn't enough."

"I imagine that you'll figure something out, Master Tim. You're smarter than you let on."

"Give it a rest, Alfred. I'm off to return this report to Grayson. Go watch a movie."

"With pleasure, my liege."

Tim rolled his eyes and sighed as he pulled on his cowl and headed for the Batmobile.

****

She looks so beautiful, he thought, staring at her red hair, glimmering in the light of the setting sun. Completely happy, content; like there was nothing in the whole world that could destroy this moment for her.

Oh, how he longed to make that true; to capture this moment in time, to wrap it up in a bow, and present her with it... To immortalize her feelings of pleasure. Such a thing would be the greatest gift one such as he could bestow. And he would give it to her, yes he would...

****

Mark Grayson walked into his office with a hot cup of coffee and a cold stare. Sitting in his chair, feet rested on his desk, was the Batman, holding aloft the report he'd borrowed on the previous day...

"Man of your word. Nice change of pace."

"If you can't trust Batman, who can you trust?"

"Get out of my chair."

The Bat moved for Grayson, leaving the report on the desk and heading to the corner of the room in one fluid motion.

"Wasn't much to go on," Batman said.

"Didn't say it was. Thought maybe the 'World's Greatest Detective' would catch something."

"It's possible that they're just random murders."

"Yeah, I love those; so much more fun to solve when you have no pattern to follow."

"Who'd you put on this case?"

"Jon Isaacs, Paul Chandler."

"Why them?"

"Because they're good, they're sharp, and they didn't vomit on sight of the first victim."

"Always a plus."

"Yeah, I..." Mark turned to find himself talking to an empty room. The Bat had disappeared, just like in the days of yore. And why not? It fit the man's M.O.

Grayson was surprised to discover that he enjoyed talking to this Bat; completing the circle, perhaps. One of Gotham's most famous Commissioners, James Gordon, had worked closely with the first Batman... maybe it was part of the job description. Maybe not. But Mark had already decided that this man was not to blame for his father's death... no use holding it against him.

But he was still on probation. Mark didn't trust him yet.

****

Jon Isaacs was massaging his leg when he heard a rap-tap-tapping on his window. He got up, grabbed his gun, and ever so calmly limped over to the window to see what it was.

"Geez!" Isaacs said, practically falling back at the sight of the giant red bat on a black costume that filled his window. A bat that was, seconds later, in his apartment.

"You should get that window fixed," the Bat said. "Anybody could just waltz in."

"We're fourteen stories up!"

"Okay, fine. They'd have to tango. Detective Isaacs, I presume?" The Bat asked, offering his hand, which was not accepted.

"Yeah, that's me. And you are?" Isaacs asked, sitting down once more.

"The Ghost of Christmas Past. You're the one working these Jack O' lantern murders?"

"One of 'em. Paul Chandler..."

"Isn't home. Checked. Nice place, though. You guys have any leads?"

"You're kidding, right?"

"I'm afraid not. The job description specifically demands no sense of humor."

Isaacs stared at the red bat a while, transfixed, unsure of what to make of the situation.

"Look, Detective. I'd like to stay here and play these wonderful games, but I have a job to do -- okay? I have to find this guy who's doing the slice n' dice work, and I have to put him in a hurt locker. Now, then..."

"Who says we need your help?"

"A little bird told me."

"Let me guess -- was it a robin? Get outta my place."

Isaacs had made a decision. This guy knew about as much about detection as a chimp -- cheap muscle in a fancy suit. He'd be a whole lotta help tracking down this sicko, oh yeah. For all Isaacs knew, this guy WAS the sicko. Or worse, he was what attracted 'em. In any case, Bat news is bad news. Isaacs looked up once more to an open window, curtains fluttering in the breeze, and an empty apartment, which was as it should be.

Isaacs sat back, took a deep breath, and relaxed, trying to ignore the pain that still shot through his leg periodically, damn Patriot psychos -- wasn't anyone normal anymore? -- when the teleline went off. Oh joy, the whacko strikes again. Isaacs sighed and stood again, limping into his room to get better dressed for the freezing rain he heard tacking along outside.

****

Floating. He felt like he was floating. In complete darkness, yet, as though he were still in the womb. At least, that's the comparison that would be running through his mind, if only he could hold onto consciousness for more than a second at a time. How long had he been here now? No way to tell. Each time he lapsed off, he may as well say a thousand years as fifteen seconds. Where was he?

And was he dead?

****

Detective Paul Chandler was on the scene like the Flash himself, quick as lightning. What he saw was even more disturbing than the scene at the zoo a couple of days earlier.

The poor woman.

They found her on the Gotham Running Club. Crucified to the side of the building, that same damn grin sliced into her pale skin, tearing a little more with the force of the rain that had just started. Grunts were getting a tarp over the scene to keep the rain from destroying too much of the evidence; leaving Paul to wish it COULD be destroyed.

The crucifixion wasn't all. There was another message:

'Don't crucify yourself over this, darling. I only have eyes for you.'

The victim's eyes hadn't turned up yet.

"What do we have here?" Chandler could hear Isaacs ask as he limped up to stand alongside him.

"A real beaut, Jon. More of the same."

"We know who she is?"

"Yep. The perp stapled her ID to her chest."

Paul handed the card, sealed in its little plastic evidence bag, over to Isaacs, who looked closely at it, nodding.

"What'd she do?"

"Lawyer. Liked running at this club an awful lot, or so one of the employees here tells me."

"Entertainment law?"

"Nope. Strictly the big stuff -- wheeler dealer."

"Any connection to any of the other victims?"

"Not offhand."

"Dammit!"

"You'd better relax, detective. Grounds for an ulcer for sure."

Isaacs closed his eyes. He recognized the baritone voice immediately; he'd been followed. Paul Chandler did turn around, however...

"Geez!"

"Good evening, detective. You've got a nice place."

"What?"

"Never mind. What can you tell me about this?" Batman asked, motioning to the victim.

"She's dead, Bats." Isaacs said, impatiently. "What are you doing here?"

"Blame Robin," Batman said, ignoring Isaacs completely. "Now, Detective Chandler -- what can you tell me?"

Chandler related everything to Batman, who nodded, thanked him politely, took a quick gander at the woman, and disappeared back into the night.

"Chandler, what the hell was that?"

"What do you mean, Jon?"

"He is not a cop, okay? You do not cooperate or volunteer information!"

"What did you want me to do? It was Batman!"

"That was not Batman."

"You're right, Jon. I'll never know why I didn't see through his clever ruse."

****

"I had a wonderful time."

"Me too."

"How long are you in town for?"

"I may be sticking around a while."

"Are you sure I can't get you some coffee?"

"No thanks, Holly. You need your sleep. Good night."

"Night," Patty said, closing her apartment door and shrinking to the floor. She was in love again...

****

"Yeah, I know. Sickos. Haven't got her eyes yet, but... yeah. Yeah, I know. How goes the search for your mystery man? Really. Well, keep workin' on it, something'll turn up. Yeah. I'll talk to you later. Seeya... and say hi to Marc for me, all right? Later."

"Who was that, Chandler?" Isaacs asked, limping over to his partner with a fresh cup of mud-colored coffee and a partially stale cruller that couldn't have been more than two or three days old.

"My cousin, Jon. He's with Kingston PD, workin' on some stuff..."

"Beautiful. Do you have any relatives that aren't cops?"

"Old family motto: 'If there isn't a Chandler, it's not a police force.'"

"Well, at least you know enough to have the Department pick up the long distance bill."

"As any prudent Gothamite would. We have any new leads?"

"Call me when you get back from Fantasyland, Chandler. We got dick."

"Terrific. I love these types of cases." Isaacs took a long sip of his coffee, heard the teleline ring, and let Chandler answer it. The younger detective's face slowly drained of color, and Isaacs noticed him reach out and press the speaker button.

The voice on the other end of the line was deep and heavily accented in a way that would make one assume it was being faked. Naturally, the visuals had been cut off.

"Ooh," the voice said. "Sounds like you've put me on speakerphone! That's fine, I don't mind sharing. But listen up, 'cause I's only gonna say this once: I can hold all, but none can hold me. You can be in me, on me, through me, or under me. What am I?"

And then the line went dead.

"What in the hell was that?" Isaacs said, practically choking on the pastry that he'd been trying to chew.

"Said he was our guy."

"Did you trace it?"

"I tried."

"Great. What did he mean with that - what was it - riddle?"

"I don't know."

"Great. Great, great, great. I need to be drunk, now."

****

The sun peeked slowly through Patty's windows, kissing her awake with its generous warmth. She smiled, with thoughts of the previous evening still lingering in the front of her mind. Grover Bowles... she hadn't seen him since college, even though he'd stuck around in Gotham until at least four years ago.

He still had the same effect on her, too... he made everything feel like magic for her in a way that no one else ever could.

And she was glad he was back. Hell, she was ecstatic! Giddy as a schoolgirl which, by the way, she was a long way from. She'd take these emotions whenever she could get them -- they came fewer and farther between as a lawyer for some of the Big Boys of the Gotham business world.

He came back!

****

Why did he have to go and call the cops, anyway? It didn't make any sense. But what was the fun in winning if you were so far ahead of everyone else that no one could see you beating them? The victory was so much sweeter for the tortoise, after all, when he saw the horror in the hare's eyes, racing with all his might to catch up.

The only question was whether the cops would find his little clue in time. He'd hate to have to give them another freebie, after all. Why should he do their work as well?

****

"I'm telling you, commissioner, we NEED to reinstall it!" Paul Chandler said, leaning as far as he dared over the Grayson's desk, locking eyes with his superior.

"We don't need the batsignal, detective."

"And what should happen if we need to call Batman? We have him, we may as well use him!"

"For what, a riddle? Why don't you tell it to me again, Paul."

Paul Chandler relayed the riddle from the phone call to the commissioner, watching the older man nod his head.

"Is that it?"

"That's it, sir."

"Paul, what attracted you to homicide detection in the first place?"

"I want to stop murders. Like this."

"Then use your head, Paul. You don't need Batman to help you here, and there's no way I'm going to install that damned spotlight to aid in your hero worship. The answer to the riddle is water, Paul."

"It's not hero worship, sir..."

"It is, Paul, when something so simple blinds you to serve as an excuse to bring in the Bat, we call that a form of hero worship. We don't need him to do this, Paul. We're not as reliant on a vigilante as the cops of the 20th were. Now go do some detecting, check aquariums, docks, anything and everything you can think of that has to do with water. Go."

Paul watched the commissioner go back to his computer, dismissing him completely. Everything about him was screaming wrong call, but Paul himself said nothing. He just stared at the wall for a moment, spun on his heel, and left the room.

****

"Mr. Tuscotti? I have a call holding for you on line one -- it's a Mr. Holmes?"

"Patch it though, Helena."

"Yes sir."

"Well, Mr. Holmes," Angel Tuscotti said aloud, "What can I do for you?"

"It's about your boy, Merani. I feel that I should warn you, as a friend, that he's not entirely stable."

"That's always been his most redeeming quality."

"He's gotten to be a little over-obsessive, in my opinion, about this Bat-character. I believe his obsession may cause him to become a liability to you, sir, and therefore to me."

"You think so?"

"I think so."

"Very well, I'll get right on it."

"I'd appreciate it."

"Good day to you, Mr. Holmes."

"Mr. Tuscotti."

The two men simultaneously disconnected their telelines. Angel Tuscotti sat down and picked up his new cat, stroking it gently, annoyed at having to kill another one of his most important employees for no particular reason. Merani wanted to kill him, naturally, and take over the empire that he'd built... but the man was only a lawyer -- completely capable of thinking up nasty little plans, less than capable when the time comes to execute them. Why was Holmes so paranoid?

Alucard Holmes looked out at the ocean, shaking his head. He hated playing the fool, but this was the quality of people with which he sometimes had to deal. They trusted no one, not even themselves; and would kill their own parents if they were convinced that there was some kind of a plot involved against them.

At least these people were predictable.

Still, it grated at his nerves to act in such a manner... To use gossip and paranoia as weaponry.

"When in Rome," Alucard sighed, watching the sunlight dance upon the waves.

****

"What are you telling me, Tim?"

"I'm telling you what I think. You're ready, Ennis. More ready than I am."

"I... but I..."

Tim smiled as he got out from behind his desk and stood next to Ennis Hobbs.

"Ennis, I'm just not the kind of guy that does well running a business directly. I've always been more of the behind the scenes type... y'know? I think Dad appointing me head of Drake Industries was a mere technicality. You're the best man for the job -- hell, you're doing it NOW. I've been to two meetings, and to tell you the truth, I think this is the first time I've ever been in this office." Tim smiled, looking around the room. "Make sure whoever decorated it gets a raise, boss-man."

"Tim, I can't..."

"You can't what? Run the company? You said it yourself a million times, Ennis -- you DO run the company. You make most of the tough decisions, man. I just sign the checks."

"I was joking!"

"I'm not," Tim said, extending his hand. "You are the best man for the job, Ennis, and Drake Industries deserves the best."

Ennis Hobbs looked Tim Drake directly in the eye, looking for some sign of jest, anything. He found, instead, the conviction of a man that made up his mind. Tim's hand was still there, waiting to seal the deal. Ennis hugged him instead. The young man had just put a lot of faith in him, he didn't know how else to react.

"Ennis? Ennis. I can't breathe..."

"Sorry, boss..." Ennis said, releasing Tim from his embrace.

"No sweat, En... Talk to you later."

Tim smiled and left the room.

****

He was awake longer today. It was becoming easier to concentrate. Soon, he'd remember everything. And with the recollection would come comfort; even a little light would be welcome in the dark he found himself in.

He'd decided, at the very least, that he wasn't dead. How could he be? This was neither Heaven nor Hell; and he refused to believe that, after all he'd seen -- or believed he'd seen -- that death was nothingness. He could still feel his body in the void, and could think when he was awake, and dream when he was not. He must still be alive... But where WAS he?

He was unconscious again before the thought could be completed. Perhaps the answer would come in a dream...

****

Paul was beginning to get disgusted. They'd checked everywhere. Everywhere that they could think of that had to do with water, and they'd found NOTHING. Paul was sure that the answer was there -- this guy wanted an audience, one that wasn't accidental. So what wasn't he getting, anyway? What was missing from the puzzle? The answer was water, but... Ice.

The answer to the riddle was water, and they were looking for eyes! Eyes, ice... It was a pun! He had them barking up the wrong tree the entire time!

Paul thought it was worth looking into -- everything else had came up nil. So he phoned it in, only to discover that he'd been correct.

There had been another murder.

****

Grover Bowles entered his suite at the Gotham Hilton, throwing his coat on a convenient chair. He hadn't expected to run in to Patty again. That was a pleasant surprise. He'd come, after all, for someone else -- but hey, life is nothing without a surprise or two every now and again. It had been a nice evening, consequently. Pity he couldn't have made an all-nighter out of it, but duty had called, after all.

It was funny, being in Gotham again. As much as he'd enjoyed his time in Antarctica, he'd missed his old hometown. 'Sides, he was running a little short on funds. The Pole was not a cheap place to live, after all. Time to dip into that giant piggy bank of life one more time...

****

It was at Celebrity Center, home of the Gotham Angels, envy of the NorAm Hockey League.

Thomas Benmont had spent millions to bring the team to Gotham, certain that hockey would bring in spectators, broadcasting contracts, money, money, money. And he'd been right. So what if he'd been a little bit less than scrupulous in his negotiations? Who wouldn't be? Sports, after all, were still very much en vogue as an escape - people LOVED seeing the events, and even more, they loved BETTING on them. It was the perfect business.

And it had made him happy. So happy, that he spent much of his time down at the rink. Today, he decided he'd go for a skate. Why not? He owned the place.

But Benmont was not alone, and never heard the stranger sneak up behind him as he sat down to put on his skates...

Paul Chandler looked down upon the body of Thomas Benmont. He too, came with a note -- this time, on paper. It read: 'I hope you don't mind -- but since I was here, I took ol' Tommy B. for a spin. Smiles!'

A janitor had found Benmont, circling the rink in the Zamboni. Behind, actually. He was being dragged behind the machine. His face bore the same rictus as the others, and the eyes of the previous victim, Andrea Hanson, had been found in his hands.

Paul felt himself getting angry again. This murderer was making a fool out of him; four murders in less than a week. Isaacs wasn't here yet; but no matter...

He'd close this one up himself. After that, he had some special arrangements to make, and damn anyone who disagreed.

****

"WHAT?" Tino yelled into his teleline. " You want me to go to DETROIT? There's a friggin' gang war goin' on out that way!"

"I understand your concerns, Tino. But you really are the best man for the job."

"I do not appreciate this, Mr. Tuscotti. I think you should send someone else."

"Can't do it, Tino. Has to be you. Have a good flight, now." Angel disconnected, leaving Tino fuming on the other end.

"What the hell is going ON here?" Tino hollered, although he knew. He was being set up -- there was nothing on this earth that couldn't be done by someone else except die. That's the only thing he could think of.

He had to think fast; how could he get out of this? Perhaps he could take the flight to Detroit and disappear; a little creativity on his part and he could set himself up with some capitol and start something of his own, start fresh, and take Angel down that way. Yeah. It was worth looking into, after all -- he was a dead man otherwise.

****

"You QUIT, Master Tim?"

"Not really, Alfred. I just freed up some time, is all."

"I really don't understand."

"It works like this, Alfred -- I still have a say in the important things. I still make a lot of money. However now, I don't have to make an appearance every few days at the office if I don't want to, and meetings are a thing of the past. If anything, I've helped the company by putting Hobbs in charge."

"And what will you be doing with all of your extra time?"

"What do you thi... whoah!"

The cave sighed and shrugged; it looked as if it were about to fold in on itself -- as a matter of fact, that's EXACTLY what it was doing. But the funny thing was, it wasn't an earthquake that was doing it... it wasn't natural at all, whatever it was. The world just sort of bent for a moment, a bright light enveloped the entirety of Tim's field of vision, and all was normal once more.

But there had been an addition to the cave... a strange, shimmering orb, sitting in the center of the cave, crackling with energy. It looked man made.

Quickly, Tim pulled his cowl over his face, and just in time, too... he had no sooner got it into place when the orb split open, allowing its sole passenger access to the cave...

****

He was in his early forties at least, as far as Tim could tell, his blond hair streaked with dashes of gray. Pale blue eyes squinted under the cave's fluorescent lighting, fighting for focus.

At long last, the stranger stood and ventured out of the safety the orb provided. One step... two... And then he dropped to his knees like a repentant man.

"It didn't work! Oh, God, it didn't work!"

Tears began to soak his scarred flesh, flowing down his cheeks and sticking in the ratty beard that hung on his face like some unholy parasite before finally falling to the floor.

"Excuse me, sir, but what exactly didn't work?" The bodiless voice of Alfred asked, echoing through the cave and startling the newcomer.

"W-who's there?" He asked in a hoarse cough, clearly startled.

"That's just Alfred. Don't mind him. The question is - who are you?"

The man looked to the direction of Batman's voice, his eyes drawn immediately to the red bat emblazoned on Tim's chest.

"Bruce!"

"Bruce?" Tim repeated in shock.

"Don't you get it, Master... er... he thinks your name is Bruce!" Alfred chimed in, intrigued.

"I got it, Alfred, thank you. This means that our guest here would know that Bruce Wayne was Batman."

"What do you mean, 'was'?" The stranger asked. "And why are you discussing me like I'm not even here? And who is 'Alfred?'"

"That's a lot of questions for a trespasser," Alfred replied, ever the master of decorum.

"Alfred, get this man some coffee. How do ya take it?"

"How do I... coffee?" The stranger looked around the cave, still dazed.

"Got a beer?" he asked finally, staring at Tim dead on.

Tim laughed. "Sure. Alfred, two beers."

"I always thought that you weren't supposed to drink while on-duty, Master... er, Bat."

"Two beers, Alfred. Imported?"

"Domestic."

"And he likes to live dangerously."

"So speaketh the Batman," Alfred's voice sarcastically muttered, fading into the distance.

****

"I don't know, sir..."

"Officer Petty, this will be my responsibility. Just do as you are asked."

"Yes sir, Detective."

"That's what I like to hear."

Paul Chandler was nervous. He'd been nervous ever since he'd gotten the idea, but what the hell -- he was young. What was youth for but to 'go for it?' This, however, is a direct violation of standing orders of the commissioner of police...

...Which means that it's probably not the best of ideas. It was a gamble -- and a big one. Lucky for Paul, he liked to gamble. But if he fares as well in this venture as he did in Vegas, he may as well slip the noose on now.

****

It wasn't Christmas. No, that had been finished with weeks ago. But he felt like Santa! Yes he did. Santa Claus, the man in the little red suit. Perhaps he should get one? Might be nice. In corduroy. He smiled at the thought, making another check mark on his list. His little list of those who had been naughty, caught, and punished. His little list of people whom he was trying to help -- making them happy before he ended their unfair punishments. His little list of people that was halfway finished. Jessie Davis, Barton Surr, Andrea Hanson, and special bonus consolation prize, Thomas Benmont! And, of course, throughout it all, the cops still hadn't done enough detection to make this game INTERESTING. After all, how would they catch the evil bastard that was terrorizing the population (or would be, if he'd ever made the news) if they couldn't even put together a string of seemingly random murders? Was he going to have to call them again? Were they that dumb?

Hmmm...

Chicken or pork for dinner?

****

"So what's your name?" Tim asked, nursing his first beer while the stranger was polishing off a third.

"B... Michael. Michael Carter."

"Michael Carter," Alfred repeated. "Accessing..."

"That name sounds familiar. You, uh, you been to Gotham before?"

"Was born here," Carter said, throwing back the rest of his beer and reaching for another out of the carton Alfred had provided.

"Not yet, you weren't," Alfred said. "Booster."

The name had a profound effect on the older man. He started laughing. And then crying. After a moment, he was just drinking. Again.

"Booster?" Tim asked, mildly puzzled. "Booster... Gold? I thought you were dead!"

"Yeah, well..." Booster replied, wiping his chin on his sleeve. "I'm working on it."

****

Grover was in the middle of a dream about Patty and himself in college when the teleline buzzed, effectively waking him. Slowly, Grover rose, rubbing his eyes, and answered.

"Whoooops! Did I catch you at a bad time, Grover?"

That voice...

"Who is this?" Grover asked in a whisper.

"You remember me, don't you, Grov? Of course you do. Just thought I'd let you know, I'm almost done with my little list... And then you're through. Capice?"

"I don't know what you're talking about... who is this?"

"Just like the pretty little ditty, Grover ol' boy... I'm a picker, I'm a grinner, I'm a lover, and I'm a sinner. Although, I don't speak of the pompatus of love quite as often... if someone can even tell me what the hell a pompatus IS... whoops! My casserole is done. We can't let it singe! Toodles, Mr. Bowles. We will meet again."

"What do you want from me?" Grover found himself yelling into the phone.

"Are you trying to pin these murders on me? Do you expect me to talk to the cops or something?"

"Do I expect you to talk?" The mysterious voice asked in a bad accent. "No, Mr. Bowles, I expect you to die. Oh! My dinner..."

And then the line was dead.

The line was dead, and Grover wished to God he had stayed in Antarctica. He wished he'd never gone to the casinos, he wished he hadn't blown his money, he wished he'd never come back to Gotham, where he could be so easily found.

But you know what they say about wishes...

****

"I thought all my problems were gone. I really did. I was a hero, I was a former member of the Justice League, and folks loved me. I knew the giants, man. And then I found out I was dying. Again. Second time the past has given me trouble in that area, but... that's all beside the point. I wanted to go home. Just go home and live out the rest of my short life."

Tim sat in silence, watching Carter drink and tell his tale.

"I mean, It was 2020. Superman? Gone. The world was on the verge of going nuts, just like in the history books - and I did NOT want to be around for that, at least not in my condition. So I turned to Bruce. I... he was one of the most brilliant men I knew. If it could be done, he could find a way to do it. I wanted to go home, and I felt that he could help me."

Another drink.

"So he gets hold of the machine that brought me here in the first place -- and it's fried. But he works on it. I don't know what he's doing with it, but I figure what the hell, let the man do his thing. And he got it to work... or rather, he got all the little gizmos and lights to turn on and act like they were working."

Carter takes a longer drink this time, and sighs. "And that was that. Bruce said everything was a go. All I had to do was jump in and press 'start.' Within a few minutes, I'd be back in the 24th century, where I belonged. I could die at home."

"What exactly is wrong with you?" Tim asked after waiting through nearly a full minute of silence.

"I HAVE NSR!" Carter yelled, launching out of his chair. "Neurological Synapse Regression!"

"There's no such..." Alfred began to say.

"It hasn't caught on yet, Mr. Ghost." Carter screamed in anger. "NSR doesn't even hit until the late 23rd century! It's incurable -- and I've got it! All I wanted was to go back home and disappear peacefully, but I can't even get tha---"

Carter collapsed to the floor, unconscious. One of Alfred's many tendrils hovered behind him, a syringe dripping from the center of its 'palm.'

"Mr. Carter was quite agitated," Alfred said. "I thought it best that he... sleep it off."

"You didn't help any, getting him drunk."

"It works better than truth serum. I felt perhaps he'd trust us more if..."

"Alfred? Don't even try to explain it. Just get Booster here into one of the guest rooms upstairs."

"And you, Master Tim? What will you be up to?"

"What do you think?" Tim replied, heading towards the Batmobile as Alfred picked up the unconscious hero.

"Typical," Alfred said. "He gets to go out and play, I get stuck with the dirty work. Come on, Mr. Carter, we have a very nice bed upstairs with your name on it..."

****

He had been awake longer today. Long enough to remember... the pain. Still he floated calmly in the sea of darkness, but images -- lights -- they were beginning to come into focus. He was getting his sight back. He could see more than just the blackness once again, and this made him feel good. Indeed he would have laughed if he could have made a sound, if he could have MOVED... but no. He was still paralyzed. And tired, so tired. The sleepiness crept upon him like a shadow in the night, taking him with a force unlike any he had never known before. Slowly, he was lulled back into his slumber, the lights beyond the blackness fading from view.

****

Booster Gold! He had Booster Gold in his house! Tim could hardly believe it as he wound his way through the Gotham sky, every sensor at his disposal searching for... something. He would catch this carving lunatic. He was the Batman, after all. Funny how the mind switched so easily from one subject to another, Tim thought, digressing once more before a blinking light brought him back to reality. He had something.

"Hover," Tim commanded the Batmobile, causing the vehicle to freeze in space. "Relay," Tim said. The Batmobile's internal computer board lit up, relaying the nature of the emergency. An assault weapon had been detected -- an IR74-LX, otherwise known as a 'Thundermaker,' on the streets below. It could put a hole through six inches of solid concrete easy at low power.

And this thing, according to the computer, was set at 'high.' Terrific, Tim thought, an amateur with a big gun. Tim hated guns.

"Open," Tim said in the Batman's deep baritone. The Batmobile complied, opening its hatch, allowing the night air to rush in... and the Batman to leap out.

Tim could hear the song of the wind as he cleaved through it, unfurling his cape into an almost glider form, slowing his descent. Tim could see the Thundermaker now as he approached the ground. Two idiots... and...

****

...Patty knew that she had made a big mistake the minute she heard the whine of the weapon.

She had been shopping in Lowtown, lost in thoughts of Grover and her and the life they could still have together... not watching where she was going, she made a wrong turn... and came aboveground in Maximillian Heights, a completely safe area of town... in the daytime.

Why hadn't she paid attention?

'Cause Love makes you blind as well.

"I think we should play with this one a little, Popper. What'chu think?" One of the two thugs, a guy with the word 'Bick' tattooed on his forehead, asked.

"I think it's a good idea." The other thug, Popper, replied.

"'Course it is, I thought of it."

"Well hurry up and do 'er so I can and we can get out of here."

"You got it," Bick said, undoing his pants.

****

Batman saw it as he floated down. The two were preparing to rape her. Rape. Bile charged up Tim's throat and he felt his entire body tense up. Nothing made him angrier. Only three and a half stories to the ground, Tim thought. The idiots are hyped up over their impending conquest, the woman is transfixed with fear. No one's thought to look up yet. Two and a half. Time to speed this up. Tim releases the safety mechanism on his cloak, returning it to its status as... a cape. Tim increased his speed, letting out a cry as he plummeted towards the men below.

****

"What the hell was that?" Bick asked, half undressed. "Sounds like it came from... OH, GOD!"

A shadow wearing only a dark red Bat was hurtling towards him, howling like a banshee.

"SHOOT IT! SHOOT IT!" Bick found himself yelling as the shadow crashed into him, pinning him to the ground, at the same time throwing some kinda boomerang at Popper... A bat-shaped boomerang. A bat-shaped boomerang that rendered Popper unconscious -- or dead -- the minute it made contact with him.

"Concentrated nerve poison," The shadow said in a low whisper. "He'll live. In pain. For the rest of his life."

Bick could feel tears pouring from his eyes, which had long since swelled shut, and he was sure that he'd wet his jockeys. But he couldn't feel anything else. The Batman had made sure of that as he pounded on Bick mercilessly, landing blow after blow... after blow... after blow...

"You're killing him!" Patty yelped in horror.

The sudden scream made Tim take another look at the man he was beating. He couldn't have been any more than 17, 18. And Tim had severely pummeled him. He didn't look like he was breathing.

Slowly, Tim reached out and took the boy's pulse... very faint. What had come over him? Why had he done this?

"Call an ambulance," Tim said to Patty, his Batman voice wavering slightly. "Now." Patty took out her personal communicator and dialed 9112. In the meantime, Batman looked at the two boys. Something wasn't making sense, wasn't adding up. He'd nailed the gunman with a batarang. The gunman was back, and to his left. And he'd hit him - with little more than a glance. That was just... wrong. Tim had always sucked at darts, basketball... his aim was terrible. And yet, he'd hit this kid on his first try without even thinking about it. What was going on here?

****

Patty couldn't believe this. She'd heard the rumors of a new Bat in Gotham City, she'd seen the picture in the papers, but brushed it off as a publicity stunt, like that War of the Worlds was back in the 20th.

But here he was, big as life and beating two children. How could he do that? They were children! With a little bit of talking, Patty was sure she could have convinced them to just go home. And if not, she had the Remington Special in her purse. All she had needed was a second to think and...

"Oh, my God." Patty said, looking skyward. What was wrong with this picture? What's there that wasn't there before? Could it be the bright beacon of light hanging in the sky, with the sign of the Bat emblazoned in the center?

And where had Batman gone?

****

Paul looked on with pride as the signal went out above the Gotham skyline, a symbol for the people. Batman was back in town, helping make the streets safer. Morale should go up a bit. And maybe, just maybe, the damn thing would bring this new Batman his way for a chat. After all, it's not like he's listed in the phone book.

"And just what the hell is this, Detective Chandler?"

"Commissioner Grayson, I was going to tell you..." Paul said, spinning to face the commissioner who was sitting calmly on the edge of the roof, a cigarette in his mouth.

"Do tell," Grayson continued, letting out a mouthful of smoke.

"I got a call from the killer. He wants Batman in on this."

"Oh, really."

"I swear, sir, he's got some sick obsession with the Batman. He wants him on this case."

"And just why would he want that?"

Why would he want that? Cripes, Paul thought, I'm digging my way in deeper, here... waitaminnit!

"Look at his M.O., sir, cutting people's faces into a smile? It's obvious what's going on here."

"It is, eh?"

"He's emulating the Joker. You know, Joker? Criminal of the twenti--"

"I took criminal psychology in college like every other cop here, Chandler. I know who the Joker is."

"Yes, right, well... that Joker was obsessed with Batman -- who says this one isn't too, just to keep up the fa�ade?"

Mark Grayson sighed and tossed the remnants of his cigarette over the side of the building.

"Someone around here's obsessed, all right," Grayson mumbled. "Okay, Chandler -- you win. I'll allow the signal for now... until we have this nut off our streets -- and no longer, got it?"

"Yes sir!" Paul said, with, perhaps, a little more enthusiasm than he should have.

****

Never in a million years did Tim think that they'd use the bat-signal. Seeing it there, in the sky, made him feel somewhat justified... and ashamed. He couldn't go to the cops now, not after what he did tonight. Why did he do that? What was happening to him? He had never been overly violent before... he'd always been rather easygoing. But this... this was the second time a rape had figured into it, and was the second time he'd lost himself to rage. There was a connection there, but that didn't explain the sudden bat-skills.

What was going on?

****

"Master Tim, an Ennis Hobbs is holding on line one," Alfred said to Tim the moment he hit the floors of Wayne Manor.

"Thanks Alfred," Tim said, picking up the nearest teleline and depressing the button labeled '1.' In seconds, Ennis' smiling face was on the screen before Tim.

"Ennis, you're smiling."

"Why is that a problem, Tim?"

"When you smile on the phone, En, that means BAD news," Tim said, sighing. "All right, I'm ready. Spill it."

"We've been summoned to Metropolis," Ennis began.

"What, aw no!"

"I know how you feel, Tim, but..."

"I don't wanna go, En, I..."

"Tim, Alexi Luthor wants to see us. Both of us. He specifically requested that you be present, as a matter of fact. Hoverlim's on the way out to your place already. I tried to talk him out of it, but..."

"No, I understand. If I don't go, the bastard engineers some kind of hardship on the Q.T. I'll get ready."

"Thanks, Tim. See you in an hour," Ennis said in closing, disconnecting.

"Batman, I presume?"

The voice came from behind Tim. Carter. Tim turned, sure enough, to find the older man, dressed in some of his clothes, leaning against the doorway, a smirk on his lips and a cup of coffee in his hand.

"I don't suppose I can deny it with the cape hanging out below my robe," Tim said, extending his hand. "Tim Drake."

Carter shook his hand.

"So I hear you're off to Metropolis."

"Much to my own personal joy."

"Don't care for the city of hopes and dreams that much, eh?"

"I care for it like I'd care for another hole in my head."

"Touching."

"That's me, Mr. Touching. Run, quickly, I may have a Hallmark moment at any time now. Save the children! I'll take care of the women myself."

"Bwa-hah-ha!" Carter laughed, spewing coffee all over Tim's robe. "Are you sure you're Batman?"

"Not really," Tim answered.

"You don't look so good, if you don't mind me saying," Carter said, after a moment.

"Like I said, not to into this little trip. I don't like leaving Gotham."

"Now that sounds more like your predecessor. Hey, if you want, I can watch your city for you..."

"What?"

"Gives me something to do. I mean you'll be gone, what, a day? I can handle a day! C'mon, Tim -- give me something to do that'll take my mind of this dying problem I have!"

Tim considered this. He'd only be gone a day or two. Booster Gold was more than capable of looking after his city for that period of time. Besides; what could possibly happen? Why not?

Although, after meeting Guy and now Booster, Tim was afraid he was attracting all the septuagenarian heroes... when were the babes gonna come calling? But enough of that, he had to get ready to go to -- ugh -- Metropolis.

"Okay, Booster, you got the job. Alfred'll get you anything you need, I'll be back in a day or two." [Editor's note: You wanna know what went down in Metropolis and beyond? Grab a look at Adventures of Superman #3 and Warrior #3!]

****

TWO DAYS LATER...

****

"I'm telling you commissioner, he is out of control."

"And I respect your opinion, Ms. Hollander, but seriously, the man saved your life."

"He killed two boys! Innocent boys!"

"Innocent? Ma'am, had someone not intervened you would have been another statistic. End of story. What were you doing in that part of town after dark, anyway? You're smart enough to know better, aren't you? And they're not dead, by the way."

"I demand, commissioner, that you put a task force on this so-called Batman. Now."

"As a concerned citizen, right?"

"Right."

"Sorry, Ms. Hollander, no dice. He may be a vigilante, but all he's done so far is save lives. I do not agree with all of his methods, and let me make that clear, but so far, the ends have justified the means and there has been no life lost. I'm willing to cut some slack until he starts..."

"You aren't listening to me! He was like a wild animal! He almost killed..."

"...Those who would have violated and then killed you, Ms. Hollander. I'm tired of this conversation. I don't have manpower to waste going after Batman now, do you understand that? He's not even CLOSE to a priority for me... hell, he's been helping us out with the petty criminals, freeing us up for the big fish. I see the look on your face, Ms. Hollander, and I understand your position. But I don't have the time for this, all right? Thank you for your concern."

"But..."

"Thank you for your concern, Ms. Hollander. Good day." And with that, Mark Grayson turned his back to the woman that for the last half-hour had been complaining, complaining, complaining. Wasn't this why he'd never gotten married? He heard her make a sound of complete frustration and storm out of the room. And then...

"I agree with her, boss. That guy ain't right in the head. Dresses up in a cape, after all."

Jon Isaacs was leaning on his cane in the doorway, a cigarette dangling from his lips. The aromatic scent of smoke caught Grayson's attention before his detective did.

"No smoking in the building, Jon. You know that."

"Sue me, it's for the pain." The detective limped his way over and sat in the chair that, up until a moment ago, Patty Hollander had been occupying. He sank in with a satisfying sigh, and then coughed. "What the hell -- does that chick bathe in perfume or what? Ah, geez."

"So what brings you from under your rock, Jon?"

"I got a break, boss. These little smiley-wiley cases? I did a little digging, sung a little song..."

"...And danced a little dance..."

"Not with this leg, boss. But I might consider it if we break this thing."

"All right, what do you have for me?"

"A connection between all of the victims."

This grabbed hold of Mark's attention. This case unnerved him, as it was so far beyond the normal collection of thieves, rapists, and killers that he was used to dealing with. He felt a personal connection to this, moreso than anything else. Why, he didn't know.

"You ready for this? They were all being blackmailed... each of the victims periodically shunted cash off to an account in Old Switzerland. And they weren't the only ones doin' it, either."

"Do we know who the account belongs to?"

"'Course we do -- they keep some damn fine records over there. Guy by the name of Grover Bowles. Antarctic resident, but a native of the big G, here."

"Can we get a hold of him?"

"Hey boss, get ready to be happy..."

****

Sometimes it paid to be an anonymous informant, he thought. It also never hurt to know your opponent, in this case, the GCPD. They were desperate for a break in these grisly murders... they'd take what they were fed; it was all a matter of psychology. Grover was going down.

And it almost made him feel like laughing.

****

"So, Mr. Gold, what's it like?" Alfred asked as Michael Carter jogged on the treadmill in the Batcave.

"Two things, Mr. Ghost -- first off, I don't go by 'Booster Gold' anymore. Second, what is what like? I'm not psychic, over here..." Carter said through a near wheeze, after running only an hour.

"What's it like, being a fossil before you were even born?"

"Let me ask you something, Mr. Ghost - who holds your patent?"

"Accessing... Kord Technologies."

"Figures."

Suddenly, a small alarm went off in the cave, causing Carter to jump from the treadmill midstride.

"What the hell is that?"

"Oh, that -- it's a Batsignal alert. It always gave Master Bruce knowledge of the signal's presence when he was to busy down here to check... I reinstalled it after hearing on the news that they're using it again."

"So what you're saying is, basically, we get a beep when they flip the light on."

"I see your disease has not yet affected at least one part of your brain."

"You think maybe I could just call you 'Beetle'?"

"Whatever for?"

"Never mind. I'm going to answer this call. My old stuff should be in storage around here -- you know where it is, maybe?"

"Accessing... yes, sir, I do. But do you really think it's wise to go traipsing off like this?"

"Not really. But I gave Bats my word -- and I gotta keep at least ONE promise before I die. 'Sides, if I hang around here much longer, I think I'm gonna go nuts." Carter added with a smile.

"Oh, perish the thought."

****

Grover Bowles was in the middle of a very nice massage when the cops busted in with a warrant for his arrest. Before he even had time to ask for the charges, he'd already traded the svelte Danish girl that had been riding his back for a pair of Latino roughnecks in GCPD grunt uniforms, had some clothes thrown on him, and was tossed into a GCPD paddy wagon. Five minutes was all it took.

****

Booster felt the cool night air brush against his face. Lord but it felt good to be flying after so many months... it actually helped him to forget his little... problem. NSR. How could he have gotten it? It hadn't been -- and still wasn't -- an epidemic... or even a problem. Not until the 2450's, and if he'd gotten it back then, he'd have been dead long before his career as America's favorite super hero had ever begun.

Booster could see the source of the signal now. He circled around to the back and gently landed behind the lone manner of the beam. Carter snickered softly as he floated over to the man.

"Boo."

"YAAAAAAH!" The younger man yelped, lunging forward and tripping as he turned to see...

...Not Batman, that's for sure.

"Who are you?" The man, a detective by his badge, asked. Booster smiled again.

"I am Batman," Booster said in a horribly overdramatic voice. "Would you like to ride with Batman?"

The younger man didn't get the joke.

"What?"

"Never mind," Booster sighed. "Old commercial. Thought it'd be a tension breaker. How can I help you?"

"Excuse me?"

"Help. How... can... I... help. You know? I assume you turned the giant flashlight on for some reason besides nostalgia."

"Yeah, I did. Who are you?"

"Sorry," Carter said, extending his gloved hand. "Carter. Michael Carter."

"Paul Chandler," the younger man said, taking the proffered hand. "What are you doing here?"

"Saw the signal. Bats is a little... tied up, so I'm cutting him some slack. What'cha got?"

"It's not so much what we have, as what we don't have."

"Don't get cryptic on me, sonny. Just spit it out."

"I'm afraid I can't do that, Mr. Carter," Paul said.

"Why, because you don't trust me? Because you don't know me from Adam? All right..." Booster said, firing a small power blast to Paul's left, making the detective jump.

As Chandler looked on wide-eyed, Booster removed his power gauntlet and dropped it to the ground at his feet. "I could have killed you. But I didn't. Doesn't that say anything as to my moral character?"

"It says you're a lousy shot."

"Would you like me to try again?" Carter asked, bending towards the gauntlet.

"No, that's quite all right," Chandler said, his hand slowly moving towards his own weapon.

"Won't do ya any good, kid," Carter said, noticing the detective's play. "I got a forcefield, too. Now are you ready to talk or what? I don't have all night..."

****

It was just like in the old days, Detective Isaacs was thinking. In every crime novel or flick he'd ever seen, and several police stations as well. A sweaty suspect, a hot light, and a cigarette. Of course, this type of interrogation was not condoned by the United Policing Union, but so what? Damned if it wasn't effective. Isaacs smiled to himself and exhaled a stream of smoke towards his prey for the evening, one Grover Bowles.

"So, Grover -- can I call ya Grover? Grover, we got a lot on you, my friend. Blackmail's a dirty business, ain't it? Leaves a nasty trail... points to at least four murders, pal - not to mention you."

"I never killed anybody!" Grover protested.

"No? I have. It ain't a pretty sight. Course you do that whole jack o' lantern thing with 'em too -- didn't get into Halloween much as a kid, Grov?"

"I told you, I never killed anyone!"

"And next thing you know, you'll be telling me all about how you weren't blackmailing anyone, either."

"I... okay, I was."

"Ooh... color me shocked."

"It's not like that, I mean, I..." Grover sighed. He was tired, and he was caught. The cops knew about the blackmail... and the alternative to jail is the psycho that's been killing his 'accounts.' The psycho that locked his Swiss account from deposits and demanded Grover's immediate return to Gotham, lest he run out of funds...

And now he was in the hands of the cops... perfect. What else could he do? He had to protect himself... money was one thing, survival another. Grover was a businessman, perhaps he could cut a deal? Better to try and fail than to give up...

"Look, it all happened like this," Grover began as the detective lit another cigarette and leaned against the wall.

For an hour Grover talked. He told of how he discovered the secrets of others... secrets of murder for a role in a failed film, secrets of extramarital affairs, secrets of embezzlement. All secrets that people were willing to pay to keep buried.

For an hour Detective Jon Isaacs listened to the confession. After Grover at last fell silent, the two just looked at each other. There was nothing more for either man to say.

Jon Isaacs left the room.

****

"...And in other news, a private jet was recently recovered after being shot down over the Motown Stockade early last week, no survivors have been found..."

"Boring!" Alfred said, wondering what it would be like to yawn. The opening of a door, however, THAT recaptured his attention. Alfred shifted his attention to the foyer, where a smiling Tim Drake was found.

"Nice to have you back, Mast -- Dear God, what are you wearing?" Alfred said, noticing the black and red plaid suit that Tim had on. "This isn't another one of your clever attempts at humor, is it, sir?"

Tim didn't respond, still smiling, looking at a scrap of paper that he held in his hand with the conviction of a man possessed.

"Not even your attempts at wit can bother me today, Alfred... because I have this," Tim said, indicating the scrap of paper.

"And that is what, sir, an apology from the designer of your suit?"

"Not quite, Alfred, old boy. THIS is the number for Shannon Mitchells, the current Guess girl, supermodel extraordinaire."

"I'm waiting for the punchline, sir."

"No punchline to tell. Where's Booster?"

"Mr. Carter is out and about, sir."

"Out and about? Where could he possibly be?"

"He went to answer the call of the bat-signal, sir, as per your request."

"MY REQUEST? What the hell are you talking about? I never said that he should..."

"You left him charge of the city's protection during your absence, sir. He took that responsibility quite seriously."

"I didn't think anything was actually going to HAPPEN, Alfred! Why didn't you try to stop him?"

"I'm not psychic, Master Tim. I'm afraid I didn't detect your duplicity in this matter. A thousand pardons."

"Geez," Tim said, heading for the closest entrance to the Batcave, hidden behind an ancient grandfather clock, it's combination clock reset to the exact time of Tim's "birth" as the Batman -- 2:44.

As Tim began to suit up in the uniform of Gotham's avenger, his insecurities found a voice. "I can't let anything happen to Booster," Tim begins.

"I'm sure he can take care of himself, Master Tim. He has done this kind of thing before."

"Yeah, Alfred. In the peak of health. Right now he's got... whatever the hell he's got. He could collapse in mid-flight and end up on the streets, prime candidate for scavs and a rat buffet. He deserves better."

"Do I detect a certain amount of hero worship, sir?" Alfred asked, a smile in his voice.

"My father admired Booster Gold, Alfred. Of all the heroes that existed during the 20th, he was my pop's favorite. So yeah, I suppose a little of it rubbed off," Tim said, pulling the horned cowl over his head, completing his transformation. "But that really is beside the point."

"That explains your obvious and uncharacteristic pleasure in the revealing of your double identity, then. Show off."

"Whatever. Any ideas where he might have gone?"

"Try thinking clearly, Master Tim. He went to answer the signal, after all. But in case of just such an emergency, I implanted a tracking device in his tunic. You should be able to access it through the Batmobile."

"You're a lifesaver, Alfred," Tim said, heading for the Batmobile.

"Are you sure you don't want to bring your suit with you, Master Tim? Perhaps you'll need to disguise yourself as a pimp."

"Shut up, Alfred."

"I'm sure we could scrounge you up a hat..."

"Shut UP, Alfred."

"Keep it in mind, Master Tim."

****

Paul Chandler wound his ways through the halls of the GCPD headquarters, Michael Carter not far behind. It was hard for the cops not to stare at the tall man, dressed in the loud blue and gold uniform. Before long they came upon Jon Isaacs, who was getting himself a cup of coffee. Isaacs's reaction to Carter was almost non-existent.

"You found another nut in a costume, eh kid?" Isaacs asked, sipping his coffee.

"Yep. How goes it with the suspect?"

"Guy's a fruitcake, in my own humble opinion. Shrink's on the way."

"The 'shrink' is here, actually," a bored-sounding voice piped up. Isaacs turned to see a thin man dressed in a dark suit, smirking in a cocky 'don't you feel stupid' way.

"Well, welcome, Dr..." Paul began, extending his hand.

"Wight," the thin man replied, shaking hands. "Jeremy Wight. Okay! Shall we get down to business, then?"

****

Grover stared at the open window in the interrogation room. It was a psychological weapon the cops had been using against suspects since force field technology became so widely used. The basic premise was this; they attach a suspect with a band-Q bracelet, which activates the window's system. Any attempt to escape and the escapee winds up in two or more pieces. For everyone else, the window's just a window...

...An open window that was shut. Modern technology allowed such interesting paradoxes.

Grover heard the door open. He didn't care who it was.

"Long time no see," came the voice, one Grover recognized. He immediately looked up to see...

"Dr. Wight?"

"The one and only," the doctor said, smiling. "How have you been?"

"I've been... not so good, doc."

"Do tell."

Grover smiled. Years ago, this man had been his therapist. He'd seen him every week until... he'd begun his little 'fund raising' project. "When did you start working with the cops?"

"Recently, my friend. Just recently. How long has it been, Grover?"

"I don't know, doc - five, six years, maybe?"

"Only five years, Grover? Only five years since our last session when you stole some of my files, Grover, and began to blackmail some of my patients? MY PATIENTS!"

The blood drained from Grover's face. He knew.

"That file you stole also contained some research I was doing. Its loss got me fired, Grover. It's all your fault, you know. I haven't been able to help 'fix' people for five long years. All I've ever wanted to do was to help make sad people happy again, Grover, you know that. I told you on our first session. But instead, I'm stuck here at the police headquarters, dissecting lunatics and psychos... and it's ALL YOUR FAULT!"

Grover saw a glint... Wight had produced a wicked blade from his inside pocket.

"Don't worry, Grover. They don't know about this," the doctor said, indicating the blade. "Plastic. I guarantee you'll feel it."

Grover couldn't do anything but scream for his life.

****

The sound dampers in the interrogation room could only cover so much noise before something filtered through. Grover's screaming did the trick.

"What the hell?" Paul said.

"If that guy is causin' trouble again, I swear..." Isaacs muttered, his hand going for his gun.

The two cops opened the door to find Grover in Wight's clutches, the knife held high.

"FREEZE!" Paul yelled, drawing his own weapon. Dr. Wight looked up at the two cops and their gaudily clad companion, quickly hugging Grover closer to him and drawing the knife nearer to the man's throat in one smooth motion.

"Hey, doc, I know he's an annoying son of a bitch, but ya don't have to scare him to figure out if he's nuts!"

"He's the killer, you moron!" Grover blurted, his words carried on the wings of adrenaline and fear.

"Do tell," Isaacs said, wondering why subtle sarcasm flew right by some guys.

"You're the Joker killer?" Paul asked. The doctor's reaction was sudden and severe.

"I am NOT the Joker!" he yelled, plunging the blade into Grover's shoulder before replacing it at the man's throat. Grover's scream filled the GCPD headquarters. Cops of all shapes and sizes headed for the room. There was no way anyone was getting out that door now.

It is at that precise moment that Jeremy Wight snapped. The look in his eyes changed from reasonable man to lunatic. Michael Carter saw the shift, and knew the look... it reminded him of something his good buddy Beetle had gone through years ago...

...And it had required the services of a man called Nabu... er, Kent to fix it. The trip down memory lane concluded, Carter returned to the situation at hand. The doctor was dangerous now, and the hostage may not survive. What to do?

"You people just don't get it, do you? All I want is to make people happy! People need happiness these days and if they can't find it in life, then..."

Wight's speech was cut off by the thundering sound of a gun discharging... and the slump of Grover's now dead body dropping its full weight into his arms.

The whole floor, indeed, every cop within earshot, dropped into a dead silence. The smoking gun belonged to Detective Paul Chandler.

"Give yourself up," Chandler said in an even tone that cut eerily through the silence.

"You're insane, my dear detective. Insane. Am I next?" Wight poured on the eloquence as he edged his way to the window...

"Give yourself up," Paul repeated.

"No." The doctor said, taking the easy way out -- an eight story drop to oblivion. Jon Isaacs raced to the window.

"He's not there," Isaacs said. "He's ... gone."

Silence reigned for almost a complete five seconds before Paul found himself hoisted a good two feet off the ground, courtesy of one severely pissed Michael Carter.

"What the hell did you do that for, you idiot?"

"I don't know."

"You don't know? You... You... I..." Carter said not another word as he dropped Chandler and collapsed to the floor.

"Get a med unit in here!" Isaacs yelled to the crowd, crossing over to Chandler. "I agree with what ya did on a basic level, kid, even if you don't know why ya did it. But you still broke the law. I'm gonna have to take you into custody pending a hearing."

"I know the drill," Chandler said, handing over his weapon without a fuss. "Batman!"

The Dark Knight stood in the window that had, just moments before, swallowed Dr. Jeremy Wight whole. Observing the scene before him: A dead body on the floor, complete with messy exit wound and blood on the wall. A cop being taken into custody. And Booster!

Batman leapt from the sill and crossed the room in two strides, gently lifting the fallen hero.

"Hey, where do you think you're going with..." Isaacs started.

"None of your business, detective," Tim growled in a way that sent shivers, actual shivers, up the man's spine.

"We have a medical unit coming..."

"I can handle this." Tim said, exiting through the window, leaving the chaos behind him.

****

Back at Wayne Manor, Tim burst in, shouldering Booster.

"Alfred! Get Booster in a bed now! Set up an ICU, get what you need from the supplies in the cave. Take care of it! NOW!"

"Yes, sir." Alfred said, shocked at Tim's tone. Gently cradling Michael Carter in his tendrils, he brought the man upstairs, leaving Tim alone.

"I killed him." Tim whispered.

****

Epilogue 1

****

Dr. Wight recalled going through the window, but didn't feel the rush of air or the smack of concrete. Instead, he felt the plush comfort of an 18th century divan. Looking about, he found himself in what looked to be an 18th century drawing room.

"Welcome, Doctor," a voice came. Wight looked up. It was a white-haired man, dressed handsomely in a dark suit and red tie.

"Where am I?" Wight asked.

"You're in my home, Doctor. Oh, permit me," the man said, extending his hand, which gripped Wight's and felt as though it were stealing his soul. "My name is Neron, sir, and I believe I may be of some assistance to you..."

****

EPILOGUE 2

****

The year is 2498. The world is falling apart. Caleb Marion knows why. Booster Gold, hero of the twentieth century was dead, quite literally before his time. He'd passed on in 2113... and no one knew of it, except him.

Marion was a time traveler as well, and KNEW how the future should be, how the future WOULD be if Michael "Booster Gold" Carter had returned to his own time and survived. Instead, he died in the wrong place, the wrong time, his delicate work never even taking place. And the world had changed for the worse.

Now Caleb is the only one who can do anything about it...

****

THE END

****