Disclaimer: All the characters in this story are property of WB and DC Comics. I own nothing, nor am I using this for personal profit. Just fun. :D
Alfred desperately wanted to clean something.
The room adjacent to Batman's quarters were, strictly speaking, for any guest of the Justice League. That didn't stop Batman from ensuring that no one ever entered it without his direct authorization. To Alfred's knowledge, he was the first and only person to ever be allowed into this room in the six years the space-station has orbited Earth. Somehow, that knowledge didn't surprise him in the slightest.
However, the lack of occupancy meant that there was, quite literally, nothing to do while remaining there. As per nearly everything that Master Bruce did, the room, and the Watchtower itself, was nearly sterile in its efficiency; sanitary, functional, and very impersonal. He already wiped down every piece of furniture with a spare handkerchief, made the bed four times, and adjusted the textbooks on the shelf – the subjects of which ranged from quantum theory to criminal psychology to robotics – according to the proper Dewey Decimal System. Currently, he stood at the small porthole, gazing out into the abyss of space, and came to realize that this marked the first time in forty-seven years that he called some place other than Wayne Manor his home.
It was temporary, he told himself. The Manor had been damaged before, after all, and Master Bruce always fixed the building up, right as rain. Why, Master Bruce's recollection of the expansive mansion quite possibly surpassed his own; his eye for detail was impressive and not to be trifled with. By the time it was fully rebuilt, he doubted anyone would be able to tell anything had happened. Until that point, though, Alfred was to make his accommodations here and, as Master Bruce said, "Sit tight." He knew the comment was harmless, but he bristled at it, all the same. It just went to show how little the boy knew about him, even after all these decades. Alfred never, ever 'sat tight' while Batman was off, gallivanting across the city – or in some cases, across the globe or even cosmos – to wage war on the wicked and unjust. What did Bruce think he was doing all that time? Twiddling his thumbs? Playing solitaire? Watching the clock? Hmph. The nerve of that man.
No – whenever Alfred found himself in lieu of something to help Master Bruce with, he cleaned. Scrubbed, swept, dusted, and tidied anything he could get his hands on. Anything to keep him busy and occupied, so he didn't have to think about how his best friend's son, whom he raised as his own, was out in the dead of night, often alone, risking his life for a city that many thought wasn't worth saving. Naturally, Master Bruce knew nothing of this, and never would. He was a former member of the SAS; he was quite acquainted with duty and personal sacrifice. His purpose for existence was to keep the progeny of Thomas and Martha Wayne alive – and true to his virtues – at any and all cost. Bruce Wayne walked a razor's edge as it was; that man would never know the horrors of falling in, so long as Alfred Pennyworth had a say in it.
He glanced down at the small patch of purple spots that pockmarked the back of his withered right hand. A non-trained eye would see only the common variety of age-spots that nearly all people his age would get. His own eyes, though old, were wizened enough to see them as a symptom of Chronic Lymphocytic Leukemia – cancer of the white blood cells. It was gradual, and treatable to an extent, but still ultimately terminal.
Alfred supposed, rather wryly, that the tired cliché of only allowing something over his dead body was quickly becoming a reality.
10.
We All Fall Down
A siren broke the deafening silence of the guestroom. Alfred calmly pivoted and stared at the automatic double doors, expecting the Dark Knight to come rushing through them at any moment, only to remind himself that he was abroad, looking for clues. Scanning the room, his eyes fell upon a flat-screen television and the remote that was paired with it. Striding forward, he picked up the sleek black object from nightstand and powered it on.
" – Center for Disease Control has issued a statement urging all citizens to remain indoors whenever possible, refrain from unnecessary traveling, and to wash your hands as often as possible in the light of the outbreak."
"Outbreak?" Alfred queried to himself. He turned the volume up two notches.
The anchor stared into the screen, brown eyes clearly fighting the instinct to panic and instead stay neutral to the situation. "Again, for those who are just tuning in, approximately two hours ago, six cases of Leopard Fever were confirmed in Gotham Central Hospital in Gotham City."
His hand flew to his mouth. "My word!"
"Mass rioting has broken out in parts of the city, with police officers struggling to reign in the chaos amid this terrible news." The anchor paused for a moment, head tilting to the side. "Breaking news, folks, it seems that there may be a bit of light at the end of the tunnel – we're getting reports that the Justice League has been spotted entering Gotham and is trying to stem the rioting."
Alfred muted the television as he stared again at the closed doorway, listening to the shrill alarm blaring outside of it. He longed for a feather-duster. Sighing, he sent a silent prayer to whatever powers might have been listening that his surrogate son would endure the trials being set before him. "'Sit tight,' he said," he muttered to no one in particular. "If it's all the same, Master Bruce, I believe I'd prefer to stand."
Batman stood within the confines of his mostly-destroyed sanctum, fingers flying across the keys of the Batcomputer – miraculously undamaged – as he reconnected its core systems with the slave database he'd had installed on the Watchtower years ago. With the link established, he could upload and restore the Cray system to full working order in a matter of hours. Hours he currently didn't have.
He brought up feedback from multiple security cameras stationed across Gotham – nearly all of them were displaying various forms of panic and brutality in its full, ugly glory. "The city's tearing itself apart," he declared, leaning onto the keyboard. Even with the mask, the fumes from the chemicals were beginning to affect him. There quite simply wasn't enough breathable air left in the Batcave for his lungs to work with. He whipped his head around to glare at Talia, now sporting a mask of her own, as he continued, "Tell me about this 'Leopard Fever'."
Talia's gaze fell upon the chaos unfolding on the streets. "I do not know much."
He stopped just short of snapping his hands out and yanking her to him, the way he would any punk criminal. "You're lying."
Her expression hardened at his accusation, her lithe frame going rigid. "I am not. I know little more than you about this plague my father has unleashed on the world."
"A little more is still more," he pressed. "What do you know?"
She sighed, her face distantly sad. "I know that the disease has been cultivated from scratch by my father, and that he has spent years – perhaps decades – creating it. He never told me about it, and when I found out, he refused to tell me what it would be used for."
"It's a disease, Talia," Batman snapped, lips a thin line. "What did you think he would use it for?"
"I don't know, beloved," she lamented. "I only learned of its existence shortly after it manifested itself in Hong Kong. Even then, I..." She shook her head despairingly, winding her arms across her belly, as if to shield herself from the horror of her own words. "As twisted as his means have been in the past...I couldn't believe...I could not allow myself to think..."
He ground his jaw. "That your father was a monster?"
Her eyes shot up to his, glassy and hurt. He still had enough decency and compassion in him to feel contrite for the thoughtless comment. His posture slumped a fraction, his focus landing somewhere over her rounded shoulder. "I'm sorry."
"No," she replied shakily, those bewitching pale blue eyes of hers filling with a thin sheen of tears, "it's alright, beloved. The truth is...rarely pleasant when we are face to face with it." She inhaled. "I am at fault for failing to believe what my father has become. For that, there is no repayment, save to do whatever I must now to ensure he is stopped before all is lost." Smaller than him, she craned her neck and looked up through the curtain of thick black hair, through the pain and bitter disappointment, and asked, "Please forgive me, beloved. Please, let me help you."
She wasn't a vaunted, gifted hero that was looking to draw him out of the shadows and into their world of perpetual light – she was a simple human being, flawed and miserable like him, trying to find absolution for the grievous mistakes she'd committed. Who was he to deny her what he so desperately sought for himself?
He mentally slapped himself. What was he thinking? She chose to blind herself to her father's corruption – his sin was drag innocents into his personal battle. Their situations weren't comparable, and he would be a damned fool for ever believing otherwise. Besides, she had burned him before. "I don't trust you, Talia."
She smiled weakly, resigned. "I don't expect you to."
His lungs began to itch from the fumes. "Then why are you coming to help me, anyway?"
Her response was as forced as it was nebulous. "You and I both know the answer to that."
"Enlighten me."
She sighed, begrudgingly answering, "He is my father."
He put two and two together, expression clouding beneath the mask. "You think stopping him is your best chance of saving him."
"I think stopping him is our best chance of saving everyone," she corrected, her arm flailing to the footage of Gotham's ravaged streets. "Including you."
"You think he released this plague specifically to get to me?" he questioned, squinting one eye and tilting his head minutely.
Her face was carved marble. "Or to draw your attention away."
He squared his shoulders, the flexible cape fabric rippling from the subtle movement. "Away from what?" When she didn't immediately answer, he took one step forward, making a point of letting the boot-tread slap against the stone floor loudly. "You know something."
Talia looked away, producing a small disc hidden within her glove. "I lifted this from the remains of one of my father's men in here. I was going to use your computer to analyze it when..."
He snatched it from her fingers expertly, his reflection pale and distorted in the mini-disc's frame. "How did you know he was holding something?"
"When I overheard my father's order to attack your home," she explained as he slipped it into a belt pouch, "I knew it was to seek information. I left to warn you, but I was – "
"Delayed, yeah. You said that. With what, exactly?" He paid no mind to the warm thump of a headache pooling at the base of his skull and winding down his neck.
She gaped up at him, her accented voice tense. "Father found out about my betrayal and sent men to apprehend me. I had to first evade them."
"And yet, they still caught up to you in Arkham," the Dark Knight interjected, arms folding over his chest expectantly.
She knit her brows, confused. "How did you know?"
"The basement showed signs of struggle, but no men. Where did they go?" He carefully read her body language as the answer left his lips. She was hiding something.
"I don't know." His eyes narrowed. "I swear it. I bested my father's guards, but Ubu was waiting for me in the reservoir." Talia's head hung low in shame. "He overpowered me. When I awoke, your ward was unconscious and the others were gone. I feared they had gone hunting for you, since they failed to capture you at the cavern, so I headed here to search for a way to contact you first."
He glowered at her skeptically, resting one hand against his hip while he leaned on the other pressed flat onto the computer console. "You can't honestly expect me to believe that you're doing all of this for my sake."
"I cannot force you to believe what you don't want to, beloved," she answered enigmatically, shoulders slumped in defeat. "What must I do to prove myself to your cause?"
He pressed a finger to his ear, steadfastly ignoring the lightheadedness that came from being oxygen-starved. "Superman," he started, "get the other founders together. We're holding a meeting."
"Now?" the Man of Steel questioned. "But, what about the – "
"The League's ranks were expanded for a reason," Batman rebuked. "Meeting room in five minutes. Batman out."
Talia's features brightened at his mention of the Justice League. "Requesting assistance from your Justice League? Does that mean you – "
Her words died in the air as a pair of silver handcuffs clamped down on her thin wrists. Her gaze met his, crestfallen. He was quickly becoming too dizzy to care. "It means I'm going to get to the bottom of this, one way or another. Until then," he tightened the bracelets, "you're getting acquainted with one of the Watchtower's cells." His face a stern mask, he towered over her like a cobra ready to strike. "Trust is earned, Talia. And, right now, it looks like you've got your work cut out for you."
It had been over four years since Batman had stepped foot in the Watchtower meeting room. He'd wished the circumstances had been better, but then, the reason for the meeting room was never for idle chit-chat. All seven founding members of the League sat – or, in his case, stood – at the round table tensely, along with a quietly troubled Nightwing. Personally, he would have still preferred to work on this alone, but he wasn't so prideful as to shrug off the help when it was so obviously vital.
"Poison."
J'onn's voice was as cool and collected as ever, but he noted the undertone of anger buried deeply beneath it. He reached over Nightwing's shoulder and jammed a finger down on a panel button, displaying a hologram of the plague's effects on human tissue. "Yes; more precisely, a highly potent malignant disease meant to infect quickly and spread exponentially – weaponized for maximum damage in the shortest period of time possible."
Wonder Woman took in the flickering images in front of her with an expression of uncertainty on her sharp, regal features. "If it was designed to cause so much destruction, why haven't any officials made any criminal connections, yet?"
"They have," J'onn answered. "But not officially. The investigators I scanned have been looking to various Black Markets across the globe, as well as several countries that are known to house deadly bio-chemicals."
"Did they make any connections?" Superman asked.
"They're not going to," Nightwing responded, pressing another key to bring up a series of scans he'd run on the sample. "I've cross-referenced this stuff to every toxin known to man, Kryptonian, Martian, Thanagarian, and ape, and the computer came up blank every time. This thing's definitely home-grown."
The Green Lantern propped an elbow against the table, leaning forward with interest. "A synthetic disease?"
Nightwing shook his head. "It's properties are too all over the place for that. Usually man-made toxins have a certain cellular sequence that gives it away – a pattern. This stuff is..." He motioned to the still-frame, a close-up of garish purple-black globs. Even in microscopic form, the contagion looked deadly. "I've never seen anything like it."
The Martian Manhunter nodded his assent. "The scientists already on the case have come to similar conclusions. Nothing has proven effective at stemming its virulence."
Superman rubbed a thick hand over his mouth and chin, pensive. "Okay, so we've ruled out what it's not. Where do we go from here?"
"Well, something funny did come up while I was running some tests in one of the labs." Nightwing scratched at the back of his head, fingers digging into his shorn locks. Bruce was glad to see that the boy – man – finally lopped off that abomination of a ponytail. He never looked right with long hair. "It almost seems to be affected by psychological state."
The rest of the room was stunned into silence. Flash was the first to recover, an expression of mixed confusion and amusement plastered across his face. "Sooo, it's like the mood ring of infectious diseases?"
Seven pairs of eyes glared at him.
One pair in particular burned into the back of his skull with all the welcoming presence of a red-hot poker. He shrugged. "What?"
Nightwing grinned abruptly. "I like you."
The Batglare shifted targets. "Nightwing."
"Never too busy to kill a buzz, are you?" the vigilante muttered. "Anyway. The sample I had was completely unresponsive to everything I threw at it. But, when I sat back to think of what I missed, I looked back and saw that the sample's toxicity had nearly doubled."
"Doubled?" J'onn repeated dubiously. "Could it have been a delayed reaction?"
Nightwing squinted his eyes in momentary thought. "I don't think so; I didn't do anything other than stop for thirty seconds and try not to get annoyed."
Batman listened to the exchange silently, the wheels in his mind turning with this new piece of information. He hummed quietly and began to pace in a tight line. "Certain strains of virii have been known to strengthen or weaken due solely to the host's emotional state – " he motioned to the fluctuating still, " – that is, the virus can feed off of the chemicals and nutrients created by the nervous system dependent on a particular mood." He shook his head slowly. "But even then, it has to be infecting someone before it can do that. No disease is advanced enough to replicate based on the feel of a crowd."
Shayera bent forward in her chair. The espionage officer in her never stopped being utterly fascinated at watching the Dark Knight's mind at work. He took intelligence gathering, detective work, and subterfuge, and heightened it an art form. Some drooled over Picasso's, others mooned over Shakespeare – she reveled in the dissection of a classic Batman scheme. "So? What do you think it is?"
He halted behind his chair, currently occupied by Nightwing, and laid a hand along the back of it. "When you rule out the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth." He rested his other hand on the table, fairly huddling over the high-backed chair as he caught everyone's gaze with his own. "We already know that it's not a naturally occurring disease, but we've also learned that it isn't a manufactured one, either. If it's not natural or man-made, what option does that leave us?"
Wonder Woman's eyes lit up, his meaning clear. "...Magic."
Batman nodded grimly.
Flash expelled a scoff of disbelief from the back of his throat. "Oh c'mon, Bats, really? A magic plague?"
Nightwing hunched down on his folded arms, shooting the Scarlet Speedster an irritated glower. "You got any better theories, Wally?"
Flash frowned. "Hey, Nights, chill with the first name, okay? I mean, sure, everyone here knows it, but you're not a part of the club yet." He crossed his arms. "You don't even know the secret handshake."
An angry, territorial Batman materialized two inches in front of his face, lenses a harsh, cold white against the endless black of his cowl. "Wally."
Flash shrank back, hands splayed out in a gesture of peace. "Okay, protective of the kid, got it."
Batman coalesced behind Nightwing's chair, as quickly as he'd vanished. "J'onn. What can you tell me about Talia?"
The Martian's eyes glowed a bright red, gaunt face hard with concentration. "She is...very conflicted." They dulled to their normal crimson, focus coming to rest impassively on him. "She desperately wants to aid you, and us, in stopping her father from causing irreparable damage to the world."
So, she truly had good intentions. That didn't stop his instinct from warning him away from her contact. "But, she was lying to me."
J'onn nodded regretfully. "Yes. She was the one who subdued Nightwing with the tranquilizer dart."
"I knew it," he hissed.
Nightwing winced and craned his neck to gape at him. "You did? How?"
"She told me she was knocked unconscious underneath Arkham and left there – and then said that she feared Society members were tailing me because they didn't find me at the cavern."
Flash snapped his fingers, resting his long chin upon a raised fist. "And if she was really out, then how could she have known that you hadn't been there?"
"Exactly." Bruce fought against his anger and disappointment. He found absolutely nothing more personally insulting than being lied to. Talia should have known this about him, by now. "Did you find out why she was lying?"
"Her thoughts are jumbled; it's difficult to make out exact reasons," the Manhunter responded. "But there was one name that kept popping up – Nyssa."
"Nyssa?"
"Does the name ring a bell?" Superman asked.
He shook his head. "No. In the meantime, we have work to do. Hong Kong was a trial run, and Gotham is meant as a diversion."
Green Lantern's dark features pinched in surprise. "That's one hell of a diversion."
Shayera motioned to the Dark Knight with a nod of her head. "Batman's right, though – our forces are being divided." She pointed at the hologram, green eyes piercing into all of them as she continued. "Ra's Al Ghul has access to a virulent and deadly poison, and the means with which to spread it anywhere he pleases. We need to find out where he's going to hit next, and more importantly, where it's coming from."
Superman schooled his expression. "Right. I'll fly to Washington and inform the President of what we found. From there, the government can hopefully take steps to safeguard other cities from falling to the same attack."
"Knowledge that this Leopard Fever has been purposely disseminated could throw Man's World's entire society into chaos," Diana warned.
"What other choice is there, though?" Flash questioned with an expressive wave of his red-clad hands. "We can't not tell people."
Superman tapped a finger against the circular table. "The best thing we can do at this point is try to stem the inevitable panic as much as we can while stopping Ra's and finding a cure for those he's infected." He subtly looked askance at Batman. The silhouette nodded. He turned to the Amazon. "Diana, you and Wally head to Gotham to give the other Leaguers a hand with crowd control. Maybe with the two of you there, it will help calm the citizens some."
Nightwing cracked a grin normally reserved for the gallows. "You don't visit Gotham much, do you?"
"It's the best we can hope for," Batman interjected. "Nightwing, I want you and J'onn to do some research on any and all Society activity in the past six months; if we can find a pattern, we might be able to find out their next target."
Wonder Woman straightened even further in her chair, her brief conversation in the Batcave slipping to the forefront of her mind. "While I was interrogating one of the assassins, he mentioned a particular area – Copán."
Nightwing narrowed his eyes in thought. "That's in Honduras. A long ways away from...well, everything. As good a place to hide as any, I suppose."
Green Lantern raised his fist, ring radiating power. "I'll check it out."
"He also said he stole blueprints to the Watchtower, along with..." Diana hesitated for half a second, "counter-measures."
Superman arched a brow, shooting the Dark Knight a withering look that would have been right at home over the rim of a pair of black wire-framed glasses. "Counter-measures?"
Batman countered the Man of Steel's glower with one of his own. "You sound surprised," he drawled. "Don't worry, those were dummy files – encrypted dummy files, at that. The blueprints they stole will take them days to unlock, and will ultimately send them to an empty warehouse in Chicago. The real files are backed up safely on a mainframe separate from both the Batcomputer and the Watchtower database, in case either are ever compromised."
Superman's eyes never left him. "And the counter-measures?"
The Batglare escalated to Defcon 3. "Also a dummy file."
Were Kent's eyes beginning to glow red? Spite reared its ugly head. "Are you going to tell us what they are?"
"Never show your hand, Clark." He continued coolly, "The files are irrelevant; you already know your weaknesses. Use that – plan your movements with them in mind, and you can turn a shortcoming into an attribute. Each one of you has the capability of outsmarting me, if you put your mind to it. No counter-measure is foolproof." He swept his gaze over the table's occupants, searching for any more objections. Satisfied there would be none, he stepped back. "I'm going to follow up on a lead. The residual energy signature left from the Metro Tower break-in was almost exactly like the one left behind whenever we use the transporter. I haven't checked, but I'm willing to bet the Batcave has the same signature, as well."
Superman's temper simmered beneath his skin, but he reigned it in, like he always did. Maybe one day, Bruce would tell him how much he respected that about him. "You think he has access to a teleporter?"
"I think I should finally take you up on that investigation offer, Kent," he replied with the slightest of nods. With a more pronounced one, he said to the others, "Time's short – let's go."
The others moved to stand, when Shayera halted them with a heated, "Wait – what am I doing during all of this?"
Batman blinked, perplexed. "Taking care of your son."
Shayera looked for all the world like she was about to jump the circular table and behead the Caped Crusader on the spot. With a mace. Superman stood from his chair, ready to deflect the killing blow, if necessary. "Thanagarian mothers would be back on active duty the next day after giving birth! I can contribute just as much as anyone else here!"
John stood to calm his wife. Or, at the very least, to keep her from murdering Batman. "Shayera, he's – "
"Oh, no, John," she spat. "No, no – he's cute, but I'm not getting sidelined to play homemaker while the Earth's in danger!"
Sensing his own demise was steadily rising on the Thanagarian's To-Do list, John promptly threw in the towel. "She's got a point, y'know. We need everyone on their A-Game, which means we need Shayera."
Superman nodded at length. "Okay, okay. Sorry." She looked pleased with his assessment. "But, who's going to watch Rex, then?"
"Me, sir?" Alfred squawked, elderly face uncharacteristically slack with open shock. "But – but sir, really, a baby? Me? I-I'm not – "
"You've always enjoyed reminding me how often you changed my diapers as an infant," Batman replied evenly, pointedly ignoring the juvenile snickering of his ex-League mates behind him. Why did they have to insist on coming along? "I think you'll do fine for a few hours or so. If you need any help, you can always ask one of the technicians or League members."
"But, Mast – er, Batman, I – "
Shayera strode forward purposefully and deposited the tiny bundle into Alfred's arms with a wide grin on her face. "Have fun," she chirped, before leaning across said tiny bundle and kissing the butler on the cheek. She waved at the baby as the man holding him blushed a beet red. "Be good for your great uncle."
"'Great uncle'?" Batman's brain stopped functioning for a solid two seconds as he tried, and failed, to wrap his mind around those words.
"Good lord, as if I didn't feel old enough already," Alfred groaned.
Bruce simply couldn't help himself; a small grin stretched across his chiseled features as he clapped his surrogate father on the shoulder, murmuring conspiratorially, "Thanks, Alfred, you're a life-saver." He tossed a quick, nearly paranoid glance over his shoulder to the retreating Thanagarian. "Literally."
Alfred raised a brow. "All in the name of heroism, then? I see." He gave his charge a dour look. "You're merely happy that you're not the one watching the child yourself."
He wheeled around, exiting the room, the slight smile still hanging from his lips. "See you in a few hours, Alfred."
'Batman.'
Bruce grimaced at the intrusion of his thoughts as he stepped on-board a Javelin. 'Yes, J'onn?'
'Troubles, friend? You seem concerned.'
Fingers worked on auto-pilot as he initiated the pre-flight sequence. 'There's a lot at stake, J'onn; of course I'm concerned.'
'About Nightwing,' J'onn clarified.
'He's fine.'
'But, he was attacked by Talia,' the mental voice rejoined. 'Is that why you didn't ask him to question her about this mysterious woman she is protecting?'
'I didn't ask him to question her because she wouldn't tell the truth,' he answered roughly, the space-faring vehicle pitched towards the Earth's surface. 'She can't be trusted.'
'She wants to be trusted.'
'Then she shouldn't have lied to me.'
'Would you have given her any clemency if she had told you the truth?'
He gripped the wheel with entirely too much force. 'That isn't the point.'
'That is exactly the point. She was coerced into the role she played out of fear for another's life.'
He had difficulty believing that, and frankly, didn't want to bother. It complicated things endlessly. 'Talia has never been coerced into anything. Manipulated, maybe, but never outright forced. She's blinded by loyalty to her father.'
'It appears her loyalty to you is beginning to supersede that.'
Batman harrumphed. 'She has a funny way of showing it.'
He felt the Martian's cool gaze in his mind. It was always unnerving when he did that. He nearly shut him out entirely when J'onn telepathically said,'You're angry that she chose her father over you.'
'No peeking,' he hissed as the clouds parted to give him a clear view of the flat, densely forested land that made up most of the Delmarva peninsula, Metropolis a gleaming beacon in the far distance. 'I'm disappointed. She thinks of Ra's as some benevolent benefactor with the world's best interests in mind.'
'He is her father,' J'onn offered. 'She wants to believe the best of him.'
'Not good enough.' Dark storm-clouds were rolling in from the west, painting the sky a dangerous gray as he landed on a stretch of land half a mile from an opulent three-bedroom house. 'She's smart enough to recognize the truth, and strong enough to go her own way, but she never utilizes either.'
'It appears that she's trying to, now.'
'Maybe, maybe not. Time will tell.' The hatch lowered with a mechanical efficiency, a harsh wind tugging at his cape as he stalked through the rustling tall grass that swiped at his calves. 'Until then, though, I'm considering her a security risk.'
'She cares deeply for you.'
He closed his eyes, sighing. 'She's in love with me.'
J'onn quirked an eyebrow. Bruce wasn't sure how he knew that. 'And you?'
The two-story home loomed in front of him; its warm golden and cool green hues were ominous when paired with the swirling cauldron of clouds he had just cut through. 'I don't trust her.'
'And still,' J'onn countered without skipping a beat, 'you brought her to the Watchtower, even though you knew you were being lied to.'
He felt something in him give weigh under the scrutiny, a pressure-valve of stress releasing. 'He doesn't deserve her loyalty, J'onn. She sits around, waiting for him to make the right choice, and it's never going to happen. One day, he's going to kill her,' he seethed, adding a subdued, '...and she's going to let him.' He sighed, deflating as the abrupt outburst of rage left him. 'I can't fight her battles for her.'
That was the story of his life. Always pulling lost souls from the edge, just to watch them hurl themselves over when they were beyond his reach. Not again. If there was a way to reach Talia, he was going to find it. "Nightwing," he ordered into his communicator, "talk to Talia. See what she knows."
"No problemo, Batman," the vigilante confirmed. Bruce spared a wisp of a smile. Just like old times.
There went the green eyebrow again. 'Are you certain?'
He slid through the second floor window with a feline grace, procuring a flashlight. 'We need all the help we can get.'
'The League? Or her?'
'Both.'
Nightwing stood in front of the thick, transparent, cell door, a lopsided grin hanging on his lips. "Hey, Talia," he greeted jovially with a quick wave of his hand. "Long time, no see. How's life treating you?"
Talia's eyes, that cold, piercing blue, warmed with sadness. There was no love-loss between them, that was for sure, but the regret that weighed down her posture and expression was clear as day. "Forgive me for the attack, Nightwing. I did so under duress."
His arms folded over his chest, shifting to rest a shoulder casually along the rim of the cell-block, head lolling to the side in curiosity. "So I'm hearing. Wanna share?"
"My beloved doesn't believe me," she asked with a sorrowful lilt, "does he?"
Dick's smile grew a little acidic, fusing a bit of the Bat into his stance. "Lady, none of us believe you." He jabbed this thumb to the tall, muscular Martian standing adjacent to him. "That's why I've got the mind-reader with me."
J'onn saw his cue and stepped forward to be more clearly seen, raising one calming hand as her eyes instantly widened. "Do not be alarmed. I will not peruse memories you do not wish to divulge, but I ask that you open your mind to me concerning the events leading up to this. We require your full cooperation and honesty, if you wish to leave this cell. Do you understand?"
She nodded, features calm and collected. Resigned. "Fully. What do you want to know?"
"Well, first off," Nightwing began, "who's this Nyssa character?"
Talia's eyes bulged suddenly, her shapely body jerking in surprise. "I..." she stammered, breathing shallow. "How did you...?"
"I read the name from your mind when you were brought on board by Batman." J'onn regarded her coolly, red gaze neither sympathetic nor condemning. "She is important to you. Who is she?"
Talia Al Ghul all but collapsed onto the uncomfortable, steel-framed bed, every ounce of fight leaving her. She looked like a puppet whose strings had been cut. Maybe she was. "...She is my daughter."
Nightwing straightened with a jolt, shoving himself off the wall as his arms disentangled themselves in shock. Oh hell. This just got really complicated.
Batman stilled mid-action, fingers spidered over an open filing cabinet. "Talia has a daughter?"
"Yup," Nightwing responded soberly as he recovered, poring over the manilla folders locked in the five-foot tall cabinet. "Her name's Nyssa Al Ghul – sixteen; apparently lives in some hidden estate in eastern Europe."
The empty home he was in belonged to one Dr. Sarah K. Dahluzett. She was responsible for the teleporter design that the newest Watchtower currently used, one of the chief engineers behind the building of the Metro Tower, and generally considered one of the brightest scientific minds on Earth. The teleporter had been her greatest achievement – a culmination of her life's work. Its only flaw was the obscene amount of energy required for it to operate, and with Earth's technological level still being what it was, the only source capable of maintaining that level of power was a nuclear reactor. That particular detail had caused Bruce no end of grief during its construction. More than once, he'd wished that he had simply stuck with an armada of Javelins.
Her last known job was designing was a smaller, more streamlined version of her teleporter. He'd looked over the notes two months ago; Star L.A.B.S. was building a prototype that consumed far less energy, at the cost of range capabilities. Theoretically, the design spec would revolutionize emergency services, allowing for the instantaneous transportation of the sick and injured instead of being forced to shuttle them from one location to another. She had been hired to spearhead the project.
There was just one problem – Dr. Dahluzett never showed up.
"She says that when she found out about Ra's little pet project, she spoke up," Nightwing explained over the line, his voice smoldering with a low anger. "To make sure she was the good little girl, he kidnapped her daughter and threatened to give her a Lazarus bath if she didn't go along."
Bruce paused again, his former ward's outrage resonating with him. "Do you think she's trustworthy?"
"Well, your green buddy does," he quipped. "And for what it's worth, Bruce, I believe her. She needs our help."
He knew Ra's was dangerous and vile, but to use a child – his grandchild– as a bargaining chip? Sadly, he hadn't put it past him. It was that kind of cold, calculating behavior that he kept trying to warn her about. He smothered the old frustration with cold logic. He would deal with memories later; he had to focus on solving the mystery in front of him.
Clark had come to him six weeks ago, asking for his help on the case. Kent had done some digging and found that Dahluzett had been getting phone calls regularly for three months prior to the disappearance, but the numbers were dummies and lead nowhere. Beyond that, there was no evidence; no paper trail, no forensics – the entire apartment was wiped clean. That alone told him foul play was involved, but he'd told Clark, point blank, that he wasn't interested in anything outside of his city.
Kent had not taken that response well. "Her computer was wiped down, also."
"And?"
Kent planted one hand in front of the keyboard he worked on, towering over his sitting form like divinity came naturally to him. "When does a keyboard not have fingerprints on it?"
He would later admit to being impressed with the boyscout's deductive reasoning. "Since when did you become a detective?"
"I'm an investigative reporter, Bruce. I investigate," he'd retorted sharply. "If someone got on her computer, that means they may have the specs on the Metro Tower. Thousands of lives could be in danger, including Dr. Dahluzett's!"
"Call in the Question." To both men, it sounded a lot more like, "Go to Hell," than a helpful suggestion. Clark had left, but he'd been pestering him ever since – apparently their meeting had given Kent the idea that something was wrong. (A lot of things were wrong, but it was nothing he would ever admit to anyone.)
Batman stifled a sigh, closing the drawer. Kent was right – all information on the Metro Tower was gone. Worse yet, he couldn't find any information on the teleporter specs, either. Nor could he find any evidence of a break-in. It didn't add up.
"Alright," he answered with finality, "have J'onn release her from the cell and come along with you. Maybe she can give us a lead on where Ra's is manufacturing this stuff." No response. "Nightwing?"
Several hundred miles above the Earth's surface, Dick Grayson groaned and stumbled to his hands and knees in the deserted computer room, breathing labored as fat beads of sweat rolled over his pallid skin. "Nightwing?" Batman boomed in his ear. "Nightwing!" He tried to speak, he really did, but his tongue felt like it was suddenly too big for his mouth. "Dick! Answer me!"
A small, sickly frown tugged at his lips. It'd been a long time since he heard worry in Bruce's voice, especially over him. He felt bad. He'd have to apologize later, once his body started working again. Weakly, he tried pulling himself up into a kneeling position on the computer desk, but his grip failed. He thudded against the steel, pain and sickness twittering down his nerves as he heard Bruce switch to a more general frequency and order, "J'onn! Find Night – "
He heard the sloshing reverberation of doors sliding open through a mile of seawater. "I have,"he stated tersely as arms, cold and unforgiving, wrapped around his crawling and burning body and rolling him onto his back. His glassy eyes bulged when it felt like an elephant sat on his chest. In reality, it was only J'onn's hand. "He needs immediate medical attention."
"What happened? What's wrong?"
His gloves were peeled off, and he shuddered at the sudden, bitter cold on his exposed skin. "I don't know, but his temperature is skyrocketing – " The Martian gasped. He didn't know Martians could gasp. "Oh no." Well, that sounded bad; good thing he wasn't a puddle of misery on the floor, or he might've gotten the feeling something was wrong with him.
"What is it?"
Blearily, Dick commanded his eyes to function through the...whatever it was that ailed him, and keenly observed a small trail of black spots weaving up his arm. If he hadn't known it was a tolling of a death knell, he would've thought it was a pretty cool looking tattoo.
"He's been infected with Leopard Fever," J'onn exclaimed, baritone solemn.
"Get him to the medical bay! NOW!"
J'onn didn't need to be told. Dick exhaled a shaky laugh as he felt the Martian lift him from the ground and fly down the halls at breakneck speed. "R-Robin the Boy Ho-hostage, a-at your s...serviiiiice..." The last word hissed from his lips as he lost consciousness – again (seriously, what the hell) – and welcomed oblivion. At least it was balmy, there.
He didn't know that his communicator frequency was still open, allowing Bruce crystal clear reception of his comment. He, therefore, didn't know that a two-hundred pound desk carved from pure cherrywood, belonging to one Sarah K. Dahluzett, was cleanly snapped in two when an enraged Batman's fist plowed through it in response. Reports and folders calmly fluttered to the ground all around him, forgotten, like they had all the time in the world to settle in their places. The Dark Knight leaned heavily on remains of the decimated table; head and shoulders stooped with the weight of seven-billion souls – though there was really only one he was thinking of.
Dick was condemned to die.
Ring around the rosie
Pocket full of posies
Ashes, ashes
We all fall down...
To be continued...
I'm a bitch. There's really no other way to say it.