He saw the man walking out of one of Gotham's nicer department stores. Two bags in tow, he is dressed in an overcoat and wide-brimmed hat to protect himself from the biting cold of the November evening. He was a dapper man, to be sure, but perhaps he should be considering the hefty purse he carries. One would never know what he actually does in his spare time. And as Billionaire Bruce Wayne is perched on top of a building across the way dressed as a giant Bat, he figures maybe that's the idea.

The target in question was one Floyd Lawton. Alias: Deadshot. Now that Slade had been retired he was the World's Deadliest Assassin. Over 200 confirmed kills; which isn't counting the Who-Else-Could-It-Be disappearances of the Tri-State Area's heavy hitters.

When he got the tip from Waller, he had been hesitant. He had been keying in on Deadshot for some time now. No doubt he would have found him eventually, but it was impossibly timely to catch him unaware in his own stomping grounds. It was so good that he almost didn't take it, because it was Amanda Waller - notorious Ice Queen, ruthless negotiator – and she had no reason to help The Dark Knight of Gotham catch the Bad Guy. He knew she wanted something. On average, she did nothing for free.

Regardless of the eventual cost, though, Batman couldn't really justify letting a man as dangerous as Lawton go free. So here he was, coiled and ready to swoop down not unlike his namesake.

"You ready to go?"

"Yeah, daddy!"

Until that happened. He inwardly cursed his luck as soon as his directional microphone picked up the sound of a young girl running to catch up to her father. Christmas gifts, he realized offhandedly.

"I want you to come live with me. I came into…some resources, I'm gonna get us a spot. It's gonna be nice. Alright?"

"Momma says I can't live with you, because you kill people."

"That's not true, that's a lie! She's lyin' to you!"

"Daddy… I know you do bad things. Don't worry. I still love you."

What an awful job this was, sometimes. Batman didn't particularly feel bad about detaining Deadshot. It was breaking his daughter's heart that would keep him up tonight. That and the knowledge that Waller most likely had someone shadow the girl to find out when her dad would be present.

Deciding that he should do this now before he lost the nerve, he stepped off the roof and descended into a soundless glide into the alley.

"…I'm gonna figure this out."

Batman touches down and reaches for Lawton's shoulder who, on instinct, whirls around to free himself. His reflexes are good, but Batman still shoves his arm downward and then parries his follow-up punch. Deadshot's eyes go wide at the action. Whether he's surprised to finally see The Bat in person, or if he's shocked by how strong he is – still – it's hard to tell. Batman knows he's armed, though, and he has to finish this quickly.

"It's over Deadshot." He spares a glance to the girl. "I don't want to do this in front of your daughter."

Deadshot retaliates, obviously, as viciously as one would whose freedom and family were on the line. He reaches for his side arm but is stunned by a right cross. Batman makes to bring him back to eye-level but is met by the handgun, which he tries to wrestle away. The gun discharges into the jugular of his cowl, but he is wearing Kevlar Everything and bullets don't hurt Batman.

He disarms him, discombobulates him with a left hand and – while his equilibrium is rebooting – brings him to one knee with a well-placed kick. He does just enough to keep him out of the hospital; acutely aware of the ten-year-old that was watching this occur. Time was short and this had already gone on too long.

He attempts to come down with the knock-out blow but Deadshot rolls backward and, from his knees, recovers and aims his handgun.

"Daddy…" His daughter is in tears by now. She is also in-between them. Batman and Deadshot both freeze in place because this whole incident from the start is an unwinnable situation and, naturally, the first to figure it out is the child.

"Zoe, move!"

"Please, Daddy, don't do it. Please…"

Batman sees the fight leave Lawton's eyes. He begins to see it from Zoe's perspective. She wants her dad to be there for her, but she wants him to redeem himself, too. She still loves him and she knows that this is a fight he can't win. If he turns himself in, she thinks, there's a chance I could still see him, but I can't do that if he gets himself killed fighting The Batman or the police that are now 60 seconds away.

He tosses the gun and motions her out of the way. With only the slightest grimace of apology, Batman takes out his cuffs and arrests Deadshot. He then uses his grapple to ascend the building to give the parent and child their privacy. He hears the sirens loudly now: ETA 30 seconds. Plenty of time for Batman to escape. Not nearly enough time for Zoe to say goodbye.

"The objective is complete, Alfred."

"Excellent work, sir. Gotham sleeps safer tonight with that man off the street."

It wasn't often that Alfred dispensed compliments with no trace of snark, but when he did Batman could always tell it was genuine. Another one of the unspoken truths between them.

"Thanks, Alfred, but the night's not done."

"Of course. What is our next course of action?"

"Send the Volvo and a change of clothes to the coordinates you're receiving."

"Oh. Keeping a date like a normal person?"

"Hardly. I'm having a meeting with Amanda Waller."

"And why, dare I ask, are you doing that?"

"That tip wasn't anonymous. I need to find out what she knows and what she wants."

"Sir, aren't you forgetting something?"

"I'm sure you'll tell me."

"Mr. Keefe, of course. Shouldn't you be working on ending his confinement?"

Batman released a noise of frustration from the back of his throat. "Wally Keefe's bail was posted earlier today. Not by us."

"Bollocks! Who could have paid such a hefty sum so quickly?"

"I'm not for sure, but hopefully my acquaintance will have some good news. I'll keep you posted, Alfred."

It was, at best, an unadvised decision. At worst, it was terribly idiotic. Often when one attempted to match wits with Amanda Waller they usually left having been painted into a corner and then dumping the paint on themselves. She was a master manipulator. It was one of many traits that made her perfect for her job at A.R.G.U.S. It also made her incredibly dangerous.

But if there were a short list made of people who could enter a debate with Waller and come out on the upper hand, Bruce Wayne would have to be one for consideration. As he exited his autonomous vehicle and walked into the restaurant, he figured he'd have to be.

It was totally empty, of course. Waller hated crowds as much as he did and it wasn't like their conversation would be 'On the Record' in any situation. A member of her security detail approached him as if he intended to search him but was disarmed by what Bruce hoped was his most withering glare. He was new and Bruce received a look of apology from the other man who knew him and made for a table in the center of the foyer.

The food was already on the table. Fresh fish from the Port of Gotham, a side of leafy greens and a sort of soupy dish that people expected rich bastards like him to dip his entrée into. A younger version of himself might have appreciated starting the game so early. As it were, it only aggravated Bruce that he couldn't even sit down before she began lobbing her bullshit at him.

"Bruce Wayne. Thank you for coming."

He didn't look up from his plate as he answered, "Thank you for having me."

He could feel her stare boring into his forehead as he took a bite out of his meal. He was trying and failing to conceal his mounting anxiety. God, when had he gotten so bad at this one-on-one thing?

"Pretty chilly out there, tonight. A man could catch cold if he's not careful." This caused Bruce to toss his silverware onto the plate, causing a bigger clatter than he had intended but he was too angry to care.

"Okay. Enough. Cut the crap, Waller."

She placed her hand on her chest in mock offense. Her smile gave away her pleasure in having gotten his goat. "Come now, you're being unfair, Mr. Wayne."

His eyes narrowed the slightest bit – half concentration, half antagonism. "You and I both know that's bullshit."

"Care to expand on that?"

"For one thing, you never come to Gotham City unless it's to strong-arm some grunt into doing your dirty work."

"Check."

Bruce counted back from three as he continued: "Secondly. Do you actually expect me to believe that you just happened upon the location of the world's deadliest assassin? Here? In my town?"

In that moment, the air around Waller soured. Her body language that of someone who was caught in a place they didn't want to be, with information they would not talk about. Checkmate.

"What do you want?" she asked, all friendliness gone from her voice.

"Information, if you have it." Bruce pulled out his device and found the picture of Knyazev. "I'm looking for any intel you or your agency might have on this man."

"The former GRU? Well, looks like our President-Elect isn't the only billionaire hob-knobbing with the Russians."

"You can add Lex Luthor to that list."

"Lex Luthor? As in Lex Jr? What business does he have with a Russian mercenary?"

"The same business that leads to the White Portuguese."

Waller sat back in her chair, surprised the man across from her even knew of that name. "Just how deep into this are you, Mr. Wayne?"

"Not deep enough, or else I wouldn't be here."

She gave a shrug and returned to her own plate. "As it turns out my office has found something interesting brewing in the Port of Gotham. You know of the White Portuguese so you know of their plan to bring a dirty bomb into your city. But intelligence seems to suggest that it isn't a bomb at all, but something else entirely. We don't know what it is but we know there are no shortage of characters in your town who would want a piece."

Bruce nodded. "I could name a few."

"Answer me this, then. What makes you think Lex Luthor is one of those people?"

Bruce rolled his eyes at the obtuseness of the question. "Why does any billionaire do anything? It's no secret why LexCorp is the largest conglomerate in the world. They accept contracts from people like you who like making people who disagree with them go boom."

"Even you aren't dumb enough to think I could possibly be involved in this."

"I only know what I see in front of me."

"Tch. Even now you think I'm hiding something."

"We're all hiding something, Waller. Some of us just fly too high for others to see."

"Oh, there it is!"

Had he actually said that out loud? This night was impossible.

"Don't clam up now. This conversation has finally gotten interesting."

Bruce shook his head and made to stand. "My opinion is of no interest to you."

"I disagree, Mr. Wayne. This is the least you can do for me. Tell me what you think about Superman."

When this meeting turned into an interview, he wasn't exactly sure. But as he thought about it, he realized no one had ever really asked him before. In fact, his butler was the only one who knew what his true feelings on the matter were. There were better people to confide in than Amanda Waller, but Bruce wasn't feeling particularly picky that evening. So he leaned in.

"Really want to know?" An odd flash of paranoia had him glancing over his shoulder even though she had rented out this entire restaurant. Her security geeks were hardly cause for his concern.

"Fine. I think it is absolute bullshit! That the Batman tries to clean up my city, do the jobs the authorities won't and he is vilified! But sure as shit here comes this pretty boy from space destroying everything in his path – literally everything! He knocked down an entire goddamn city and no one batted an eye!"

"He saved that city from a galactic terrorist threat."

"That threat was a Kryptonian that followed him here."

"Surely you aren't suggesting he should have done nothing?"

Head in hands. "Why do I even try talking to you?"

"Hmph. Wanna know what I think?"

Head snaps to attention. "What?"

"I think Gotham's Most Eligible Bachelor might actually be jealous. Or maybe you're still upset that your little building got knocked down?"

It wasn't a laugh or even a scoff so much as a bitter exhalation of air. Hopefully it got his point across. "Tell me. Truthfully for once. Why give Superman the Hall Pass, huh? Why no calls to turn himself in every time he walks out the door? Is it because he shows his face? Smiles for the camera? Kissing babies and hugging fat chicks, right?"

"As long as Batman wears that mask, there will always be questions."

"That's fine! The problem is that the only question asked of Superman is what color his throw rugs are."

"I saw that interview. I'm pretty sure they asked him about his drapes." She smirks as the tension sets into his shoulders.

"You are an intelligent woman. Don't tell me you don't see the implications here?"

"I've got all night."

"Well, I don't. It's pretty simple. We've known all along there was a chance life existed outside our galaxy. Given the sheer number of stars in our sky it seemed to be a mathematical certainty. Now, we have in front of us proof fucking positive! Not one but two impervious flying aliens come down to our planet and, as an added bonus, level an entire metro area. The only question left that's worth asking is when the next hit comes and how many people die."

She raises an eyebrow in question, deciding how seriously to take him. "You seem pretty certain about all of this. Care to make a wager on the contact date?"

"So you can give Superman enough time to get ready? To hell with that. I'm not a damn fortune-teller. If a 'Galactic Terrorist Threat' were to touch down tomorrow, I'd be none the wiser and neither would you and that's a problem!"

"What would you suggest, then?"

"I would suggest you stop dicking around and do something about it," he sneered at her as he stood to leave. "This guy – this thing – from parts unknown thinks it's okay to fly into active conflict zones and take out whomever he pleases regardless of how it affects this country he claims to love so much. Maybe someone should explain to him why that isn't the case."

The two bodyguards watching the door part to either side as he makes his way towards them. He nods his acknowledgment as they stand at attention. Before he crosses the threshold, he stops and turns back to see Waller deep in thought. He doesn't like it.

"What's gonna happen to the little girl?"

"Hm? Oh, yes. She has a mother in Star City. She will be permanently relocated there." She says this a little too sweetly. He continues.

"And what about Lawton?"

"Deadshot will be taken to a maximum-security detention center where he will await his sentencing and be dealt with to the fullest extent of the law. Much like Ms. Quinzel and the others the Batman has helped bring in."

What a terrible goddamn liar. He would be offended if it were anyone else. But it was Waller. He felt bad for the poor toadie that would get roped into this.

"Waller. I know I can't stop you. But whatever scheme you're planning right now? Don't."

"A threat?"

"Advice."

"I see. Have a good evening, Bruce. Make sure you bundle up."

He didn't look back as he stepped out into the cool Gotham night and entered his waiting car. He closed the door and opened the channel to Alfred as he released a breath he had been holding since he stood up from the table.

"Alfred, I'm done here."

"I do hope your dinner date proved productive."

"As much as it could be, but I can't do anything substantial without that drive."

"Well it's a good thing you called, sir, because about five minutes ago, I began receiving a signal from your drive. Sending coordinates now."

Bruce pulled out his device and made note of his position and the waypoint on the small map. It was somewhere in the Financial District, not far from where he was in Downtown Gotham.

"This is close by."

"Indeed. What's more, that beacon was activated locally and that means…"

"Whoever has it wants me to find them." Bruce felt his pulse quicken at the implications of that.

"Surely this is a trap?"

"Not so fast, Alfred. If my guess is right, I may still have a chance to keep my date."

Punching the coordinates into the car's navigation system led him to the Gotham City Museum of Antiquities. He could see from the people entering the building that they were having some kind of black tie affair and he silently cursed his luck until he found the bowtie and cummerbund stowed away in the glove compartment. Alfred again. Whatever he paid him, it wasn't enough.

Bruce knew it would be easy enough to spot the woman, even in this crowd, but also knew that he couldn't just go looking for her. The last time he tried ended in no small amount of embarrassment and if she was really trying to find him, she'd know he was here somehow.

Ten minutes after arriving he was nearly ready to go. Nevermind running into Cobblepot (who thankfully refrained from talking as he was avoiding the curator), there was no shortage of people nipping at his heels. They were looking to invest, wanted him to invest, wanted him to "Show my son, Connor the ropes, Mr. Wayne!" and really, business was the last thing on his mind.

That's why when he saw her he had to stop himself from cutting off Stan from the law practice down the road. She was in a white dress that had its fabric bisected down the torso and was talking to the curator about one of the exhibits. Bruce had to wonder how a person with such an furtive nature could wear such pronounced clothing.

But why wonder when he could ask the question himself?

He waited for the older man to walk away and then started in her direction, making his footsteps heavier to announce his presence. He could see by her reflection that she was regarding the exhibit with a frown, and he had a guess why.

"Found me," he says in greeting.

She turns, only slightly, and gives him a once over. "It appears that you have found me, Bruce Wayne."

"Hmm. You know me."

"I would be surprised if anyone here did not know you."

Not an unfair assumption. This wasn't the kind of get-together that attracted many members of the public, and he had made himself as visible as he could on purpose. He knew people. He also knew cat burglars and mad scientists and serial killers and clowns. But he knew people.

No need for her to know that, though.

"I don't know you." He heard how dumb it was as soon as it left his mouth. Fortunately, she didn't seem to mind.

"Diana. Diana Prince." She made a point to not extend her hand to shake his. She took another sip of her wine instead. Bruce had a feeling she was hiding a smirk behind her glass. He didn't mind, either.

"Diana. I like it."

"Where I'm from, it means 'royalty'."

"Israel?"

"Not quite. Why do you ask?"

He shrugs at her question. "Just a guess."

She arches her eyebrow in response. "You like to make guesses?"

"Inferences, actually. Small deductions based upon the things I can observe."

"I thought that only works in stories?"

"Not exactly."

"Okay, then, tell me what you can deduce about this."

She was motioning to the blade on display in the case in front of her. Most people would have seen what Bruce saw - The Sword of Alexander. Famously, the blade that cut the Gordian Knot. A few seconds more and he saw what he needed to see.

"It's nice – and expensive – but it's a fake."

She nodded. "Correct. How could you tell?"

"Here." He was pointing to the hilt of the blade, dragging his finger down the handle without disturbing the glass casing. "The hilt looks old and worn, but its age is affected. You can see the true texture underneath the 'weathering' they've added. And here: the stitching has been handled the same way. Doubt the curator would let anyone 'remaster' a centuries-old weapon. Anyway, the real one was sold in '98 on the black market. Now it hangs-"

"Over the bed of the Sultan of Hajar," she finishes for him. He noticed the glint in her eye; the look one gets when they find a kindred spirit with whom they can broach a familiar topic. Bruce was just relieved he had found someone in the room that didn't make him want to turn his ears inside out.

He noted this. "Too true. You know a lot about your ancient warlord artifacts."

Another nod as she took another sip of her drink. "It is my job, Mr. Wayne, to know of these things."

"Like an Antiques Roadshow deal?"

"A what?"

"Sorry. Dating myself with that one."

"Well, you are not incorrect. I deal primarily with antiquities: I am responsible for collecting, repurposing and – 'remastering' as you say – Old World objects that have been long forgotten."

Bruce didn't miss the sigh that came after that statement. "Hopefully not objects like this," he gestures to the phony relic and the corner of her mouth quirks up.

"No, of course not. They are, how would you say, 'legit'?"

"You really aren't from around here, are you?"

"Perhaps another thing we have in common."

"What do you mean?"

"I must admit I was surprised to see that you came here. These…do not seem like your kind of people."

Bruce quickly swallowed down the nervousness that had worked its way up from his chest and coolly addressed the woman in front of him.

"There are only four kinds of people, Diana: the pursued, the pursuing, the busy and the tired."

"So, what does that make you?"

"All of the above."

"Seems as if it would be a stressful life."

Bruce removes his hand from his right pocket and extends it outward in her direction, where he flips it so the palm is facing up. He glances up at her – he is feeling bold, but something about Diana makes him feel like permission is required regardless – and she slowly places her left hand in his. She looks up at him.

"As you can see, my hands do not shake."

"Then it seems I have the right person after all. Follow me."

She places her now empty glass unceremoniously on top of the dagger's case – she's tall, so it doesn't take much effort – and leads Bruce, still holding his hand, to a quiet corner of the party.

Bruce Wayne is a character, above all else. There had been many incarnations over his life in the public eye, but Socialite Bruce Wayne had come and gone many years ago. Still, he was familiar enough that he could recall the rules of the game. Walking with Diana, he had an inkling as to how this interaction might end.

"So, do you consult the GCPD?"

Then again, maybe he had no goddamn idea. It had been a long time.

"Uh, no, actually. What makes you ask?"

She taps the side of her head. "Billionaires don't normally require earpieces, Bruce."

"It would appear your goose is cooked, sir."

At that moment, it was impossible for Bruce to decide what would be more embarrassing: reaching up to close the channel and acknowledge that he had been caught, or leaving it untouched, ignoring her claim and letting Alfred hear the rest of this conversation in barely-contained glee. In a lose-lose scenario, he took the median.

"Very…perceptive. You've got a good eye."

"My line of work requires it."

"And who are you working for?"

"Not for. I am here of my own accord, but I thought maybe someone of your skill set might be able to assist me."

Diana was attentive, and smart, and on the scent of something that made his guts curl. He made to play dumb. "Only so many skills a guy like me has."

Diana averts her gaze. "I see."

Bruce saw this break in conversation as an opportunity to do some questioning of his own, so he leaned in the slightest bit closer: "Excuse me, miss? The other night you took something that doesn't belong to you. Stealing isn't polite."

She perked back up at this. "Is it stealing if you steal from another thief?"

Bruce pointedly ignored that comment and continued. "Who are you?"

"Someone interested in the same man you are."

"Is that right?"

"I believe Mr. Luthor has a photograph that belongs to me."

His expression became one of confusion at hearing that. He was looking for a weapons trafficker. She was looking for a photo?

"Did you get it?"

A shake of the head. "The data you copied has military-grade encryption."

He shrugged at the suggestion: "That's it? No follow up? I figured you more persistent."

She smiled at this – fully this time. "It's true what they say about little boys. Born with no natural inclination to share."

Bruce felt himself grinning as she leaned in close and fixed his bowtie. "I didn't take your drive, Bruce, I borrowed it. You'll find it in the glove compartment of your car."

The grin disappears. "How did-"

"Please. I like you so much more when you don't ask questions. Goodnight, Detective."

There are some things in the world you don't need a genius-level intellect to deduce. As Diana Prince walked past him toward the front of the room, Bruce could deduce that he wasn't supposed to follow. Instead, he walked back to the sword and pondered what the woman had said.

"Should I begin preparing the system for decryption, sir?"

"If you would. And re-heat the food from yesterday. It'll be a late night."

"Of course, sir."

Bruce closed the channel and released a sigh he didn't know he was holding. Alfred had kindly let him change the subject, which meant he would be grilled incessantly into the wee hours once he returned to the Cave. Again, he thought he might have rather taken his chances with Diana and stepped out into the damp, Gotham night.

He saw her, and she made a show of looking back at him as she entered her own car and sped away.

He didn't know how this would end, and for the first time in a long time, he felt that was fine.

"And you didn't get her information? Honestly, Master Wayne, must I do everything?"

If Bruce could find the deepest, darkest corner of the Cave to hide from his butler's wrath it wouldn't be enough. It was, of course, a thinly-veiled attempt from the Brit to settle him down against his will, but he also knew that Alfred was right. Even though it could hardly be called a coincidence that they had encountered each other that many times, he had no way to contact her if he found her picture like she thought he might.

"I told you, she just…left. I wasn't able to pursue the matter."

"Like that's stopped you."

Bruce shook his head as he monitored the device's decryption. "She's a ghost, Alfred. There was nothing for me to find, past what she told me. Couldn't tell you why but, talking to her made me feel unlike myself. She's not from here. That much is certain."

"A mystery within a mystery. Your favorite pastime."

Alfred walked away from the console back towards the Batmobile for its regular maintenance. Bruce, who was now in casual clothes, watched as the process continued slowly.

How good someone was at hacking often depended on how good their technology was. Being a billionaire, Bruce had the cutting edge in technology almost as it was available. This made him a really damn good hacker, but there was only so much one could do in the face of military-grade encryption, so he did the first thing that came to mind to pass the time.

He trained.

Basic calisthenics and then trapping exercises on the mudjong. Cart pushes and rope pulls. Bench pressing two times his weight. Squatting three times his weight. Being a vigilante was dangerous no matter how you sliced it, but being at the peak of human physical form helped make it a little less so.

There had long since been rumors that the Batman wasn't even human. Even that he was supernatural. Some demon in the night. The way his armored suit shrugged off bullets helped with that. Add to the equation his massive strength, the cover of night and the average criminal's superstition and the conditions became perfect for a larger-than-life urban folktale. Unfortunately, none of that helped with decrypting sensitive extra-legal information but what else was a supercomputer for?

DECRYPTION 100%

DECRYPTION COMPLETE

A short shower to wash the day off and he was back at the console with the decryption mercifully done.

The first few moments of navigation revealed to him a number that he saved in his personal device, because there was at least an 80% chance it belonged to Diana. Not only did Alfred owe him an apology, but it gave an indication of how far into the process she had gotten herself. She was good. A few more days of work and she might have debugged the data herself.

But he had and so far, there was nothing of terrible consequence: receipts, transcripts, contracts, blueprints, budget plans – nothing that wasn't already widespread knowledge in the business community. Then he came upon a folder labeled Meta-Human Thesis. Waller had offhandedly mentioned this before. The idea that, scattered across the globe, there were a number of powerful individuals of indeterminate origin that made use of special abilities. Like Superman except local, there had only been reports and sightings. Rumors mostly.

Before he knew it, he double-clicked the folder emblazoned with two W's and opened the first file to see Diana Prince staring back at him, leaving a taxi in what the picture had labeled as 22 JUNE 2015 Paris, France.

It was a surprise, of course. For one, she had her hair down in this photo and he was honestly starting to wonder if she owned any clothing other than cocktail dresses, but more importantly this picture was in the Meta-Human Thesis folder.

He backed out and opened the next file and saw video of Diana – in Paris again – withdrawing money from an ATM. When she looked up into the camera her faced was scanned, as if by some facial-recognition software. He paused the video and put his chin in his hand. He was so deep in thought that he didn't hear Alfred walk up behind him.

"Is this Diana, then?"

"It is."

"My word. She's gorgeous, sir."

Bruce moved the paused video to the side on the screen and opened the third file in the folder's list. Another picture of Diana appeared. This one wasn't from Paris or Metropolis or even the UK. The photo was in sepia tone and she was flanked on either side by four men. Three of them were oddly dressed; one of them appeared to be US military. Diana herself was wearing some sort of ancestral garb: a large breastplate and armored boots with a skirt that had to be more about functionality than practicality. She was wearing a large military jacket that swathed her lithe form. Most curious to Bruce was the tiara holding back her long, dark hair.

The photo was labeled: BELGIUM, NOVEMBER 1918.

"Correction, Alfred. She's still gorgeous."

Alfred removed his glasses to clean them and pushed them back up his nose, his mouth agape, as he confirmed that, indeed, the picture from 2015 and the one from 1918 had the same woman in them.

"Bloody hell. Hasn't aged a day. You know what this means, sir."

"I do, and it's impossible."

"Ah, but sir, once you have eliminated all possibilities, whatever is left – no matter the improbability – must be the truth."

Bruce turned fully in his chair to face the man. "I'm sorry, all these years I thought your name was Pennyworth, not Alfred Conan Doyle."

He turned up his nose at that. "That's Sir Alfred Conan Doyle to you. I was merely communicating my point in terms you would understand."

Bruce probably deserved that, but it didn't quell his aggravation as Alfred walked away and he closed the pictures and continued scouring the contents of the drive. Worried he would have to go through all the folders one by one, he came upon one marked with a lowercase t. Inside was what he had been looking for the past four months.

WHITE PORTUGUESE – harbored in Gotham

It had been under his nose the whole time. He didn't know whether to be relieved or infuriated. It was a boat. A goddamn shipping vessel. And for once, Waller had told him the truth. It wasn't carrying a bomb at all.

Bruce crossed to the far end of the lair where Alfred was working on the Batmobile. He paused his work and lifted his safety goggles. "Some good news, sir?"

"The White Portuguese. It isn't a man. It's a ship."

Bruce had steeled himself for an onslaught of Alfred's typical 'I told you so' bravado but the look he gave him as he removed his work gloves was something entirely different. It was disappointment and hurt and anger. Alfred was often cross with Bruce, but never angry.

"Master Wayne. Since the age of seven, you have been to the art of deception what Mozart is to the harpsichord. But you've never been too hot of lying to me." Bruce looked away. It was like being caught by his own father. "The White Portuguese isn't carrying a bomb. What is it carrying?"

"It's a weapon, Alfred. A rock. A mineral, actually, capable of weakening Kryptonian cells. The first sample big enough to mean anything turned up three months ago in the Indian Ocean. It is now aboard the White Portuguese where it will be delivered to Thunder Corp who I am going to steal it from to keep it out of the wrong hands."

Alfred paced around the vehicle, thinking over what he'd heard. After several moments, he inquired the man's intentions. "You're going to destroy it?"

"No."

Alfred threw his hands up in exasperation. So much for passing the test.

"What business have you stealing another company's shipment?"

"That company is a smokescreen. They aren't up to any good, otherwise why employ a Russian mercenary and his goons to smuggle it out of Gotham in the dead of night?"

"Really, what do you think is to come of this? You've never once gave an aft's end about which of your competitors got what. Why can't Lex Luthor and his mate have a dollop of Kryptonite?"

"It's not just him. The Falcone Brothers are looking to score anything substantial now that daddy is locked away for good. Cobblepot is a failure and a laughing stock, and a sniveler to anyone who will give him the time of day. Any resource is wasted on him. Lex Jr. can't have it because he's short-sighted. He's a brilliant man, but is young and too focused on his bottom line. He would take the Kryptonite and weaponize it before selling to the highest bidder where it would collect dust as some warlord's shiny toy, or worse, some government crony's bargaining tool."

"So, that's why you want it. You want a war."

Bruce surprised Alfred and himself with the speed in which he rounded back into the butler's face. "Alfred, that son of a bitch brought the war to us! Jesus, count the dead! Thousands! What's next? Millions? He has the power to wipe out the entire human race and if we think there is even a one percent chance we have to take it as an absolute certainty! And we have to destroy him."

Alfred was stunned into silence, at hearing such bloodlust from a man he had raised as a son. Bruce heard his voice tremble as he said, "He is not our enemy."

Bruce's face, which was already twisted in anger, morphed into a mocking scowl at the words. "Not today. 20 years in Gotham, Alfred. We've seen what promises are worth. How many good guys are left? How many stay that way?"

Alfred threw his gloves down to the ground, his fury returning anew. "Very well, Master Wayne. If that is how you feel I would suggest thinking twice before putting on that suit." He jabbed his index finger toward the suit of armor hanging across the way and then walked up to Bruce with a tool in his hands.

"And thinking an extra time before asking me to fix your fucking car!"

Alfred placed the tool roughly into Bruce's stomach and stormed off towards the elevator, leaving Bruce alone in the silence of the Cave with his own rapidly darkening thoughts. He wasn't sure how or when, but he had made his decision absolute.

If it was his last act on Earth, The Last Son of Krypton had to see a slow and painful end. By his own mortal hand.