#35: Trial By Fire, Pt 2 (HoM / Cermak)

“You’re doing what? Are you £$%^ing insane?!”

Dick Grayson, fingers latticed and against his lip, leaned back in his leather chair in front of the Bat-computer. “Two things you need to know about me, Tara. One:) I don’t like language like that. I thought I had been clear during your Titans induction. And two): I am very far away from being insane. You heard me right, Terra. I’m declaring war on the Suicide Squad. And you’re my ace-in-the-hole.”

Tara Markov was royalty. At least, part royalty. Half-sister Prince Brion of Markovia, the hero known as Geo-Force, she too had the the power to manipulate the Earth. She used that force for good, side-by-side with the Teen Titans, the team that Dick Grayson, first as Robin, and then as Nightwing, had been a part of since day one.

It seemed so long ago.

“You want me to hop a ride down there? Wally can probably run me over or somethin’ if you me to grace your presence, or whatever.” Tara smiled mischievously on the computer screen, and Dick couldn’t help but allow a sly smile form on his own face.

“I’ve got that side of things handled, Tara. But what you can do is help me figure out how these guys tick. I need to get in their heads, and you’re my way in.”

Terra cleared her throat. “You got a pen an’ paper then, Dick?”

Dick grinned. “You have to ask?”





“For the world to be interesting, you have to be manipulating it all the time.”



"I've never seen Master Dick like this," Alfred Pennyworth watched from the gymnasium section as Dick, wearing a pair of baggy pants and a dressing gown, darted around the cave. He'd been on and off the phone all day, and Alfred and Tim were beginning to get worried. "So much like his fa--" Alfred caught himself, and shook his head "Master Bruce."

"Really?" Tim was practicing, swinging up and along the bars, constantly aware of the distance of the crash mats, but focused on the next bar he had to grab. Dick had given him a lot of pointers over the past few weeks, but these last days, they'd had less time for training. “Because we’re still allowed in the cave and he’s not giving us the gruff shoulder, so I’m thinking he’s not too far gone.”

“He can hear you,” shouted Dick, with a smile.

His suit lining was replete with microcircuits. When his communication systems had been hijacked, his suit had gone to work to isolate the specific broad wave of the transmission connecting him with Doctor Malthus of the Suicide Squad. He was now certain that it wouldn’t happen again. The Bat-suit was much more sophisticated and a lot more confusing that the Nightwing one, decided Dick.

“You appear to be correct, Master Timothy. Not too far gone, indeed.” Alfred approached Dick, and placed a tentative hand on his shoulder. “Am I able to assist you in any way, sir?”

“I’m just calling in some markers that the Batman is owed. Even some he isn’t.”

“And this ‘war’ you have declared? You fully intend to follow through with that?”

“The Suicide Squad won’t stop. They’ll keep coming at me until I’m dead. Terra has given me the inside track, so I’ll be going over that with her in greater detail. You might also want to prepare the a guest bedroom. I’ve got someone stopping by later tonight. We’ll be working late, and she might well want to crash after all is said and done. Or maybe she’ll fly back to Vegas, I can never tell with her anymore.”

“Miss Bar--?”

“Yes,” interrupted Dick, as he pulled off the cowl. He wiped the sweat from his brow. “Babs. Did it just get hot in here?”

Alfred smiled knowingly. “I shall do something about that directly, sir. On another note, might I suggest that leave the computer for a while? You’ll ruin your eyes like that.”

Dick contemplated that for a minute, then stood and headed toward the changing room. “You’re right, Alfred. Could you make some pancakes? I’ve got a craving, and I’m not going to go out on an empty stomach. Back in New York, Wally makes the best nachos--”

“--Nachos?” Alfred put his white-gloved hand to his mouth in mock disgust.

“Nachos? Next you’ll be professing a love for fajitas. I shall prepare your pancakes, Master Dick, but understand that, at this moment, my disappointment with you is beyond measure.”

“Noted, Alfred. Thanks for lowering your standards, this one time for me.”



He had cut the bodies down into tiny chunks. Filleted the flesh from the bones, and with the help of the furnace he had built in his basement, removed all traces of his deceased family from the house. The blood was more difficult. By the time he was done, the entire house stank of bleach, and every appliance had been pulled away from its mooring and doused in industrial cleaner. The walls had begun to peel under the sheer work he had put into cleaning them. A coat of paint, and perhaps, eventually, a wallpapering, and maybe he’d feel safe.

Norman Welker found out how long he’d been unconscious in three ways. Apparently, a month ago, he’d contacted his secretary, sounding particularly drunk (or what must have been drugged) and informed her that his mother had fallen ill in Keystone, and that he would be out of touch for the time being.

He didn’t dare call her. He didn’t want to find out that something terrible had befallen her too.

The pile up of mail on the side. Someone had paid his bills. And that terrified him even more.

And then, there was the television. In the time he’d been out of commission, the Batman had apparently died and come back to life, there had been a gang war, a super villain uprising and a terrorist attack spearheaded by the Joker, which had torn Gotham to shreds. Not in that order. Inconsequentially, his TiVo had recorded four episodes of Grey’s Anatomy that he had already seen.

He’d barely slept in the three days since he’d woken up, and before he passed over to unconsciousness once more, he cried and locked himself in his bathroom, sealing himself away from the world.

He remembered, as he stared at his bearded face and gaunt features in the mirror, that he had yet to dispose of the bones. They were still in the basement, mocking him.

What now?

He closed his eyes and drifted into darkness. He awoke to find words scrawled on the wall of his bathroom.

SUPPLIES.

A printed list was stuck to his bathroom mirror. Was there no escape from this?!



“--Dick, I know this is probably a bad time, and I know you’re very busy, but I have two things I need to talk to you about.”

Lucius Fox’s voice always calmed Dick. He remembered, when he was a kid, Lucius had been there when social services had finally let Bruce take him in. Lucius had been so kind to him. He hadn’t pushed, as they’d done back at the foster home. It was like they’d needed a reaction when he’d been in care, they’d needed him to cry, to hurt, we need you to release his pain, and when he’d left, it had been as though a burden rolled off his shoulders.

Dick’s features softened. Memories flooded back, and he recalled the first night in Wayne Manor. He’d cried himself to sleep, and Bruce had sat with him. He’d awoken to see Bruce still there, patient, knowing, understanding.

“I’m sorry, Lucius, what? I drifted for a minute. I’m sorry.”

“The Wayne Enterprises charity ball. It’s tonight. We had to change the venue after Wayne Towers was… Armand Krol has suggested we move it to the Hyde Gotham Civic Centre. It works, the decorators are there now. I was just wondering if you were attending.”

The Joker had detonated explosives on every floor of Wayne Towers. The shining beacon of hope that had been Thomas Wayne’s legacy had become rubble in seconds. Hundreds had been caught in the blast. They were still pulling bodies out of the debris

“Oh, that was the plan, Lucius,” replied Dick slowly. “I’ll be bringing a friend or two, is that a problem?”

“Dick, do you really have to ask? That’s like asking Alfred if he could please call you ‘Sir’, it’s a given

Dick grinned. Lucius was absolutely correct. “I have another request to make of you,” he said after a moment. “I need to borrow something from R and D tonight. I’ll send Alfred down to pick it up in a few minutes, but I need to know if it’s possible for you to get the abstract electro-magnetic orb out for walkabouts…”

“Why would you need that thing?” Lucius inquired, aware that he probably didn’t really want to really know.

“I need to make sure things don’t go wrong in specific area of my life, and the novelty of not being filled with lead is one of which I see the appeal.” He shrugged, even though Lucius couldn’t see him over the phone line. “So, is it doable?”

“Sure, send your man. See you tonight, Dick.”

“Yeah, Lucius, tonight.

The Ball. All part of the plan, Dick thought as he devoured Alfred’s pancakes. Gotham’s Elite would scamper for the opportunity to ramp up their public standing, and he would be there to capitalize on the press attention. It was all coming together perfectly.

Tim Drake finally emerged from upstairs, rubbing his tired eyes, and Dick smiled. “Fmikiks.”

“Excuse me?” laughed Tim, as he pulled a chair to the table.

Dick swallowed the pancakes in his mouth, and wiped his lips. “Pancakes. Alfred made pancakes. Because I asked. Nicely. They’re wonderful.” He laughed and shoveled in another forkful.

Tim continued to laugh. “Are you teasing me? Do I not get to experience Alfred’s fmikicks?”

“Boys, let us please use our literate voices at the breakfast table. You know how much I dislike having to ask.” Alfred presented a plate to Tim.

“Sorry Alfred,” replied the two boys in unison.

Tim smiled, and looked up to Alfred, puppy dog eyes turned up to eleven. “Please Alfred, could I have some shmaple smirup??”

“I am a pacifist,” replied Alfred, “I say that to myself every morning before breakfast, and yet I find myself confronted with these terrible, terrible urges…”



“Do you like magic?” He leaned forward, smiling, as the children surrounded him. “I’m not supposed to do magic, not really, I did it this one time, and the Council, they found me out, and I’ve been banned ever since. Do you want me to risk it? Risk showing you some magical magic?”

The kids cheered and nodded.

“Ok, fine, watch this.” He pulled up his sleeves, revealing nothing, and he spun them around to show that he had nothing concealed. “I have, if you have not guessed already, nothing up my sleeves. Do you believe me?”

The children shook their heads.

“Really? You don’t? Pssh.” He stretched his hands behind his back, and then pressed a concealed button on the underside of his collar. There was a loud bang behind the children, and smoke rose from the floor. They spun around in surprise, and then looked back at the magician. He was gone. They searched all around, but to no avail.

There was a knock at the door, and they fell silent. “Alright, I may be magic,” shouted a voice, “but I don’t have a key, so if someone wants to open the door--”

The door whined open, and Ted Kord found himself confronted by Susan Reece. “Magical magic, Ted?”

“You invited me over for a birthday party, and you left me in a room surrounded by sugar-fueled children. I was going to die if I didn’t pull a vanishing act,” he laughed. “Thanks for inviting me over, Sue, I appreciate it.”

“Thanks for coming,” she smiled, and kissed him on the cheek. “You’ll have to come over some other time, when there aren’t a couple of dozen children stealing my dishes and eating sugar packets when my back is turned.”

“I’d like that.” He cleared his throat, stepped forwards awkwardly, and then took a step back. “Anyway, I have to go. I’ve got an appointment in Gotham. Got something big brewing, so expect a letter in the mail in the next few days, okay?”

“Something in the mail?” Susan scratched the back of her neck, confused. “Why don’t you tell me now?”

“Because,” said Ted with a wink, “where’s the fun in that?” He moved forward, hugged her tightly, and then waved at the kids. “Magical magic! You saw it here first.” He laughed, and then headed for his car.

Ted Kord drove for a while. It’d been a long few months for him. With the world nearly coming to an end, and life as he knew it ricocheting back and forth as time itself stretched and strained, he was only just getting back to his life. He made a left turn, and continued down the road. After a few silent moments, he turned on the radio. So he was back now, and focusing on other parts of his life, for what it was worth. And it was worth something, he knew that. Because he’d neglected his real identity, that of Theodore Edward Kord, and not taken off his Blue Beetle uniform for ages. That was going to change.

Soon.

But right now, as he pressed the ‘call’ button on the underside of his steering wheel, and a bright blue flying ship shot down from the clouds and fired a magnetic clamp down to the roof of his car, he knew he still had things to do. And those things meant a journey to Gotham City, home of the Batman. “Fun,” he said to no one in particular.



Mayor Krol’s empty eye socket itched. They hadn’t been able to save his eye after what the Joker had done to him, and the silk eye patch served to harden his image in the eyes of the voters. He could have gone the way of the Prime Minister of England, fake eye and all that, but no, he needed to show he was the big man. The hard man.

Colonel Lewis Taff stood in front of him, flanked by two soldiers. “The governor called us into the city to restore law and order, Mayor Krol, and we’re trying our damndest, but the very fact that you’ve allowed a charity ball to be organized when half the city’s infrastructure is in ruins makes our jobs all the more difficult, do you know that?”

“Excuse me?” Armand Krol arose from his seat, gloved hands tightening around the edge of his desk. “I called you in because Gotham needs help. I don’t have any doubts about that. The Juh… Juh…” his fingers scratched down, and he could feel splinters of the wood from his heavy oak desk curl upwards underneath his fingertips. He needed to say the name, and he hadn’t been able to for months. Say it, he screamed in his head, say it, say it, say it-- “The Joker is a terrorist.” He caught his breath, as he felt the sweat forming on his face. “I may not be mayor for much longer, elections are coming up fast, and frankly, I want to rest, but you do not get to tell me what I can and can’t do in this city. My city. We need hope, and this Ball is what’s going to bring it. I fully intend to be there myself, and the GCPD have assigned uniforms to the streets around just in case of any… events.”

“And I guess we need to be there too,” replied Taff. “This ain’t a baby-sitting assignment, sir. And I don’t like it, but I’m not gonna let anything happen on my watch.” The Colonel saluted and left the room, along with his men.

Krol slipped down into his chair, opened up his desk drawer, took out a bottle of scotch, and poured a glass. “Joker. Joker.” He swallowed the warm liquid in one, and then slouched down. “I can say the name. I can say it, dammit.”



“Don’t be wearing the perfume. Please, God, let her not be wearing the perfume.” The rain poured down onto the grounds of Wayne Manor. Dick stood at the bottom of the porch, his long black hair matted to his scalp as the downpour continued. His black coat kept him warm, but he liked the feel of the raindrops on his head. He hated Gotham weather, yet he loved it at the same time. You could never tell what was going to happen next. Some time it would rain for weeks, and others it would be scorching. With the changes in weather came changes in the villains…

Her taxi drove up the small winding road that led from the main gates to the Manor, and he rushed over while opening up the umbrella. “Hey, Barbara.”

Barbara Gordon smiled as she stepped out of the taxi, and Dick took her suitcase. “Dick.”

He shivered.

“You look a bit moist.”

“That’d be the rain,” he replied, smiling. “I told Alfred I’d show you to your room, I hope you don’t mind?”

“I have to call my dad, tell him I’m visiting, but that’s fine, yes.”

“Hope I didn’t pull you away from anything in Las Vegas? You left so abruptly after that whole deal with Fero and the Casino…” Dick paid the taxi driver, much to Barbara’s exasperation, and they headed into the manor.

“I’ve got to thank you again for the use of the private jet; it got me where I needed to be.”

Alfred Pennyworth met them at the door. He groaned as Dick stepped inside, dripping everywhere. “Sir. Please, go dry yourself off. I’ll take Miss Barbara from here.” He bowed, and Dick nodded slowly, and headed for the cave entrance behind the grandfather clock, trailing water as he went. Alfred continued to shake his head, as he turned to Barbara Gordon, also known as Batwoman. “You shall be glad to hear that I’ve prepared one of the larger guest bedrooms. Which one, I am unsure. If you’ll accompany me, we shall find out together.” He picked up Barbara’s suitcase, and they headed upstairs.

Dick leaned against the wall behind the stairwell, quietly banging the back of his head on the smooth surface. “Dammit.” He could still smell her. It messed up his head, made it hard to think. “She’s wearing the damned perfume.” He sighed, and descended into the cave.



“1666.” Tim Drake was uncomfortable. He’d rather be back at the Manor, in the cave, helping Dick work on his battle plan. He knew it was all coming together tonight. But as he was still in school his education came first-- Dick and Alfred enforced that vehemently. He could answer their questions with ease; Alfred had been helping him review the history of the world in-between gymnastics lessons and waiting for Dick to get back from patrol. Ms French was a good teacher and she got on well with the kids, but she was-- how could Tim put this kindly-- patronizing.

Tim took after his father, the intelligence operative. In the past few months he’d honed his mind to that of a detective: Don’t have the answer? Find it. Need more than one answer? Work for it. Follow leads, follow clues, do your due diligence and then you get what need.

The bell rang, and everyone filed out of the classrooms. “Tim! Tim!” He turned to the shouts of a friend, and smiled as Stephanie Brown hugged him. “Where you been? It’s been ages!” He hugged her back, and then they walked toward the front of the school. “I, um, heard about your dad, and then, uh, you know.”

“Yeah,” nodded Tim. “I do.”

She smiled. “I’m here if you need me, Timmy-boy! You know it!” They shared a laugh, as they reached the steps outside the entrance to the school. The rain hammering down on the streets grew heavier, and Stephanie’s expression turned dark. “I wanted to talk to you about something, Tim.”

“Yeah?”

“My dad… you know he’s been at Arkham for eight years, now?” She shuffled from one foot to the other, glancing up at Tim as she did so. “Well, my mom told me he was, well, he’s getting released soon, and I just, I need to, I don’t know.” She sighed. “I don’t know. I’m scared?”

Arthur Brown, otherwise known as ‘The Riddler’. The first one, or the dupe who’d been posing as him. Bruce had told him about Arthur Brown when Tim had brought Stephanie up in conversation. It was a convoluted little history there. Edward Nygma was the adopted name of Michael Hughes, a software designer. He’d been believed dead after an automobile accident, and Arthur Brown had been the partner, who’d thereupon received 100 per cent of the royalties paid by the Minotaur software company for their work. Nygma had, in fact, survived. He’d gone on to blackmail Brown, driving him insane with the fact that he was alive and knew everything about him. He’d swindled Brown out of his fortune, then coerced him into attacking members of Nygma Technology. Batman had taken him down hard. Brown had been in Arkham since. Tim already knew that he was on the way out. ‘Good behaviour’.

“He was so messed up. I visited once and he just, I don’t know, sorry.” She hugged him. “I’ve got to get home, my mom’s waiting.”

Tim wanted to say something. He wanted to reassure her, to hug her, something. He was thirteen. Fourteen in a few weeks. He felt helpless, and as Alfred emerged from the waiting limousine, he resigned himself to silence, and headed for the vehicle, head hung low.

“Master Timothy, are you well?”

“I’m fine, Alfred. Please, let’s just go home.”



James Gordon wasn’t the greatest police commissioner in the world. He still wore a gun, he still investigated cases, he still did the job, and, unlike other commissioners across the country, he still cared. Others delegated the work, others sat behind their desks, more politicians than cops, and he knew that he had to do the best he could by his officers…

“Commish?”

“Harv.” Gordon looked up as Harvey Bullock entered, hat in hands. “How can I help you?”

“Eh, I dunno, Commish, this case… it’s getting to me. I mean, I’ve been around murders before, you know that, but this, goddamnit, it’s just--” He slumped down in the chair in front of Gordon’s desk. “You saw the bodies. Whoever did this was one sick £$%^.”

“Damn right. And it’s our job to take him down, Harvey. You’re one of the best detectives on the force, and you’re the one I’m trusting to lead this investigation in the right direction. I’m relying on you.” He stood up. “And I’ll back you every step of the way.”

Bullock nodded. “Thanks, Commish.”



“Look, I’m going to be straight with you, Mr. Mitchell. You’ve got something to do with this case, and you’re going to tell me what I need to know. This warrant allows my brothers in blue full access to all your files. So right now, I need to know, what the Hell have you done to bring this down on the poor bastards that died these past two months.” Jackson Davies was standing in front of Delaine Mitchell’s desk in the ‘Care and Create’ nerve centre. They had read the brief on the way over. Daycare ‘plus’. And the one link between the three families slaughtered by the man still at large. “Spill. Or something else will.”

“I… I don’t understand; we’ve done nothing wrong,” stuttered Mitchell, as he put his hand on his phone.

Nelson Crowe pressed down on the receiver. “What my partner is trying to say is, if you don’t give us the information we’re requesting, your blood will be spilled. In case that wasn’t clear.” He cleared his throat. There was a knock at the door.

“Mr. Mitchell, sir?”

“Ah, Jon, thanks.” Mitchell stood and pointed at the shelf. “It’s that one.”

Jon, obviously the handyman of the building, went to work gluing a shelf back to the wall. He whistled quietly to himself as he went.

“Is that necessary?”

Mitchell turned to Jackson, as the men motioned toward the handyman. “My shelf is broken, and, well, ok, fine, I’ll get the files with you. Please, follow me.” He stood, pushed down his suit to smooth out the creases, and led the detectives down a corridor. When they reached a small room, he opened the door, and stepped inside. When the two men were inside, he shut the door. “Right. I don’t want any problems. We’re a thriving business; we have hundreds of applicants for our day-care service come in weekly. We have to whittle those down, so we need as much information as we can get.”

“I read your spec,” replied Davies, as he pulled a questionnaire from inside his coat. “You aren’t joking, this is a pretty dense piece of work.”

“Yes, well, like I said, we need as much information as we can get so we can see who the most suitable applicants are.”

“The richest. The most influential.”

“Among other things,” Mitchell laughed uneasily. “So yeah, we have to get as much information as we can.”

“What do you do with that information? And, I should add that our uniforms will be here to collect your records within the hour. Any information you can give us would probably render it unnecessary for us to take all these peoples’ personal details to Central. Any information you share might keep these people from finding out that you’re the centre of this £$%^ed-up situation.”

“Again, what my partner means is,” smiled Crowe, as he flicked through some files, much to the Mitchell’s chagrin, “do you outsource your information? Do you let people in here without permission? Do you have a tendency to allow axe murderers to read these files? I mean, look at this,” he pulled out a file, and began to read. “Details of house layout. Why would you need that?”

“Because we do call outs. We need to know where everything is, how to get to it, and what to do in case of emergency. ‘Where does Mommy keep the extra Diapers?’ and all that, you know?”

“Mr. Mitchell, are you patronizing me? Because I’m a family man myself, and I know where my wife keeps the extra diapers. You knew the murdered families, Mr. Mitchell, and your patronizing tone is making me very uneasy about your involvement in this.”

“N-no! It’s a quote, from a film, from, uh, Mr. Mom, yeah?”

Davies stepped forward. “Are you calling me an idiot, now? I don’t appreciate that, Mr, Mitchell. Nelson, does he appear threatening to you?”

Crowe waved without looking up from the file he was reading. “Very, Jackson.”

Mitchell threw up his hands. “Fine! We outsourced the information to a private company, because we couldn’t handle the workload. He helped get shortlists to us days instead of the weeks it takes us. Very efficient.”

Crowe snapped the folder shut, and placed it back in the drawer. “Details, Mr. Mitchell, details.”

“Remberetto Inc.” He scrawled something on a piece of paper, and handed it to the detective. “I know it sounds insane, but they were recommended by a friend, and I thought nothing of it. The work was done, we had happy customers, ok? Now, can you leave? I have work to do, and I-I don’t like this pressure you’re putting me under. I think it best you leave.”

“We’re leaving.” Davies smiled, and then walked out of the records room. As he did so, he pressed a button on his radio. “Alright, let’s get moving.”

As Crowe and Davies left the building, a fleet of uniformed officers flooded in and headed straight for the records room. Davies smiled as the two detectives climbed into their car. “That was fulfilling.”

“You just had too much fun. ‘Angry Black Man’. Very interesting choice, Sarge.”

“Yes, well, my English friend, sometimes ‘Angry Black Man’ has to come out, and sometimes he gets the job done.”

“Got the address here. Now is the time to follow it up.” Crowe turned on the engine, and they drove off.



It always came back to the Hyde Civic Centre. To be honest, it was somewhat appropriate, seeing as the Hyde Civic Centre had originally been named the Patrick Wayne Civic Centre before its impromptu destruction during the Apokolips Invasion.

Subsequently, its revitalization at the hands of the Hyde Collective-- a group of reclusive millionaires who wanted to get their piece own of Gotham-- resulted in one of the most intriguing buildings in Gotham being erected. Now that the Centre was hosting the Wayne Enterprises Charity Ball, it was all coming together. Lucius Fox was doing a final once over on the decorations, and he liked what he saw. The Charity Ball was to raise money for the restoration of Gotham, and it appeared that it would do just that.

“Nothing can go wrong.”



“Is this it?” Blue Beetle wandered down the stone stairwell that lead down to the Cave. Robin sat at the large computer, Batwoman was filling her utility belt with extra batarangs and other assorted items (some of which were familiar to Ted Kord as he had helped to develop them). Batman was staring off into the distance, his back to the other heroes, his hands holding tightly to the rail that cordoned off the massive hole in the Cave floor. “Four of us? Why not call in the League? The Titans? The rest of the Outsiders? Even Powers, Inc.?”

“Because we’re playing a very subtle game, Beetle,” Batman turned to face him.

Beetle couldn’t help but smile. Nightwing had it. He had the glare down pat, his aura of strength was intoxicating and the voice. God, if he could make a living off of impersonating dead vigilantes...

“Batman is no longer a member of the Justice League. The Titans cannot be compromised by a connection with the Batman, any moreso than they already have been by their connection to Nightwing, Batman’s former partner.”

Robin laughed, and winked at Blue Beetle. “He means sidekick.”

“Partner,” continued Batman. “The Outsiders are recovering from their confrontation with the Fero Corporation and whatever happened to Powers, Inc.?”

“Was that a joke?” Blue Beetle shook his head. “And here’s me thinking you were the same old Batman.” He pulled off his mask. “So, who’s the kid, and why’s he wearing your old costume?”

Dick pulled down his cowl, and Barbara removed her own mask. “Tim Drake, this is Ted Kord, the Blue Beetle. Wayne Enterprises owns his company-- we’ve been using Kord Omniversal as an R and D department. But that, I hope, will change.”

Tim grinned. “I know all about you, sir. I read about your development of non-lethal weaponry in Inventors Digest.” He put out his hand, and Ted took it. “It’s an honour.”

“And you’re terrifying. Do you like magic?”

“Excuse me?”

“Nothing. So. Why call me in?”

“You’ve always been there, Ted. You helped develop a lot of the stuff we’ve got in the Cave, Bruce trusted you with his life, and you’re reliable in a fight.”

Ted was floored. He’d had no idea that Bruce Wayne had thought so highly of him. After their adventure together over a year ago, when the dead had risen from their graves in Gotham they’d kept in touch. He’d built special edition versions of the Bat-suit for every occasion, but for such an honour to be bestowed upon him? That trust?

“The Hyde Civic Centre is where we’re setting our trap. Wayne Enterprises owns a property opposite the building, and I own the Centre itself through a dummy front, which means--”

“--Hidden rooms!” offered Robin.

“Exactly. Costumes will be stored there, and there’s sewer access, too. The Hyde Collective may have built it, but we’re the ones who made it… special.”

“So what, you want me to wait in a dark room?”

“No, I want you to mingle. The only costume you’ll be needing right now is a tux-- you’re going to the ball. Barbara, you’re on ball duty, too. Tim, you’ll be here. I need you working on something specific.”

“That being?”

“Communications were knocked out by a specific broadwave signal. I’m going to need you to track that back to its source, so I can get to work breaking this thing down.”

“So what are you going to do?” Barbara looked him up and down. He was different. He was older. It scared her, somewhat, but it excited her as well. She cast those musings to the back of her mind. Think clean thoughts, chum…

Dick pulled the cowl over his face, and his smile was terrifying. “I’m going to make a scene. One they won’t forget.”



“I don’t miss,” he growled under his breath as he looked out across the chasm between ruined Gotham skyscrapers. Below him was darkness, and just barely visible car lights and makeshift streetlamps, all illuminating the war-torn city. He couldn’t claim to love it, but he could claim to love taking advantage of the chaos. “And there isn’t a reason to miss this.” He pulled the bolt handle back, lowered himself to the floor, and lay prone, his nest prepared and his site clear. Floyd Lawton, the assassin known as Deadshot, was here on special assignment. The Suicide Squad needed their asses pulled out of the fire, and he was the one to do it. He looked through his scope, and watched Lucius Fox pacing the floor in the Hyde Civic Centre. Lawton would have to thank whoever had decided to only use glass on the ball-room floor. After he was done.
“Get ready to say goodnight.”