The night had been relatively quiet. Nothing more interesting than a car robbery to be stopped. There had been two men trying to jack the vehicles, who ended up splitting up and fleeing in different directions. A very simple crime to solve.
As we drive home, I look over at Robin riding shotgun.
"You know, legally you're too young to be sitting in the front seat."
"I know," he says, stretching out. "I'd feel cool even if I wasn't wearing a cape."
"Don't fall asleep, because I'm not carrying you inside if you do."
"I'm not a kid, Batman."
We pull into the Batcave, and he leaps out of his seat the minute I open the top. I take a moment to enjoy the cool, moist air that floods the cockpit, before climbing out.
"Back on time today, are we, sir?"
I pull off my cowl and set it in its alcove. "I wasn't aware that I was on the clock, Alfred."
He approaches from behind and sets a tray down next to me. "Well, your food's still warm, Master Bruce. And I made you a fresh cup of tea."
"Thanks, Alfred."
"Hey, Bruce!" Dick's on the level above, looking down at me and waving his mask frantically. "The Gordons got tickets to the Rogues' game tomorrow. Can I go with them?"
I start to think about the recent pace of crime in the area, and the probability of something happening tomorrow during the football game.
The Nicky-Becky situation ended a while ago. Once they were in the hands of Arkham, those names were revealed to be aliases. In reality, the children are John and Katherine Beckinsale, twin siblings. Back in their hometown of Metropolis, they were diagnosed with a form of autism. Their parents and older brother took this into account and looked after them as tenderly as they could. The children were a little odd, but extremely smart—and harmless.
During one of the attacks on Metropolis, one of the alien invasions that Clark had needed help taking down, both parents were killed. Like mine. Like Dick's. Only it wasn't a simple death, a simple murder. The mother and father were trying to protect the children from the aliens, but were torn to pieces in front of the twins' eyes. They were lying on piles on the floor before a member of the Justice League was able to detect the problem and clear the house.
The twins never recovered. They never forgave the heroes for not saving their parents in time, learned to hate the aliens that killed them, and their existing mental condition made it easy for them to fall into an irreversible mindset—one of revenge. They met with remaining aliens, and taught themselves to kill them. They killed any that they could find. They began to enjoy killing creatures. And then they forgot what they were avenging.
Their brother took them out to the country to prevent them from hurting people. They weren't poor to start with, but he spent much of the family's money on medication to keep the twins calm, and safe, and hidden. Even when he got his own job, the money began to run out. But he started to realize that the twins were losing their blatantly aggressive tendencies.
He hadn't realized that the medication was reducing their aggression, but not their desire to kill. If anything, it helped to clear their brilliant minds. They became quieter, spent more time observing, avoided talking. Their brother didn't know what was happening. He was relieved.
Haly's passed through their town one day, the Flying Graysons proving to be especially prominent in the twins' minds. They started spending their free time learning acrobatics.
There was a letter—the letter was never responded to—and one day the brother came home to find both children gone. No note. No indication of where they'd gone. Carter Beckinsale's record ends with notes that he'd fallen into a deep depression, overcome with shame at his failure. The police tried to find the rest of his record, but there was nothing. So either he killed himself, or he found some way to drop off the map. Why? Shame? I don't know.
And the twins followed Haly's to Gotham.
That was five years ago. Apparently the twins settled here. They liked the chaos, the grunginess, the rotten city that Gotham was fighting hard not to be. The twins somehow scratched a living. Maybe as hitmen. And they waited for Haly's to come back around.
They're undergoing treatment at Arkham, and we've put out a notice that the children were found. We're hoping that if Carter is alive, that he'll see it.
However, we put the twins away weeks ago, and things have been relatively quiet since. I try to think of the last time I dealt with someone like Joker, or Riddler, and I'm startled to realize that every single known supervillain is currently accounted for at the moment. The only criminals left on the street are the petty everyday ones that the police can handle by themselves.
"C'mon, Bruce, please?"
The pleading note in his voice almost makes me refuse, but I decide that it's perfectly safe. "Sure."
He pumps his fist in the air and runs in a circle before coming back to the railing. "Oh, and they said that you have to come too."
I hesitate as I hang up my cape. "I don't know if that's a good—"
"Seriously, Bruce, you have to get out sometime. And they bought seven tickets—it'd be rude not to come. You don't wanna offend the Lieutenant, do you?"
I sigh, unbuckling my utility belt. I take plenty of time setting it down onto the table before answering: "All right."
"Yeah!" And it's as Dick bounds back out of the Batcave wearing a huge grin, and Alfred follows, beaming, that I realize the Batman is no longer alone.