"How is he?" Alfred asked for the umpteenth time. He wrung his hands distractedly, wishing he could do something to help. Of course, Leslie had made it quite clear that he would only be getting in her way. And though he was an accomplished medic from his army days, her expertise was unquestionably more robust.
So, aside from fetching warm towels and water upon request, he'd been relegated to passive observation. He strained to make sense of Gordon's incomprehensible ramblings, but to no avail.
What had happened? He tried to piece together scenarios that could make sense of a naked, freezing Gordon at their doorstep. Had he been robbed, his clothes taken by a cruel highwayman? It hardly seemed plausible. . .
"How is the patient doing?" he ventured for the first time in an hour.
Leslie turned around, her expression one of frustration. "He's showing signs of recovery from the hypothermia, especially with his core body temperature. Still, I'm seeing symptoms that I don't know how to interpret. The slurred speech, and inability to swallow. . .I'm wondering what exactly I'm missing here."
Alfred frowned. "Inability to swallow?"
"Yes, I've been trying for the longest time to get him to drink some tea. I can't force it down of course, unless I want it getting trapped in his lungs. But the swallowing reflex is impaired. And the salivation. . .that is not consistent with the hypothermia. Not any case I've ever seen."
"Odd," Alfred mused. "Back in Africa, we used to treat symptoms like that. Neurotoxic venom."
"Which is what I thought, but how on earth would he have been exposed to venom in Gotham? And in the middle of winter no less."
"I can't imagine," Alfred admitted. "But you do have antivenin, correct?"
"Some, yes. But I can't risk it with Gordon. Have you ever seen the allergic reactions-"
"His entire nervous system could shut down if you don't. The oral paralysis is just a precursor. And it doesn't seem to have abated in the slightest."
Leslie looked ruefully at her dying patient. "Venom? Really?"
"We can ask him about it after we save his life," Alfred said. "Now where is the antivenin?"
Wayne Manor
It was the end of a long day of flight practice, the three of them practicing the techniques they would need to successfully navigate over the compound walls with some degree of accuracy. As a simulation, the roof of the manor left much to be desired. The sheer cliff edge from which they would be launching was a good four hundred foot drop at least. They would have to coordinate with enough precision so as to land within reasonable distance of each other. All without alerting any sentries present.
Andrea would be bringing her trusted carbine- there was no talking her out of that one. Darts loaded with sedatives were fine for a stealth operation, but if something went wrong. . .he was inclined to agree. They would need the extra firepower.
Diana was gone by evening, her many other obligations limiting the time she could spend at the manor. Bruce had retired back to that laboratory of his, doing God knows what, and leaving Andrea free to explore to her heart's content.
Unsurprisingly, this found her back in the old forgotten piano room. She moved to turn on the lights, but reconsidered as her eyes adjusted. She rather preferred the darknesss, offset by moonlight streaming through the large single window. The piano's ivory keys shone radiant in the illumination, and the serenely beautiful portrait of the late Mrs. Wayne seemed to show wry amusement in this light.
She sat down and paged through the sheets of music in front of her, finally settling on a piece that she faintly recognized. Slowly at first, she allowed her hands to play the familiar notes. Then, more confidently.
She looked up at the painting of Martha Wayne and marveled, not for the first time, at how beautiful it was. Why Bruce kept it sequestered away in a room he barely used was a complete mystery. If she had such a powerful keepsake for her mother, she'd place in a gilded frame, prominently displayed where she could see it every-
"Andrea?"
Her hands froze mid-movement at the unexpected intrusion. "Hello Bruce."
He stepped in. "You do realize there's a lamp right-"
"I think I prefer the moonlight, actually."
Bruce nodded empathetically. "That song you were playing. . .what was it?"
"Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata," she said, slightly surprised that he wasn't familiar with it.
Bruce closed his eyes briefly, as if placing that one in a sea of memories. "My mother played it quite often," he said. "It was one of her favorites."
Suddenly, Andrea felt keenly intrusive. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to evoke unpleasant memories."
Bruce was quick to shake his head. "You have nothing to be sorry for. I wish I had appreciated her music as a boy. To the contrary, I couldn't stand it. Especially that Moonlight Sonata. I thought it unbearably dreary."
Andrea laughed at this. "Did you ever play?"
"I had lessons. They never took."
"A shame, if only because a beautiful piano such as this goes untouched."
His smile took on a sadder note. "There are many things in this manor that I've scarcely disturbed. I was away from it for so long, and now that I've returned I haven't the faintest clue where to begin. It feels. . .almost as if it isn't mine at all. Like it's waiting for my parents to return from an endless vacation."
Andrea tilted her head, turning around on the bench to fully face him. "Do you ever wonder how things would have turned out- how you would turned out- had they never been taken away so young?"
"No," Bruce said. "I simply can't fathom it. And wouldn't care to if I did. The only solace I had after their murder was the knowledge that the man responsible had been brought to justice, and the resolve to eradicate the criminal presence in this city. I spent nearly a decade learning how to do the latter, and now. . .with Locke and the new Joker he has apparently employed, I feel as though things have only gotten worse." He gave a humorless chuckle. "I've actually toyed with the idea of digging up Jackson Cale's grave, did you know that? Just to be sure that this new clown isn't some resurrected version of my parents' killer."
"This case has gotten very personal for you," Andrea murmured. It felt pedestrian to state the obvious so, but the enormity of the impact that their investigation was having on Bruce had never been so apparent.
"They're all personal, from the proper perspective," he replied. "But. . .yes. This one, especially."
"Because of Diana too?" she wanted to know. She realized a split second after the fact that she had voiced the thought aloud. A blush crept up her neck and she furiously hoped that he couldn't tell in the moonlight.
His brow wrinkled in puzzlement. "What do you mean?"
"Well, it's just that I don't anyone's ever seen you take a case with such high profile. . .for free, no less. And Diana, well, who wouldn't want to be her knight in shining armor?"
Bruce didn't take offense, as she half expected. Certainly, she'd lost the ability to filter her thoughts from her words. No, rather, he laughed.
"I'm afraid you have the situation reversed," he said. "She's saved my life. And, fetching as she may be, I wouldn't be doing this merely for the sake of a hero complex." He paused. "That goes for you too, by the way."
Self-consciously, she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. She was eager to switch topics. "About the Princeton Ball. . ."
"Ah, yes. Costumes."
"And my disguise. If a single person recognizes me, this plan ends before it even begins."
"Disguises are an expertise of mine, actually. We'll change your hair, your height, your eye color. The proper makeup will suggest an entirely novel facial structure, perhaps masking the cheekbones or accenting the brow ridge. Your costume will be one that reveals very little of your figure- the more mystery the better."
She arched an eyebrow. "Do I actually have a say in any of this?"
"Of course you do. I was merely bringing up practical considerations. But you're the one who will have to walk around wearing whatever it is."
"Without being recognized."
"Your own father won't recognize you."
"He'd better not. He'll probably be there."
Bruce let out a sigh of. . .something. She couldn't quite tell. "We really are insane," he murmured, almost too low for her to hear. The way he said it, it didn't sound all that bad.
Still, Andrea felt compelled to say, "Locke won't know what hit him."
She never found out what Bruce would have said, as the doorbell immediately pierced the silence.
Bruce straightened, startled. "That must be Alfred. I thought he'd be gone til morning. Let's catch him up, shall we?"
Andrea stood and followed him to the front door. The bell rang again twice before they actually reached the door, uncharacteristically impatient of Alfred.
Bruce unlocked and unbolted the door to let him in. "Alfred, I thought you were-"
"Commissioner Gordon is dying." Alfred stated. "I don't know how or why, but he is currently at Leslie's house, where she is attempting to resuscitate him.
Bruce made to move toward the coat rack. "You needn't say more, Alfred. I'll be there right away-"
"No, you will not." Alfred said."Leslie's expertise is unparalleled. Gordon is in the best of hands. And while I don't' know what happened to him, I suspect foul play."
"A direct attack on the Commissioner?" Andrea wondered aloud. "It's a rather bold move."
"Of the type that Locke seems to prefer," Bruce said.
"But why go after Gordon?"
The answer was obvious as soon as she had uttered the words. She clenched her jaw. "This is madness."
"And that's not the worst of it," Alfred said. "When I arrived at first, I noted a carriage I've never seen before stationed just off the property line. Two men, watching the house. To be sure, I circled back ten minutes later. They were still there. Locke must have ordered the manor be put under surveillance."
Bruce's first instinct was to march outside and thrash confessions out of both men. The unmitigated nerve of Locke was beyond belief.
But, that was not the rational course of action. Better to let them watch, for now.
"We do have a problem," Andrea said. "How is Diana to meet us if we are under this kind of scrutiny?"
"That can be arranged," Alfred said. "But both of you, be careful. Please." He looked older than usual, his voice weary and the circles under his eyes prominent.
Bruce placed a hand on Alfred's shoulder. "Do keep us informed on the Commissioner's progress. I want to talk to him as soon as he's feeling up to it."
"Another day at least, I would say."
"Fair enough. Now get some rest, Alfred. You look like you could use it."
The Next Day
Diana arrived at the modest offices of the Daughters of the Amazon to find the last remnants of a weekly meeting on their way out.
Which didn't make sense. The meeting wasn't even supposed to start for another twenty minutes.
She spotted Cassie Sandsmark and waved her down before she could step into her carriage. A handsome, dark-haired young man in the driver's seat frowned in confusion until he spotted Diana.
"Don't worry," she called to him. "I won't keep her too long."
Cassie tightened her shawl, regarding Diana with no small amount of confusion. "Well, this is a surprise."
"What do you mean?" Diana wanted to know. "I'm here for the meeting. Eleven o'clock, the last time I checked."
"Not recently enough, I'm afraid. We had to reschedule for Philppa's university classes. Which you would have known, had you elected to attend the Executive Board meeting."
Right, yesterday. Diana felt like a complete idiot. She'd completely forgotten about the E-board meeting for her own organization. And what's worse, it sounded like they'd been able to run it just fine without her.
"Cassie?" said the gentleman in the carriage. The gentle way that he asked indicated that he didn't want to seem unduly impatient, which Diana appreciated.
"Just another minute, Connor." Cassie told him.
Diana's gaze danced from the one to the other. "He seems nice."
Cassie reddened slightly. "He's the one I told you about, Connor. I happened to mention last week that I was having trouble getting to meetings from home, and he offered to take me here and back. I musn't read too much into his generosity, of course. But it's terribly sweet of him. And his paintings, they're just ever so lovely"
Diana, having witnessed the way this lad looked at Cassie, could have told the younger girl that he was just as smitten as she. Of course, some things it was better to discover on one's own. "And why haven't I met him yet?"
Cassie blinked. "Diana, you've been practically absent over the last week. True, there was the rally. A smashing success. But Sharon had a potluck Sunday that you simply did not come to. And the E-board meeting. And today, for the matter." Her brow narrowed. "This isn't like you, Diana."
Diana's eyes dropped. "I have been rather preoccupied of late."
"With what?" Cassie wanted to know.
"I'm afraid I can't say. But you're right, I've been neglectful. You and the rest of our sisters deserve better."
"At least try to make it to the next meeting, will you?"
"I shall," Diana promised.
Cassie beamed up at her and gave her a hug. "Well I must be going. I shall see you soon."
"Count on it." Diana waved her off as the carriage started down the street. She wished the smile plastered on her face were completely genuine, but truth be told she felt more conflicted now than ever. Just imagine, if Cassandra knew what she was planning. That the time not spent with her fellow Daughters had been passed with Bruce Wayne and presumed-dead or missing Andrea Beaumont. That just yesterday she had been gliding off of the top of the Wayne manor.
She contemplated, just in the time it took her to cross the street, telling Bruce that she couldn't do it. It was the sane thing to do, wasn't it? She was no warrior.
And yet, she knew how to fight. How to wield a sword, a bow and arrow, a rifle. . .even her fists. And just a few days ago, when she had saved Bruce from an assassin in his carriage . . .that had been positively exhilarating.
No, she realized. There was no going back. Not now at any rate. Not until Locke was taken care of.
"Paper, miss?" came the voice of a small boy. She looked down at the lad, eight years old or so with unruly red hair and a bundle of the daily newspaper in his arms. His cheeks were red from the cold and the hesitancy in his voice told her that he was expecting a scornful rejection.
She reached into her purse and withdrew enough cash for a dozen newspapers, then knelt down and placed the coins into the breast pocket of his coat. "I would love one."
"For that, you can 'ave all the copies you want!" he exclaimed, his demeanor instantly brightening.
"No, just one will do for today," Diana said kindly. "More for you to sell."
"You've just made my day, ma'am."
Diana opened her mouth to say something, but the headline on her recently purchased newspaper drove all other thoughts from her mind.
COMMISSIONER GORDON FOUND DEAD. ACTING COMMISSIONER MORRISON OPENS INVESTIGATION.
Bloody Hell!
Diana didn't arrive at the manor until late that evening. Getting away from her father's 'babysitters' wasn't terribly difficult, but it was Steven she found the most annoyingly clingy. They'd met later in the afternoon to settle details for the rapidly-approaching Princeton Ball. All in all, she could scarcely remember a thing discussed. Costumes, perhaps? He agreed to give up the Indian Prince and Princess motif, and seemed to have settled on Heracles, of Grecian lore. Diana, along with her fellow Sisters, would go as Amazons, so at least the couple would match.
Three hours just to agree on that. Diana hadn't been able to leave fast enough. She quickly cabbed her way to the Wayne manor, and was ushered right in by Alfred.
She gave him a warm hug. "So good to see you Alfred!"
His usually exuberant smile seemed rather somber today. Nonetheless, he replied. "And you too, Diana."
She looked at him thoughtfully. "Is something the matter, Alfred? Why so glum? And why the rush?"
Alfred sighed. "Not much gets by you does it. At any rate, there have been some new developments, I'm afraid to report. The first is that there seems to be an uninvited patrol outside. They've grown lax with the passing hours, but I wanted to bring you in myself before they took note of your entrance. As for the rest, Bruce and Andrea are in the basement. They should be the ones to bring you up to speed."
Trying not to let her alarm betray itself, Diana smiled curtly and followed the curve of the living room to the basement door. The stairs were steeper than she would have imagined, and twisted at the end. As she descended however, the lighted cavern became more illuminated.
It was massive, easily the size of the entire ground level. And surprisingly uncluttered. There were mats, punching bags, weights an gym equipment, even a climbing wall carved out of the natural underground rock.
Bruce was supporting one of the punching bags which hung suspended from the ceiling, while Andrea peppered it with an impressive array of blows. She was wearing loose fitting men's clothes- his no doubt- allowing her the freedom of movement to kick and punch unencumbered. Bruce for his part wore loose slacks and a sleeveless undershirt that did little to hide his impressive musculature.
Andrea unleashes a one-two combo of elbow strikes on the bag before noticing Diana. She stepped back and wiped a hand across her forehead, which was beginning to show the signs of perspiration. "Guess you made it after all."
Bruce turned as well, releasing the punching bad and approaching Diana. "You're late."
She ignored this. "Did you know that Commissioner Gordon is dead?"
Bruce and Andrea exchanged a glance that told Diana they knew something she didn't. She blinked impatiently at the pair. "What was that? Do you already know? How?"
Bruce took a deep breath. "Last night, Alfred and Leslie discovered Gordon half dead at their doorstep. He had been poisoned and left for dead. Were it not for their immediate medical attentions, he would have been. Alfred is positive he heard Gordon say the word 'Locke' before lapsing into an unconscious state from which Leslie has not been able to resuscitate him."
The news sent Diana reeling. In the newspaper, they said they'd found the body."
"To speed along the process of Morrison taking control of the police force, no doubt," Andrea replied. "It seems that Locke was a bit too hasty in his assumptions though. He managed to get it into the newspaper but will be very displeased when there is no body to be found."
Diana let out a string of words which her Sunday School teacher would have fainted to hear. "How is it possible that Locke can act with this much impunity? The police force in his pocket, and now the newspaper too? It makes one wonder if there's any part of this town he doesn't own."
"What it does," Bruce said, "is underscore the importance of our mission tomorrow. Once we know exactly what he's up to, we'll know how to stop him."
Andrea smirked when she saw Diana's eyes rest on the beleaguered punching bag. "Care for a go?"
Diana gestured down at her blouse and long skirt. "I'm hardly attired for it."
"Easily remedied," Bruce chipped in. "You'll find all the athletic wear you could possibly want in the storage closet upstairs. Go on and change, and we'll have the rest of the day to prepare."
Metropolis, USA
"I thought you said a twenty minute ride,"
Clark looked up from the notebook he was reading. A difficult task while being jostled about in a a carriage. Across from, with a look of longsuffering discontent on her face, was Lois Lane.
"You did say twenty minutes, did you not? I believe those were your exact words." The light inside the passenger compartment seemed to dim at the mere iciness of her words.
He peered at her over his spectacles, unsure of what to say. As fond as he was of the no-nonsense reporter, she could be mercilessly acerbic at times. "You do realize I've never actually been to South Metropolis before," he responded. "I can ask the driver if you simply must know when we'll arrive."
Lois crossed her arms. "That won't be necessary."
Clark didn't need to add that Lois was the one who had insisted on accompanying him, not the other way around. He was following a lead on Locke, and she seemed to think he couldn't handle it on his own.
He sighed, cross-checking one page of notes with the other. "It's a beautiful, starry night with a full moon and enough warmth that one can enjoy the snowy landscape unfrozen. Epic poems have been written on less. I for one enjoy the opportunity to experience the fresh air."
Lois rolled her eyes. Please, spare me your pastoral fantasies farmboy. This isn't Smallville, anymore."
He chuckled. Lois had made it clear from day one her disdain for the rural towns on the outskirts of Metropolis. Born and raised in the city herself, he supposed it was understandable (the Kents weren't too fond of 'city slickers' either). "We're not too far from Smallville, actually."
"Oh, perfect."
There was silence for another few minutes, Clark studiously avoiding eye contact and she apparently doing the same. So he was surprised, when he did look up, to find her watching him. Immediately, she looked away, her jaw clenching.
Unsure of what had just transpired, he decided to gamble on a straightforward approach. "I'm not so bad, you know."
"Excuse me?" She was looking at him again, but this time out of sheer confusion.
"I'm not so bad," he repeated. "Once you get to know me."
"And why would I want to do that?"
"Because I'm good writer and a damned good researcher and it would take you a decade of headhunting to find a better journalist in the Metropolis area. Ma'am." Where had that come from? He had no idea, and instantly wished he'd chosen his words a bit more carefully."
Lois said nothing for what seemed like an eternity, her features completely unreadable in the flickering lamplight. "You're a good researcher, she said at last." Another pause. "'Damned' good is stretching it though, farmboy." Was that a smile? From Lois Lane?
"I can settle for good."
"Well you shouldn't. Because you have the potential for far more." She uncrossed her arms, letting her elbows rest on her knees. "I know who you are, Clark. I know your strengths, your gifts, your weaknesses. All of it. And the sum total of that means that you were selected out of literally hundreds of other applicants for this position. By me."
He pursed his lips. "Then why do you dislike me so much?"
Even in the low light, he could see her cheeks redden. "Clark, I don't-"
"We're here," called the driver, cutting off whatever she'd meant to say. If that had been a moment, it was long since past. Clark fished in his pocket for the fare while Lois made sure to exit as quickly as possible."
"Thank you kindly," said the driver upon seeing Clark's generous tip. "I'll be back here in an hour."
"That should do." Clark turned around to survey dilapidated southern end of Metropolis. Abandoned factories and warehouses were a testament to the difficult economic times that had hit its manufacturing center. Some blamed the high taxes, though Clark had spoken with enough steel and mill workers to know that it was the notoriously harsh working conditions that had driven so many laborers elsewhere. Most companies had no shortage of men willing and available to work twelve hour shifts for a pittance. Those based in Metropolis simply hadn't. So they'd folded.
"The Dougal Mill closing was one of the first stories I covered with the Daily Planet," Lois said softly. "It was like a death knell for the entire neighborhood."
"I remember it too," Clark said. "I was away at college, but some good chums of mine lost jobs there. Heartbreaking times." The slight echo that resonated down the industrial corridor only served to underscore how alone they were.
Lois sidled closer to him, almost but not quite touching at the arms. "We can reminisce later. Let's just find this place." Try as she might is was difficult to keep the fear from her voice. South Metropolis in the middle of the night was no picnic by any stretch of the imagination. Even for an intrepid reporter, it was hard not to tremble at the long dark shadows where the moonlight could not reach.
Clark gave her a reassuring smile. "Right. This way then." He followed the row of abandoned buildings past a half dozen intersecting alleyways before reaching the Junkyard. The lot had long since ceased to be viable business operation, and so the heaping piles of scrap metal, machine parts, and abandoned appliances were left to rust into oblivion behind a continuous eight foot tall gate. Posted at eye level was large sign which read: Do Not Enter. Trespassing is Forbidden by Law
Lois halted in her tracks once the sign came into view. "Well, that's unfortunate."
"Why do you say?"
"We can't go any further. It seems the area is restricted."
Clark's smile widened, like she was a toddler who had uttered an adorable turn of phrase. "That's cute, really."
"We can't-"
"I was hopping worse fences than this when I was thirteen," Clark told her. Which was true. "In and out, just like that. I promise."
"And what if someone sees us?"
"No one will." Which was also true. He'd used his enhanced vision to search for anyone else in the area. They were, for all intents and purposes, alone.
Lois looked at him, then the fence, then at him, and then at the fence again. "Damn farmboys," he thought he heard her mutter before she scrambled onto the fence and scaled it, swinging herself over to the other side and landing with catlike precision on her feet.
He was, admittedly, impressed.
Wayne Manor
Underground Caverns
Bruce had promised a day of preparation, and he did not disappoint. First, he showed them how to use the air-powered dart launchers he had worked up, similar to the one housed inside his cane. They were superficially gun-like, with bulbous tanks of compressed air housed above the barrel. The darts themselves were approximately three inches long, sleek with synthetically feathered tufts at the ends for flight stability. The tip came to a shard needle point almost too small for the eye to focus on.
Diana held one of the darts up to the overhead lights. "I'm at a loss. How does the injection mechanism work without a hollow tip?"
Bruce swung open the breech of the dart gun he held. "The sharp point is necessary to pierce clothing, multiple layers if necessary. However, there are very small openings located slightly higher on the shaft. Sudden pressure on the tip causes the paralytic agents within to eject through these holes and into the victim's bloodstream. Speech and sight impairment, followed by unconsciousness, are almost immediate."
"How many of these do we have?"
"Twelve?"
Diana frowned at the low number. "Per person?"
"No, in all. I learned the technique to create these in Burma, but I was by no means an expert. The dart gun is a more efficient delivery system than a blowgun, of course. But the darts themselves are extremely difficult to produce."
"Brilliant," muttered Diana.
"What's brilliant?" This was Andrea, returning to them after another solo session with the punching bag. Her limited attire clung to a remarkably lithe frame from the sweat, and Bruce found himself staring at her a bit more thoroughly than he'd intended.
Diana, not nearly so oblivious as she pretended, rolled her eyes. "We only have twelve darts for the launchers Bruce made."
Andrea did not seem nearly as dismayed. "Well there's always the shuriken."
"Which I have no idea how to use and couldn't learn to in time."
"We have needles and rags for close quarter engagement," Bruce added. "Not to mention more traditional methods for rendering a man unconscious."
"Without making a sound?"
Bruce regarded her strangely for a moment. He set the dart gun down on the table and then suddenly, without warning, lashed his right fist out toward her face.
She opened her mouth to yell in alarm while her own arm came up to block the blow. But it was a feint. Bruce's left hand came from nowhere, covering her mouth in a vise-like grip. Her scream came out as a muffled bleat.
"Bruce!" Andrea exclaimed, stepping forward to a stop to the unexplained aggression. There was no need however. Just as quickly as he'd acted, he withdrew both hands and stepped back from Diana.
"That," he said, "is how to disable a person. Without making a sound."
Andrea mock-clapped. "My, my, leasson lear-"
"Try it again," Diana said, her voice low and steely.
Bruce blinked. "I think that demonstration was sufficient."
"Try it. Again."
Another blink. "Very well." And sure enough, the same feint. A blur. Almost faster than the eye could see.
Almost. Diana ignored it, let it swipe harmlessly in front of her. The real strike she saw coming from a mile away. Palm flat to clamp over her mouth.
She ducked under the swing, his forearm barely grazing over the top of her hair. He recognized the evasion and reversed course, turning it into a backhand strike. A fatal mistake. It landed against her side, though he was clearly holding back. There wasn't enough force in the blow to hurt a fly.
So Diana brought her arm forward to trap his forearm between her ribcage and arm. She pivoted on her right foot and swung her left into a low roundhouse kick that caught him in the back of the knee. The joint buckled and Bruce, comically surprise, went down on the compromised knee. Before he could react further, Diana followed the pivot to angle herself behind him, twisting his trapped arm behind his back in the process. She crooked her left arm around the front of his neck and, securing a firm grip on her opposite bicep completed the chokehold.
A few seconds, in all. Bruce looked painfully confused, Andrea shocked.
"Lesson learned?" Diana asked, right into Bruce's ear. Her leverage was absolute, and he was completely at her mercy.
Though still cheeky. "Technically, I could have screamed."
"And I could have crushed your trachea."
Bruce winced, more from her tone than the discomfort of his position. "Lesson learned."
She released him, smoothing out the wrinkles of her borrowed shirt and pants. Andrea looked like she wanted to burst out laughing, but was trying to hold in check.
Bruce rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. "That was an impressive move," he said. "Whoever trained you trained you well."
"Well enough," Diana allowed.
"And I shan't be attempting any more impromptu combat demonstrations," Bruce said. "I apologize."
The adrenaline rapidly fading, Diana had to admit that he looked adorably sincere. She could think of no other man, besides her father, who would accept a thrashing at the hands of a woman with such aplomb. His politics might not be perfect, but he seemed leaps and bounds beyond the vast majority of men she'd known.
Gratified, she nodded in acceptance. "Forgiven and forgotten."
"Well." Andrea clapped her hands to attract their attention. "This really has been amusing, but shall we get back to business?"
Realizing that they'd let their eyes meet for a few seconds too long, Bruce and Diana tore their gazes away. To his credit, he continued unruffled. "We'll practice with the dart guns, using some of the defective ones I made. They don't hold or release the sedative properly, but they should fly just fine and give you a feel for how to fire the weapon."
And practice they did, until all three were comfortable hitting a target at twenty paces. Of course, this was not nearly the end of their preparation. They rehearsed takedowns against armed opponents, joint locks, nerve pinches, and every other martial arts technique in any of their extensive repertoires. They practiced with ropes, climbing and descending and tying knots and creating lariats. They practiced how to fall from great heights without making a sound, and fall from even greater without breaking a bone. There was nothing new, of course, but by that evening Diana was being to feel the soreness of exerting muscles she rarely had to use.
"It's getting late," she said once her feet touched the ground from a rapid zipline descent. It was her ninth time practicing the maneuver and she had finally managed to land silently.
"Yet you've mastered the technique," Bruce said approvingly.
She nodded, hoping he wasn't going to insist she stay much longer. She was tired and though she could leave any time, she would prefer not appear as if she couldn't keep up with Bruce and Andrea. "Much more of this and we'll be too sore tomorrow for the real thing."
From the makeshift practice range, Andrea seemed to disagree, but Bruce was the first to speak. "Yes, perhaps a break is in order. And I suppose you'll have to be going for now."
"It's a big day tomorrow, I've heard."
"Indeed." He turned to Andrea. "I'll be back, after I've escorted Diana back to her home."
Andrea shrugged. "I'm not going anywhere."
So Bruce gestured to the stairs and he and Diana made their way to the back entrance of the manor. She found herself wishing that her time alone with Bruce could be longer than the scant minutes it would take to see her off toward home. Not that she minded Andrea. In fact she was beginning to like her a great deal. It just seemed at times like whatever had started to grow between her and Bruce had been jarred by the sudden arrival of Andrea Beaumont back. And she wanted that feeling, that. . .chemistry. She missed it.
"So," she began as they stepped outside, turning just enough to see him out of the corner of her eye, "how has it been with an extra resident at the manor?"
"You mean Andrea?"
"Unless you've got someone else hidden in there."
"Ah." He seemed to genuinely consider the question. "I enjoy her company, and she's hardly an imposition. Still, there's a restlessness there. . .more than that, a rage. She's quick enough to laugh and smile in conversation, but I don't think she'll enjoy a moment of true happiness until her sister's killers are brought to justice. Which for her, does not seem to include a trial and hearing."
"I'm sure you can empathize," Diana said.
"I can. And those years after my parents' deaths. . .it was a dark path. Left to my own devices, I would be a very different man than I am now."
"You should write a book someday," she suggested playfully. "The Memoirs of Bruce Wayne. No, the Adventures of Bruce Wayne."
"An accurate title, at any rate. You'll be my editor, naturally."
"Naturally."
The conversation hung suspended between them as they finally came to face each other. A good bye would have been appropriate, Bruce thought, but he didn't want to have to offer one just yet. Here, in the winter's moonlight, he could almost pretend that it wasn't a series of murders that brought them together. That it was just Bruce Wayne and Lady Diana Princeton, enjoying the conversation and company of one another.
"What are you thinking?" Diana asked him directly. She was tall enough that she didn't have to tilt her head back to pierce him with those bright eyes of hers, still luminescent blue in the night.
"I'm thinking. . ." he didn't know what to say. He didn't even know what the answer was. There was a remarkable sense of deja vu, the setting mirroring his conversation in the piano room with Andrea just the day before. And yet, this time, something was very different.
She lowered her eyes, just a fraction. "Yes?"
"I'm thinking that I was wrong."
"Wrong? The great Bruce Wayne? Surely such a thing can't be possible!"
"Your adulation is duly noted," he said wryly. "And. . .I was wrong about women.
"'Remarkably backward', as you put it when we first met."
"Oh, I did not say that-"
"Yes, yes you did! Scarcely over a week ago." She laughed, then switched into a mock-baritone. "I simply don't believe that roles clearly intended for men should be taken up by women.' Honestly, Bruce, you should hear yourself sometimes."
He gave a self-deprecatory wince. "And now look at us."
She rocked idly back on her heels. "But you came around. Even if you didn't come to my rally-"
"Which I already explained, by the way."
"And which I've almost forgiven."
"Almost?"
Her eyes twinkled."Well, you haven't exactly made it up to me, Bruce."
He stepped closer, shaking his head. "I just spent an entire day showing you how to use technology so secret even the government doesn't know of its existence."
"You gave me a glider and practically pushed me off of a roof," she corrected, stepping even closer. "And you invented a dart gun. Regular Da Vinci you are."
Their chests were almost touching, a fact of which Diana was all the more keenly aware since the badum of her heart seemed to drown out every other sound. And Bruce. . .his face was stern but his eyes were practically smoldering.
"Don't talk to me like that," he said, his voice a low rumble.
Her gaze dropped to his mouth before meeting his eyes squarely. "Or what, Mr. Wayne?"
And he had no answer, given that he was pretty sure she could take him in any sort of fair fight.
So he raised a hand, brushing it along the curve of her shoulder. She didn't shy away from the touch but leaned into, though her eyes never left his.
He let his hand trace the line of her collarbone gently, his thumb coming up to stroke her cheek. He could see the shift as she smiled and her eyes closed. Still, he hesitated. Unsure, until her hand came up to clasp his, holding it against her cheek. She took his hand and brought it to the back of her neck, just underneath the upswell of her hair. At the same time her other hand came to rest on his chest.
And, with that, he kissed her.
TO BE CONTINUED