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Bruce's POV

When the call had gone out from Burke that everyone needed to return to New York he had been surprised. After Richard's death and subsequent revival he didn't expect to speak to them again. He didn't expect that Richard would have left them the same clues that he left his family.

To Bruce it showed how much he cared for them. So despite his distaste for the FBI he went to New York. Once again he was surprised by the unity. Most of the people Neal worked with were all huddled into what used to be his apartment.

With Bruce came Damien, Tim, and Jason. The rest of the family had stayed behind to keep Gotham from tearing itself apart.

Tim asked, "Are we really going to work with them, Bruce? We can find Dick on our own."

Yes because that worked out so well last time. No these people knew his son better than him. At least with his new skills. If Dick fell back into old habits those still in Gotham would catch him there. For now they had to work with the FBI and Panov.

To his surprise Panov was already there. The man was talking quietly with Burke. When he saw Bruce his eyes lit up. It seemed something had happened while he was getting there.

As he approached Panov said, "According to Alex he could be anywhere in France. That was his last known location before he went dark."

Bruce asked as he walked up to the table where they had a map laid out, "What happened?"

Both men turned to look at him. Then Panov answered, "David has gone dark. No one knows where he is."

Bruce frowned. If Richard wanted to disappear then it would be next to impossible to find him. Even after years of searching the only reason why they found him was a fluke. Then they thought he was dead and hunted his other alter ego.

Jason Bourne... Richard had become a killer that rivaled Carlos the Jackel. It was said that if the two killers clashed the most of Europe would be destroyed. What drove his son to do this?

Panov startled while the rest of them looked at him. The man pulled out his phone that was vibrating.

He frowned and said, "Doctor Panov."

The frown deepened as he listened. Bruce waited almost impatiently for answers.

Panov inquired quietly, "What are the chances this is him? If it is what are the chances he survived," there was another pause and a sigh, "Keep us informed. You know as well as I do, Alex. As long as there is no body there is a chance he is still out there."

With that the doctor hung up and proceeded to collapse into a chair. It was as if all his energy was drained out of him.

Burke broke the silence with the question everyone had, "What happened?"

Panov said rubbing a tired hand over his face, "Shots were fired off the port of Marsae a few weeks ago. Right around the same time as a certain man went dark. The shooters were apprehended by one of Alex's men a few days later. The shots inflicted upon the unknown person were almost certainly fatal. The fact that the person went overboard into the sea only compounded on it. Finding a body out there is not an easy task."

Each of them knew the chances of this being their man were good. The chances of finding him alive were slim. As Panov had said it was several weeks ago.

Bruce knew of some help he could receive in searching the oceans. Aquaman and Aqualad were easy to make contact with since they joined the Justice League. As much as he wanted to avoid bringing the League fully into the hunt. It might just be unavoidable.

He said tiredly, "I know someone who could make searching the seas easy. If he truly died that night we would at least have something to bury."

The again was left unsaid. It was almost cruel how they had the hope of him returning. Only to have it ripped away by his death.

They set out at their tasks once more. No one was willing to give up on the man until they had a body. Panov went over Richard's journal with them. The pain that radiated off the later entries was almost palpable. The man was struggling with keeping his identity straight. The longer it went on the harder the struggle became.

To Bruce it seemed as if at any point the boy would break. Then all hell would truly break loose. If a killer's mind broke like that there would few that could stop him.

They were in the middle of another conference with Conklin who had come up with nothing, when his phone rang. The number was that of the League. The other's watched with baited breath as he answered.

"Wayne," he ground out.

Aquaman's voice came over the line, "Bruce I have good new and bad news. Knowing you, you want the bad news first. Richard is on one of the islands off the coast of France. Which one I'm not sure. Good news however Richard was pulled from the water clinging to a piece of driftwood. When he was pulled out he was still alive. Injured but alive. That's all I got for you. My suggestion is to get down this was as soon as you can."

Unknown's POV

"I've told you over and over again. It will take time. The more you fight it, the more you crucify yourself, the worse it will be."

This was becoming increasingly frustrating. He didn't know who he was and the doctor only spoke in riddles.

He stated, "You're drunk."

Washburn responded with a sigh, "Generally. It's not pertinent. But I can give you clues, if you'll listen."

He snapped back, "I've listened."

"No, you don't; you turn away. You lie in your cocoon and pull the cover over your mind. Hear me again."

He sighed, "I'm listening."

Washburn said as he had many times before, "In your coma—your prolonged coma—you spoke in three different languages. English, French and some goddamned twangy thing I presume is Oriental. That means you're multilingual; you're at home in various parts of the world. Think geographically. What's most comfortable for you?"

"Obviously English."

Washburn continued to probe, "We've agreed to that. So what's most uncomfortable?"

"I don't know."

Washburn simply stated, "Your eyes are round, not sloped. I'd say obviously the Oriental."

He drawled, "Obviously."

"Then why do you speak it? Now, think in terms of association. I've written down words; listen to them. I'll say them phonetically. Ma—kwa. Tam—kwan. Kee—sah. Say the first thing that comes to mind."

"Nothing."

"Good show."

"What the hell do you want?"

"Something. Anything."

"You're drunk."

The man without a memory rubbed at his forehead. This was beyond frustatrating. Why would he say those words? While nothing came to mind his heart raced in fear at Tam- kwan. Something in him was annoyed at the pronunciation.

Who was he? Why did he end up in the water with gunshot wounds? Why did he feel like he was missing more than just his memories?

It was like he was forgetting something important. More important than himself and he couldn't put it into words. His nights were filled with terror that made sleep impossible. Nightmares of nameless faces and voices. Words that he didn't remember when he woke up. Every time he woke up Washburn was there to talk him back to reality.

The man had become something of an anchor. One that he knew he would have to eventually cast away.

"We've agreed to that. Consistently. I also saved your bloody life. Drunk or not, I am a doctor. I was once a very good one."

"What happened?"

"The patient questions the doctor?"

"Why not?"

Washburn paused, looking out the window at the waterfront. "I was drunk," he said. "They said I killed two patients on the operating table because I was drunk. I could have gotten away with one. Not two. They see a pattern very quickly, God bless them. Don't ever give a man like me a knife and cloak it in respectability."

There was pain in the man's eyes. He didn't remember it happening because of his inabated state. Still the doctor felt remorse for what he had done.

He questioned curious more than anything else, "Was it necessary?"

"Was what necessary?"

"The bottle."

The glare he received would have made a lesser man cower. Instead it made even more curious. He wanted to know the answer. Even if it would make his doctor angry.

"Yes, damn you," said Washburn softly, turning from the window. "It was and it is. And the patient is not permitted to make judgments where the physician is concerned."

The unknown man bent his neck slight as he said, "Sorry."

Washburn tiredly replied, "You also have an annoying habit of apologizing. It's an overworked protestation and not at all natural. I don't for a minute believe you're an apologetic person."

"Then you know something I don't know."

"About you, yes. A great deal. And very little of it makes sense."

The man sat forward in the chair. His open shirt fell away from his taut frame, exposing the bandages on his chest and stomach. He folded his hands in front of him, the veins in his slender, muscular arms pronounced.

He questioned, "Other than the things we've talked about?"

"Yes."

"Things I said while in coma?"

Washburn denied truthfully, "No, not really. We've discussed most of that gibberish. The languages, your knowledge of geography—cities I've never or barely heard of—your obsession for avoiding the use of names, names you want to say but won't; your propensity for confrontation—attack, recoil, hide, run—all rather violent, I might add. I frequently strapped your arms down, to protect the wounds. But we've covered all that. There are other things."

"What do you mean? What are they? Why haven't you told me?"

Washburn stated, "Because they're physical. The outer shell, as it were. I wasn't sure you were ready to hear. I'm not sure now."

What could he not be ready to hear about? He wanted to unlock the keys to his memories. There was so much he didn't know. So much that wasn't connecting.

The man leaned back in the chair, dark eyebrows below the dark brown hair joined in irritation. "Now it's the physician's judgment that isn't called for. I'm ready. What are you talking about? Shall we begin with that rather acceptable looking head of yours? The face, in particular."

"What about it?"

"It's not the one you were born with."

"What do you mean?"

"Under a thick glass, surgery always leaves its mark. You've been altered, old man."

"Altered?"

"You have a pronounced chin; I daresay there was a cleft in it. It's been removed. Your upper left cheekbone—your cheekbones are also pronounced, conceivably Slavic generations ago—has minute traces of a surgical scar. I would venture to say a mole was eliminated. Your nose is an English nose, at one time slightly more prominent than it is now. It was thinned ever so subtly. Your very sharp features have been softened, the character submerged. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

"No."

"You're a reasonably attractive man but your face is more distinguished by the category it falls into than by the face itself."

"Category?"

Washburn said, "Yes. You're the prototype of the white Anglo-Saxon people see every day on the better cricket fields, or the tennis court. Or the bar at Mirabel's. Those faces become almost indistinguishable from one another, don't they? The features properly in place, the teeth straight, the ears flat against the head—nothing out of balance, everything in position and just a little bit soft."

He questioned softly, "Soft?"

"Well, 'spoiled' is perhaps a better word. Definitely self-assured, even arrogant, used to having your own way."

Very different from his characteristics now. Washburn was right this didn't make any sense. Even if it made some sense to the doctor it didn't to him.

The doctor continued suddenly, "Then there is your eye color. When I was still a resident I heard about changes in eye color. How it had to do with the mental state of the patient. Before meeting you I never had the chance to see it first hand. Your eyes are naturally a blue color. However when you are provoked either in anger or fear they go to an almost grey color. From what little I knew and the research I have done it known as killer grey. Very few have it and those that do have not led easy lives."

Killer grey eyes? Who in the world was he?