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BATMAN Created by Bob Kane and Bill Finger
BATMAN: DCF Created by Erik Burnham
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"Soon, Timothy Drake, soon." A pair of glowing red eyes smiled from the blackness that surrounded them. "Soon." "Whoah!" Tim's eyes shot open, although he resisted the stereotypical urge to shoot out of bed sweating. "Alfred, what time is it?" "Time to get up, Master Tim. Ms. Mitchells will be here in about forty-five minutes." "What! Why didn't you tell me? Why didn't you wake me up?" "Master Tim, you sleep like a -- what's the expression? Log. It was impossible to rouse you. As a matter of fact, I had to call Ms. Mitchells twice last night to reschedule your date." "Get my clothes ready, Alfred -- I'm gonna go take a shower," Tim said, between yawns. "Perhaps another of your pimp suits, Master Tim?" "Don't play with me, Alfred."
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Three hours and counting. He had been counting the seconds -- the minutes -- and ultimately, the hours of his consciousness. If only he knew what time it was! This was maddening; he was beginning to feel like the soldier featured in 'Johnny Got His Gun;' he knew he was there, but couldn't move, feel, speak, interact -- all he could do was think and sleep. Why had he been put into this hell?
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The chime of the doorbell filled the foyer, and Tim heard it. Tim was acutely aware of it. Tim was most DEFINITELY not ready. "Alfred -- can you keep her entertained?" "I shall do all I can." "Thanks," Tim said, disappearing to prepare.
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The door opened. That was odd, she thought. No one was behind it. "I bid you welcome, Ms. Mitchells." "Oh! Who's there?" "Alfred, Miss. We spoke over the phone?" "Where are you?" "All around you. I am the ADM, miss." "I didn't know they had artificial intelligence in ADMs--" "It's an odd world we live in, Ms. Mitchells. And as near as I can tell, I'm one of a kind. Can I offer you something to drink? Master Tim should be ready shortly; I stress the should... One never can tell under such circumstances." "What -- um, circumstances?" "Master Tim wants to look perfect for you, miss -- indeed, he feels that he should look his best in the company of one so beautiful; and I am inclined to agree." Shannon was aware of the blushing as Tim trotted down the stairs wearing a custom made Keravin suit; dark black, a bright blue tie, and a wide smile. "Tim, you look great." "He ought to," Alfred quipped. "He let someone with taste choose his wardrobe for the evening." "And that would be you, Alfred?" Shannon asked. "Indeed, miss, you are a quick study. Well, I have things to do. Please excuse me; I'm sure you two will have a pleasant time." "Goodbye, Alfred! He's nice, isn't he?" "And he sings a mean tenor. Where would you like to go?" "You're going to make me plan?" "What can I say? It's your night." "Oh, really--?" Shannon said with a smile, grabbing Tim's arm. "In that case, I know EXACTLY where we should go." "Should I be frightened?" "Yes." "Uh--" "Come on!" Shannon said, pulling Tim out the door.
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The two wound up in a suite at the Gotham Mermacia, a 5-star hotel that Tim just happened to own. The fact that he forgot this surprised no one except Shannon. How could Tim forget about something as beautiful as this? "Can I open my eyes yet?" "Not yet--" Shannon said, programming the last few commands into the holographic projector. "Okay -- now." Tim opened his eyes to the most beautiful view he'd ever taken in; the sun, staining the sky pink as it somehow managed to stay just above the vast ocean. There was lush greenery all around him, and in the distance -- a house of pure white, like something out of a faerie tale -- and Tim was looking at it all from a cliff. It was breathtaking to say the least, for this dyed-in-the-wool city boy to catch such a glimpse of paradise. "Where are we?" Tim asked. "This is a holoprojection of where I grew up -- in Afrikaa." "It's beautiful." "Isn't it?" Shannon said, sitting on the ground, a few feet from the cliff's edge. "I miss it so much sometimes." "How long has it been since you've been back?" Tim asked, easing himself onto the ground next to her. "Three, four years now." "That's a long time," Tim said as Shannon nuzzled in closer. "Yeah," she replied after a moment. They kissed to the song of the setting sun, accompanied by the gentle sighs of the ocean.
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"Why'd you do it, Paul?" Mark Grayson asked. The force field that separated him from Chandler shimmered and rippled as he put his hands on the partition. "I told you sir, I -- I don't know. I really don't. It's like I--" Chandler's voice trailed off into the distance. "Yes?" "I don't know." "Paul, I can't help you if you don't say something. Your hearing is coming up in three days, and I don't think 'I don't know' will fly too well in your defense." "Three days, huh? That's quick. You'd think I shot someone important." "Don't piss this off, Paul! This is seri--" "I told you all I know, commissioner; which is nothing. I'm sorry, sir." "I'll bet you are," Grayson said, leaving the room.
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Maddening -- it was maddening. Darkness. Brief flashes of light. Confusion. Brief flashes of cognizance. It was enough to drive someone insane. It made the anger rise from deep within and-- And-- He could feel his fist clenching. He could feel his jaw setting with determination. He. Could. Feel. This was incredible! The void in which he found himself began to feel smaller and smaller -- He found himself reaching out, and feeling something -- a wall. He was in some kind of -- box. More searching -- how long did it take him? He couldn't say -- he forgot about time, he forgot about going mad, he forgot about everything but the exploration of his environment with his returned motion.
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Tim Drake waved goodbye as Shannon Mitchells returned to New York. The sun felt good this morning, the air tasted crisp. Felt a little like love. 'And so soon,' Tim thought. 'I must be slipping in my old age.' "Master Tim, you've returned!" Alfred exclaimed as Tim waltzed into the foyer on a cloud of fantasy. "Yes I have Alfred, and I'm ready to go to sleep, now. So, if you've--" "Where were you last night, Master Tim? I couldn't find you--" "I was out, Alfred, I was having a good time, I was -- busy. What? Why is it you sound so agitated?" "Mr. Hobbs has been calling all night, sir! It appears that one of your research facilities has been broken into--" "Was anyone hurt?" "Well, no, but--" "Then the problem is -- what?" Tim asked as he began to ascend the stairs. "The fruits of Project Sunchaser was stolen, sir!" "Sunchaser--?" "The big plane that cost nearly 2.5 billion dollars, Master Tim." "Really," Tim said, continuing up the stairs. "Aren't you going to do something?" "Yes, I am, Alfred. I am going to go to sleep. When I wake up, I am going to lose my temper and break something. And then I'm going to go down to my cave, get my really big computer going, and start to look for the plane." "Well, it's nice to see you have a plan, sir. I was afraid you'd panic." "Shut up, Alfred. Oh -- and don't let me be disturbed, all right?" "Does this mean I must cancel the female mud wrestlers you had lined up for the evening?" "Oh, gee -- would you? G'night, Alfred." "Good morning, sir." "Semantics," Tim said, disappearing into his bedroom.
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His 'prison' wasn't very big at all -- certainly not the endless void he had first thought it to be -- what's more, his searching had turned up a switch. And for twenty minutes, he had been pondering what to do with it -- flip it, or not. Twenty minutes had bought him the nerve he needed to flip the switch. Air rushed in as he was violently forced out of his artificial womb, gasping at the oxygen that was cleaning the fluids out of his lungs, burning him as though he'd swallowed the heart of the sun. A suitable spree of coughing later, he found himself crawling -- his legs still didn't respond -- towards light. He didn't know how far away it was, but he would reach it if it killed him...
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Nighttime. A wasteland; barren, lifeless. A tumbleweed whistling on its way to nowhere, somewhere off in the distance. Tim Drake took it all in with a calmness that surprised him, absentmindedly stroking his masked chin with his gloved hand. Where was he? That was the question. "Well, Batsy, old boy! Fancy meeting you here. Fancy meeting you at all. Heh." Tim spun in the direction of the voice. A man was leaning against a cactus that had not been there before, grinning from ear to ear, his yellowed teeth glistening in the moonlight. The man rolled his eyes and chuckled again, fondling the oversized plastic lily that adorned the left lapel of his purple crushed velvet jacket. His skin was the chalk-white hue of the Grim Reaper, his hair as green as a summer meadow. "A penny for your thoughts," the grinning thing chuckled. Tim just stared. "No? Too bad. After all this time, the least you could do is say hello." The clown righted himself from the cactus, pulling a stray needle from his jacket. "Get my point?" the man asked, erupting, once more, into laughter. "You're dead," Tim managed at last. "Well, sticks and stones will break my bones," the grinning ghoul deadpanned. "So what?" "You can't be here." "People say that to me all the time, pointy-ears. I find it's so much better for my self-esteem if I just ignore them." More laughter. Tim eased his way towards the laughing man, who noticed and raised a finger towards Tim, bidding him pause. "Now I know what you're thinking, Batty; I must be dead, right?" "You must be psychic," Tim said, carefully reaching into his utility belt: second pouch from the right hand side, in the rear... Batarang. "Of course I must! Now then, how could I be alive after all this time? Therein lies a tale--" Tim snapped the batarang out and threw it at the grinning idiot... aiming for the teeth. Tim could see his target's eyes go wide as the 'rang came closer... and whizzed right by his head, missing by a mile. "Whoo! The years have not been kind to your aim, sweetie!" "Will you quit playing with him, you chortling imbecile?" Another voice, Tim thought. From behind. "Ooh! The Oz-man cometh! What took you so long, Cobby?" Tim turned his head to see a fat man, dressed in a top hat and tails; a suit of late 19th century fashion. A monocle clung to his left eye; an umbrella hung from his wrist... the model of decorum. What the hell was going on? "Of course you remember Oswald," the smiling freak snickered. "Hard to miss; portly, proper, a fashion victim if ever there was one." This from a man in a purple suit. "Enough of the quips, Joker. Grab him," the fat man said. 'Joker... Penguin...' Tim thought. 'This isn't right. This CAN'T be right. The Penguin was executed at Blackgate -- April 2015, for murdering Gotham Mayor Evan Morton. The Joker broke his own neck in Arkham Asylum in the 30's... both of them died old men, but these two were in their prime, big as life -- in full color.' It had to be a dream.
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Inch by inch, foot by foot, he was getting closer to the light. Lord, it was taking forever... but he'd accept it. At least he was ABLE to move, if not walk, and that was enough for him. The visions hadn't stopped, however. They plagued him every inch of the way. Destruction, explosions... darkness, light, and all the time in that void... a nightmare he had yet to get over. How long had he been in there? Days? Weeks? Years? No. He would not allow himself to think about that right now. He would not crumble into self-pity or desperation. He would continue on... ...On toward the light.
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They were upon him with the speed and madness of sharks in a feeding frenzy, their strength well beyond his ability to comprehend. How could these two -- one overweight, one underweight -- restrain him in such a way? "How, indeed," a third voice muttered. Tim glanced in the direction of the voice as the Joker and the Penguin begin to haul him towards a Great Black Portal that had appeared out of nowhere... ...There was nothing there but a caterpillar.
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"This just ain't right," Jon Isaac said over an over-warmed cup of coffee that looked solid enough to march down his throat. "Paul's a good guy." "He killed a hostage in cold blood. Real cops don't do that." Isaac sneered. Jeff Halloran was his latest partner. A prima donna if one had ever existed, more concerned with image than police work. Guy like that belonged in Metropolis. Unfortunately, the MPD disagreed with that, transferring him to Gotham as soon as they could. This was Halloran's eighth PD, preceded by Metropolis, Chicago, St. Paul, Austin, New Orleans, New York, and Detroit. With any luck they could send him to Bludhaven. "You weren't there. There wasn't anything else that could be done." "There's always something else that could have been done. For example, if Chandler was half the marksman I am, he could have hit the wielder of the knife as opposed to the hostage." Isaac could feel his grip tightening on his coffee cup. This guy was gonna require a helluva lot of antacid to work with.
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"Can I get you a cup of tea?" a nervous-looking man in an oversized hat asked Tim, The Batman, who was more than restrained with chains, rope, and a rubber chicken, courtesy of the Joker. Tim growled and sent the man running. As he turned, Tim noticed a piece of paper sticking out of the band of the man's hat; it read '10/6.' 'Terrific,' Tim thought, 'the Mad Hatter. Of course. I mean, the Joker and Penguin are kicking around, why not ol' Mr. Tetch?' "I've always liked that story," a shadow said. Wait a minute, Tim thought. A shadow? "Alice in Wonderland. Quite wonderful, wasn't it?" "I wouldn't know," Tim said to the shadow that slowly began to solidify. "I never read it." "Shock of shocks, Mr. Drake. Yes, I know who you are. You, with your elitist attitude, would probably miss the irony of the book. The Walrus and the Carpenter, for instance," the shadow continued, motioning to the Penguin and the Joker. "Do you need glasses, pal? You seem to have confused your friends with someone else." "No. I chose these forms because of who you seem to want to be when you 'grow up.' Now where was I? Ah, yes... the Walrus and the Carpenter. It was a poem about the insane power of the Church in those days; the little clams were those who blindly followed as the corrupt Powers-That-Be took advantage of -- and eventually devoured -- them. Interesting how such things, when masked as a tale written for children, can make such a dangerous political statement and get away with it, isn't it? It's amazing, in fact, the power masks in general give you... but I'm sure you already knew that." The shadow had solidified at last. The thing Tim noticed first was the devastating red eyes which glowed like hot coals in the man's gray skin. His hair was the color of night, a small patch of white floating amidst his left temple. He was clothed all in black. "Do you recognize me, Timothy Drake?" 'Yes,' Tim thought. 'You're the boogeyman. Haven't seen you in a while. Uh... how 'bout them Dodgers?' "No," the Batman said. "I don't." "I hadn't thought you would," the shadow-man said, coming closer. As he approached, his features changed ever so slightly; his skin became pale, his cheeks becoming ruddy with freckles. The black in his hair flowed into a light red, although the patch of white remained as it was. The shadow-man, now anything but, was now face to face with Tim, the Batman. "Do you recognize me now, Mr. Drake?" "I don't know," Tim said. "Superman's Pal?" "Ashley Braye. I worked for you, once." "Lots of people worked for me once, Ash. Lots more worked for me twice. Millions have worked for me for even more than that. 'Fraid that's just not enough to go on." "You fired me!" "Nothing personal, I'm sure." "So you say," Braye said, back to his dark tones. "Oh, let me kill him! Please, oh please, oh PLEASE!" It was the Joker; no longer content with the dramatic moment Braye had planned. "But first," the clown prince said, digging into his pocket to produce a pen and paper, which he held out to Tim. "Put your Tom Hancock right there. I've been such a fan!" "Isn't that supposed to be John Hancock?" Tim asked in the Batman's angry whisper. "It is? Well, how should I know? I've been dead!" the Joker cackled before disappearing. "It's so hard to find good help these days," Braye said.
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The light was closer now, and he was so tempted to sleep, to go back into his own, personal oblivion. Never before had he ached so badly, been so acutely aware of exhaustion. How he missed the use of his legs! But giving up was not an option, not when he had come so far. A glance backward confirmed this -- his 'tank' was hundreds of feet in the past. And the light was closer. Not much closer, but every inch was an inch closer to life. Even if the ground suddenly burst into flame, he would surpass it. He would overcome. He could really use a nap... ...When he made it to the light.
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Think, think, think... why did I fire this guy? Tim's mind was racing. C'mon, you're Batman now -- be a damn detective! Braye, was working on... think, remember the report... working on... dreams. He'd been working on a way to enter dreams. It was a stupid idea, and the project was canceled. Braye and his partner, Jonathan Weiss, were let go. That was it! ...Now what if he succeeded? If he had figured out a way into dreams, and learned how to manipulate them, that would mean that this is all a dream right now. Explains the Joker, Penguin, and Hatter. Also explains why they were so much stronger then they could ever be. 'Good job,' Tim thought. 'You've deduced that this is all not really happening.' But it FELT like it was. Maybe he could be killed here, just like in those old horror vids. That'd be just terrific, now wouldn't it? But first, to be certain this is a dream... "Hello?" a feminine voice called out in the darkness. Shannon Mitchells in the flesh... Well, not totally. Tim made sure that an ever-so-tasteful silk sheet was wrapped around her. "You waste your last few moments on petty fantasies, Mr. Drake? How shallow." "Not wasting anything, Ash, ol' buddy. Just an experiment. And Shannon, honey, if you ever do this to me in real life, I swear I'll kill myself." "What?" Braye said. And then he gasped. Shannon Mitchells was changing. Her skin became a pale gray. Her breasts shrank out of existence. Her brown hair snaked black and grew, forming a cowl and the sheet formed a cape. Muscles appeared as if 'millions of cells were forming at incredible speed.' And finally, a yellow oval with the symbol of the bat erupted from the chest of what had been Shannon Mitchells. "Release him. Now," the one, true Batman growled. "Really, Timothy. Two can play at this game, you know." Braye snapped his fingers. The Penguin and Mad Hatter were drawn toward each other, their mass reforming into a gigantic figure of incredible musculature. The giant's mask stretched as he smiled in the direction of the Batman, his red eyes glistening. "Bane," Batman said, changing his focus. "We meet again," the giant said, nodding. The two old foes squared off. Ashley Braye smiled at Tim. "Is there any other games you'd like to play before we get around to your demise?" "I dunno... you like checkers?" "What? Ugh!" Braye was assaulted by a boy of sixteen; Bats' partner Robin, who somersaulted to land on his feet after knocking the older man to the ground. "Thanks, gramps," Tim said, nodding to the Boy Wonder. "You really haven't learned who's in control here, have you?" Braye said as his form split in two. "You will die, no matter how many of these revenants you produce!" Braye's left side finished the split and reformed, stepping towards Robin while flipping a double-sided coin. "Feelin' lucky, kid?" Two-Face asked with a smirk. "Now then," Braye said, rising. "Back to... what!" He saw it, but couldn't believe it. Tim Drake, the Batman, was no longer bound. "Shouldn't have used that rubber chicken," Tim said in his darkest voice. "They don't hold a double knot as well as you might think." "Very good, Mr. Drake, very impressive. But where do you think you can go?" "Who says I plan on going anywhere?" Tim said, a smile in his tone. "This is my dream." The shadows opened and there he was -- The Batman, smiling through his mask. The red bat on his chest shimmered and started to flow. "Y'see, Ash, my teachers always used to tell me how stubborn I was, well, am. Goes without saying, then, that I won't exactly roll over and die." The bat was becoming something else. "What are you doing?" "Not giving up, silly." The bat was becoming pentagonal... reshaping into a familiar, world famous S-shield. "You seem to like fairy tales. I always dug Peter Pan, myself. 'Specially how he flew... just like another hero of mine." Tim launched himself into the air, flying with the speed and grace of a Superman, with the shadow of the bat spreading out behind him. Braye was momentarily frozen with surprise, long enough for Tim to connect. The next thing Ashley Braye saw was an unholy silhouette as Tim stood above him, arms crossed, flanked by the original Batman and Robin. "It's my mind, Braye. Nice place to visit, but don't even think about staying, if you get my drift." Tim smiled as the dynamic duo faded from sight. "Take a hike." "Or what?" Braye asked. "What do you think you can do to me?" Tim thought about that for a moment. And just about cried when the answer hit him. Where was all of Braye's power now? Had he used it up in his previous efforts, or was he just exaggerating it? Tim sensed a stall. "Or," the Batman's dark voice said, "we find out what happens when I break you, piece by piece." Tim stepped towards Braye, who disappeared, a panicky look on his face. "Just as I thought. The whole damn thing was a bluff." 'That you didn't spot before. That you should have spotted before. Some Batman you are.' "How do I tell myself to..."
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"...Shut up," Tim said, awake. "Dear me, Master Tim. And I hadn't even yet bothered to comment on your breath. We are on the ball today, with such a preemptive strike." "My bre... how can you smell?" "Olfactory sensors. In case of fire, they greatly enhance my ability to spot such things. And I recommend a mint, sir. Please." "Alfred, there are days I feel that I should..." An alarm cut through Tim's thought. Not just AN alarm, Tim realized... THE alarm. The Cave had been breached...
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Alucard Holmes walked along the path that encircled the island on which he lived, worked, and helped to decide the fate of the world. As Justice's magistrate prime, Holmes held an enormous amount of power... power that delighted him, eased the pain of life, and made his own inner darkness almost bearable. Holmes looked up at the stars, searching the skies to find the constellations he had so loved as a child, twinkling and smiling back at him from their endless dance in the heavens. They, at least, would not judge him for the sins of the past. But enough reminiscing. It was a luxury he could not afford himself; reminiscence makes one careless, and he who is careless loses the battle. Alucard's gaze turned to the ocean, to the west, where his power was truly exerted. He thought of the Batman who had recently surfaced, distracting his contacts in both the police force and the organized crime families from their duties to him. He was not angry, merely amused. This Batman had gained a reputation faster than he had expected. Something to take note of. Holmes caught himself twisting the ring he always wore, the blazing emerald winking at him from the security of his finger. Immediately Homes stopped, disgusted with himself. Playing with the ring was a clue of preoccupation; a moment off guard, proof he was not focused on his surroundings. In short, a habit he could not allow himself to continue. Alucard Holmes turned inward, towards the center of the island, back to his residence.
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"I think it's dead, sir," Alfred said in a hushed tone, his volume turned down low. "Alfred, that's not an 'it.' That's a... a..." "...Enormous example of whatever you're searching for, Master Tim." "Exactly." Timothy Drake cleared the last three steps to the Batcave floor in one effortless bounce and strode towards the cause of the alarm he had just deactivated. It was a man, dressed solely in black, locked in a fetal position. Tim saw a trail of... slime that led into another chamber of the cave, a chamber Tim had never been down before. Not that that was unheard of; the catacombs beneath Wayne Manor were nearly without end... one could be lost for years -- or longer -- down here. And apparently, someone had just found their way back. Tim kneeled to regard this visitor, reaching for the man's neck to take a pulse. It was weak, but growing stronger. A moan signaled that his unconsciousness was just about at an end. And here Tim sat, unmasked, in the Batcave. "Alfred, I need the cowl!" "Right away, sir," Alfred said, shooting a mechanical tendril towards the far end of the room with a speed that no man could match. In seconds, Tim had his precious cowl; just in time for his visitor to slowly raise to a seated position from the cold floor. The man groaned, squinting and then massaging his eyes against the blaze of the many overhead neon lights that served as the 'Cave's illumination. And then he noticed Tim. "Aren't you a little out of uniform?" the man asked in a clear baritone, a half-cocked smile adorning his face. Tim looked down. He wore only the cape and cowl of the Batman outfit over a red shirt and black pants. But there wasn't time to worry about that now. Tim had some questions that needed answering. "Maybe. What are you doing here?" Tim asked the question in the rough voice of the Batman, hoping it would give him some kind of psychological edge. "I... don't remember," the man in black said, trying to rise. "Why don't my legs work?" "Who are you?" "What?" "Who are you?" "You know who I..." the man started to say. But then he stared and squinted once more, scrutinizing Tim. "Or maybe you don't." "I knew I should have taken that mail-in psychic course." "I'm Superman." At that moment there were depths of silence not present in the Batcave for months.
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Mark Grayson sat at his desk, leaning back in his chair, staring at the pen he had lodged in the ceiling forty-five minutes ago. It was amusing how it hung there for so long. 'Look at what fascinates you these days,' Mark thought, sipping the coffee he had absentmindedly allowed to grow cold and putrid. Mark felt guilty, of course. Paul Chandler, one of his favorite detectives, was facing a certain doom; a trumped-up charge. No one walked out of one of these hearings alive. Chandler deserved more. He was a good kid with his heart in the right place -- smart and honest, too, a rare combination in this city. Hell, almost anywhere anymore. Mark couldn't let that potential go to such a waste... He couldn't. Sighing, he picked up his vid-phone and dialed in a number he'd hoped he would never have to use. "Good evening, Commissioner," the icy voice of Alucard Holmes answered. "I've been expecting your call."
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"Superman. Riiiiiight. Sure you are, pal. You look like him, too," Tim deadpanned. "But he's cruising the friendly skies over in Metropolis right now. And he doesn't look quite so old," Tim noted, indicating the graying streaks running through his vistor's otherwise jet-black hair; and the wrinkles that had began to form around the eyes. "Old?" the man in black replied, still trying to rise. "That hurts." "And he's not a cripple, either." The man claiming to be Superman glanced once more at Tim while bracing himself for another go at standing. "Black hair. Brown eyes. A mole on your neck, just to the right of your adam's apple... and a tattoo of a broken heart just below your left clavicle." Tim's jaw dropped as the man in black slowly rose to his feet. The stranger had just given Tim's unmasked description, to a tee. "And I'm not a cripple. I just haven't exactly... whoulp!" Alfred's tentacle caught the man before he could completely topple over. "...Thawed out yet," he finished. "Whatever this goo was, it numbed me. Like my whole body was asleep. But enough about me," the elder man grinned. "What are you doing here, young man?" Young? Young! Tim was annoyed. He was the head of a Fortune 25 company! He'd made more fortunes in the first twenty-four years of his life than most men could make in several lifetimes! Young! Tim would have been even more offended had the man's disarming smile clued him in to the retribution that just been exacted for that 'old' comment. "I'm Batman," Tim said. Superman laughed. "What's so funny?" "I didn't know Bruce had a sense of humor." "I was being serious," Tim replied, wondering why everyone knew who Batman had been. This visibly struck the man that called himself Superman as strange. "You...? But..." "Have we reached our quota on Van Winkle-esque icons of the 20th Century yet, sir?" "Who said that?" Superman asked. "Alfred," Tim answered. "Now when do you think you are? What year?" "I... 2025?" "Oh, boy..." Tim said, turning away from the man of steel. "Do I ever have some news for you..." Tim went on to explain things that had been taught in the schools seemingly forever; the end of the age of heroes, the disappearance of Superman in the '30's, the holiday that was celebrated in his honor on July 4th. But the biggest kicker was the year. "2112? That can't be right!" "It is," Tim said. "I'm sorry, but it is." "I've lost nearly a hundred years? That's just... I couldn't have, I..." "Believe me, I can empathize. A friend of mine has a similar problem." Tim paused, thoughtfully. "Maybe you two should talk." "I sincerely doubt it... no offense to your friend, of course, but I don't think this happens every day." "No, it merely seems like it," Alfred chimed in. "We've attracted more men from your era than seems reasonable." "From my era?" "Yeah. Like my friend, for example." Tim paused for effect. "Do you remember Guy Gardner?"
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The hoverlim cruised on automatic pilot north, to New York City. Its two passengers silent most of the trip. "Now then, before we meet with Guy, there are a few things I'd like to get cleared up... er..." "Call me Clark," the larger man sighed, dressed in a conservative suit, looking aimlessly out the window -- obviously a million miles away. "Okay... er, Clark. Uh, well, the antagonism between you two was fairly well documented; I mean, you had almost as much of a rivalry with Guy as Hal Jordan did, and..." Clark turned his head from the window to look directly into Tim's eyes; his gaze holding Tim hostage, making him feel as though he were being rendered to the soul and judged. "Are you telling me to behave myself, young man?" the man of steel asked with a smirk. "Not exactly. And call me Tim, would you please?" Tim thought about his secret identity. Every time it seemed as though a connection was made between Batman and Drake, the little hairs on the back of Tim's neck would rise. Too many already knew who he was; Booster -- although he was in a coma. Alfred, although he was a house. And Guy. Well, maybe not Guy... although Tim wasn't entirely sure one way or another. Now Clark knew. Clark. What a milquetoast name for such a powerful man. Tim wondered for a moment how he'd gotten the name... Did he choose it? Was it chosen for him? If it was chosen by another, was it friends or a family? So much was known about Superman; but it was all of his too-public superhuman deeds done in the dawn of the information superhighway. The man had done well covering his private life, and Tim confessed to himself a glee at the possibility of solving one of the greatest mysteries the world had ever known; who was Superman when he wasn't defending the earth, making it safe for truth and justice? Tim allowed himself a smile as he felt the hoverlim descend into the wilds of New York City. Clark continued to look out the window, obviously enjoying the view.
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Guy Gardner had made it a policy in life to not be surprised anymore. He had gone through some of the strangest and most bizarre occurrences a man could possibly go through... He had made history in the late twentieth century as a member of the Justice League; he had fought back the darkness that tried periodically to eclipse the light as a member of the Green Lantern Corps, he had discovered an alien heritage as the last member of his race, half-breed or no, and he been through a hellacious interplanetary war. And THEN, he had returned to a home that was quite a bit different then he had left it. Guy was pretty sure that he had already seen through pretty much everything that could possibly shock him. He'd never be surprised again. "Hello, Guy." That voice. Gardner turned to see Tim Drake and... ...It couldn't be. Guy Gardner hadn't fainted since the eighth grade when Hillary Benton had made an aggressive play for him right in the middle of school. Guy was out faster than a candle in the rain... ...It just goes to show you that you should never say never.
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"I can't believe this," Guy said gruffly, easing the tap behind the bar back, filling a glass with the beer he so desperately needed to process the scene before him. "You were supposed to be dead. I mean, you're the fourth o' July now -- you know that?" Superman's eyes studied the intricate patterns formed by the wood grain in Guy's bar. He pushed his characteristic forelock out of the way and sighed. "So I'm told," Superman said, smiling in Tim's direction. "But you should know better than most how much trouble I have staying dead." "So how'd you hook up with Timmy here anyway, Supes?" Guy asked, downing his beer. "Bat-referral, same as you," Tim interjected, giving a conspiratorial wink to Clark as he did so. "Seeing as how us rich boys have so much less to do than vigilantes, and I already KNEW you, Batman felt maybe I could take Cl--er, Superman here to meet you for a little, well, therapy." Guy smiled as he refilled his mug. "What'd you think of Bats, there?" "He has some... interesting qualities. Definitely different than the man I knew." "No kidding -- that guy sure didn't have the attitude I remember. Was kinda funny, guy in that costume without a condescending attitude..." "To say the least," Supes agreed. Tim squirmed in his seat. "You guys care for a beer?" Guy asked. Tim replied in the affirmative before the question was even asked. "How 'bout you, Supes -- beer? Or maybe a whaddayacallit... perryay? I think they still make that stuff..." "Beer's fine." Guy Gardner paused after handing Tim his beer. He was sure the Boy Scout would refuse. He didn't know why he was so sure of it; he just was. "Okay, pardner. Now who are you... really?" "I'm Superm--" "Don't piss up my leg and tell me it's rainin', pal. Who are you?" The man who claimed to be Krypton's last son stared hard at Guy. Tim smelled trouble, same as he had the last time he was here, when the biker punk started feeding Guy some machismo. Tim knew Gardner to be an honorable man, and if he suspected Clark to be an imposter of a man he had come to admire, well, he'd beat a confession out of him for sure. And Tim couldn't voice his assurance to Guy without letting his skeleton out of the closet. As it turns out, Tim needn't have worried. Guy stared at Clark. Clark stared at Guy. Something was going on on a level that required no speech, no actions... it was almost primal in its simplicity. The result was one of Gardner's loud and all-encompassing laughs as he put the beer in front of Clark. "Well, you got somethin' special, pal... 'else you'd be sittin' in a puddle right about now." "Well... maybe not a puddle," Clark smiled. Guy brayed with laughter. Tim merely finished his beer. The moment was not for him.
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Warrior's had been closed down that day. The staff was allowed home -- full pay. Guy sat with Tim and Clark, passing the time, relating his story to the man of steel. The war, the return, the confusion, how he met Batman and Tim, how he regained his bar. And then the room fell silent as both Tim and Guy waited for Superman to relate his story. After a moment, it became clear that he wasn't going to. So Tim took up the slack, a little idle BS to ease the situation. "Who's the new pic of there, Guy?" "Oh that," Guy said, smiling. "That's just another one of my many fans. Jealous there, Timmy?" "Jealous? She's... what, thirteen?" Guy shut up as he re-examined the picture. She had seemed older when she was flirting with him. Not much older, granted, but the retroactive discomfort was worse than the discomfort he had felt at the time. Tim noticed and cracked a smile. "That's what you get for putting her picture in my spot." The three men shared a laugh. (* Guy met Charmaine Doyle, the Suicide Squad's Chalice, in the "False Prophets" TPB -- Tippitt) The trip back to Gotham was a long one, and when they returned at last to Wayne Manor, Clark delved into the large computer in the Batcave like a man possessed. For three days he scoured endlessly, attempting to learn exactly what had happened in his absence. He learned more than any man should... and when Tim returned home from his evening patrol he found the Man of Steel... crying.
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"How could this have happened? It's all gone... All of it... All of it." What could this man have lost that had broken him so? Tim wondered but decided not to ask. No, distraction was the order of the day. "Clark," Tim asked, still feeling bizarre saying the name, "I'd like to run some tests... see how much of you we're dealing with." "What kind of tests?" "The simple kind. Let's start off with a... a loop-de-loop. The cave has a high enough ceiling. Go for it." But Superman did not, could not fly. He tried; he used every ounce of his will, but all for naught. In the end, he just jumped... but what a jump. Clark easily launched himself to the heights of the cave, nearly a quarter of a mile up... and could have gone higher. "Okay, so you can leap a... small, moderately sized building in a single bound," Tim said with a smile in his voice. "But how fast are you?" It was quite a race -- Tim in the Batmobile, Superman on foot. The race took place out in the uncultivated fields behind Wayne Manor. Clark kept pace with the Batmobile... until Tim 'floored' it, passing into the speed of sound. It may not have made Clark a contender for a race with the Flash, but it still made him faster than a speeding bullet. Strength came next. Tim took Clark out to the garage and told him to lift what he could. It was an antique semi that finally stumped the Man of Steel. His new strength limit appeared to be around ten tons -- give or take. It was quite a bit less than he was used to. Tim then tested invulnerability... as much as he hated to do it, he just started throwing things at Clark to see what made a dent. Knives did not. Bullets did not. Lasers -- on low power -- cut him open like a hot knife through butter. Tim decided to leave the heavy artillery on the shelf. Clark slept for nearly two days after taking these tests. When he awoke, he was calm. "I've failed in so much," he said, his words quiet and laced with sadness. "I wasn't here when I was needed. And I don't know why." "It wasn't your fault," Tim said. "Maybe. And maybe it was. Who knows anymore? But I've come to a decision. I can't be what I was -- I know that. The man calling himself Superman... he's doing well enough. And the name at least fits him!" Clark laughed at the joke, knowing how many times he had been without powers, remembering the times when he had completely different powers. It was an interesting life he had led. "But... I can help you, if you'll let me." Tim was in awe, and that wasn't something easy to do to one of the most powerful men in the world. He really didn't know what to say. So he said: "Sure." Tim never knew why Clark had offered his help; he never asked. Had he been as inquisitive as his predecessor, Tim would have divulged that Clark wanted to pass on what he knew, the essence of his philosophies. Bruce wanted to encourage the type of ideals he had once stood for in another... Tim would be the son he could never have had. Teaching Tim, helping him do what he must do... that would help Clark forget the shame he felt, missing out on the last near-hundred years. But Tim did not ask, and Clark did not take the initiative. The two men just sat on the patio, surrounded by a force field to keep out the less-than-pleasant weather, and sipped their tea in silence.
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Days Later...
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Timothy Drake roamed the skies of Gotham, lost in thought, as was his wont. Guy. Booster. Supe -- Clark. Three heroes from a day gone by have come into his house. One is making his fortune in New York, trying as best he can to get by, and fast becoming one of the closest friends Tim's ever had. One is lying in a deep coma back at the castle Tim calls home, Wayne Manor. And the third of this motley trio of TwenCen heroes -- is -- well, Superman. 'Superman. THE Superman. This is the biggest thing that's ever happened to me,' Tim thinks, 'outside of that incredible night with Shannon, and I can't tell a soul. What am I going to say? Yeah, sure, Superman lives. 'Hello, Mr. Straightjacket.' Clark was just so not-what-Tim-expected. He was quiet and humble, hardly the man his legend painted him to be. Hardly the man many would be with such power at their command -- even if he had very little of it left. The streets seemed quiet tonight. Only three muggings, so far, that Tim had had to interrupt. The rest of the time -- well, as much as responsibility may dictate that the Batman stay out 'til the sun comes up, cows come home, or whatever other cliched euphemism applies, Tim wanted to talk more with Clark. He commanded the Batmobile to return home.
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Michael Carter was in a coma.
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YAWN! Bored, bored, bored, bored, bored. How come I always gotta go through this? Why isn't there ever anything to DO? Nothing on TV. Nothing's EVER on TV. What I need is a good, old-fashioned DIVERSION. I need conversation! I need COMPANY! I need -- MY BUDDY, SUPERMAN! Wait -- isn't he dead? I think he's dead. Maybe he was dead. He was dead before. Is he dead again? Will he be dead again? WILL HE BE DEAD BEFORE? Paper or plastic? I know! I've got it! I'll go and see! Road trip! Yeah! If he is there, I shall find him! With a snap of his fingers, he is gone.
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"Master Clark? Excuse me, Master Clark?" "Hmm? Yes, uh, Alfred?" "You've been up at that computer an awfully long time." "I haven't kept track." "I have, accessing -- 14 hours, 28 minutes, and 33 seconds at my mark -- Mark." "You enjoy sarcasm, don't you?" "It is a guilty pleasure of mine, yes. Can I get you anything to eat?" "I don't know about him, but you can get me a rack of lamb on wheat!" That voice. That irritatingly familiar voice. Why was it not surprising that he was still alive? "SUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUPEY! Bubeleh, darling, compadre, DOLL! Wherever HAVE you been? I looked up and down in the big city you used to call home, and all I found was some cranky guy with a bad haircut who looked just like you! Well, he's not all I found, but that's beside the point--" "You met the man calling himself Superman?" "Why, yes, I did. And Super he was, too. He rescued kitties from trees and everything, Supey. But he didn't recognize me in that special way that you always used to, you know?" Clark groaned. "That's the way!" the imp smiled. "Hooray! I've found you at last! At least, I think I have. Of course, that's beside the point." "What do you want?" "What do I WANT?" the imp shrieked. "IIIIIII wanna rock and roll all night! And party everyday! But still, I'm sure you're referring to what brings me to your -- and isn't that a non sequitur -- neck of the woods. Well, it works like this. I met the guy with the 'S' in Metropopolopolis, or whatever. We talked, had a few laughs, saw the sights, took some names, promised to have our people call each other... but it wasn't the same. So I figured... what if -- y'know, WHAT IF -- there were two of you? Y'know, Superman A and Superman B... Black and White, Red and Blue, Alpha and Omega, yadda yadda yadda. That seemed logical and all, you know? So I said to myself -- Mx, I said -- What's the worst that could come of looking? At least you didn't have a really big ant head..." "How did you find me, Mxyzptlk?" "Mxyzptlk?" Alfred repeated. "Pardon me, but how do you spell that?" "Pronunciation's pretty self explanatory. Have you ever seen Ghost in the Machine?" "Yes, I have. Why do you ask?" "I HATED that movie! Go away!" "Go aw--" Alfred's voice disappeared mid-question. "What did you do with him?" "I made him go away. Now then, where was I? Oh, yes. I figured, y'know, maybe I could find you if I came here and swiped some of the pointy-eared detective guy's high-powered magnifying glasses and such trinkets. And I found you!" "Now is not the time, Mxyzptlk. Bring Alfred back and go home." "I'll bring him back later." "Bring him back now." "No. What'cha doin'?" 'It's not going to work,' Clark thought. 'Alfred's going to stay wherever he is until the little imp goes back home to the fifth dimension.' And he was being curious. Always a bad sign. "I'm trying to learn." "Learn what?" "About the world." "What about the world?" Clark gritted his teeth. "About who's protecting it." "You're not?" "Not directly." "Supey, are you shirking, slacking, becoming a lazy old fart who sits on the lazyboy all day drinking beer and belching with the power of a small thunderstorm, complaining that you can't find the right flavor of pork rind to go with your football game?" "No." "Oh. Then what'cha doin'?" "I told you." "Can I help?" "No." "I CAN HELP! LET ME HELP! Oh please, oh please, oh please, oh please, oh pleeeeee-heee-heeze! I swear on my mother's smilky brew that I'll be good and go home if you let me help! I PROMISE!" "You'll go home if I let you help?" "Scout's honor!" That sense of foreboding was starting to fade. Maybe Mxy had mellowed with age? "Fine. Do you know how to work a computer?" "No need. I can SHOW ya who you're lookin' for!" "What? No, I--" "You wanna see who's PROTECTING the world, right? Well heeeeeeeeere we go!" The lights dimmed. A spotlight appeared in the center of the room. Clark found himself wearing old-fashioned 3-D glasses. Mxy was wearing the same. "For our FIRST contestant, I present to you -- CAPTAIN ATOM!" A man of silver appeared in the spotlight. "What -- where am I? I--" Mxy was floating beside the metallic visitor now, dressed in a cheesy blue tuxedo, his wiry white hair slicked back. And he was still next to Clark. Oh, boy. "Thank you, Chuck. Cappy is a Sagittarius, enjoys fine wine, the scent of a summer breeze, puppy dogs and monkies named 'Jim.'" "Who the hell are you? Did you Mmmph!" Atom's mouth disappeared. "This man of steel currently patrols and protects the world with the outlaw upstart revolutionary types the Suicide Squad, trying to right wrongs our studio audience allowed while he was taking a dirt nap." An applause sign appeared behind Mxy. Clark felt his hands draw together, applauding until the sign vanished. 'Great. He's gotten more powerful.' "But our boy Cap has a deep -- dark -- secret," Mxy intoned, his voice growing dark, sounding frighteningly like a nightmare. Clark looked upon the mouthless Captain Atom, and a chill ran up his spine, as though they had met before... but that couldn't be. Clark's sense of deja vu was cut short, however, as Mxy the host cut to the point. "He is secretly -- A BALLET FAN!" Atom's eyes widened in shock as he found himself in a large pink tutu, pirouetting in the center of the spotlight. The applause sign appeared again, bidding Clark to clap as Captain Atom faded from view. "Who do we have next, Chuck?" A girl appeared in the spotlight. Clark couldn't guess her age from where he was sitting, and the 3-D goggles were dampening his powers. "Next we have Ms. X, whose identity we're keeping a secret, because that's what we do. Only public knowledge, here! But do you know who Ms. X is, in her spare time?" "Let's hear it!!" Audience Mxy shouted. Cheesy disco music sprouted from nowhere as 'Ms. X' begin to spin. When she stopped, she was-- "Wonder Woman! Doo doo do doo doo doo!" "Wow! That was neat! She spins even better than Cappy! Make her do it again!" Wonder Woman began spinning faster and faster as Mxy the Game Show Host read her stats: "She protects Gateway City, she does. And with panache! In addition, she puts the 'nice ass' in 'nice-assed heroine!' What, I'm not supposed to notice? Lookit the can on that!" Mxy the Host's head began to spin as fast as Wonder Woman, as though he were intricately following her -- which, of course, he was. After a moment, his head slowed down, but Wondey sped up. "And check out them legs! Why can't she be the Flash and flash me 'til my days are done?" Mxy the audience member laughed until he coughed, slapping Clark on the back. Wonder Woman had become a small tornado in the spotlight, a tornado that had gradually been changing from warmer colors to darker -- when finally it stopped, a thin man, clothed completely in black, hovered in the air glancing about, as though he were in a haze. A lightning bolt of crimson adorned his chest. "Speaking of the Flash--" Host Mxy said. "Ah, forget it. He runs. Fast. Same old, same old. NEXT!" Clark had a feeling that this was going to be a very, very long night.
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Michael Carter was still in a coma.
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Nemesis, AKA Eve Tresser, sat in her office looking upon a view screen with great interest. What she saw was a split screen showing two of Gotham City's most famous residents. On the left was Timothy Drake II; playboy, absentee ruler of the empire of Drake Industries. Rich, handsome, carefree, and so obviously in the pocket of the UN. Nemesis had no doubt that Drake had his hand in the creation of several of the more bothersome Justice Leaguers -- it would be time well spent sabotaging such a man. On the right hand of the screen was the Batman, Gotham's premiere vigilante. This AP pic of him beating some rapist was the only photographic existence of the hero, a man after Tresser's own heart. Recruiting such a man would be time well spent. Nemesis smiled, already extensively planning her vacation to scenic Gotham. [And to see the fruits of that trip, take a gander at Batman: DCF #18 -- coming SOON, SOON, SOON!]
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Six individuals were in Host Mxy's spotlight now; each of their faces obscured by a gigantic blue dot. "This is the Society," Host Mxy explained. "They looked like minors to me. At any rate, they've been spotted around Metropolis. Introductions? Gladly! That's Greg, Marcia, Peter -- oops! Wrong card. FIRE THAT GUY! Sporty, Baby, Ging -- this is getting old." A burst of lightning shot out of Host Mxy's eyes, burning to a crisp some poor cue card-holding sap who had not been there before.
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Tim could've sworn he saw a lightning flash pop out of the Batmobile's cave entrance. But it couldn't be--
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"Okay, this time for SURE -- Icicle, Sledge, Mental, Blood Red, Hysteria, and Spellbinder. I think. As to who's who, your guess is as good as mine. Those blue dots really do their thing, don't they?" The Society vanished. "HOME STRETCH!" Host Mxy shouted. "But first I'd like to state, for the record, I'm awfully sorry about that mess Hawkman made. I promise to clean it up. He was surprised. Really. Okay! This is Nightwing." A dark-haired man slathered in soap appeared and disappeared fairly quickly. "Whoops! Caught him in the shower. Won't happen again." Two men appeared, dressed in the same manner, a large black spider adorning their face masks. "See, only one of these guys belong in this time, but I find it funny that HE chose to mimic HIM. Talk about fashion sense failure! I mean, big fans of Law and Order **snicker** but still!" Host Mxy snapped his fingers and the two men were suddenly dressed as mariachis, complete with gigantic sombreros. "They both go-slash-went by the name Tarantula; but this is a requested number." "La cucaracha, la cucaracha--" The Tarantula on the left sang and shook some maracas whilst the Tarantula on the right played guitar. Host Mxy, now also dressed as a mariachi, chimed in with a trumpet. Audience Mxy cheered. So did Clark. The applause sign was lit, after all.
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Tim entered into the Batcave noiselessly and exited the Batmobile. Two men and a -- child? midget? -- were floating in a spotlight singing 'La Cucaracha.' Clark and another midget -- identical to the flying mariachi -- were both wearing 3-D glasses and applauding. Some black and white guy (as in, he was toned in blacks, whites, and grays) appeared to the left of Tim's field of vision. "This is a dimension of sight and sound--" the man said. "POINTY EARS!" The midget in the audience jumped out of his seat, upsetting a large tub of popcorn. "I forgot to formally introduce Pointy Ears!" "We've met," the Batman's harsh voice intoned. "You've met? YOU'VE MET?!?" Mxy was now a G. "You rude mutha -- introin' yo'self befo' I get to!"
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Picture Ted Mxyzptlk in a sleek black Keravin suit and red tie, sitting at a desk, the NIGHTLINE logo in the background. "For sake of you, the home audience, we must block this material. It just ain't pretty. Not to mention the fact that the ASPCA, AARP, AA, AAA, NAACP, NCAA, NBA, NHL, NFL and IDKWIDSOA, have all threatened to sue our corporate ass into oblivion for the footage we are not about to present. Thank you, good night, and have a pleasant tomorrow."
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Tim Drake's eyes were wide with fear. All he could do was stutter. "Cats. Pink -- transvestites... hamsters -- No! NOOOO!" "Well, that takes care of that," Mxy said, shaking hands with himself and nodding to Clark. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I believe 'Daze of Ma's Life" is on. I bid thee farewell." With a snap of his fingers, he was gone. "--Way? Whatever do you mean? I can assure you I'm quite permanent," Alfred said.
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THE END
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