1

SETTLED

ONE WEEK PRIOR TO THE JOKER'S CAPTURE

SIMI VALLEY, CA

Ivan Bulgakov blew out the candles on his first birthday cake with a little help from mom and dad. His parents, grandparents, aunts, uncles, and party guests all cheered for him. The little boy clapped and looked around smiling, though at only a year old he didn't quite comprehend what the party was actually about. The family did, however and they were celebrating big, as Russians love to do.

His grandfather, whom he was named after, had spared no expense. He had hired a Russian caterer, a Russian band, and Russian dancers for entertainment to come out to his five acre ranch. He had done quite well for himself in America. Bulgakov loved America very much and had considered it his home for many years, but he had never forgotten the love for his homeland.

He cheered and clapped for his first grandchild. Ivan looked around at his family, taking it all in. He had a beautiful wife, two beautiful daughters with husbands, and now his eldest son and his wife had just given him a grandchild. An American grandchild! He never would have believed that possible twenty five years ago before he came to the United States. His son had been born in the Soviet Union but his daughters had been born in Virginia. He had been here over two decades now and still had a hard time believing it. But the world changes, and he had learned to change with it. Bulgakov was nothing if not a pragmatic man. He hoped his grandson would be taught to embrace and love his Russian heritage as much as his American one. He imagined he would.

The party eventually wound down as little Ivan fell asleep quite early. The band and dancers left, caterers packed and cleaned up, and the house eventually settled. The family sat around a table in the dining room drinking, reminiscing, catching up on each other's lives. They talked until well past midnight. Ivan told his children to stay over with their spouses instead of driving home inebriated, and each couple took a guest room. The entire family fell asleep under one roof, something that rarely happened anymore, even on holidays.

As usual, Bulgakov woke up in the middle of the night to use the restroom. He was not a young man anymore and had to make frequent trips. He got up as silently as he could and stumbled into the master bathroom, closed the door and flipped on the light. He finished, shut the light off and opened the door and walked back towards his bed. He stopped, startled. Sitting in a chair in the corner of his bedroom was a man cradling his grandson as he slept. He thought at first the dark was playing tricks on him. Until he heard the man's voice. It was a voice that had haunted his nightmares for nearly three decades.

"Good evening, General," the man holding the toddler said in Russian. "Very beautiful party. It is nice to see that you still think of the motherland."

"You...," the grandfather whispered in English. "My God..."

"What a very American thing to say, General. You have assimilated quite well. Please, let's speak in our native tongue. It's much more appropriate, yes?" The general nodded his compliance. "Thank you," the man responded.

Bulgakov looked over to his sleeping wife. He looked at his cell phone lying on the nightstand charging. He thought of the gun he kept in the nightstand. But they were at least ten feet away. It might as well have been a mile considering the capabilities of the man holding his grandson. He knew this. He knew the man knew this.

"Do not bother, sir," the man said. "We both know it will do you no good. And do not bother trying to yell for help, your family will not be waking up."

"Are...are they dead?" he tentatively asked.

"No, they are merely drugged. I will kill them later. How I do that is up to you. If you give me what I want now it will be painless for all of them. You know me. You know what I am capable of."

The former Major General of the Soviet Union felt urine stream down his leg. He did indeed know what this man was capable of. "What do you want?" he asked. He started to shake.

"The list, General. I want the list."

"I...I...," Bulgakov stammered. He had just lost all hope.

"What, General?"

"I don't have the list."

The man holding the toddler shrugged. "Very well. I will remove the fingers and eyes of each member of your family until you give me the list. I will start with the child." He stood up.

"No!" the general yelled. "I swear to you I don't have it. I never had it. We were never told anything after we got here. We used a series of cutouts. None of us has the list. Only pieces."

The man believed him. It made more sense for operational security. Plus he didn't believe the general cared so little about his family as to hide information that would prevent their horribly painful deaths.

"You will give the piece that you have then. Names, General. I want names."

Bulgakov nodded. He gave the Russian what little information he had. It wouldn't save his family, but it would spare them pain.

"May I make a final request?" he asked the man.

"Why should I grant a request to a man who betrayed our Mother Russia?"

"I betrayed the Soviet Union. I saved Russia! I saved it from war. From annihilation. We wouldn't have survived."

"You betrayed us. We would have become the greatest empire this world has ever seen. Still, I am not unreasonable. What is your request?"

"May I hold my grandchild one last time?"

"Yes, I will allow that. You have sixty seconds," the man said. He stepped into a shaft of moonlight coming through the window as he handed the toddler off.

Bulgakov's jaw dropped when he finally saw the man's face clearly. He had expected the man to be in his mid to late fifties. The man before him barely looked thirty.

"My God... Anitoli...," the old man finally stammered. "You've barely aged."

"You have thirty seconds, General."

Ivan Bulgakov made national headlines the next day. Media outlets all across the country reported the story of the tragic murder-suicide in California. The owner of a security consulting company had drugged, shot and killed his wife, children, and grandchild before turning the gun on himself.

SIX MONTHS LATER

GOTHAM CITY

Barbara Gordon threw the remote angrily at her television. The same news story had been running for a week now. The Joker had been miraculously cured of his insanity while in Arkham and was actually being released. All charges against him had been dropped because of his "diminished capacity" while committing the crimes. He had been making the rounds on the broadcast and cable news shows with his doctors, lawyers, and advocates. He poetically stated his remorse for all the pain and sorrow he had inflicted on his victims and vowed to spend the rest of his life making up for what he had done. He even tearfully pleaded to meet with survivors and their families to personally apologize to each one. The public ate it up. Bullshit. She didn't believe it for one minute and she was going to prove it. Her cell phone buzzed and she picked it up to see who was calling.

"Hey, Daddy," she answered.

"Hey sweetheart, I ran over in one meeting which means the next meeting is going to run late which means I'll be late for lunch," Commissioner Gordon said.

"Okay, do you want to reschedule? It's not a problem."

"Like hell. I miss seeing you at the house. I'm sure as hell not going to miss a lunch with you."

"That's sweet, but it's fine."

"At the most I'll be thirty minutes behind. If they don't like it they can fire me."

"Dad, you're the one who accepted your job back. It's part of it. That's perfect, it gives me time to people watch."

"Okay, sweetheart. Thanks for understanding. I'll see you soon."

"Bye," she said as she pushed the end button.

She reached over and grabbed the walker next to her couch. Barbara painfully stood up and moved towards the door.

She could only move ten inches at a time but it was ten inches more that the doctors ever told her she would walk, even with assistance. Barbara Gordon had been their miracle patient. She astonished doctors, nurses, and physical therapists with her recovery. She had pushed harder and given more than anyone they had ever seen, and never had they heard her complain. The more they asked the harder she pushed, drawing on some seemingly bottomless well of determination. At times they had actually asked her to slow down and take it easier on herself. Her doctors now said that within six months she would be using crutches instead of the walker. Within a year she might walk unassisted. Barbara decided to do it in half the time.

She made her way to the entry table by the door to her apartment. She grabbed a light jacket from one of the coat hooks above the table and slowly put it on. Everything was slower now, but she had gone over the hump and was becoming faster. She grabbed her purse and keys off the table and opened the door. Barbara didn't see the punch coming.

She fell back onto the floor of her entry way. The Joker stepped in and shut the door with his foot. He immediately grabbed her walker, raised it above him, and brought it down on her head, stunning her. He tossed the walker to the side.

The Joker grabbed her by the hair and pulled her into the living room where he dropped her.

"Ya know," he said, "I hate to leave a job half finished. It's some sort of work ethic I guess."

Barbara stared up at him in horror. His hair had been cut short and was back to it's natural brown. He wasn't wearing the makeup anymore, just the frozen grin he could never get rid of.

"And I am tired of outsourcing," he said as he unzipped his black jeans. "Why pay someone to do something you can do yourself? You ready for round two? Party time!"

Oh God, not again, please!

"... and then I woke up."

"Wow, Barbara. That's an intense dream. I'm sorry that happened. Okay, so let's take a look at it. You first. What's your take?"

Barbara was sitting in her psychologist's office. She had gone through several shrinks the first couple months after the attack trying to find the right fit. Her new doctor was spectacular. He was exactly what she needed. He was sensitive to her situation without being condescending as some of the others had. He talked with her, not at her. His patients were given tools and insight to cope and help heal themselves, not simply become dependent on therapy. This wasn't spoon fed therapy, it was interactive.

Doctor Hugo Strange had a particular specialty. He specifically treated victims of trauma cause by what the media glamorized as "supervillains". It was a relatively new niche in the field of therapy and had been developed because of the often public and unique nature of supervillains, their crimes, and the effects on their victims. Barbara was even going to a support group specifically for victims of the Joker, as well as a rape survivor group.

"Okay... well first it's ridiculous to think that the Joker would be released. Obviously I'm scared he'll get out somehow. The walker-"

"Let me stop you right there. Yes, it is ridiculous to think the Joker will ever be let out. In my opinion he will always be a dangerous psychopath and I'd bet my degree it'll never happen. But I think you skipped something really important."

"What's that?"

"The public reaction to the Joker. In your dream he becomes a media favorite and receives leniency and even forgiveness after he is shown remorse."

"So..."

"So do you have any issues with someone who showed leniency or forgiveness towards the Joker?"

Oh shit, he's good. "No," she lied. This was the part of therapy she hated. She could never fully reveal everything about her life and how the Joker had truly affected her or her relationships. It impeded her progress and frustrated her. Bruce hadn't contacted her since the hospital and she wasn't going to expose him.

"No? You don't think the cops should have killed him? The unofficial story is Batman saved your father. You don't feel the Batman should have killed him?"

Wow, he's real good. "Oh, I see what you mean." She figured saying that she didn't want the Joker killed would have been too obvious a lie. "Um yeah, after he attacked me I wanted somebody to kill him. It didn't matter to me who or how."

"And now?"

Barbara took a moment to reflect before answering. Though she couldn't say everything she wanted to she tried to be as honest as possible without compromising the Team.

"I still wish he was dead, but I don't want him to be murdered. Self defense I understand. But he shouldn't be put down like a dog."

"So what changed?"

"I... He corrupts. He likes to break people. I think he would like it if someone murdered him. The more innocent the better. I don't want someone becoming a killer like him. That person would be just another victim. He would still win."

"Good, Barbara, good. I want you to just sit on that. We'll set aside this part and come back to it in a later session. What can you tell me about the rest of the dream?"

"Okay... the walker is obviously my fantasy about somehow walking again despite what the doctors said. I'm having a hard time accepting that."

"As you should be. I would be worried if you just took it gracefully and with a smile. It's supposed to take time," Dr. H said as he smiled at his patient. "You're doing good so far. Okay, what else?"

Barbara closed her eyes to think. "I feel trapped with my dad. I feel dependent and want my freedom which is why I was in an apartment and not our house... but I think I dreamed he had his job back for him?"

"Okay, maybe a return to normalcy?"

"Yeah, sounds right."

"Okay," Dr. H said as he looked at his watch. "Good job today. Really good. Are you writing all the dreams down in your journal?"

"Yeah."

"Good, good. I want you to also write what we talked about today. Your thoughts on your dreams. Good insights. One last thing I want to bring up. You didn't mention Dick in the dream."

"He wasn't in the dream."

"Exactly."

"Do you think that means something?" she asked, confused.

"I think it means more than if he had actually been in the dream. Whatever you're feeling there even your subconscious doesn't want to face."

The elevator doors opened and Barbara rolled herself out into the lobby of the office building where Dr. Strange had his office. The security guard nodded politely to her as she rolled back. He gave her that look she got dozens of times from dozens of strangers every day she was out in public. The that poor girl is in a wheelchair look. She hated that look. She hated the way people would part like the Red Sea for her as she rolled down the sidewalk, yet were usually too awkward to smile and say something as simple as "Good morning!" as they walked by. She hated the way men would notice her red hair at a restaurant but then look awkwardly away when they saw she was in a wheelchair. The worst was when people would talk to her like she was deaf or mentally challenged.

Children would stare at her, point and ask mommy or daddy why the lady was in a wheelchair. Barbara didn't mind this. The children were just curious as children should be. The mortified parent would usually blush, grab the offending hand, and tell their child it's rude to stare and point and walk away.

Occasionally Barbara would roll over and talk to the children and their parents, answering any questions the kids had. The questions were often repetitive and simple but sometimes very complex and clever. When asked what happened she would usually say she had just been in a terrible accident at home. Sometimes the parents would recognize her, sometimes they could tell just by the look in her eyes that was as much as she could say in front of the kids. The parents always thanked her for being kind. So far it had been the only good thing about being in the damn chair.

Barbara went outside and pulled her cell phone out of the backpack hanging on the back of her chair. She saw that she had one voicemail from Ted. She called and checked the message.

Hey Babs, it's Ted. Everything's finally complete. I can show it to you tomorrow morning if you want. I think you'll like it. Okay, lemme know.

Barbara erased the message and smiled. Tomorrow was going to be the best day she had had in over six months.