A short chapter, for a change. I actually had a chapter 2 quite longer planned, but thought it would be interesting to keep it restrict to what happened when the characters returned home. It's not eventful, but it's revealing, I think.

Thank you for being here! Have fun, review!

AliaAtreidesBr

She arrived at her brownstone feeling worn out, in pain, and very happy.

No matter the wound in her leg, from where blood flow; no matter the pain in her arm, her elbow swollen to the point she couldn't move even her fingers without causing dire agony. No matter that her plan hadn't gone exactly as she had wished.

She had the crown. She had faced Batman, and she still got the crown.

His final count was five shots. He had taken five shots, and two of those had been direct shots at his armor – they hurt like a son of a bitch.

It was the one shot on his back that had allowed her to escape: he had lost it for a second, his world dark, his mind blank. He remembered how it was impossible to draw a breath, and the torture of moving his body to get shelter behind a tree. That's when he was shot again, this one straight at his ribcage, a mortal wound hadn't he been using an armor that was five times more resistant than a Kevlar vest. Two ribs broken, nonetheless, a hematoma that covered most part of his left flank, and a nauseating pain every time he breathed.

But nothing mattered. Not that, not the pain and the wounds – what really killed him was the fact that she had escaped. Taking the crown. Smiling.

Alone in her bathroom, naked inside her bathtub.

She had never been good with stitches, and do them with her left hand just made it worst.

It had to be done, though: that shot had gone through the soft skin of her thigh and it was deep, half an inch at least. That wouldn't stop bleeding unless she did something about it.

She applied pressure and took a bath – her entire body ached, she noticed. Scratches on her back from the fall she took, bruises on her legs. Her right arm, impossible to move it. Taking a careful look she concluded it wasn't broken, thank goodness, but Selina wondered if she was capable of taking care of it herself.

For tonight, she concluded, it has to be enough.

She boiled water and sterilized needles and line. Washed her hands and her leg, and sat inside the bathtub – it would be easier to clean the mess after she was done, at least. Taking a deep breath, she pierced her own pale skin, watching the blood pour as she pulled the line and brought together her torn flesh. It was painful, sure, but, just like everything else in her life, she could take it.

Alfred tended his wounds in silence, and Bruce was grateful.

The butler would have every right, Bruce thought, of saying "I told you so". He had always warned Bruce the party at the Gallery was risky, and he was right. It had all gone wrong, so wrong, and now Bruce wondered if he wasn't to blame for that crown being stolen just as much as that thief… that Catwoman.

"Did I mention she was wearing a costume?"

Alfred turned his attention from Bruce's shoulder and frowned:

"A costume?"

"Yes", Bruce moved his fingers through his damp hair, then rubbing his palm across his face. "Dressed like… a cat!"

"A cat?" Alfred smirked. "I wouldn't say it's awfully original, sir, but it certainly is appropriate."

"Appropriate?"

"Well, sir… costumed vigilantes and criminals seem to be the current… zeitgeist." He leaned to exam Bruce's back, his mere touch causing the man who was Batman to flinch. "Does it hurt?", he asked, quite rhetorically.

"Not much."

"'Not much'… it must be excruciating, than. Master Bruce, next time you run into this Cat-lady, be sure to tell her she is special indeed."

"Why?"

"She just condemned you to bed rest, that's why."

Bruce laughed:

"No, Alfred, I'm sorry… Batman doesn't get to rest, and neither does Bruce Wayne – not without raising suspicions." He left the chair and began to dress his shirt.

"Sir", Alfred pleaded, "you were shot. Your vest may have saved your life, but it's not safe to walk around with broken ribs."

"As long as I can walk around, Alfred, I don't see reason to stay still."

"Well, sir", he gravely said, "it's to avoid seeing you permanently incapable that I dare suggest you take a few nights, at least one night, to sleep and rest."

"Yes, we've had this conversation before." Bruce seemed exasperated. "Nothing has changed since then."

"Oh, no, sir. Lots of things have changed – except for you and your mission, of course."

"And that's all that matters."

His tone was final, and didn't admit debate.

Doctor Thomas Elliot - fabulous, rich, smart, handsome - entered his home and closed the front door behind him. He walked to his living room – beautiful, fancy, pleasant – and grabbed a bottle of scotch. There he removed his tuxedo – expensive, gorgeous, perfect – and carefully left it over the sofa.

Naked, he walked out of that wonderful room and went down stairs, him and his bottle, to his favorite place in that magnificent, ideal house of his: the basement. No, the hidden basement. The only place that was truly his.

Mother would be pleased if she was alive. She would find the remodeling of the house lovely, though she probably would have a few things to say against his furniture pick. Nevertheless, she would agree he had done a fine job, especially with the garden. Oh, how she would have loved the garden, that mean bitch.

He was glad she wasn't around to spoil anything.

The basement, of course, he had built himself. All alone, just as he liked. It wasn't anything sophisticated, but it served him well. Really well.

It was sound proof, cold, dark if he wanted to, bright if he wished. A small room, yes, but it had all he needed: the operation table, the scalpels, the needles, the drugs. The chains. He loved going in there, he trembled in pleasure as he entered the room and felt the cool air around him, the smell of chemicals and blood. Oh, it was exquisite.

He would put on his gloves and scrub caps, but rarely anything else. He loved being naked while working. He loved the feeling of small drops of blood and shards of bone over his skin, sometimes in unexpected places. Yes, there was a risk: no matter that he shaved his entire body and roughly brushed his skin to clean himself of dead tissue, it was always possible that something was left behind…

He did his best, however, and the truth was that he absolutely couldn't spoil his fun. He lived for those little moments, and it wouldn't be a simple, mere possibility that would stop him. Besides, he knew he would eventually get caught. In a year, in three years, in ten. They would get to him. Bruce would get to him.

Then again, that was part of the fun also.

As he entered his beloved little room, he thought of Bruce. Of his expensive, equally sick obsession. He was sure Wayne also had his not-so-little room somewhere, perhaps in many places, where he kept his treasures and had permission to be himself. We all have our little secrets, right, Bruce?

He didn't turn on all the lights, just those few lamps near the door. It was enough. In twilight, he could see her well; her beautiful, naked body, lying immobile over the table. Poor, sweet girl. So young, so soft and lovely. He didn't remember her name, but would always remember how she struggled and fought. Her screams of despair, her anguished cry.

All and all, it had been a great week.

Too bad she hadn't been able to stick with him for a while longer… that night, just before the party, she had finally died. Beautifully, of course, loudly, painfully. Like he had planned. He was good with that, with those plans of his. Almost as good as he was with a scalpel in his hand, or in playing chess.

Now, now it was time to let her go. Say his goodbyes, and drop her somewhere. Perhaps near her house – wouldn't it be fantastic if the girl's mother was the first to see her like that? Not that she would be able to recognize her immediately, but…

And that was precisely the final touch, the last line of his sonnet, his happy ending: see the confusion and complete lack of clues the police had, how they had no idea what so ever of what was going on. "Another dead girl", the newspapers would report. Is it a serial killer? Is there a monster wandering in the streets Gotham? Who's this pervert, sick person that is attacking all these good girls in this supposedly safer Gotham of Batman?

He laughed, alone in his little room. "Safer" Gotham. Right.

The stupidity of Gotham's citizens was amazing, no doubt. How foolish one must be to miss the obvious signs that clearly denounced Bruce Wayne was Batman? And, apparently, no one but himself, Thomas Elliot, had been able to see it. It was no surprise, then, that people had actually thought that a man in a costume could fight crime and actually make that decadent, despicable city a better place. No surprise that they couldn't see the obvious: Batman wasn't a savior, someone able to change the town… he was merely a symptom, the very proof that Gotham was beyond help.

And how absurd of Bruce to try something like that! How deeply disturbed he must be, how in need of a large dose of drugs! And yet, how amusing; how spontaneous and, in some level, brilliant.

Tommy bet there was an interesting story behind all that, something that had actually happened and changed the old Bruce he knew… once upon a time, he had been just a kid, perhaps smarter than most, but nothing that could be said to be genius material. He couldn't compete with Tommy, that's for sure. He was a rich kid, with some potential and a lot of angst – a long way from dressed like a winged, ugly mammal, and fighting alone the damn mafia.

Then again, Batman had quite the fame as a detective, but Elliot had not seen much of that yet. That was his third girl, and not a single sign of Batman being close to find out who was dismembering and gutting all those pretty and young women. Did he even notice it? Well, if to take by Bruce's attitude, no, he hadn't.

Maybe serial killers and dead young women wasn't in Bruce's level – so be it. He was having too much fun with that right now, and wasn't in a rush to let it go. Truth was, he didn't believe Batman could do anything about it. Oh, maybe in the tenth, twentieth girl. Maybe when he decided to wear a preposterous mask and give himself a pathetic little nickname. Or maybe when Bruce's ridiculous self-pity and guilt for Rachel's death had wear off.

Meanwhile, he would just enjoy the ride, thank you very much.