The Way Back #37

If blood will flow when flesh and steel are one
Drying in the colour of the evening sun
Tomorrow’s rain will wash the stains away
But something in our minds will always stay

—Sting, “Fragile”


Krait was smiling slightly as he made a notation on his clipboard. “I think we’re done,” he announced. “Alex?”

The psychiatrist nodded. “There’s definitely room for work,” he said, “but nothing that I feel warrants additional visits at this time.”

Bruce nodded back impassively. By now, he had a fairly good idea of how to play the game—although he resented having to play it. Show them a good deal of what they wanted to see, while deliberately allowing some minor details to fall short—some crayoning on the nursery walls that hadn’t been totally eradicated; an upper cabinet door that was ever-so-slightly ajar, and could be shut with a mumbled apology and mildly mortified expression, followed by an, “Oh... did you want to see what was inside?” Demonstrate enough insecurity over the little things that they really didn’t care about and they stopped looking for capes, cowls, and batarangs in the front closet. Not that he was fool enough to leave anything that incriminating lying around, of course, but Bruce knew that if he acted too open and accommodating, his guests would only be more convinced that he was hiding something. It was better to let them think that he was worried that they’d blow some minor shortcoming out of proportion than to behave as though he was positive that they’d find nothing amiss and make them look harder.

“All right, then.” Krait tucked his clipboard under his arm. “So, I’ll see you in my office on Thursday, Bruce?”

“I believe so. And I suppose you’ll be back here in another six weeks?”

Krait shook his head. “No, we’re done.” At Bruce’s surprised expression, he nodded. “There’s no need for further home visits unless something happens to warrant them.”

Bruce frowned. “I thought you told me that you required five visits.”

Krait nodded. “After our first meeting, I suspected it would take that many, but,” he smiled, “you only needed to pass three. Since you have, I see no need for further home inspections. Good day, Bruce. I’ll see you Thursday.”

Bruce waited until the door closed behind the two men before he allowed himself a real smile. For the first time in a long time, it felt like things were looking up.



Later that day, as he sat in the Cave, things didn’t seem quite so rosy. On the table before him lay a Beretta M9 semi-automatic. It was unloaded. Bruce let his gaze travel over the gun to the magazine and box of ammunition lying next to it.

The exercise that he had set for himself was simple. Place fifteen rounds of ammunition in the magazine and load the magazine into the gun. Then, unload the magazine and remove the ammunition. Check the gun, and put it away. He’d shown Dick the loading protocols for numerous firearms years ago, early in their partnership.

“Are you sure about this?” Dick’s voice rang with incredulity as he stared at the piece. “I thought you hated guns.”

“But,” he heard himself tell the ten-year-old, “I don’t fear them. There’s a big difference.”

He scowled at the equipment on the table and reached for the box of rounds.

His hand froze.

What was wrong with him? He could do this. He’d taught Dick, hadn’t he? True, that time it had been a Colt Anaconda, but it was still a gun. Back then, handling one hadn’t been a problem. For a moment, Bruce considered unpacking the Colt and seeing whether that would be easier. He rejected the idea. The Colt was a revolver; the Beretta, a semi-automatic. He had to get comfortable—he cringed mentally—using a semi-automatic. He would need to demonstrate proficiency with one in order to pass the exam. And then the department would issue him one; to carry with him at all times. He took a deep breath and looked at the Beretta once more. The Beretta, he couldn’t help thinking, that David Cain had used to kill Vesper Fairchild. He never should have bought the thing in the first place, but worse, he never should have kept it afterwards. That night in the alley, the gun had also been a semi-automatic, although he hadn’t realized it until years afterwards when he’d recognized it from a series of pictures of different firearms. The shape of the weapon that had taken his parents from him had been indelibly burned into his memory: a Beretta M1951.

He forced his attention back to the task at hand.

Load the rounds into the magazine. Load. The rounds. Into. The magazine.

His hand seemed to have a mind of his own. It hovered over the box of ammunition, but it would not lower.

With a snarl, he pushed his chair away from the table and turned to find Jim standing there.” I suppose you’ve been watching me,” he snapped.

“Not for long. What are you doing anyway?”

“What does it...?” He stopped. “Nothing.”

Jim sighed. “It’s not for everyone, you know.” He shook his head. “If you can’t... then you can’t. I’ve seen plenty of recruits ace everything else and wash out of the academy over this. It’s not something to be ashamed of.”

“I used to be able to do this,” Bruce growled.

Jim nodded. “I’ve seen that too. Some officers—scratch that—some people are fine with handling a weapon, until they actually have to use it. Or until someone close to them gets—” He stopped. “I guess I don’t have to finish that sentence.”

No, but it occurred to Bruce that Jim might be onto something. He tried to pinpoint when his revulsion for firearms had crystallised into fear. He was on the wrong track. He’d had a fear of guns since that night in the alley, but he’d managed to keep it under control until... No. As a young man, he’d tried to join the CIA. He’d passed every test except gun handling. But he’d taught Dick how to...

“Bruce?” Jim hesitated. “That exercise you seem to be attempting... Have you... have you tried doing it in... in your old... uniform?”

Bruce blinked.

“It might help you to focus.” He waited. When Bruce didn’t answer, he continued with a slight smile. “I know what the judge said, but I don’t believe it’s an issue if you wear it indoors. At least, I don’t have a problem with it.” He sighed. “Bruce, I’ve seen this before. It’s really not uncommon. Put some officers in street clothes, and they slip up. Stick ‘em in blue and they smarten. Put ‘em in dress whites and it’s like seeing a totally different person. Bruce, no offense, but in the past, you’ve worn civvies when you wanted to appear... um... less-than-competent. Now, you’re trying to handle a weapon—something that demands a higher level of respect than, say, a pencil. It’s less forgiving of... incompetence. Maybe wearing something more formal will help.”

As Bruce listened, it occurred to him that Jim had a point. He was more focused in the suit. At least he had been. But... “There’s not much point then.” His shoulders slumped. “I won’t be able to wear the suit to take the examination. Or afterwards.”

“I bet you never had training wheels on your two-wheeler either.”

Bruce blinked at the change in topic. “No. Why?”

Jim sighed. “Bruce. Humor me. Look, think of it as testing a theory. We both know that you can do this. If you need to dress for the occasion, at least for the first couple of times, go ahead.” He crossed the few yards that separated them and laid a hand on the younger man’s upper arm. “Or don’t. Like I said before, if you can’t, you can’t—and that’s fine too. Nobody’s trying to force you into doing this.”

Bruce closed his eyes.

Jim noticed that, although he could feel the tension in Bruce’s arm, the younger man wasn’t trying to pull free. “I’m going upstairs,” he said finally, squeezing the arm before he released it. “Take your time.”

Bruce stood unmoving for several long minutes after Jim left. Then he took a deep breath, went back to the table and tried once more to reach for the ammunition.



In a satellite Bat-Cave near Robinson Park, Tim stopped short, whirled, and launched a signal flare upwards toward the ropes and rafters. For a moment, the shadows evaporated. There was nobody there. Tim frowned. He was sure he’d heard—

A cable pulled taut, yanking his ankles together. He tumbled, remembering to slap the ground to break his fall. “Curses,” he muttered, “decoyed again.”

Dick dropped next to him. “You know I started learning the fair art of misdirection when I was five, right?” he grinned. “One of my best friends in the circus did a magic act. I picked up a few things about diversion and sleight of hand.”

Tim bent forward and started working on the cable. “Wish I could snap my fingers and make this cord disappear,” he said. “What did you do, anyway?”

“Tossed a batarang into one of those sandbags with enough force that it rocked a bit. Those things are heavy enough that, when they sway, they sound like someone’s moving up there.”

“And I fell for it.” Tim made a face.

“Well, yeah. That was the idea.” Dick grinned. “Look, 95 times out of a hundred, things are pretty predictable. You see what you expect. A farmer in the heart of the Midwest who looks out the window and sees a shadow that looks like it belongs to a horse is probably looking at a horse. A farmer on the Serengeti Plain who sees that same shadow is probably looking at a zebra. But once in a blue moon, someone leaves a gate unlocked at the local zoo and our Midwestern farmer actually does have a stray zebra in the pasture.”

Tim sighed. “If you’re trying to tell me to expect the unexpected, I hear you. I’m not sure I’ll ever get there, but...”

“I’m not sure any of us ever get there. After that smallpox scare we had a couple of weeks ago, I’m definitely including Bruce in that assessment.”

“Is he okay?” Tim asked seriously. He kicked the last loop of cable off and pulled himself up.

“What do you mean?” asked Dick, standing as well.

Tim sighed. “I know he’s not much of a talker, but I called and asked him how he was doing and... he didn’t exactly bite my head off, but he really got off the phone fast. Is something going on?”

Dick hesitated.

Tim slumped. “There is, isn’t there?”

“It depends on how you look at it.”

“But you won’t tell me.” He nodded. “I get it. I can’t walk out on you guys when there’s a crisis and waltz back in once things are looking up. I just wish I could turn the clock back and...”

Dick blinked. “I had no idea you were still feeling guilty over that. Tim, it’s not...” he took a deep breath. “If you could turn back the clock, you’d be missing the life experience you got that made you realize you’d made the wrong decision. Not that I always take this advice, but let it go and move on.” He looked away. “Try to do it before something major happens to give you perspective.”

Tim raised an eyebrow. “You?”

“It took Bruce getting arrested to get me off the pity-pot.”

They shared a smile.

Dick’s expression turned serious once more. “I’ll talk to Bruce for you,” he said. “I’ll ask him to tell you what’s going on. It’s nothing bad—I wouldn’t keep it from you if it was. It’s just... something he’s going through that’s not easy and he...” He sighed. “I guess you could say he’s coping the way he used to: by clamming up and shutting us out.”

“But you know.”

“Well, yeah.” He smiled apologetically. “I’m not saying he’s right to keep it from you. I’m just saying I don’t think it’s my place to fill you in. Not this time. But it’s not because he doesn’t trust you. It’s more like he doesn’t want to discuss it, and I don’t want to go behind his back.”

Tim let out a long breath. “Okay. I guess I get that.” He sighed. “I’m just going to grab a shower and then I’ll head back to Titans HQ. We’ve got a meeting in a couple of hours.”

“Up for patrol later?”

Tim blinked. “I thought Cass was...”

“She got a lungful of fear gas last night. Concentrated dose of Crane’s newest recipe. You know that even with the antidote...”

Tim’s eyes opened wide. “Yeesh! Yeah, those hallucinations can be a problem for up to twenty-four hours. Is she okay?”

“She seems to be,” Dick nodded. “But she’s sitting this one out to be safe. So, how about it?”

Tim grinned. “Sure. I’ll meet you across from GCPD at seven?”

“Sounds good.”



He’d been staring at the gun for over an hour. It was scant inches away from him, but that wasn’t a problem. As long as it was unloaded, it was only a shaped hunk of metal. It didn’t look much different from the hairdryer that Selina had left in the main bathroom that morning.

He took a deep breath and reached for the box of rounds. This time, he managed to get one out, but it immediately slipped through his fingers and landed on the edge of the box. It teetered for a moment, before it fell to the table with a clink.

Bruce sucked in his breath as a footfall sounded behind him.

“I thought you might want to know,” Jim said heavily, “Joker’s loose.”

Bruce turned around.

“Barbara called about five minutes before they announced it on the news. She’s already told everyone else who needs to know.”

Bruce nodded. “Stay here tonight,” he said. “If he somehow gets onto the grounds, it wouldn’t be hard for him to break into the cottage. The manor’s systems are another matter.”

“I was going to suggest it,” Jim said with relief. “Do you think we have any cause for concern?”

Bruce let out a long breath. “With the Joker,” he said, “it’s hard to tell.”

Jim grunted his agreement. “How’s that coming?” he asked, gesturing toward the table.

“The clip isn’t loaded,” Bruce said heavily. “I...” He closed his eyes. “I’m beginning to think it won’t be.” He closed his eyes when the hand came down on his shoulder.

“Maybe the costume would...”

“No,” Bruce said.

“Or a different kind of gun. One that doesn’t have the same associations for you?”

Bruce spun around in the chair, breaking free of Jim’s grip. “What?”

“Look, just because I was in Europe when you were accused of murder and went on the run didn’t mean I wasn’t watching the news. Did you really expect something like that to stay local?” His eyes narrowed. “As I recall, the reports said you’d recently bought a handgun which turned out to be the murder weapon. I’m guessing that’s it?”

Bruce nodded slowly.

“So maybe it’s too big a step for you—jumping immediately to a handgun. Ease into it. Try a rifle—I noticed you had a few on display when you showed me around the trophy room, months ago. Maybe it’ll help you get comfortable with—”

“And maybe I don’t want to get comfortable with handling a gun!” Bruce snapped back. His eyes widened. “I... don’t,” he whispered. “I...” He closed his eyes again. “I can’t. I just... can’t.”

The hand was back on his shoulder, along with the slight pressure of an arm around the back of his neck.

For a few moments, the only audible sounds in the cave came from Bruce’s ragged breath as he fought for control. Finally, he reached up and covered Jim’s hand with his own. “Let’s go upstairs,” he said dully. “I’ll just... the gun goes back in the trophy room.”

“I’ll wait for you,” Jim said.

Bruce nodded. “I’ll call Sawyer in the morning.”

“She’s probably there now.”

“I know. I’ll call her in the morning,” he repeated.

Then he stood up and unhesitatingly picked up gun, clip, and ammo and carried them back to the trophy room.



Sharon Ryerson looked up at the cough behind her. “Oh,” she said, coloring slightly. “Is it five already, Judy?”

The young woman nodded. “Ten past, actually. I’m sorry, I got caught in traffic. I know you—”

“Oh my gosh!” She opened the cash register and lifted out her till, nearly spilling some of the quarters. “If I don’t catch the bus...!” She didn’t finish the sentence, but raced instead down the short hallway that led to the manager’s office. Two minutes later, she was dashing out the door, her coat half-buttoned, and buttoned wrong, hat askew, and hands rapidly digging into her purse. She raced to the bus stop just in time to see the number 29 pulling away. “Wait!” she gasped futilely. “Wait!” She stared after the vanishing vehicle, already more than halfway to the next stop. “Please wait,” she whispered.

A car pulled up to the stop. The passenger window rolled down. “Ma’am. I just saw what happened. Can I give you a lift somewhere?”

Sharon took a step away from the curb. “I’ll be fine,” she said firmly. “Thank you.”

“Are you sure? It’s more than 20 minutes for the next one and, I hope you don’t mind me saying that this isn’t the best part of town for a woman to be alone after dark.”

She rolled her eyes, taking in the Town Car for the first time. The man’s voice was polished, professional. With the kind of money he likely had to be able to buy that car, this working-class neighborhood probably appeared to him to be the worst kind of slum. She found herself bristling as she imagined what he had to be thinking.

“I’ll grant you it’s not the suburbs,” she snapped, “but it’s nowhere near as dangerous as you seem to think. Look, Mister, I don’t know you. You seem like a nice guy, but so do a lot of people. I’m sure you understand.”

“But...”

“Good night.” With that, she turned on her heel and went back into the coffee shop she’d left a few moments earlier.

“Sharon?”

“I missed the bus, Judy. I’m just going to wait in here for the next one. Mind if I use the phone for a sec?”

For an answer, Judy placed the telephone on the counter. While Sharon made the call, she went back to drying cups. She stopped when a well-dressed customer walked into the shop and started looking at the price board.

“B-but I can’t!” Sharon was saying. “It’s more than fifteen minutes before the next bus comes, and I have to transfer twice. There’s no way I can be there in an hour! But...” She hung up with a sigh.

The customer turned to her sympathetically. “Ma’am, I give you my word, I’m not an axe murderer. Look. Here’s my business card.” He handed one to her and a second to Judy. “My name and phone number are on it. I can show you my ID. Please. Let me drive you where you’re going.”

Her expression softened. She was about to relent, when she recognized the name of the company. “No thank you, Mr. Chester. And you can tell your boss for me that stunts like this aren’t going to make up for what he took from me.”

“Wh-what?”

She made an effort to keep her voice steady. “Tell Bruce Wayne that there is no way for him to get into my good graces, and if he thinks that by telling his flunkies to look for chances to do me a good turn, I’ll forget what happened to my husband, he’s got another think coming. A man like that doesn’t deserve to be free, and we both know it’s just a matter of time until the city forgets all the harm he did and gives him back everything. And I will fight until my last breath to protest it.”

Ron Chester blinked. “First of all, Ms. Ryerson, Mr. Wayne isn’t my boss. Second of all, I...” he took a deep breath, “I owe you an apology. I did have an ulterior motive in offering you a lift. The offer still stands by the way, whether you accept or not. To put it simply, Ms. Ryerson, there are a number of people on the PMWE board who feel very much like you do about our former CEO,” he put a deliberate stress on the word ‘former’. “We’re very much trying to curtail any influence he may try to exert. And,” he took another breath, “we’d like you to help us.”

Sharon absorbed that. “Let me hear more,” she said finally, “while you’re driving me to Sheldon Park.”



Jim Gordon was a light sleeper. He had been for most of his adult life. As a police officer in Chicago, he’d lain awake listening for the sound of someone breaking into his house to plant evidence when he’d been close to breaking a corruption scandal at his precinct. Later, as a new father, he’d listened for the sound of his infant son crying. The fears of evidence being planted on him never really went away, although they did fade over time. Later on, he had lain awake listening for Barbara to sneak in and pretend to be asleep. Later still, he had listened for the sound of her getting out of bed and into the chair. Once he’d made the mistake of getting up to offer to help her. He’d been met with a polite refusal and a flood of apologies for waking him up. After that, he still heard her moving around, but far more quietly, and for far longer periods of time. It hadn’t been long before she’d moved out on her own.

Now, when he awoke to find that it was still dark, he turned bleary eyes to the digital alarm clock on the night table and found that it was nearly half past two. At the same time, he registered soft footfalls tiptoeing down the staircase. He sat up in bed, mentally counting. It would take about twenty steps to the front door—no, Bruce wasn’t going out. More likely, he was headed into the cave. Jim frowned. Or was he? He reached for his eyeglasses and cane and walked over to the bedroom window. Bruce wasn’t going out the front door—Jim would have heard that open by now. So while that meant that he was probably going into the cave, there was one more possibility. He padded over to his window and looked down.

He sighed when he saw a figure plodding methodically through the snow in the backyard. Well, at least he put on a coat and boots instead of going outside in a bathrobe.

Jim debated the situation for a few minutes. Then, with another sigh, he turned on the light and began to get dressed. He figured that it would be about ten to fifteen minutes before he got outside. Walking in the snow would slow him down—even with the cane—and he was in no hurry to catch up. Particularly not if Bruce was headed where Jim suspected he was.

Let Bruce have his half-hour or so. With any luck, by the time Jim got outside, he’d find Bruce on his way back to the manor anyway.

But Jim was going after him, just in case.



He found Bruce sitting cross-legged in the snow before the large granite tombstone. He approached carefully, feet crunching on the frozen ground.

Bruce didn’t turn. “If I’d realized it would wake you, I would have stayed indoors,” he said. “There’s no reason that this couldn’t have waited until morning.”

“I wasn’t asleep,” Jim lied.

Bruce acknowledged the statement with a grunt.

“I can go back to the house, if you’d prefer to be alone.”

Bruce shook his head. “I’m not alone,” he whispered. “Not here.” He paused for a moment. “I’ve been... trying to sort everything out,” he said, still whispering. “I thought coming here might help me get some answers.”

“Ah.”

Bruce looked up at him. “I don’t mean I expect answers from them,” he scoffed, gesturing toward the tombstone. “I know better. But the guns in the trophy room... except for the one I’ve been... the one that I bought myself, the others were purchased by my ancestors. Some by my father. I have to wonder what he would think of this... situation.”

“Does it matter?”

Bruce slumped. “I suppose not. Carrying a gun goes against everything I thought I stood for, and yet,” his lips twitched, “I can’t deny that nearly everyone I’ve welcomed into my life has, at one time or another, carried one... used one. So. Does that make me a coward or a hypocrite?”

“Can I have a few more choices?” Jim shot back. He let out a long breath. “I’m not making fun of you. I hope you don’t think otherwise. But until now, there have been some damned good reasons why you shouldn’t be carrying a gun. Not the least of which has been, that if you had ever used one out there, friend or no friend, I would have had to take steps neither of us would have wanted.” His voice hardened. “If you’d gone that route, I would have had no choice but to bring you in, one way or another. And that would have been a hell of a way to tell you that I’d figured out a few things.” He sighed. “Not that the way it actually happened was so much better, mind you.”

Bruce nodded. “If you’re trying to tell me,” he said, “that it’s not that I fear guns, but that I’m afraid of what might happen if I actually used one, I wish I could believe that. I told myself I hated them but didn’t fear them. I believed that until the day an employee pulled one on me at the office, and I...” he closed his eyes, “I froze. I was eight years old again, in the alley, facing a gun, and I couldn’t move. All I knew was that my parents were lying at my feet and that the next time the gun went off, it would be my turn.” He flinched as Jim laid a hand on his shoulder.

“What happened next?”

“Security came, subdued the man, took him away. And I... went to Felker’s Firearms and filled out the paperwork for a handgun.”

Jim grunted. “For some people, that would be a normal reaction. For you, on the other hand...”

“I know,” Bruce said slowly. “After I placed the order, I... it was... I blanked the whole thing out of my head until they called to tell me that the paperwork was approved. And when they did call, I couldn’t believe I’d done it. Not... the way most people mean it.” Bruce’s eyes widened. “I had absolutely no recollection of ever...” His expression hardened. “Something’s wrong. Really wrong. I would have recognized it much earlier, if I hadn’t been already coming apart... and then the conversation in the cave with the...”

“Bruce.” Jim wasn’t sure whether to be excited or unnerved. “Slow down. I can’t follow you.”

Bruce hesitated. “I’m not sure I can myself. The pieces of the puzzle are right here in front of me, but I can’t make them fit! I’m missing something... I...” Abruptly, he got to his feet, ignoring the hand Jim stretched out to assist him.

“Something happened,” Bruce continued, a note of anger coming into his voice. “I’d handled guns before, both as Bruce and as Batman. I found it... distasteful, but not frightening. But somehow, that distaste changed into a full-blown phobia.” His agitation seemed to lessen as he said the words. “I can see it now. I can deal with it. The suit,” he smiled ruefully, “did help—you were right about that. I still need to manage without it. But first, I need to know what brought me to that point, and whether there’s anything I can do to stop it from happening again.”

So saying, he turned on his heel and began walking back toward the manor.

Jim struggled to keep up. “First,” he panted, “I thought phobias were irrational fears. I’m not sure fear of guns qualifies. But let’s assume for a minute that it does. Second,” he leaned one hand against a tree, “isn’t it possible, that your fear developed because that guy pulled a gun on you? You wouldn’t be the first person.”

Bruce stopped. “My fear that day might have been a catalyst,” he replied, “possibly. But my running out to buy a gun that would be used to frame me for murder less than three weeks later? That timing is a bit too convenient.” He took a breath. “Let’s get back to the house. I’ll call Dick and ask him to swing by after patrol. He may even be done by now—”

“And just when do you expect him to sleep? For that matter,” Jim’s voice hardened, “when do you plan on sleeping? You beat the flu. You want to fight pneumonia on top of that?”

“You know that being out in the cold doesn’t actually cause pneumonia, right?”

Jim glowered. “No, but stress and fatigue aren’t exactly going to bolster your immune system. This can keep until later. Rest now. Deal with the situation after the sun comes up. At least let Dick catch some shuteye tonight.”

Bruce nodded reluctantly.



“It’s almost dawn,” Harrier said, struggling not to yawn over the comm-link, “and still no sign of Joker.”

Batman responded almost immediately. “I haven’t found anything either.” He sighed. “Guess we’d better clock out, bro. I’ve still got a job to get to in a few hours, and you’ve still got classes.”

“And Joker’s still out there.”

Oracle broke into the conversation. “He is, but I don’t think you’re going to find him tonight. It stinks, but you can spend the next few hours tearing the city apart brick by brick looking for him, or you can head home, recharge, and face him tomorrow.” There was a sigh, and Barbara’s natural voice replaced the electronic voder. “Call it a night, boys. It’s late and you’re both tired.”

“Roger that,” Batman said a moment later. “I’m coming in.”

“Me t— Oh my God!”

“Rob- Harrier?”

Tim’s voice was agitated over the comm-link. “Hit and run. Woman came out of nowhere and a car just plowed into her and kept going... north on Van Sciver. Oracle, can you get a fix? It must’ve been going about 45 miles per hour.”

“No traffic cams in that area,” Oracle cut in. “And radar isn’t picking up anything at that speed in your vicinity at the moment. Did you get a license?”

“Too fast. Anyway, moot. I’m dropping down to check the victim, but it doesn’t look good.”

He was already swinging down as he switched off the comm-link. The victim was lying on the pavement, body twisted at an odd angle. Tim stooped next to her and tentatively placed a hand on her neck, looking for a pulse.

That was when the head swivelled around, showing a blood-red grin on a painted face.

It cost Tim one instant too many to process that he was looking at some sort of mannequin. By the time he reacted, it was too late. A cloud of mist spewed from the mannequin’s mouth, catching him full in the face.

As he greyed out, he couldn’t help thinking of his earlier practice bout with Dick.

Curses. Decoyed again...

To Be Continued!


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