NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR- Apologies that this has arrived so late. I started this chapter on the wrong foot then had to scrap it all. Once I set off on the righ foot however, it practically wrote itself.

CHAPTER 4

From up here Gotham was a whimsical dichotomy of art and function. It's neo-gothic spirals and arched buttresses stood resolute unchanged by poverty, depression or corruption. The architectural genius of a generation long passed when America was young, bold and naïve. The streets, on the other hand, were another matter. The recent history of Gotham city was written in graffiti, cigarette butts and smashed bottles of cheap bourbon. Their stone flags marred by the litter and neglect of untold thousands they were the bed of the poor and the desperate. All too often they were the deathbed of the brave, the foolhardy or just the unlucky. High above the streets, enshrouded by the winter night's mist toned sepia by the streetlights, a solitary figure crouched motionless, wreathed in shadow.

Where are you?

The Batman silently appealed to his prodigal former ward. Dick Grayson, the young man who had named himself Robin in veneration of his murdered parents and shared the perils of the Gotham nights. The boy who had shown him that the pursuit of justice need not swallow him in its darkness.

He was out there somewhere. Angry. Undisciplined. Unchecked. A disillusioned young man with that supremely dangerous combination of extraordinary ability and blind fury. This was the worst thing that could possibly happen. This was the very reason he had taken the young ward under his proverbial wing. The reason he had tried to teach him discipline and self-control. He had feared then, as he feared now, that an angry orphan with such amazing talents, left to his own devices, could just as easily become a malevolent force. He could not allow the possibility that The Batman would one day have to face this boy as an enemy. The very possibility was terrifying, heartbreaking-

Plus there's the very real possibility that one day he could become better than you!

There was no denying it. Bruce Wayne was twenty-five when the mantle of the Bat was indelibly seared onto his psyche. Dick had become Robin at barely half that age. And he had done so with aplomb. Dick Grayson was a natural. In fact the Dark Knight's prodigy had scared him with his eptitude, his ability to seem to pick up intuitively what young Bruce Wayne had trained himself to do for years. It was a source of apprehension, perhaps even jealousy. But more importantly, pride. He had been proud to have Robin fight at his side. He thought that the lad understood the rare honour of sharing The Batman's mission. That was why he had left the paper in Dick's apartment. To remind him of the good times, of the dangers they had faced and overcome together. The way they had grown together. Like a father and son should.

"You're not my father Bruce. My father's dead!"

The words stung him even now. They had been spoken in the cave years ago when the boy had protested at The Dark Knight's harsh instruction, the rigour of his training. The recollection made his fist clench and his teeth grind together.

"You keep pushing me, and pushing me, and pushing me and every day, every night I give you the best that I can give. There isn't a scumbag in Gotham city that I couldn't take down with or without your help. But it's never enough for you is it?"

"Yes, you have talent. But you lack experience. You're impulsive, hot headed. That can get you killed in a place like this. For all your abilities you're just-"

The boy's face turned bright red and The Batman knew that he had touched a raw nerve.

"I'm just what Bruce?"

"You know full well-"

"Go on, say it you son of a bitch! I'm just a kid!"

The Batman had been silent. He couldn't find the words. For some reason this just enraged the boy further. He tore off his mask and stared right into the Dark Knight's eyes.

"I'm just a kid. What do I know? All these years of training and you still condescend to me. Ever the stern father figure. Well guess what? You're not…"

Tears streamed from his eyes and the words stuck in his throat but he forced them out nonetheless.

"You're not my father Bruce. My father's dead!"

It was that moment that The Batman knew that Dick had outgrown the mantle of Robin and his status as a teen sidekick. While it was by no means their last mission together they both knew that something was never the same after that bitter confrontation.

The almost musical chime of broken glass cut through the winter night and shook The Batman from his reverie. Gliding onto a neighbouring rooftop he saw below him the shattered window of a pawnshop. Moments later a heavyset man lumbered out carrying a large television. He set it down, rubbing his lower back and chuckling to himself. He had obviously disabled the store's alarm system. He thought he was clever. Leaping from his vantage point The Dark knight had a moment to enjoy the look of abject terror on the thief's face as the streetlight cast a perfect silhouette of the descending bat on the grimy street.

When Summer Gleason was a freshman at college she saw a t-shirt in a discount fashion store that said "All this and brains too!" She fell in love with it and bought it immediately. While it was the colour and cut of the garment that attracted her to it she felt now, approaching thirty and firmly established in her chosen career that she appreciated its aptitude. She had looks, and like many women knew how to use them to get what she wanted but there was no way that she could have achieved what she had in her career if she hadn't been a damn good reporter. And while she may have had to do some things that she was not particularly proud of to get where she was today she felt confident that she would be the one to knock the high and mighty Miss Lois Lane off of her pedestal.

She got out of the taxi and tipped the driver profusely. Likewise the porter who walked her right up to her apartment door and bade her a very good night. She had respect and she had earned it as much as bought it. As she slid the key into her apartment door she decided that while she lamented the fact that she owed money to some unsavoury characters for the benefit of furthering her career it was a necessary obstacle and one that she would overcome as she had so many in the past.

Almost instantly she knew something was wrong. The apartment was chilled and breezy even though she had made absolutely sure that she shut the window before she left. Unfortunately almost instantly was not quick enough. Strong arms snaked out of nowhere behind her and a beefy hand clamped itself over her mouth. Instinctively she screwed her eyes shut and tried to tell herself that this was all just a bad dream. When that didn't work she writhed and kicked at her unseen assailant. When that didn't work she relaxed her body and forced her mind to form ways to escape this situation. She became aware that she was being lifted clear off her feet and moved. When the strong hands forced her down she found herself, with some relief, recognising the feel of her own couch. While she was still in her apartment there was hope.

"Miss Gleason. What a charming gown you're wearing. I'm glad to see you're not spending my money frivolously."

Summer still had her eyes shut tight but she did not need to open them to know who was speaking to her. The pungent, fishy breath that wafted her way said it all.

"Mr Cobblepot. Is all this really necessary?"

She opened her eyes. Huge, ape like hands were at her shoulders, ready to smother her if necessary.

"I mean, would you call off your dogs please?"

"Go ahead Keefe, I don't think Miss Gleason is going to scream," he addressed the big man who had grabbed her with a wave of his glossy flipper. "Go and make some tea would you."

Keefe grunted and made his way to the kitchenette. Cobblepot missed the slower more predictable Garrett. Keefe was one of those awful career thugs with aspirations who did not treat their betters with the due reverence.

"Apologies for Mister Keefe's heavy handedness. Suffice to say he was supplied by my associate, not one of my usual boys."

Under the circumstances Summer thought she was doing well to fight her fear and revulsion. Keefe brought tea for The Penguin and he spoke between noisy slurps, the brown liquid dribbling down his chin.

"Now then, my dear. I would like to talk to you about the money you owe me. A crude matter, to be sure but one of increasing importance."

"Ah, the money," Summer tried her best to be charming and flirtatious, which was difficult considering The Penguin's appearance and the odour of the sewer which seemed never to have left him, "I'm having, what you might call a cash flow problem."

Cobblepot clucked.

"You mean to say your clumsy attempts to woo Bruce Wayne didn't pay off? I suspected as much."

Summer bit her lip. There was nobody alive less qualified to tell her that she wasn't sexy.

"Still, no matter. As luck would have it circumstances have arisen that will allow you to pay me in trade."

She did not like the sound of this,

"Go on."

"An associate of mine requires the use of certain broadcasting equipment and facilities that you have access to."

This time she could not compose herself.

"No way. I could lose my job!"

The penguin laughed his terrible, squawking laugh. Tea splattered on his white, bib like shirt.

"My dear Summer your every move is so achingly predictable."

He produced from his quilted smoker's jacket an innocent looking videotape.

"What's that?"

There was no humour in The Penguin's laugh now.

"Oh, I think you know what this is. If your little home movie were to get out an awful lot more than your job could be at stake."

She was completely out of options. Despite the great lengths and personal expense she had gone to in order to destroy it The Penguin had got his filthy flippers onto a copy of the tape. Her shoulders sagged in resignation and she could not fight back a lone tear.

Keefe seemed to find the whole thing terribly amusing.

Clutching his injured hand the recently disarmed gunman expounded a colourful string of profanities. Angered, yet apprehensive, his colleagues surrounded the young vigilante who had so easily thwarted the heroin deal that would have made them all rich men.

Robin struggled not to get cocky, to remain completely alert. It had been a risk to go this far into the east side. This was where the drug trafficking and prostitution rings were at their worst. It would also be his proving ground to demonstrate his ability to fly solo to himself, to Gotham and to the Batman. The gun was removed from the equation. One man lunged at him with a knife. It glanced off his gauntlet doing only minor damage. A series of sharp blows to the man's exposed rib cage rendered him completely immobile. The largest dived at him, hoping to smother the young crime fighter under his enormous bulk. Fortunately anyone with half of Robin's knowledge of ju-jitsu would know how to turn a man's size against him and after a swift and determined kick another opponent was dealt with.

That left two.

The one Robin recently deprived of his firearm had managed to find a broken bottle. The other slid knuckledusters over his gloved fingers. They encircled him, weaving in and out with surprising skill. Their range gave them an advantage. Robin would have to remove it. Reaching behind his cape he removed the telescopic Bo staff from its housing. Before he could remove the weapon and extend it with a flick of the wrist, however, a stinging blow had caught him just above the ear. Robin stumbled forward, feeling blood creep down his neck. In a rage he snapped the staff to its full length, whirling around to catch the man whose knuckleduster had injured him. Before he fell heavily the young vigilante brought it down hard on the skull of the man with the chain.

Alone he stood panting. His pulse throbbed in his ears and the fuzzy nausea that was the onset of concussion claimed him for the briefest of moments. Fortunately he was able to compose himself before he collapsed altogether.

Robin ground his teeth, feeling the imagined disapproving eyes of his mentor behind his back. Losing all composure he savagely kicked the fallen thug who had injured him three times in the ribs before fleeing into the night.

A half hour later he slunk back into his dormitory. His feelings of guilt and inadequacy had been replaced by bitterness and resentment. The utility belt had been Batman's invention. It was because of the utility belt that he had needed to drop his guard to free his weapon. Here was conclusive proof that The Batman was not infallible. Probably not even all that smart. His shortcomings in utility design had earned the young vigilante a potentially nasty injury. He removed his mask, wishing more than anything that he had the fortitude to throw it out of the window and leave crime fighting, the Batman and even Gotham behind forever.

The muted buzz of his communicator seemed as noisy as a herd of elephants in the muted silence of the dormitory and, not wanting to attract attention to himself, he snapped it open without considering who might be on the other end.

"Yeah?" he whispered.

"Master Dick. It's Alfred here."

Despite all the misery of the night the voice of the grandfatherly figure still brought a smile to the young man's lips.

"Hey Al. What's up? You do know it's three am right?"

But the voice on the other end of the line was completely without joy.

"Master Dick I believe you should turn on your television set."