The Way Back #38

I’ve laid blame everywhere that I could
It’s finally ending up where it should
It’s hard to swallow and tough to believe
But no one hurts me more than me

—Chris Cummings, Rod Lewis, “No One Hurts Me More Than Me”

It almost felt like old times, Dick reflected. Almost. He and the others had come in response to Bruce’s summons, and while there were a few faces who wouldn’t have been included in the past, Dick couldn’t deny their right to be here. He glanced around the Cave. Bruce was seated, as always, at the main computer console, as much in command as any captain on the bridge of his ship. Dick was sitting in the nearest chair to Bruce’s right. Then, continuing clockwise around the area, Dick saw Cass standing against one wall, passing the time with isometric exercises. Next to her, Selina sat reading a storybook softly to a rapt Helena. At a side monitor, the Oracle mask glowed pale green on an emerald background. Jim occupied the only chair between that monitor and Bruce, closing the circle. Tim was late.

Bruce looked at him. “Was he tired last night? Could he have overslept?”

Dick shrugged. “We both were. I know he’s been putting in some long study time too; it wouldn’t be the first time he’s conked out over his books.”

Bruce frowned. “He hasn’t responded to my page, either.” He sighed. “I suppose we should start. One of you can fill him in later.” He took a deep breath.

Selina held up one finger with a smile. Then she rose and carried Helena over to the play area, lowering her gently over the safety gate. Bruce waited until she had retaken her chair before he began speaking again.

“Some of this, you already know, but I’ll start with that. Shortly before I was accused of murder, I purchased a handgun. My reasons for doing so were not clear at the time.” He took another breath. “Unfortunately, years later, they still aren’t.”

“We did some digging after you were arrested,” Oracle spoke up. “I’m sure you can understand why we thought the gun had been planted at the manor.”

Bruce shook his head. “A reasonable assumption, but no. I did purchase it... as I’m positive you confirmed from the gun shop’s video surveillance.”

“Yes.” The computer image fragmented and Barbara’s face appeared on the screen. “Was it...” She hesitated. “Okay, I’ll ask it. Were you trying to cope with your...” she broke off, discomfort plain on her features. “Look, it’s not exactly a secret that you don’t have good... feelings about guns.”

Bruce’s lips twitched. “If you’re trying to ask whether I was trying to confront a fear...” he shook his head slowly, “that’s only part of it.”

“Whoa,” Dick broke in. “Wait. Fear of guns? Since when?”

A ghost of a smile flashed across his face. “That’s another part. There is one final piece, though, and when I tell you about it, I think you’ll understand why I haven’t discussed this until now.” He noted with satisfaction that he had everyone’s full attention.

“It’s fair to say that at the time that I bought the gun, I was not... coping well. He glanced at Jim. “I was dealing with changes to my status quo from all corners.” He took a few more deep breaths. “You’d retired. Lucius had suffered a stroke. I had broken up with Vesper for her own good, but,” he glanced guiltily at Selina, “it was one more factor.”

If Selina was at all disconcerted by his mention of Vesper, it didn’t show in her encouraging nod. Helena crowed from the play area then, drawing both of their attentions. Bruce smiled and, assured that his daughter was fine, he continued.

“A few days after Lucius’ stroke, an employee pulled a gun on me. I froze. To be clear, this was not a case of my realizing that security was just outside the door, even as I calculated the best way to disarm the man while making it look as though I’d somehow been lucky. I... panicked.” He paused a beat. “Approximately 30 days later, I received a call that my handgun was ready for pickup.”

“Wait,” Selina said. “Did you order one, or didn’t you?”

“I did,” Bruce confirmed. “Then I promptly forgot about doing so.”

“I think I see the problem.”

Bruce shook his head. “You don’t. Not all of it. Although, I can imagine you have some idea of my reaction to getting that call.”

Cass frowned. “So you went to get gun? Why? Couldn’t just say... changed mind?”

Bruce shook his head. “I came down here to try to sort out what had happened. And,” he looked down, “I...” He brought his right hand up to his forehead and massaged his left temple. “I had a conversation with the cowl.”

“Excuse me?” Dick breathed.

He’d been dreading this part. He studied the table, deliberately avoiding eye contact with any of the others. His voice, however, remained steady. “Now you know why I didn’t mention it at the time. The costume was hanging in its case, and I heard it speak to me. It told me that I needed to buy the gun to overcome my fear of it.” He colored. “I know what that sounds like, and I won’t deny that, had I heard that story, I would have been recommending that the person telling it get therapy. Of course, since I have spent close to two years in Arkham...” His lips twitched. “The thing is,” he said, looking around, “as Dick just pointed out, I’ve never had a fear of guns. I loathe them. I respect them. But fear?”

“You do handle things better in the suit,” Oracle pointed out. “Speaking from personal experience, though, I can tell you that it took me almost a year before I could be in the same room with a gun after Joker shot me. Is it possible that you’re okay dealing with guns when you expect them... like at night, in costume? But if you encounter them when you don’t expect them, like when you’re in civilian life...?

Bruce nodded, relieved that everyone seemed to be reacting with concern, but not with the horror he’d been dreading. “It’s a possibility. Actually, it’s a probable factor. However, when you consider that three weeks before Vesper was murdered, I purchased the murder weapon—this despite my feelings for firearms... As I was telling Jim last night, the timing was a bit too fortuitous.”

Jim cleared his throat. “So... what? You’re claiming post-hypnotic suggestion?”

Bruce shook his head. “Not... precisely, but you’re close. I have been... influenced... in the past. And while I don’t know the precise instant when Harold turned, by the time I bought the gun, he’d been gone for months. Which means that everything he would have needed to do had already been achieved by then.”

Dick leaned forward. “Harold? You think...?” His expression hardened. “You could be right. I’ll check into it.” He smiled suddenly. “I haven’t broken into Blackgate since No Man’s Land. I can use the practice.”

“Just so you know,” Barbara said, “I tried to reach Tim a couple more times. He’s not picking up.”

Bruce nodded. “If we don’t hear from him within the hour,” he glanced at Cass, “Batgirl will check on him.”

After the others had gone upstairs, Jim approached Bruce. “You realize that whether this issue developed on its own or whether it had help, it’s there now, right? Does knowing how it got there really make that big of a difference?”

Bruce nodded. “Post-hypnotic suggestions generally don’t last more than six months. If something was done to me years ago, and I’m still feeling the effects...”

“Then you won’t be the first or last person to be scarred by an experience. Say the fear was engineered? Do you think it’ll magically go away just because you can confirm it?”

“No,” Bruce said slowly. “Not magically.” He sighed. “Knowing how this happened won’t help me fight it,” he admitted. “You’re right about that. And if it came about through something outside my control, I’ll... need to live with that. But if it was something that I could have prevented, I need to know. In case whoever did this to me ever cares to make another attempt.”



Harrier woke up slowly to the sensation that something feathery was tickling his chin. He groaned. His head was throbbing. It was hot. The last thing he remembered was swooping down to attend to the hit-and-run victim, and then... He tried to move, but found that his arms were tight against his sides. He still had his gloves, but—a quick check revealed—his utility belt was gone. He opened his eyes and saw only an opaque greyness. The air he was breathing was musty, but he didn’t think he was running out of it—although the way his head was throbbing, it was hard for him to be sure he was thinking straight. He was upside down, he realized. Tied up with something feathery—feather boas? He flexed his arms experimentally. There was nearly no give. The outer layer might be feathers, but his bonds seemed to have a wire core. Going by the feel of the fabric on his cheek , there was a burlap bag over his head, and it appeared as though a band of something else had been wrapped around the outside of the sack, over his eyes—ensuring that he could not make out a glimmer of his surroundings.

He willed himself not to panic. There had to be a way out of this. There was always a way out.

“Oh, good!” a high-pitched voice sang out. “You’re still here. Sorry to leave you hangin’ around like that, but it’s so hard to know when Mistah J’s gonna show.”

Great. Fighting the panic had just gotten a little harder.

Someone gave him a hard shove from behind, and he swung helplessly back and forth. The pounding in his head got worse.

“I oughta have roughed you up more,” Harley said conversationally. “It wasn’t easy for me setting that bat-trap. When I saw I’d bagged a Titan instead, I almost offed ya on the spot. But then I figured, hey, a cape in the hand was worth two in the bush and Mistah J might need ya anyway.”

Tim held himself very still, not willing to give her the satisfaction of watching him struggle. Besides, he had no idea how high up he was, and falling headfirst to an unknown surface was never a good idea. Meanwhile, maybe the fact that Harley hadn’t recognized him as a former Robin could work to his advantage. Somehow.

“That’s right,” Harley said. “Just relax. There’s no slack in those restraints, I checked. ‘Sides, by now, all that blood rushing to your head probably means your feet are too numb to stand on, much less fight on, even if you can get loose.”

He cursed his luck, remembering that psychiatrists were medical doctors too. Harley Quinn would have studied general medicine. She likely knew the effects of hanging upside down on the human body. And since she was also a clinical psychiatrist, no doubt she was hoping he’d start questioning her, so she could analyze everything he said. Tim resolved to not utter a word.

“You’re breathing faster,” she said nonchalantly. “Blood pooling in your lungs?” She sighed. “Guess I’d better get you down, in case Mistah J has a use for you. If he doesn’t,” she giggled in an oddly friendly fashion, “he can always off ya later, right?”

There was a clattering sound as something rolled toward him over a stone floor. Then there came an abrupt jolt as he dropped several inches.

“That’s it, easy now,” Harley said. She had one hand supporting his shoulders as she eased him down and he found himself lying on a mattress. Going by what he’d heard before, he had to be on a gurney.

“Now where are the... ah! Here we go!” He felt a pressure around his hips, as she brought two straps together and buckled them tightly. She performed the same operation at his chest and knees.

Talk about overkill, he thought. She hadn’t bothered to remove any of the previous restraints, either.

He heard footsteps circling him. Maybe, he thought without much hope, she was going to take off the blindfold.

Instead, he felt a pinching sensation on his wrist. The pressure eased as the wire fell away. A moment of relief was succeeded by a groan as a handcuff clicked shut. He checked the range automatically. About four inches—the other cuff had to be locked around the bed rail, he deduced. A minute later, his other wrist was similarly secured.

“Nothing personal,” Harley said, “but I really need to make sure you don’t go anywhere. But to prove I got no hard feelin’s,” she added with a smile in her voice, “I’m going to get breakfast on. How about I make a batch of pancakes, just for you?”

“What?” The syllable slipped out involuntarily and was partly muffled by the burlap.

Evidently, though, Harley had heard. “Sure. You can even have ‘em with syrup. After all,” she said, as Tim heard her walking away, “ain’t every condemned soul entitled to one decent last meal?”



“Hope you like the private accommodations.” Batman spoke from the shadows.

There was a sudden intake of breath, followed by a slow chuckle. “So that was your doing. I wondered.”

“You looked out for him in Arkham. I just returned the favor.”

“You didn’t give me much choice.”

“I know. Thanks anyway.” He paused. “So,” he said nonchalantly, “why would a man with a gun phobia buy a Beretta?”

Silence. Then, unexpectedly, Thomas Elliott laughed. “Have you been talking to Riddler?”

“This once,” Batman said, “I’m going to the source. You’ve used subliminal suggestion to get to him before. I want to know what you did this time.”

Thomas Elliot leaned back against the cell wall. “Demand me nothing: what you know, you know,” he smirked.

Batman noted with interest that Elliot hadn’t continued with Iago’s next line: From this time forth I never will speak word. He snorted. “You’re citing Shakespeare now? Did Aristotle not have a decent quote for the occasion?” When Elliot failed to respond, he sighed. “Fine. I guess it doesn’t really matter. Either you had something to do with it and you’re sitting here laughing about it, or you didn’t and you’re playing head games. I guess that’s about the only hobby you’ve got left.” He shrugged. “Suit yourself, Hush. I can live with an unsatisfied curiosity.” He moved deeper into the shadows. “Enjoy your private digs... for as long as they last.”

“Hold it.”

Batman paused, smiling—although the darkness concealed his expression.

“Not that I believe for one second that you’d get me tossed into the general population,” Hush said, “but I suppose if you came all this way... I can toss you a bone or two.”

“I’m listening.”

Hush smirked. “Let me give you a hypothetical. Let us suppose that a wealthy philanthropist devotes time and money into rebuilding a city laid waste by a disastrous earthquake. Riding on the wave of positive publicity, he enters the political arena... and at every turn, he finds his initiatives stymied by one man. At first, he tries to laugh it off, but this person is a real thorn in his side. He has enough money that he can’t be bought off. He can’t be won over. And, even after our philanthropist reaches the pinnacle of success, he knows that this person is still looking for a chance to topple him.”

Batman nodded. “Go on.”

“The philanthropist decides that the best way to remove the thorn from his side is to publicly discredit him. It’s no more than what said thorn has been trying to do to him, of course. He has money and power, but he can’t have it look like a vendetta. So he casts about for ideas. He even contacts a few trusted friends and advisors—perhaps people he’s met in college; a doctor who’d used unconventional treatment methods to heal him when it turned out that he’d been slowly poisoning himself for years... it’s amazing the kind of contacts one makes.”

Batman grunted. So Lex Luthor had been another of Dr. Elliot’s patients.

Hush sighed. “I don’t recall which of us first suggested framing the philanthropist’s opponent for murder. Whoever it was, one thing was clear: the evidence found implicating him at the scene would need to be positively damning. Incontrovertible. Beyond a reasonable doubt. And hey, if a few members of the general public started harassing his lawyers into stepping down, so much the better.”

Hush shrugged. “Sometimes, things don’t work out as well as hoped, but eh... what can you do? It was at about this time that the doctor became acquainted with a mechanical genius who was prepared to offer his services... for the right price, of course. A bargain was struck. And slowly, carefully, the mechanic constructed his trap.”

“Which was?”

Silence. Hush regarded him for a few moments, his expression unreadable. “Subliminal suggestion has never been very reliable,” he said finally. “I had such hopes for Harold’s programming. If Bruce had been influenced to not only purchase the gun, but actually use it on the Fairchild woman, I doubt that Sionis would ever have needed to capture Mr. Pennyworth, some years later. But from the start, Bruce was a most unwilling subject. It took weeks just to get him to purchase the gun, and even then, he refused to buy the bullets to go with it. With time, perhaps we could have nudged him further.” His voice hardened. “But my employer lost patience. He thanked me for what I’d accomplished, gave me more than adequate compensation for my troubles... and decided to take a cruder approach.” He smiled. “I think you can guess the rest.”

Batman nodded. Luthor had hired David Cain to murder Vesper with the gun that Bruce had bought. Dick could easily believe that Cain would have had the correct ammunition—it wasn’t like a Beretta took anything fancy. When the police showed up at the manor, they’d found the gun—registered in Bruce’s name, with Bruce’s fingerprints all over it. That had been more than enough reason to arrest him on suspicion of murder. But... He frowned. “There’s one thing that makes no sense,” he said. “If your... employer’s goal was to frame him for murder, what point was there in giving him a fear of guns? Wouldn’t that sabotage the whole thing?”

Hush blinked. “I was trying to get him past it. That’s what was taking so bloody long in the first place!” His eyes widened. “Wait. Do you mean to say that he hasn’t always been afraid of guns?”

There was no answer.

“Hello?”

Silence.

He was alone in his cell.



“You still need to review your comma placement,” Dr. Arkham said with a frown.

Cass sighed. “Thought better,” she muttered.

“It is better,” Arkham said. “However, if you wish to do well on the test...”

Cass let out another sigh. “Again,” she said.

Arkham set the paper down. “I believe that if you compare this work to your earlier attempts, you will see your progression.” A thin smile spread across his lips. “Really, this section seems to be your only real sticking point, now that we’re reading the questions aloud.”

“And it still... counts?” Cass asked for the umpteenth time. “As reading? For sure?”

“With medical attestation of your difficulties, yes,” Arkham replied. “I would spend more time reviewing the social studies section, particularly those questions pertaining to civics and economics. You’re scoring well enough on the practice tests, but you routinely miss more answers in those areas.”

“I know,” Cass said miserably. “So... boring.” She winced, bracing herself for his reply. Bruce would have told her that she could quit at any time, if she wasn’t willing to put in the work. Dick would have heard her out and tried not to discourage her. She appreciated that, but she was already feeling discouraged. Was that what it had been like for Bruce, all those months ago, when Dick had asked her to spar with him in the cave? She knew it must have been.

Arkham merely fixed her with a piercing stare. “It is my understanding that you will be graded on how well you learn the material; not on how well you like it,” he said. “If you mean to use this test as a stepping stone toward higher education, you may find the ability to assimilate dry material to be a marketable skill.”

Cass blinked. His tone was dispassionate, but from the way he held himself... was he joking with her? She flashed him a guarded smile and was relieved to see her expression mirrored on his own face.

“By the way,” Arkham continued, “you should know that I’m being released in three days’ time.”

It took her a moment to process what he was saying. “You... won’t be here... after Monday.” She felt a pang. Then, remembering a gesture that she had seen others make, she held out her hand. “Goodbye,” she said with a forced smile.

“If you still need assistance preparing for your examinations...” Arkham said, “are you familiar with the Gotham Public Library Main Branch?”

She knew it. She hadn’t been inside it since the night when her inability to read had nearly cost her two lives: her own, and that of a librarian caught in the crossfire. “Yes,” she said softly.

“I’m told that it will be close to three months before I’m able to return to work. At least,” he sighed, “that is the estimate that the building contractors have given the city for when the asylum will be ready to reopen.” He looked away, as though unwilling to see her reaction to what he was about to say next. “Until then, if you should need assistance, I,” his voice lowered to a mumble, “I shall make an effort to spend the noon hour in the periodicals room, catching up on my reading. You may approach me there.”

Cass blinked. “You... you want to?” she asked. “I thought... I mean...” She took another breath. “I’m so... slow. When we met, you had to write short words so I could read. You like,” she gestured toward the pile of reference material and the laptop, now gone to screensaver mode, “this?”

Arkham colored. “Yes, well,” he harrumphed, “I suppose I could spout some platitude about admiring your determination, but the truth of the matter is that the next three months look to me to be nearly as dull as you seem to find your social studies practice tests. Helping you will at least go some way toward alleviating that boredom. Assuming you still wish to review the material with me?”

This had to be what Tim had once called ‘reading between the lines.’ Because as much as Arkham tried to couch his words in dispassion, his body language told a different story.

“Tuesday. Noon. Periodicals room,” she repeated. “Okay.”

They shared another smile.



Bruce absorbed Dick’s information with a raised eyebrow. “So,” he deadpanned, “I really am my own worst enemy.”

“I don’t know if I’d go that far,” Dick grinned, “but you have to admit it does fit.”

“Yes. I was slowly being... steered... into committing murder. Harold’s programming was beginning to erode my natural distaste for firearms, without my conscious knowledge.”

“So your subconscious fought back,” Dick said, “by... what? Ramping up your negativity to the power of ten?”

“I would have said one hundred,” Bruce countered. “My... sleeping difficulties increased during that time. I’d blamed it on Jim’s retirement.” He looked away. “I kept dreaming that I was watching Jordan Rich shoot him. And then...”

It happened in slow motion. The three bullets creeping closer and closer to Jim’s unprotected back. Bruce wanted to yell to him to get down, wanted to push him out of the way, anything. Instead, he was rooted to the pavement, unable to utter a sound. He saw Jim drop, pale and unmoving to the ground. Then Rich sauntered up and handed him his gun.

“Here.” He said. “Go ahead. Pull the trigger. You know you want to.”

Bruce froze, shaking his head. He couldn’t kill.

“It’s the only way justice can be served. Kill me or watch me walk.”

No.

But the offer was tempting. And if Rich had gone to trial, surely he would have been facing the death penalty anyway. Probably.

NO. NO!

“That was usually the point at which I’d wake up,” Bruce concluded. “Certainly, I’d been angry enough to... to strangle him with my bare hands—or at least to fantasize about it. But in my dreams, I never saw that as an option. It was always a gun.” He’d had flashbacks to the night in the alley, too. His parents had replaced Jim Gordon, and it had been the thug who’d shot them handing Bruce his gun and egging him on. The result had been the same.

He’d never feared guns. He’d feared what using one might turn him into. Only now...

“In order for me to fight the subliminal suggestions, I had to make the very idea of handling a gun anathema to me,” Bruce said slowly. “Push myself to the opposite extreme and trust that I would stay centered between the two forces.”

“Tightrope walkers figure that one out early,” Dick agreed. “So, it looks like you miscalculated. But as Batman... you’re okay with guns. I mean,” he caught himself, “not okay okay, but I never noticed you panicking.”

“There are different ways to deal with fear,” Bruce pointed out. “Some people freeze; some run; some bluster. And then there are the people who lash out in anger.”

Dick’s eyes widened. Sure, Batman had always been tough on crime, but his temper had been flaring out of control, even before Gordon’s retirement. His hand flew absently to the corner of his mouth. Jim’s getting shot hadn’t helped matters, but perhaps the ramifications had only accelerated the process. If Bruce had been trying to implant a fear of guns into his subconscious to counter Harold’s programming, while at the same time, he’d been consciously trying to overcome that very fear... “You were at war with yourself, and it nearly tore you apart.”

Bruce nodded. “As I believe my subconscious tried to tell me, when I,” his lips twitched, “had that ‘conversation’ with my costume.” He let out a long breath. “Well. This is illuminating.”

“Yeah,” Dick smiled. “So, I guess, now that you know...”

Bruce sighed. “If you’re implying that I should be able to snap out of this, it’s not that simple, Dick. If it were, I would have done it by now. Remember, I pushed myself to an extreme. And without the subliminal programming to pull me in the other direction, I have nothing to balance against it.” His expression turned bleak. “In fact,” he said quietly, “there’s no reason to believe that I would behave any differently were I to reassume the cowl today, than I did while I was fighting Harold’s programming.” He let out a long slow breath. “If I can’t find a way to deal with this,” he closed his eyes, “given my current... situation, I... cannot risk becoming Batman again.”



This time, Dick thought as he drove away from the Manor, he couldn’t fault Bruce for his actions. It wasn’t like the time that Bruce had injected himself with fear toxin to test a theory. This had been the last-ditch effort of a man who was prepared to cripple himself, rather than take a life.

He only hoped that Bruce could work through it.

He’d just crossed the Kane Bridge when Barbara’s voice came over the hands-free.

“Better take the fastest way home, Current Bat Wonder,” she said, with an undercurrent of tension belying her flippant words. “We have a situation. Tim’s missing. When I sent Cass to check on him, she said it looked like he never made it back from patrol last night.”

Dick frowned. Cass’s detective skills weren’t bad, but... “How sure is she?”

“She’s with me now. You can listen to her report when you get in.”

The service road seemed to be moving faster than the expressway at the moment. He signalled to change lanes. “I should be there in about 20 minutes,” he said. “Over and out.”



Tim forced himself to remain calm when he heard Joker’s voice. The clown didn’t sound pleased.

“No, Harley, I told you, I wanted tall dark and borrrrrrrrrrring.” There was a pause. “Okay, I’ll grant you this one has the right color scheme—it’s not like you bagged one of the birdies—and why couldn’t you, huh?”

There was a nervous laugh. “Sorry, Puddin’! I was using your bait for the trap. Maybe it’s like when you put out birdseed and get squirrels.”

Joker sighed. “Harley, how many times do I have to tell you? I make the jokes, you feed me the lines. That’s the way the act goes! Now get me some of those pancakes while I take a look at our guest.”

“R-right away, Mistah J!”

One set of footsteps hurried off, while another, more heavily-set, moved purposefully toward him. Tim willed himself to look dangerous—or at least look like he wasn’t scared.

The bandage around the burlap bag unwound, and then, almost gently, the bag lifted. The visage of a grinning clown filled his line of sight.

“So...” Joker drawled, “you’re the random idiot who ruined our little setup.” He giggled. “I like random...” A gun seemed to materialize in his hand, and he jammed the muzzle under Tim’s chin.

Tim froze, not daring to twitch a muscle as Joker kept talking.

“...except when it doesn’t work my way!” The muzzle dug in, forcing his jaw up. “Who the hell...?” All at once, the pressure eased. The gun dropped to the ground as Joker rubbed his hands together, cackling. “Oh my. Ohhhh, my! Oh, Harley...” he sang.

“Yeah, Pudding?”

“I’m a genius!”

Harley laughed. “That ain’t news to me, Puddin’.”

Joker chortled. “Do you know who my trap caught?”

“Sure. That’s Harrier. He’s been leading the Teen Titans since Robin disappeared.”

Joker sighed. “So close... and yet so far.” He reached into his pocket, took out a grenade and removed the pin. “Here... catch,” he said, lobbing it over his shoulder.

Harley shrieked and fled, slamming a door behind her. The bomb rolled in the opposite direction. There was a loud explosion.

“Hey, Harls, after you clean that mess up, get back out here.”

There was a muffled giggle. “Sure, Mistah J!”

Joker advanced on Tim, shaking his head mournfully. “I can’t believe you messed up this badly,” he said.

Tim blinked. That made two of them.

He bent down slowly to pick something up. Tim barely had a moment to register the baseball bat before the clown lunged for the gurney and brought the weapon down hard across his mid-section.

Tim stifled a groan. Joker hit him again.

“You! Were! Supposed! To! Be! NIGHTWING! When! You! Grew! Up!” Joker screamed, punctuating each word with another blow.

Pain control techniques only went so far. Tim was whimpering by the time the beating was over.

Joker regarded him with no trace of the frenzy he’d shown seconds earlier. “Robins become Nightwings. Nightwings become Bats. That’s the natural order, don’t you get that?” His hands closed around Tim’s throat. “WELL? DON’T YOU?”

Tim was choking. Instinctively, he tried to grab Joker’s wrists, but only managed to raise his hands a couple of inches before the cuffs held him back.

Abruptly, Joker let him fall, bruised and battered, back to the gurney mattress. “Now let me think, “ he mused aloud. “Let me...” His grin turned savage. “Oh yeah. This is gonna be good...”



Les Paxton was in his private office when the phone rang. “Paxton.”

“Hi, Les, it’s Ron. I’m just calling with a status update on that project you assigned me to.”

Paxton made sure that the door was closed. “Go ahead.”

“Looks like it’s not going to be as complicated as we thought to secure that backing. The other party is very much on board with our objectives.”

Paxton smiled. “Excellent news, Ron. Keep me posted on any further developments, will you?” He hung up the phone, still smiling. “Excellent,” he repeated.



The gun was on the table again, the clip and ammunition sitting next to it. Bruce had been staring at it for nearly a solid hour. He didn’t have any problem removing the piece from the trophy room, nor replacing it afterwards. It was only when he set about the process of changing it from a crafted work of metal to a weapon that he froze. He’d been pistol-whipped enough to know intellectually that the gun was a weapon, with or without bullets. Somehow, it didn’t feel that way, though.

Put the rounds into the magazine. Put. The rounds. Into. The magazine. This is not rocket science. Load the damned thing.

His hand hovered over the box of ammo. Was this really a good idea? Considering that he was about to launch a bid to retake his company, was it even wise for him to take the police psych evaluation when, as matters stood, there was a good chance that he wouldn’t pass it?

The rounds. Put them into the magazine. Now.

His palm was sweating. He managed to lower it into the box. The rounds were cold and smooth to his touch. He lifted one out. This time, he nearly got it to the clip before it slipped from his grasp to roll off the table. Bruce closed his eyes. He was a fool. And it was time to end the charade.

He reached for the phone, telling himself that he wasn’t giving up, that he wasn’t a quitter, that it was merely a question of timing, but in his heart of hearts, he wasn’t so sure. His fear was a barrier holding him back, but it was also a safety rail preventing him from becoming a killer. Maybe he couldn’t get past it because he truly didn’t want to? All at once, he felt tired—no, exhausted. It was going to be a relief to put this all behind him. He had to focus on the two things that he was sure he could handle right now: taking back the company and passing the hearing. He could worry about the rest later.

He dialed the commissioner’s office.

“I’ve been waiting for your call since the broadcast started airing, Mr. Wayne. Given the circumstances, I’m prepared to give you considerable latitude. On the understanding that you follow through on what we’ve discussed previously, of course.”

Bruce blinked in confusion. “I’m... sorry?”

There was a moment’s pause. Then Commissioner Sawyer took a deep breath. “Turn on your television, Mr. Wayne. I believe that all the local stations are carrying the story. I’ll hold.”

Still puzzled, Bruce walked over to the computer array and pressed several buttons. He started as a blast of maniacal laughter shattered the quiet of the cave. Then his jaw dropped in angry disbelief as Joker’s face gave way to the image of Harley Quinn standing next to a bound, bruised, and barely conscious Harrier. She was grinning broadly, both arms pointing toward the captive in a “ta-dah!” gesture.

“...That’s right, folks!” Joker was saying, “I’ll accept no substitutes. Unless the one real, original Bat-boob shows up within the next... oh... let’s pick a number at random, say... forty-two hours, I’ll wring this little bird’s neck. HAHAHAHAHA!”

Bruce sucked in his breath. Tim. Joker had Tim.

To Be Continued…


Please let us know what you think here!