The Way Back #16

Batman reeled, bringing his cape over his nose and mouth with one hand as he fumbled in his belt for a breathing mask with the other. Fighting every instinct that screamed at him to get away from the car, he forced himself to stagger toward it and slump over the hood. With any luck, the sight of him lying there would flush out whoever had set this trap.

"FBW? What's going on?"

Dick quickly finished positioning the mask over his nose and mouth. Can't talk, Oracle, he responded, tapping his finger lightly along the edge of his radio in Morse code. Situation under control.

There was a brief pause. Then, "I'll be monitoring if you need anything. Oracle out."

Batman signalled an acknowledgement. Then he coughed once more, settled his position, and waited. It wasn't long before he heard cautious footsteps approaching. A hand tentatively touched his shoulder. Batman held still, drawing on the meditation techniques that Bruce had drilled into him years ago to regulate his bio-functions, slowing his breathing and heart-rate in order to appear more affected by the gas than he actually was.

The hand moved to his neck, checking for a pulse. Judging by the way the newcomer was breathing, he—or she—was nervous.

Batman forced himself not to react. There was always the possibility that he'd been discovered by some Good Samaritan who was looking to assess his condition. Maybe... but he doubted it. Sure enough, a moment later he heard a faint metallic jingle and felt a band lock tightly around his wrist. As the newcomer reached for his other wrist, Batman surged up and grabbed hold of his would-be captor.

"This looks like police-issue," he said conversationally, glancing at the handcuff. "Here. Try one of mine on for size."

His captive—a youth in his late teens from the look of him—was too panicked to resist as Batman cuffed him.

"About the murder," Batman continued, his voice taking on a more ominous tone. "Any particular reason for the way you set it up?"

All at once, the young man's head jerked up. "What?"

Under the cowl, Dick blinked. But no hint of uncertainty carried over into his tone. "Two nights ago. Roof of GCPD. The signal? Memory coming back to you?"

"M-murder? You trippin' balls, man? I never!"

He was telling the truth, Batman judged. At least about this. "And just now? You always carry handcuffs with you, just in case you find me unconscious?"

"N-no," he said...

"Who?"

But the thug was shaking his head. "I can't, man. He-he'll kill me."

"I'll do worse. I'll keep you alive," Batman replied, as he pulled out a batarang. He held it up for a moment, and then brought it up to the kid's face. He drew its edge lightly against the kid's cheek, using just enough pressure to leave a long pink scratch.

The youth gulped. "Look. I don't know. I... " He dropped his voice. "It's an initiation, okay?"

"What?"

"I... I'm trying to get into the 'Dragons. They told me I'd find you here, a-and they wanted me to snap the cuffs on you, then go to the drugstore across the street, call a number and hang up. They'd take care of the rest. But I didn't kill anyone! You gotta believe me."

Batman nodded. "I do. Or at least... I will. Once you prove it to me."

"Wha-what?"

Batman nodded. "You're going to go dial that number. And we'll see who comes running."

"But they'll kill me!"

Dick rolled his eyes. "Didn't we just go through this?" He paused, considering his options. "Fine," he said. "Give me the number."

The youth struggled unsuccessfully to get one cuffed hand into his jeans pocket. Finally Batman reached over and extracted the slip of paper. "If I let you go," he said slowly, "and I bust some gang or other a few nights from now... I won't see you sporting one of their jackets, will I?"

The thug shook his head vigorously.

"How about a year from now?"

"N-never. I swear it."

Batman waited another moment. Then he unlocked the cuffs. "Get out of here," he growled.

The punk fled.

"Oracle," Batman spoke quietly into his comm-link. "I want you to trace a number for me..."

Barbara sighed. "You probably already know part of it," she said, as she poured herself a cup of coffee at breakfast the next morning.

Dick reached for the platter of eggs. "Yeah, I thought there were a few extra digits in that phone number. Hong Kong or Mainland China?"

"Mainland, Guangzhou. It's pretty close to Hong Kong." She made a face. "The problem is, it's not going to be so easy to pinpoint the owner."

Dick nodded understanding. "Too many identical last names?"

"That's part of it. The thing is, even if I had a name, it wouldn't mean anything to me. Your punk from last night was trying to join the Ghost Dragons. They're originally based out of Hong Kong—but if they've expanded here, who's to say they haven't branched out a bit closer to home?" She took a few sips from her mug. "Two problems with that: first, they usually use aliases. Second, I tend to focus my attention on two fronts: Gotham, and JLA-level threats. Gang activity halfway around the world is usually off my radar." She made a face. "Though in this case, I'm willing to make an exception."

"And we still don't know how any of this connects with the body in the bat-signal." Dick frowned and buttered a slice of toast.

"Or if." Barbara shrugged. "The signal went up last night. Someone could have spotted you parking the Bat-mobile. If they had a gas grenade on them..." She broke off as she saw Dick's sceptical expression. "I admit it would have been pretty spur-of-the-moment, but maybe the reason we can't pinpoint a connection with Signalman is because there isn't one."

"That's another thing bugging me," Dick said, as he slathered peanut butter over the butter. "Phil Cobb, or as we know him, Signalman, is dead. Supposedly, anyway. The report could be exaggerated. Or we could be dealing with a copycat..."

"...Or he might have nothing to do with it." Barbara slid a portion of scrambled eggs from the earthenware platter onto her own plate. "The only thing this killer has in common with Signalman, now that I think of it, is that he trapped someone inside the signal. And unlike the real McCoy, he trapped a dead body."

Dick nodded. "I tried dialling that number the kid gave me, but nobody showed up." He sighed. "Oh well. At least, the Titans have Kid Devil trying to infiltrate the 'Dragons. Talk to Tim and Cassie. See if they know anything we should." He yawned. "I'm going to have another cup of coffee and head out."

Dick didn't usually find himself at a loss for words. Not usually. Today, however, was an exception. He blinked at the young woman standing in his living room. "You want to what?"

Cass took a deep breath. "I want to... to train for... work. In hospitals."

Dick took a deep breath. Please, he thought, don't let her take this the wrong way. "You mean like a... a doctor?"

Cass frowned. "I... no. Do I have to?" She thought for a moment. "I don't know if I need that. When... when Batman was sick... the man who helped him after was a... a..." she fought to remember the words, "a res-pra-to-ree ther-pist? Is that... a doctor?"

"Not usually," Dick replied. "I mean, a therapist can be, but it's not actually required. Is that what you want?" He realized suddenly that the young woman was shaking. "You okay?"

She nodded. "I just... I don't like to not know things. Mostly I... find out from watching. But for this... not enough. I have to... ask to know."

"Hey," Dick said reassuringly. "Sit down. Relax. And just tell me slowly, as best you can. If I misunderstand, tell me. What brought this on?"

Cass hesitated. Then, slowly, she sank onto the sofa. "You aren't always Batman. Nightwing. Not always... in costume." Her brow furrowed as she looked down at her own jeans and T-shirt.

Dick watched. "Are you telling me you want a... a secret identity?"

"No. I want to be... more than Batgirl."

"Okay," Dick nodded. "That's fair enough. But why hospitals?"

She took in a deep breath, held it for a count of five, and released it. "I... know how far to... to push people. Always. Part of... reading people, I think. I taught Black Canary. You told me: teach Bruce. It... It was..." she smiled faintly, "fun. I... I'm good at it." She took another breath and exhaled again. "What happened to Batman was... hard. For everyone. Us. Him. But now... with us helping... with him trying..." she struggled to find the words. "I want to do this. For more people. Help them get better. I don't know if that means 'be doctor'. Does it?"

Dick hesitated. "Well," he said slowly, "it's definitely part of the job description. But there are other careers along those lines that you don't need a medical degree for." He looked at her. "You could always teach, you know. Open a private gym? Maybe work as a personal trainer."

Cass nodded. "I know. But... I think I want this... more."

"Okay," Dick said. "In that case, you have one really big problem. It's not insurmountable, but," it was best to come right out with it, "you have to go to school for it. How long depends on what you decide you want to do, but to become a doctor takes at least eight years studying full-time. And the work-load is intense." He gave her a penetrating look. "It would probably take you a bit longer. And, Cass, I'm sorry, but I don't think you'd have time to go to class, study and... still be Batgirl."

"Oh." Cass' face fell. She nodded softly. "I... didn't realize. Okay."

But it wasn't okay, Dick realized. She wanted this badly enough to risk her halting English to ask about it. He knew how much she hated to admit to ignorance on any subject. And yet... "Cass," he murmured, "I'm not telling you that you can't do something like this, but I think you need more information before you decide."

"That's why I came," she said plaintively.

"Yeah, but I'm not an expert," Dick smiled. "Look, there've got to be dozens of careers in health-related fields. They aren't all as demanding. I think you need to do some research—at least try to narrow down the area a little bit. I'll help you in any way I can," he added, "but you've got to come to me with a more specific goal."

"How?" she asked, dismayed. "Research how?"

Finally, Dick felt himself on more solid ground. "My suggestion: go to a hospital. Find the volunteer office and tell them that you're thinking of a career in a health profession. Ask them if they can assign you to a position that will involve helping patients." He sighed. "I don't know how much they can let you do legally. I mean if you don't know what you're doing and you accidentally hurt a patient, the hospital could get sued. Don't be surprised if all they ask you to do is wheel patients to and from different departments. But it'll be an experience. And it might help you figure out what you want. Sound good?"

Cass nodded again. "The hospital where Bruce was after... after the fire. I could try there."

"Saint-Swithins," Dick agreed. "That'd be a good choice. They've got one of the best rehab centres in the States."

"Okay," Cass said with a small guarded smile. "I'll... go tomorrow morning. After patrol."

"Sleep first," Dick suggested. "You'll make a better first impression."

"Okay."

"And Cass?" Dick grinned. "Good luck."

Cass sat at a small table in the volunteer office and frowned at the application before her. After five minutes, she'd still only filled in her name. She thought for a moment longer and then under address, painstakingly wrote, 'Gabrych + Puckett'. She hesitated another moment and added, 'basement'. She left the zip code field blank, hoping it wouldn't matter. It wasn't like she expected them to actually mail her anything. Had she known that they were going to ask for this, she would have gotten Dick to write down his for her.

"Having trouble?" the desk clerk asked her.

She looked up. "Yes," she sighed. "What is... zip code?"

The man behind the desk smiled sympathetically. "You're newly arrived, I take it," he said. "I'm guessing English isn't your first language?"

Cass shook her head.

The man considered. "Well, I probably shouldn't... but it's not like there's anyone else waiting. And we do need people. Alright. Don't worry about the zip for now—but bring it in as soon as you know. What's the next question... phone number?"

"Yes." At least she knew that.

"What's your level of education?"

Cass flushed. "I... I didn't go to school," she admitted.

"Can you read?"

"Yes," Cass whispered. "I read manga."

"Oh really?" the clerk suddenly sounded more interested. "Any titles in particular?"

Cass nodded. "Good Luck," she said. "And Gimmick... Dragon Drive... S.A..."

"Dragon Drive is a good one," the clerk smiled. "I don't know the other titles. What volume are you up to?"

"Two," she said, relaxing. "I just started last week."

"Nice." He cleared his throat. "Getting back to business, is there a reason why you wanted to volunteer at this hospital?"

"Yes." She'd anticipated the question and mentally rehearsed her answer beforehand. "A friend was... hurt. He needed to be in here. I... I visited. When he came out, I helped him. I want to learn to do more. As... pro-fession-nal. But I don't know what kind."

"I understand. Do you have any idea where you'd want to start?"

She didn't. Not really. But if she had to name an area, then, "Respiratory therapy."

The clerk frowned. "I understand you don't have any experience in a health-care field?"

She sighed. "No." Then, more hopefully, "Not... yet."

"I like your attitude." The clerk thought for a moment. "Okay. I'm going to write down a few things and I want you to read them back to me, okay?"

Cass nodded.

The clerk picked up a felt-tip marker and quickly jotted down a few lines. "Here."

Cass frowned. "El-e-vvvv-ay-tor," she read hesitantly. "Ar-Tee-nine-zero-one. Cee-six-zero-three. Pay-tee-ent... no. Sorry. Patients' dining room. Nursing station." She glanced up from the sheet with a guarded smile. "Okay?"

"Not bad," the clerk smiled back. "Not bad at all. Now, how's your sense of direction? Think you can find your way around here?"

"Yes." She still relied on landmarks far more easily than on written signposts.

"Alright," the clerk said. "We'll try. I won't deny that we have some staffing issues at the moment. As it happens, we need someone who can transport patients from their therapy sessions back to their rooms. How many days were you thinking to volunteer?"

"How many do you need?"

"Well, we'll start with three. I'm assigning you to respiratory therapy, but if necessary, you may find yourself doing the same thing for physio and maybe a few other departments. If you're game, I can take you up right now, and introduce you to the person you'll be reporting to."

Cass nodded, hardly daring to trust her ears. "I'm... game," she said as she fell into step behind him.