Preparations are made for his impending job. There is a bank with a clock above its doors--a clock that hasn't been operational in over a year. On principle, Temple finds this despicable and a crime worthy of retribution at the hands of the Clock King.

Since he works alone, planning a bank job is more difficult. He can't rely on hired hands--for him, a bank job is all about timing.

Perhaps that's why he likes them so much. They play to his strengths.

The next morning, after very little sleep, he returns to the watch shop as promised.

Again, the shop is open early, again Rebecca is behind the counter instead of the old man and again, Temple alarms her. She doesn't jump quite as high as the day before, but it is enough that when she recovers, she glares at him for the briefest of moments. The glare intrigues him. It's so out of place on what looks like such a fragile face and he wants to dig deeper, to see whether or not he can push that little spark until it becomes a raging inferno of anger, but the moment is spoiled when she averts her eyes and smoothes the front of her dress.

Temple is disappointed, but doesn't know why. Maybe he's just spoiling for an argument…

"My watch?"

Her voice is feather light. "The part hasn't arrived yet, sir."

She doesn't look up in time to see him depart. Rebecca never was very good at looking people in the eye…

---

The third day goes much the same as the first two. Temple arrives at ten sharp to find the shop open and Rebecca hard at work as he approaches.

He gets within two footsteps of the counter, preparing to slam his fists down on it in the same manner he did yesterday just to startle the girl, but she looks up at him and he stops dead. She looks at him through narrowed eyes--eyes that are hostile for a split second.

It is a look that says, "Don't you dare."

Temple's lips twitch but he contains the smirk that is trying to spread, instead putting his hands up in defeat. She turns her attention back to her work, as if she's already bored of him.

"Not today." Her voice is husky this time, as though she has a sore throat. "Tomorrow, probably."

He finds her disinterest in him irritating, but doesn't know why. He shakes it off. "Tomorrow, then."

---

Tomorrow comes.

This time, entering the shop, Temple feels that something is wrong. The door is open, the 'open' sign fixed firmly in place, but the shop itself is empty. He is instantly ill at ease. The place is entirely too quiet. His eyes sweep over his surroundings and he realizes why. Several of the clocks have been smashed.

The door to the back room is open a crack and he strains his ears.

Scuffling.

His footing is sure but cautious as he approaches the door, his hand grasping his cane a little below its head, ready to strike. Sidling up to the door and getting close enough to the crack to peer inside, his breathing is shallow and silent. He feels lightheaded and oddly thrilled, but doesn't know why. Temple muses that this must be what it's like to be a voyeur.

Jacob lies on the floor on his back within his line of sight, a small puddle of blood gathering under his head. He's still breathing, his chest moving evenly, but he's definitely out cold. A workbench has been upended, delicate tools scattered on the floor around the old man and to the left, a man holds Rebecca pinned to a wall. With one hand, he keeps a terrifyingly sharp knife pressed to her throat and the other is at his waist, fumbling with his belt. His knee is between the girl's thighs, holding them apart and her tattered dress has been hitched up on one side. Her hands, futilely clenching and unclenching into fists at her sides betray her fury and helplessness.

"Pretty little thing, huh, baby? I'm gonna make you feel good…well, nah, you're gonna feel like shit, but you're gonna make me feel great."

The bastard laughs at his own unfunny joke.

Blood pressure spikes, causing Temple's eye to twitch. Certainly, he intended to do away with the proprietors of this store when they had outlived their usefulness, but this is so much more perverse and disgusting than mere murder. How dare some common hooligan defile…

Defile…

Defile what?

What is this place to Temple--what are this girl and her grandfather--other than instruments of convenience?

Fabric tears, the noise wrong and alien in the quiet shop and Fugat moves so swiftly that he doesn't make a sound. He pushes the door just wide enough to slip through and slinks up behind the would-be rapist. Temple keeps his eyes fixed on Rebecca, his focus split between her face and the angle of the knife. She flicks her eyes to him for a moment and then averts them. She won't give his presence away. Clever girl.

It doesn't matter, the man attempting to assault her is too busy preparing to seat himself inside her to notice anything is amiss. He is blissfully oblivious until Temple brings his cane up and slashes it through the air, the gentle whirr punctuated by a satisfying crack! The man turns his head, looking up in time to see the cane descend and hit him squarely over the eye. He goes down, blood gushing from the wound, robbed of consciousness.

There is stillness for a moment, time suspended like an insect in amber. The moment of silence stretches. He doesn't breathe, caught up in the oddness of this shallow-dreamlike state.

Temple half expects Rebecca to throw herself at his chest and start sobbing now that the trauma is over, but she doesn't. Instead, she picks up a cuckoo clock from a nearby table and smashes it over the unconscious man's head.

For a second, he thinks that she did it out of anger, but when she looks at him and speaks, he realizes different.

"I did that," she says evenly, her voice calm. "I struggled with him and knocked him out. You were never here."

Temple is gobsmacked. Does she know who he is?

"Leave," she urges, pointing at the door. Her hand is shaking. "I have to call the police."

---

He doesn't return the next day for fear that reporters will be crawling all over the place, but this is not the case. A young woman's story of defending her own honor against a villain much more despicable than the Clock King could ever be is nothing but a footnote in the paper. Batman's capture of the Scarecrow is so much more compelling and newsworthy.

Temple can't say he's terribly surprised.

He spends the day making the final preparations for his heist first thing in the morning and denies, vehemently to himself, that he wonders how Rebecca is faring.

---

Gotham is chilly the next morning, but the change in weather is something that the Clock King is prepared for. There isn't a single contingency he isn't prepared for.

With costume in place and briefcase at the ready, he steps out of the alley and into the sunlight in front of the bank. This time of morning, children are in school, cubicle workers are snug behind their desks and Batman is most likely hanging upside down in a cave somewhere, catching a nap. The street is empty, except for a coffee vendor and a few people waiting for the bus. No one takes notice of the man in the plain gray suit as he strides confidently across the street. After all, he's no longer quite so ostentatious as he once was. The clock face glasses remain but the hour hand cane and gaudy timepiece tie have been abandoned.

Like clockwork, if you'll forgive the pun, an armored van pulls up in front of the bank, just as Temple crosses. The security officers (Frank Campbell: accurate but slow on the draw, sleep deprived, impending divorce; Joey Logan: nervous, green, cheating on his wife and mistress with a man) get out of the van and go about their business. Temple adjusts the timing of his strides so that he enters the bank right behind them without them suspecting a thing.

The heist is an exercise in perfect timing. Temple enters the bank, eyes downcast as he makes it past the first group of security cameras, his hat hiding his identity from the poorly aimed equipment. He then takes a place in the longest line and watches Campbell and Logan as they head for the vault. When they emerge, his plan is truly set into motion.

With easy grace and confidence he grabs the woman in line in front of him, spinning her so that her back is pressed to his chest. One hand wraps around her throat and the other produces a gun to shove up under her chin.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he announces, "this is Gotham City. I'm sure you all know the drill."

There is seemingly little finesse apparent in his taking a hostage, but the fact of the matter is that at this precise second, Gotham Power is conducting a test of its equipment which will result in three minutes and thirty four seconds of power loss to the circuits that are connected to the bank's alarm system. It's a glitch that occurs with the monthly test but no one has noticed this glaring hole in the security. Gotham Power--which has been losing business to a rival upstart company--keeps it quiet because fixing the problem would be more costly than ignoring it.

So, as the bank tellers all hit their little panic buttons, secure in the knowledge that if they give the thief what he wants he'll be caught by the police on the way out, they feign cooperation. The security officers cooperate as well, laying their weapons on the highly polished floor with obvious regret.

A duffle bag is filled with money, one of the freebies that the bank is offering with every new checking account opened and Temple estimates that it holds at least half a million dollars. The money doesn't matter, of course; this is a robbery based on disrespect for the fundamental principles that the Clock King holds most dear.

With the duffle bag full and time running short, Temple drags his hostage backward toward the door. Everything has gone according to plan up until this point and he is immensely pleased with himself.

As with the best laid plans of all great men, it is on the cusp of victory that the unforeseeable occurs. A variable that had no business in any of his equations makes itself known. Rebecca stands in the doorway, staring at him in mute shock.

It takes him but a second to alter his plan so that this problem can be rectified, but it's a second too long. Temple shoves the first hostage away from himself and pulls the watchmaker's granddaughter to him. A shot rings out and a stinging pain explodes in Temple's shoulder in those few moments before he gets Rebecca properly situated as human shield.

Logan winged him but it makes little difference. It's inconvenient, but doesn't impede his escape.

Further greasing the wheels, Rebecca offers no resistance.

He doesn't know why that bothers him.