The smell of coffee grounds filled the air. The late-afternoon sun cast a reddish-orange light through the coffee shop windows. There weren't too many people here aside from the baristas and the occasional coffee-drinker, most of them had their noses buried in magazines, or were typing away at laptops.

Helena was not one of them. Neither was Dinah for that matter. Their arrival had gotten them some attention from the men, but ogling was all they were up for. That was good since Helena had a coffee jones she needed to fix.

"How are things on your end?" Dinah asked pleasantly, leaning back in her seat as she crossed one leg over the other. Her drink was situated in front of her on the table, partially drank. They were having a coffee date mainly because it was a weekend and Helena didn't have to be at school. She was rather proud of herself that she was done grading papers for the time being.

"Depends on what you mean by things," the dark-haired woman answered, taking a sip from her own cup. The espresso was boiling hot and bitter, just the way she liked it.

The blonde rolled her eyes. "You know what I mean, H."

Ah, the night job. She shrugged her shoulders as she placed her cup back down on the table. "Same old, same old, I guess. The Big B is hellbent on finding all of Strange's ticking time bombs, but that's about it. And you?"

"Nothing major in the works for a change," Dinah told her, reaching out for her drink. "The Birds have pretty much been catching street-level trash."

The corner of Helena's mouth twitched up. "Which gives you time for your little Star City jaunts, huh?"

Dinah stopped, holding her coffee in front of her face as her lips pursed to sip. Her blue eyes were comically wide. It took her a moment before she sputtered, "W-what do you mean, jaunt?"

The dark-haired woman rolled her eyes. "It's not every day a plane for Queen Industries arrives in Gotham—though every time it does, you seem to be around it. Found yourself a billionaire boy toy, have we?"

The woman placed her drink down on the table, raising an eyebrow. "Should I be surprised you know about that?"

"No, not really. I know everything, after all."

"By that, you mean Big B found out."

Helena shrugged her shoulders. "Same difference."

"What's your interest in this?" Again, Dinah tried taking a sip, succeeding this time. "I hardly think it's either of your business who I spend time with."

"Oh, you're right, but I was curious. It's not every day a girl lands one of the richest men in America. I want details—all of them."

"Like what? You wanna know what Ollie's like?"

Oh, so it was Ollie? Nice. "I wanna know if you two have knocked boots, or if I need to give the talk."

Dinah sprayed her coffee out of her mouth at those words, spatting the dark-haired woman with a mist of coffee droplets. Immediately, her face cringed in disgust. "Hey! This is my favorite shirt!" she exclaimed.

The blonde woman glared at her. "Then you deserve that," she shot back, snatching up a napkin to wipe her mouth clean. Returning the glare, Helena grabbed her own napkin and began rubbing it against her face and shirt, all the while aware that they were the center of attention for the coffee shop. Everyone was looking at them in surprise and startlement.

"For the record though, he does know what he's doing."

"You couldn't have told me that without the coffee shower?"

"Maybe, but then you used to have more finesse when it came to asking that kind of question. Excuse me for not expecting your bluntness."

Helena slumped back into her chair. "Well, I don't feel the need to beat around the bush like I used to. We're grown-ups; we can have these conversations without acting like giggling schoolgirls."

"I guess that's true. So you really want to know?"

The dark-haired woman leaned forward, an eager look on her face. "You betcha."

"Then here's the scoop: it's none of your damn business."

Ugh, tease. Helena scowled at her so-called friend. "I bet it's horrible; that's why you don't want to say anything."

A smirk appeared on Dinah's face as she leaned comfortably in her seat. "Oh, it's anything but."

Oh ho, the tease was holding out on her. "Though I imagine he isn't up to Batman-level ability," the blonde added a moment later.

Huh? What was that supposed to mean? "What's that supposed to mean?" she echoed her thought.

"Considering I've been hearing rumors of just you and the Big B patrolling the streets, it makes the rest of us wonder. Did you convince him to leave the girl behind?"

Wait, her...and Batman? Together? The very thought made Helena want to retch. She had to fight back the wave of nausea the thought brought to her. "He was the one to do that," she responded once she was sure her insides wouldn't work their way up her throat. "Said something about grounding her for awhile."

Dinah raised an eyebrow. "What, did she miss a curfew, or something?"

Helena shrugged her shoulders. "No idea."

"...is the little B his…?"

Now that was a loaded question. Considering how protective Batman was of Batgirl, it stood to reason there was some familial connection. Problem was, anyone that managed to get the story out of the Bat knew that wasn't the case. Helena knew the girl had been trained by the Court of Owls and Batman had been doing his damnedest to make her an asset rather than a living weapon. From her standpoint, he largely succeeded.

So this sudden absence was strange. In fact, whenever she did ask about the girl, she couldn't help but notice the Dark Knight stiffen in response before answering her. Something was going down between the two of them and Helena wasn't sure what it was.

"I'm pretty sure they're not related if that's what you're asking," she finally replied to Dinah. "I know he's protective of her—you've seen that. That was mostly because he was afraid she'd kill someone. Something serious must have gone down if he's not letting her out on the streets."

Dinah nodded her agreement. "Perhaps I should ask him."

Immediately, Helena shook her head. "I wouldn't do that if I were you. He barely tolerated me probing for information. He's not the kind of guy that likes being interrogated, ya know."

The blonde woman snorted. "Oh, I know that all too well. He was pretty vague the last time I talked to him about it. For all I know, he's using a cover story for her. Still, it'd be nice if he kept us informed. For all we know, we could use someone of little B's skills."

"What? Is Katana not enough for you?" Helena mocked.

"Of course, she is."

"But she's no Bat, is she?"

Dinah gave her a look. "You better hope I don't tell her what you just said."

Helena returned the look with a smirk. "And you better hope I don't tell her you were thinking of requesting a better ninja."

"Why did I bother coming here with you?"

"Don't know. It was your idea."


Dick took several deep breaths, a light sheen of sweat giving him a bit of a glow even with the baggy t-shirt and sweatpants he was wearing. He was in a state where he felt like he could do a marathon and finish it up, followed by another five-mile jog.

Except he wasn't running. He was training. Specifically, he was training the latest acquisitions to the Batclan.

The place was a backroom at a dojo, the room itself set up for a self-defense class. This class, in particular, had only two students, but it still counted as one. Much cheaper to do too it turned out, especially when someone used their daddy's credit card to rent it out, Stephanie.

Laying on the mat, groaning from the latest throwdown, Stephanie Brown was a disheveled mess of gym clothing and hair. Dick would like to say she was making progress, and she was, but not the kind of progress than he had with Tim. A slow learner of the martial arts, she was.

"Alright, Harper, your turn," he commanded to the other girl, who didn't look any better than the prone blonde-haired girl on the floor. "Stephanie, get back on your feet and move out of the way."

There was a grumble and almost a minute later the image of your typical Valley girl picked herself up and vacated the mat. Reluctantly, Harper took her place though she hadn't taken up a fighting stance yet.

"Do I really need to have you kick my ass again? Isn't my gear enough?" the punk-looking girl tried to bargain. A bit of a change of attitude from her, especially since she had started her fighting training all gung-ho. Then she became best friends with the floor one too many times. This was a change in her, even though it had been explained to both the girls the need for hand-to-hand combat. A taser gun was only useful when you were holding it the right way.

"I knock your gear out of your hands, then what?" Dick asked mildly, patiently. "We all need back-up plans. Get into your stance and let's do this."

She groan, but Harper obeyed. She always did. Slow progress was always a great discourager. Not everyone could be experts in a month. "Did you torture your last partner like this? I can see why he left," the dyed-haired girl muttered under her breath, though the young man heard her anyway.

"If it helps, it took him a while to get the hang of this too," Dick replied to her anyway, pretending that Harper hadn't asked a rhetorical question. He set his body into a defensive stance and waited for her to come at him.

He could see Harper tense her body, her eyes staring at and into his person. Immediately, he could detect the uncertainty in her body language, something that would always give her away when she tried anything. The dark-haired man almost groaned but succeeded in keeping it to himself. She was already giving up before she got started.

Usually, he waited for either of the girls to attack him first. So, Dick decided to mix things up and go on the offensive himself. He was a little disappointed when Harper didn't adjust her stance when he did. Ignoring how her eyes bulged when he went on the attack, the young man jabbed at her, purposefully avoiding the face but aiming for a more vulnerable part of her, specifically her sides.

While Harper was able to dodge, that was because she stumbled backwards and fell onto her behind, Dick stopping immediately and barely holding back his disappointment.

"What was that! I thought you were going to wait!" Harper exclaimed from where she sat, glaring up at him.

"Not every bad guy is going to wait for you to come at them. Most are going to be the one attacking you. Just thought I would mix things up a bit," Dick explained. "I'd give you points for not getting hit, but your landing leaves a lot to be desired."

There was a snicker from Stephanie, and he would give her a reason to show better restraint later. Right now, it was Harper's turn in the hot seat and he expected a better showing from her first.

"At least give me a chance to get ready," Harper muttered under her breath."

Okay, the snicker could wait a little longer.

"Do you think the bad guys are going to wait for you to get ready?" Dick kicked out, aiming for the girl's torso. Squeaking, Harper successfully blocked, though it would have looked better if she had been standing instead of sitting on her ass. "Do you think anyone cares enough to want crap on the streets to be fair?" He swiped another leg, aiming for her head, which Harper avoided by leaning back, going so far that she ended up with her back on the floor. "Do you think the Batman would let you stay out there on your own if you were teamed up with me? Even then, he barely tolerates me. If not for Oracle, all three of us would be shacked up in our homes Friday night having to watch Netflix, or some shit. None of us would be out fighting crooks with guns and knives.

"I'll admit that sounds good, not risking my life on a daily basis, except I like being out there. I like making a difference. It's what keeps me going. What about you? And you Stephanie?" He looked to the blonde girl for a moment before returning his eyes to Harper. "Why are you two wanting to join the vigilante racket? Think long; think hard about it. Because we're not doing this for our health. We're putting our lives at risk for little, or no reward. It would be real easy to get ourselves killed. If I'm the worst thing you have to fight, then I've done my job right and you're ready. Now get up, Harper, and show me what you can do. Give me a reason to okay you for tonight, or I'll ground your ass, and I know you don't have Netflix to keep you busy."

The girl was looking up at him wide eyed. Then they narrowed with determination at his last couple statements. Good, she had some fire in her, but all the fire in the world wouldn't help her against some of the worst Gotham had to offer.

To her credit, the dyed-hair girl went into attack mode the moment she was on her feet and struck at him first, a good sign that his words held some meaning for her. But he had been at this long enough to know he always needed to be ready. So even if the young man was not in a fighting stance, he was good enough to fall back into one at a second's notice and block and parry the punches his female opponent threw at him.

"Nice, nice," he commented when her last couple attacks tried to angle themselves towards his ribs. Without warning, he captured one of her arms in an armlock and tossed her to a side. His face barely twitched when Harper landed awkwardly and fell to the mat. "Need to work on that landing a bit," was his recommendation.

Harper grumbled in reply, getting back up to her legs shakily. However, Dick told her to back down and called for Stephanie to take her place, switching them up. There was still that snicker to address, which he did when he aimed a couple punches of his own at the blonde's face.

"Watch it!" the blonde-haired girl yelped as she barely managed to block with her lower arms. "What do you think you're doing?"

"The same as any street punk would: aiming for your face. Good job blocking, but might I suggest parrying instead of blocking? Bet your arms are going to be a bit sore later from taking those hits," Dick suggested even as he fell into a crouched and pivoted on one foot while he extended the other out, swiping her legs out from underneath her.

Instinctively, he brought an arm up and misdirected a foot that was coming at his head. With his other arm, he snatched an ankle then snaked his remaining arm under a thigh before throwing Harper over herself to land on her back on the mat.

"Nice, taking advantage of my distraction to come at me. Most thugs aren't going to be ready for that," Dick remarked, dishing out some praise.

Harper groaned in reply, not bothering to pick herself up this time.

Giving a sharp whistle, he then addressed the blonde. "Back on your feet, Stephanie. Let's do this one more time."


The bitter taste of failure was one that he was unused to, but learning to recognize. It was not a pleasant experience.

As he settled himself on the couch, his leg still protesting after all these months, Professor Hugo Strange took his time making himself comfortable as he prepared himself for his latest therapy session.

Thanks to the wounds he had suffered at the hands of one of his pawns, and due to his age, Strange was not in any physical condition to be very active. A life spent as a scholar, sedentary at best, had taken a greater toll on his body than he had realized. Whereas those individuals who kept active would be in a more progressed area of recovery, he wasn't. Another inferiority that he had the displeasure to learn.

With other areas, let's say chemistry, he could take the time to educate himself, to read up on it and study like he never stopped doing. Physical fitness was not like that. Not at all. For decades it had been neglected and now was claiming retribution.

Still, he had to keep his frustrations about it hidden for the time being. The deranged shrink had a role that needed to be fulfilled.

"My congratulations," Strange spoke as he turned his head enough to glance at the blonde slip of a woman who was his therapist.

"You are starting every session like this," Harleen pointed out from her seat, a pair of glasses perched daintily on her nose.

"Why would I not? After all, you finally have your coveted opportunity with a certain happy patient," the bald man remarked.

"That was several weeks ago," the blonde psychiatrist replied. Yes, a full-fledged psychiatrist now. No more was she an intern like she had been when he had been first assigned to her.

"And by now you've had how many session with him, yes?" Strange wondered aloud. Giving a chuckle, he added, "I wonder what you have been discussing with him. I wonder if any of it matches what he shared with me."

"Confidentiality, Professor," Harleen tsked at him. "You of all people should know I do not discuss the contents of another client's sessions."

Except she had already violated that by sharing with him the tidbit that she had gained the preeminent position of becoming the Joker's personal therapist. A rookie mistake, that.

"Of course. It's more of a wonder that Sharp did not put up more a fight," Strange said, unintentionally reminding himself of another example of blow-back.

Perhaps it had been more of a mistake to use Jeremiah as a pawn in his latest game with the Dark Knight. With the Arkham heir removed from his position, the state had seen fit to award administrative control of the asylum to a prison warden, a man with little to no imagination and a punitive view of crime and punishment.

To his mortification, Strange had to watch as Sharp asserted himself more as a warden, laying down strict and often times stifling policy that treated the patients here more like convicts than individuals in need of mental health care. It absolutely galled the former shrink that this place, Arkham Asylum, was now a shadow of itself, a mockery of what he himself had once influenced and built.

Arkham Penitentiary was a better name for this place now.

Even now, he could hear the Batman's words, chiding him, taunting him, mocking him.

I think we've seen who's superior here, Strange, and it's not you.

It was a simple statement that had taken a life of its own in the bald man's mind. Maybe once that's all it had been, a statement of fact, said neutrally and without prejudice. Except, Strange could almost see the smirk that probably hadn't been there, could hear the arrogance, and feel the self-righteousness laced in the gravelly voice, all of which served to infuriate the former shrink.

"So long as our local warden doesn't get in the way, I don't care what he does or says," Harleen was saying, her know-it-all voice managing to slip through the cracks of Strange's thoughts. "I have a feeling he doesn't want to be here anywhere. Lately all he talks about is Blackgate."

"He has his eye on another prize?" Strange picked up quickly. He snorted. "Though I have never had reason, or opportunity to meet her, Agatha Zorbatos is not a person you trifle with. Her reputation for brutality reached even the halls of the asylum, once. There was a patient or two I had that mentioned her in depth."

"Never heard of her before," Harleen shrugged. "Now, I have some questions for you, Professor. While rapport building is the focus of my sessions right now, I would like to have an idea of where to go once enough trust has been built."

Strange eyed her, contemplating. Whether she knew it or not, Harleen was in a prime position for manipulation. It would be easy, so easy. The potential to be another bomb massive. Since her assignment as his therapist, he had already detected a darkness within her, one that had so far been kept on a leash and tamed.

But it was begging to get loose, seeping through periodically when the newly minted psychiatrist was unaware. That and her fascination with her newest patient held so much potential.

It would not prove that you are superior because what fool gets killed by his own bomb?

And what fool taunts the bombmaker into making more bombs?

Strange was not the type of man to make the same mistake twice. He learned from experience and adjusted to his changing environment as needed. He picked up new tactics and refined old ones when the situation demanded it.

And right now he had a subject in which to test his refined skills.

"Be aware that the Joker enjoys to talk but not say anything. It is fine to allow him to speak his mind in the beginning. Pay close attention and you will find there are areas in which he will not approach, consciously or willingly. Discover what he is not saying and direct your session towards them," Strange spoke, making himself comfortable on the couch.

The game was not yet over, and it would never be until he, Professor Hugo Strange, proved once and for all that he was indeed the superior mind.


That stupid bitch.

Simon Belford stared down at his near-empty drink, his vision blurring at the edges. Who the hell did she think she was? Some hotshot Ace reporter? She hadn't been that in ages! Here he was, busting his ass for her and what does she do? Rip him off, that's what.

Once upon a time, yeah, she could've treated him that way. He wouldn't have given it a second thought, just brush her off as some stuck-up bitch and move on. Now though, she was firmly in the has-been pile, a rising journalist that hadn't written a thing for years. She walked and talked the part, but she was clearly dropping down the social ladder.

It was because of this Simon was sitting in a bar in the middle of the afternoon, drowning himself in a bottle of whatever was cheap. He honestly wasn't sure what he was drinking, but it was getting him drunk and that was all that mattered. Finishing off his drink, he banged the bottom of the glass on the bar. "Another one, Sam," he grunted.

Sam was the bartender, a giant of a man that felt shirts were too constricting. He only wore a leather vest over his naked torso, the bald man looking over at the detective. "On your tab?" he assumed.

"Yeah, sure."

Grabbing a bottle, he poured the drink, one, two fingers maybe. That was all Sam was willing to give him at the moment. "Savor that one, Simon. Toss that one down and I'm cutting you off."

Cheap bastard. Simon didn't say that out loud, mostly because Sam was alright in his book. He knew when to look out after his regulars, he just had a gruff way of showing it. Right now, Sam was telling him to slow down, probably because he had drank most of that bottle the bald bastard was currently putting away.

So Simon did as ordered. He didn't immediately take a sip, content to just holding the glass for the moment. Where was he now? Oh right, the Vale bitch. Where did she get off telling him he wasn't doing his job? She was the one with a grudge against Bruce Wayne, not him. You couldn't blame him for having a difficult time finding dirt on the city's wealthiest citizen. You didn't keep that kind of wealth without knowing how to cover your tracks.

Admittedly, there were some strange things involved. It had been a long time since his beat cop days, but he knew a cover up when he saw one. Vale wanted to know the guy's deepest, darkest secrets and Wayne definitely had them. For Simon's sake, he just reported what he found and didn't give it a second thought. No use letting someone else's investigation keep him up at night.

The stool next to him moved, some guy in a coat taking a seat. "Barkeep, White Russian," the man ordered. Sam gave the newcomer a look before he started to make the drink.

Simon glanced to the guy. "You know, there are more seats," he said.

The man looked at him. "This seat has the best angle with the TV."

The detective darted his eyes to the TV and lo and behold, the guy was right. "Huh, what do ya know?"

The newcomer looked him over. "You look like you've had two too many."

Simon glared. "Mind your own business, pal."

He raised an eyebrow, a blond one at that. Hmm, so was his hair, groomed with some kind of gel it looked like. "What's up your butt?"

Dickhead. "You want to know?" Simon turned on his stood to fully face the jackass. "I'll tell ya what's up my ass. My client is a stuck-up twit that thinks she can walk all over me. I'm, I'll tell ya, she's not much better than a casual screw instead of the Hollywood starlet she thinks she is."

"Oh, a girl," the man surmised. "What'd she do?"

"Oh, just tell me to go dig up some dirt on a rich snob, but then refuses to pay me when I get her what she wants. It's not my fault the dude she's after makes sure to cover his tracks. I ain't ever seen anything like it."

"Like what?"

"A non-existent social life, some...girl living at his house that no one knows about. Sketchy business practices—stuff like that."

"Is this guy some ex of hers?"

"I think she mentioned dating the guy at some point," Simon grunted after a moment. Now that he was saying all of this out loud, it did sound as if Vale thought Wayne was her ex and she wanted to make him pay for breaking up with her. Of all of the absurd reasons…

But wait, there was something else, wasn't there? Yeah, that's right. "Funny thing is, there...it...looks like Batman's involved in this."

That got the guy's attention. "Batman? How?"

"Not sure, but every so often I come across a Bat sighting. She seems more interested in those sightings than anything else I've found."

"Any reason why?" the man asked curiously.

"Who wouldn't be excited about finding something out about Batman?" Simon returned. "I mean, it's freaking Batman. A reporter would give their right arm to find out something new about him and she's no different."

"So this girl's a reporter?"

"Not just any reporter." At this, Simon took a sip of his drink, feeling the familiar burn going down the back of his throat. "Vicki Vale."

The guy stared at him for a moment. "How about I buy you a drink, friend?" he suggested clearly ignoring the television.

Now that was the smartest thing this newcomer said all afternoon.


To the first Guest reviewer: This has a little more setup, but hopefully this was satisfactory.

To the second Guest reviewer: More setup! Well, that's all I have for now.