#33: Sins of the Father (LaFleche / Price)

“Sir, are you certain….”

“It’s the only option…*huff*… I have left, Alfred,” Batman said, trying to breathe through his broken nose and cracked ribs. “Can’t kill…*huff* can’t kill him. No prison will hold him.”

Alfred frowned. This was crossing the line. Hell it was, this was flying past the line at mach 3. They were about to go so far past the line they wouldn’t be able to see it anymore. Still, what alternatives where left?

“Lucius?” he said at last, gently easing Bruce Wayne’s cowl off of his head.

“The compound I’ve prepared will do its job,” Lucius Fox said in a cold deadpan. “It will place him into a persistent vegetative state for the rest of his life unless we administer the antidote.”

“Or someone else creates one…ugh! Alfred, careful!”

“Oh, I am sorry, Master Bruce, I forgot what a sensitive lad you are…”

“You’re fired.”

“Again?”

“Gentlemen,” Lucius said, putting his hands up. If he let the banter go on, they’d never come to a decision. “I’m willing to do this on one condition.”

Alfred and Bruce both looked at him.

“I will only administer this dose if the three of us are in agreement.”

“Lucius, this is my….”

“The Hell is it Bruce,” Lucius said. “Alfred and I have been helping you carry out your holy war in Gotham because we believe in it. But this is different from anything you’ve asked of us before, and you damned well know it! This isn’t just about you, or The Batman. It’s about all of us.”

Bruce sighed and gingerly and looked at both men before he went to lie back on the medical bed. “Yes.”



Dick Grayson looked at the two men hard. He’d know them all his life. Alfred was as much a father to him as Bruce had been and Lucius was like a kindly old uncle. He could not imagine either one of them killing someone.

“You….eliminated them….”

“I think you might want to sit down, Master Grayson.”

“No, Alfred, I think you two will make with answers. Now!”

Lucius smiled and nodded at Alfred. “You were right, you know.”

“I know,” Alfred said, rubbing his forehead. “I told you.”

“Told him what, Alfred?”

“Long ago you developed a habit of acting like Bruce when Bruce wasn’t around.”

“Do not…!” The older men just smiled. “Ok, maybe, but that isn’t the point. What did the three of you do?”

“Richard,” Lucius started, slumping into a chair. “Remember when I told you that being Batman meant making hard choices? Only choices that Batman can make? Well, what happened to these two men was the result of those choices.”

“What. Did. You. Do?”

Alfred sat down too. This was a conversation he’d never thought he’d have. This was before Dick. Before Jason. The three of them, alone against the night. This was the past, crawling its way back. No way to avoid it. Bruce was dead, and Dick wore the cowl now. He had to know. His life could depend on it.

“Sir, when you first came to us, before you ever put on a costume, Batman faced two criminals who were, without a doubt, the most dangerous men he had faced to date.”

Alfred hit a button on the computer keyboard and an image of the tall blonde man in a monk’s robes was enlarged.

“He went by the name of Deacon Blackfire. A religious zealot who saw himself as God’s true voice on earth,” Lucius said. “He was a hand to hand combatant with skills that were close to Bruce’s own. He started out as a kind of televangelist and built a massive following, largely of the poor, homeless…runaway teenagers that sort of thing.”

“It was only when some of his followers were found beating a gay couple to death, that Master Bruce suspected there was more going on,” Alfred said. “Many of Blackfire’s most loyal followers had triggered a crime wave. Thefts. Assaults. Even a few murders.”

Dick finally sat down and starting reviewing Blackfire profile on the screen while Lucius continued.

“Turned out his followers were not true believers. He was using a high sophisticated neurological technology to control them. Each subject had a chip implanted in their heads. Blackfire could send a signal to the chip, effectively using them as puppets, although they were unaware of it.”

“You said he was almost as good a fighter as Bruce?”

“Almost. They fought four times. The first three were near standstills, but Bruce’s endurance and ability to absorb punishment were astonishing. However, each time Bruce gained an upper hand, Blackfire would call in his troops, leaving a battered Batman out numbered and out gunned. Each time, Bruce barely escaped with his life.”

“So what happed that last time?”



They couldn’t stop with the giggles. Not these two punks. The ones with their faces pained in white, red and green. Jokerz. They couldn’t stop with the giggles. Not even if they wanted to.

They’d been huffing that Smilex gas out of aerosole cans for hours. The stuff of the Joker gave them before he vanished during the big blasts that leveled most of the downtown. If they loved it then, they couldn’t get enough of it now. They needed it. Craved it. This stuff was like heroin on crystal meth.

Screw that, meth was for nancies and kids and middle age men looking for a rush. Smilex was highway to heaven.

They tried to pick the lock to the jewelry store, but let’s face it, that was about as funny as a tumor. (They giggled at that too. The word “tumor” just sounded funny.) So they smashed the windows, grabbed what they could and ran into the back alley.

“Oooh ooh, Donny! This is a sweet score. Hehehehehehe. Sweeeeeeeeeeeet. The Jokerz rule, dude. Hehehehehehe.”

“Figure they do, Robby. Jokerz rules. This sweet, sweet score gonna’ get us enough to make Smilex for a month. Sell it to them junkies. Hehehehehehe.”

“Keep some for us though, Donny! Figure we gotta’.”

“Hehehehe. Figure Robby. Jokerz rule.”

“They do…hey what was…hehehehe…what was ….*ack*.”

It was too late. They were too stupid. Too slow. Too Goddamned stoned.

The Grey Ghost dropped down upon them from eight storeys up. Eight. Only the gravel crunching under his feet gave him away. He snapped Robby’s neck first. Quick and quiet. Like it was as easy as breathing.

Donny ran. Or thought he was. He was running in his mind. Fast. He was a goddamn track star. He was the Flash. The things a mind on Smilex will do. The Ghost broke his legs first, just to hear the stupid punk scream.

“You pollute this city. You and your filth. He failed this city. His acolyte has failed it. I will cleanse it.”

“What? Hehehe…What?...oh God, my..hehehehe…legs….god..”

“God?” The Ghost said. “If you see him, try not to giggle. It’s impolite.”

The last thing Donny heard was a wet, crunching sound vibrating through his own chest.



“You sure this will work, Z?” Batman asked, crouched in an unlit corner of the old subway tunnel.

“It will work, B” Lucius Fox said over the head set. “Just remember, you need to be within four feet of the transmitter and receiver in order to jam Blackfire’s signal and issue your own commands.”

“That’s cutting it a bit close…”

“I know. That gets them close enough to dog pile you again, but without examining his transmitter, it’s the best I can do.”

“What kind of commands can I use?”

“Nothing complicated. Something simple like ‘Stop now’ or ‘ Go there’ should do. The device cannot send out anything more than that.”

“Roger that, Z.”

Lucius frowned and turned to Alfred. “Ok, why does he keep calling me Z?”

“I suspect of your last name, Lucius.”

“My last name is Fox.”

“Zorro.”

“What?”

Alfred smiled. “Zorro. Translates to…”

“The fox,” Lucius said. “We have to find that man a hobby.”

“I have tried…”

“Show time.” Batman hissed over the radio.

Blackfire walked with three of his followers through the tunnel. Bruce’s detective work had paid off. This was where the ‘Deacon’ was keeping his drones. And he was protected by only three.

Batman waited until the four men walked past. The first two he took out so quietly, the others didn’t notice. The third managed to scream. But it was too late. Before Blackfire could act, Batman drove two fingers deep into the man’s neck, smashing his wind pipe.

The man dropped to his knees, gasping for air.

“It’s over Blackfire.”

“Not….*gasp.* …not yet…,” he said, squeezing his left hand tight. Batman seized his wrist, snapping it. Blackfire screamed and opened his palm.

There was it was. The trigger he used to activate his transmitter. The wounded man tried to laugh between painful gulps of air. From the blackness of the subway tunnel came barbarian screams. Blackfire’s hordes had arrived.

They had arrived with bloody intent.



“Things went from bad to worse,” Lucius said. “There were maybe one hundred and fifty of them. They closed in from all sides. Blackfire had given them a kill order. Bruce had nowhere to run.”

“Why didn’t he use the transmitter you gave him?”

“Couldn’t reach it. They very nearly beat him to death with tire irons, sticks and rocks. Blackfire recovered enough to join in. Bruce got a lucky break and was able to drive clear of the mob on the subway tracks.”

Dick sat in rapt attention. “Then he used the device?”

Alfred and Lucius said nothing for a long moment.

“What?” Dick said.

“You have to understand there were so many of them,” Lucius said. “The device could have stopped a handful. But not a hundred at once. …”

“And?”

“Bruce got some distance. With my help he quickly altered the device to issue a single command.

Dick was becoming impatient. Bruce might have been a stubborn cuss at times, but he never took this long to explain something.

“Oh, just get to it!”

“Bruce set the device to issue an order that said ‘Attack me’. Then he used a batarang and some powerful adhesive he kept in his utility belt and managed to throw it on Blackfire.”

Dick closed his eyes. He could see it. A clever if desperate move. Could be justified as self defense. The zombies would have turned on Blackfire giving Bruce the chance to escape.

“They tore him apart didn’t they?” he said in a low voice. How often did Bruce risk life and limb to save his worse enemies? Hell, the two of them once saved the Joker from being crushed in a collapsing building. Dick nearly died that night. Nearly died, saving a serial killer.

“We think so, sir,” Alfred said.

“You think so?”

“Well, we returned a few hours later. There was a lot of blood. Part of what appeared to an arm. All of Blackfire’s tech. Smashed to pieces to was. But no body. And you know what Master Bruce always said. If there was no body…”

“…Then there is always a chance of survival. Trust me, I have been going over that little Bruce-ism a lot lately,” Dick said. “But, come on guys, what are the odds Blacfire survived that if Bruce barely escaped?”

Alfred and Lucius said nothing. After a long moment, Dick cleared his throat.

“You guys are a piece of work. Let’s just continue the bad news parade before I change my mind and slap you both silly. Who is Constantine Drakon?”



He could have been a cook. The Bullocks were all cooks. Harvey Bullock Sr. was a cook. His father Joseph Bullock Jr. was a cook. Joseph Bullock Sr. was also a cook. At least in title. The old man couldn’t figure out how to boil water. But it was the family business.

But not for Harvey. Oh, no. He had to go and carry a badge and a gun. Serve and protect always interested him more than baking and broiling. Mind you, as a cadet he never figured out his career would end here.

You know, in a sewer chased by a lizard man mutant with a taste for raw human and the only ally Bullock’s got is a delusional ex-crime boss who apparently was more concerned with talking to his dead father than staying alive.

Bullock would have shot him minutes ago if his gun wasn’t water logged. Not that it mattered, he was out of bullets anyway. Still, he could beat Black Mask to death with it before Killer Croc got there…

“I might be dinner for that rat bastard, but at least I don’t gotta’ listen to you rant anymore,” Bullock said, raising his pistol over his head with is one good arm, before lowering it again. “Aww, what’s th’ point…”

“Can’t do that father. They’ll know. They’ll know what I did and then come for me. I know what I’m doing,” said Black Mask, slumped against a sewer wall, bleeding out into the sludge.

They putrid water around Bullock erupted. The fat police detective stumbled back, landing in something squishy

The scaled thing in front of was drooling. A forked tongued wagged from side to side over steak knife teeth. It looked like a man in form. Two arms, two legs. But it wasn’t. It was a beast. A man eater.

“Oh $%^& me with a pipe wrench!” Bullock shouted, throwing his pistol at Killer Croc. It bounced off the creature’s shoulder. Croc didn’t flinch. Instead it seized Bullock by the shoulders and lifted him out of the sludge.

“Yummy. Bacon.” it said, opening his jaws wide.

“Agh, your breath!” Bullock said, closing his eyes. “I shoulda been a cook.”

Then he heard a loud snap. And a crackle of electricity. Bullock found himself back in the sludge, back on that squishy whatever it was. He opened his eyes in time to see Croc dive into the murk and swim off. Black Mask was unconscious now, blood still flowing from his leg into the water.

“Who the Hell?” Bullock stood up and wheeled around. In the dim light he could make out the shadow of man standing about five feet away.

“Don’t worry officer. I hit Croc with a specially designed taser. He’ll feel like his skin is on fire for hours,” the man said.

“You built a taser special for Killer Croc?”

“Always helps to come prepared in this town,” the man said. “You two look like you need help. Pick up your friend and follow me.”

“What a damn minute,” Bullock said. “Just who the hell are you?”

The man stepped closed and Bullock could see him clearer. He was tall, well built. The long, tan trench coat couldn’t hide that. The guy was built like a linebacker. His face was wrapped in bandages, save for small openings over the mouth and eyes.

“Oh, hush, officer Bullock. Everything is going to be fine.”



Dick was on his feet. Raging. This was impossible. Insane. Bruce Wayne, the man who always believed there was another way would not have done this.

“I’m sorry sir, but it’s true. The three of us agreed,” Alfred said.

“Alfred, you cannot just destroy a man like that!”

“You don’t understand…” Luicus said.

“Make me!”

“Richard, Drakon was the mob’s ultimate weapon. Bruce had ruined their businesses. Their leaders were either in hiding or in jail. Profits were drying up. Everywhere they turned Batman was in their face,” Luicus said. “So they brought in Drakon.”

Dick looked at the dossier. Not much in it. The man was short. Appeared to be in his late 30s, maybe mid 40s. Ridiculous, Spartan like beard. Assassin for hire. Origin unknown. Bruce made only one notation: “Most dangerous man alive.”

“Drakon nearly beat Master Bruce to death twice. Both times, he escaped by sheer dumb luck. He should not have survived either encounter,” Alfred said. “So we set up an ambush. Luicus prepared the compound….”

“And you put him in a coma for the rest of his life…”

“We thought we had, sir, yes,” Alfred said. “While you were unconscious, we checked the room where Drakon was kept in the Gotham Long-Term Care home. His room was destroyed by the Joker’s bombs. No body was found…”

“Great,” Dick said. “Just great.”



Batman wiped the blood from his face. The ambush worked perfectly and Drakon still nearly escaped. He had a broken nose. Alfred a broken arm. But Drakon was down, in the net.

It was time.

“I’m not sure,” Lucius said, pulling the syringe from his pocket. “We have him, why not turn him over…”

“What prison would hold him, Fox?” Batman said. “No prison in this city could hold me for more than ten hours. Drakon would be out in two. We don’t have time to debate. We’ve decided. Give me the needle.”

The needle was driven deep into the base of Drakon’s skull. The man twitched for a few moments and then his entire body went slack. His tongue rolled out of his mouth and he made a shallow gurgling noise.

“Sir, are you sure about this?” Alfred said, bending down to check Drakon’s pulse.

“We don’t matter, Alfred. You said it to me yourself. Batman can pay the price no one else can to keep this city safe,” Batman said. “I injected him. The responsibility is mine.”

“No it’s not,” Luicus said, putting his hand on Batman shoulder. “We’re all Batman now.”