Consciousness. It felt more like drowning. From a peaceful and uninterrupted darkness, plunging into the cold and the light, shocked into painful breathlessness as reality sank in like an unwonted knife to the gut, twisting, forcing its way in, inescapable and unrelenting.

Robin opened his eyes and gasped, would have sat bolt upright if he'd had the strength, but instead got partway up and then fell back, the hands of gravity pulling him against the softness he was lying on.

Still gasping, choking on air like it was sea water, Robin stared upward at the unfamiliar ceiling, a confusing mass of unpainted wooden boards with support beams. It took him a moment to realize it was not a haphazard construction, merely an odd one, with mismatched woods.

Light came from an old-fashioned kerosene lamp with a brass base. It sat on a wooden nightstand beside the bed Robin lay on, which was itself a wood frame with an odd mattress. Robin wasn't sure what was odd about it, and decided not to think about it for now. A window behind the lamp and nightstand told him it was night outside, darkness crowded in eagerly, shadows kept at bay only because of the fiery lamp light.

The walls were wood, so was the floor, on which there was a brown rug which appeared hand-woven. Other than that, the tiny room was empty, a wood door seemed to be the only exit.

Robin closed his eyes, listened to the sounds around him. Someone was moving around in the other room. Small, light, agile. He knew almost at once the sound of those footsteps. Melina.

She seemed to be alone, and the outside sounds did not include the accustomed cars and planes and sirens and horns and other sounds of civilization. Just night birds, crickets enthusiastically singing their one-note song, a low soughing breeze rustled tree branches and bushes. No sounds of chain link fence rattling, nothing on the scale of buildings obstructing the wind. Wilderness beyond a cabin.

Robin took those signs as bad ones. He was in the middle of nowhere with the girl who must be the Black Wasp, had to be, for no other explanation made any sense.

But she wasn't the one who'd wanted him dead. Otherwise, why bring him here?

Robin knew time had passed, could feel it in his weakened body. But how much time? And what had happened in that time? Anything could have happened.

The door opened as though Melina had sensed Robin's return to the land of the living.

"Oh good, you're awake," she smiled, but there was something in her eyes, a kind of deception he didn't trust, "Do you feel well enough to eat something? I could make soup."

Robin took a moment to locate his voice, which was dry and scratchy.

"I thought you hated housework."

"Would you rather I said I could open up a can and heat it on the stove?" Melina asked.

Robin didn't answer. He simply stared at her, trying to figure out what she was hiding.

"What?" Melina asked, her eyes flashing impatiently though her voice stayed sweet as honey, "What's bothering you?"

"I was poisoned," Robin said slowly, trying to fight his way through brain fog, "I was dying."

"And I saved you," Melina told him, "A fact which you might be a little grateful for."

"I like being alive," Robin said, but was undaunted, "I was dying. You saved me."

"Yes. Fortunately, you had the dart on you with a sample of the poison. I made an antidote. You're welcome," her eyes were hard, her voice was starting to have an edge.

She didn't want to talk about this. She wanted to talk about soup. But Robin didn't really care what she wanted to talk about just now. There was something more important to discuss, if he could just get a handle on what it was.

"And you still want me to believe you're not the Black Wasp?"

"You're still on that?" She let out a laugh, but it was more a humorless bark which she swiftly cut off, shaking her head in frustration as she tried to compose herself.

"Any reason I shouldn't be?" Robin asked, keeping his voice carefully neutral, mildly annoyed that he could manage something barely better than a whisper on account of the dryness of his throat.

"You really think, you really believe, that I want William Bernard out of prison? I came to Gotham for one reason, to testify in that trial. That's the only thing that could make me visit that cesspool. Well... one of the only things," she gave him an odd look.

Robin tried not to take offense. That cesspool happened to be his home. He happened to love Gotham, and believed it was worth trying to save. But he could understand where Melina was coming from, and why she might view it as nothing but a pile of filth erected in the guise of a great city.

Besides, Gotham's relative worth and description wasn't relevant at the moment.

"I want to see the bastard hang, or visit the electric chair or whatever, but I won't give him power over me," Melina said, crossing the room to the bed, kneeling down beside it so she was on his level, "Not again. If I killed him, it would be proof of his power, wouldn't it? We've been over this already. And you should know by now that I would never... ever hurt you," her voice and eyes became softer, soft in a way that made Robin feel distinctly uncomfortable.

"Black Wasp didn't hurt me," Robin reminded her, "she hurt Batman."

"Which hurt you," Melina said, reaching across him and placing a hand on the left side of his chest, "Here."

She was standing on his right, the side of the bed the door was on. She withdrew her hand only slowly, when Robin failed to respond to her touch in any way, staring at her as though he were made of stone.

"I left Gotham before I got to testify because of you. For you," she corrected herself, "You were dying. I had to get you somewhere I could take care of you, somewhere you'd be safe."

Robin was beginning to get a sense of distance. Not only between himself and Melina, but also himself and his Gotham home. He felt adrift, sort of lost. It was beginning to become clear to him that Melina was a deeply troubled girl, more disturbed than he'd guessed. He'd thought she was getting better, recovering from her ordeal just as he had recovered, becoming what she was meant to be, just as Supay had shed the hateful monster Bernard had made him and become the jaguar he should be.

But that wasn't the case. He believed her when she insisted she was not the Black Wasp, though he wasn't sure why. Maybe instinct. But that didn't mean she was alright.

"Where are we?" Robin asked.

"Somewhere safe," Melina said, evading the question.

"We're not in Gotham."

"No."

"And this isn't the property Wayne purchased for Supay."

"How do you know?"

"The insects. The birds. The sounds aren't right. And this building is nowhere to be found on that property. You and I both know that."

"You're right."

"Then where are we?"

She was silent. Robin narrowed his eyes and gathered his breath.

"Where, Melina?" he growled, revealing carefully measured anger.

She averted her gaze and did not answer.

"Where?"

"I'll go get that soup," Melina rose and walked swiftly out of the room, closing the door behind her.

Robin did not call after her. There was no point in that. Instead, he tried clenching his fists, testing his strength. He wasn't up to standing yet. But strength was returning to him, and food would definitely hurry the process along. He was still sick, but recovering. His youth and fast metabolism made sure that he never stayed sick for very long.

But, for now, he was a prisoner of his own weakness. It was Melina's show right now, he was merely its subject. He had an uneasy feeling, like he knew what this was all about, but he wasn't sure and didn't want to believe it. Not Melina. Not sweet, naïve Melina. But she was not so naïve, was she? She had learned a great deal, experienced more in her short life than some people who lived to be ninety. She knew what she was doing.

It's William Bernard all over again, Robin thought, I thought she was smarter than that.

He was in trouble, no denying that. But he still had another nagging thought. If Melina truly wasn't the Black Wasp... who was? And what of the other shooter? Did it really matter at this point? Robin wasn't sure, but he couldn't shake the questions from his mind.

He was close to knowing, to figuring everything out. So close to finding answers.

So close. And yet so far.

"Leaving in a hurry?"

The voice of Batman was jarring, shocking as cold water in the face. Wilson flinched and whirled, knocking his half-packed bag off his bed and onto the floor, spilling clothing and other personal items across the floor. Batman stood in front of the open balcony doors, a hulking, almost mythic figure in the darkness, his eyes seeming to glow behind the mask.

"I thought you'd come here sooner or later," Wilson said, smiling weakly and sitting on the edge of his bed, trying to hide the fact that he was shaking, "No, I didn't kill Mr. Bernard. That's what you wanted to know right? He was my client, I had nothing to gain from his death."

"Mr. Bernard? Not Uncle Will. Or perhaps... Father?"

Silence hung between them for a moment as Wilson absorbed the implication of that statement. Batman wasn't sure how he would respond, though he did not appear easily rattled.

"So you know," Wilson said, letting out a sigh, "That doesn't change anything. I didn't want my father dead. The man was an ass, but he was still my father."

"He was never a father to you. Just a paycheck in the mail," Batman said.

"And a cruel one at that," Wilson agreed, "But still, why would I want him dead? He never was a part of my life, why go to all this trouble to kill him? And why do it while he was still in prison?"

"I don't think you killed him," Batman said, drifting away from the window, into the shadows.

"No?"

Batman did not answer, letting Wilson stew over that for a bit before moving on with the conversation.

"I think he killed himself," Batman said, "The question I have is... what was he so afraid of on the outside? You're his son, which makes you the prime suspect. All the witnesses, the people who might hold a grudge, are missing. That makes you the only suspect."

"I wasn't going to kill him," Wilson said, "There wasn't any money in that."

"You wanted his money," Batman realized.

Of course. Raised as he had been, what Wilson would want more than revenge was compensation. He wanted money, not vengeance, unless money was a kind of revenge in itself. It made sense, considering the background of expensive schools full of rich kids while he had lived on almost nothing. Want had been the ruling force of his life. He wanted more.

He had no motive for killing Bernard that was more compelling than his reason for wanting the man alive. Batman believed him when he said it. That didn't mean he wasn't the Black Wasp, only that he hadn't been what drove Bernard to suicide, assuming there was an actual reason anyone besides William Bernard could even begin to understand. The man had been, after all, insane.

"Yeah. Now I'm moving on," Wilson said, having gotten up so he could retrieve his suitcase from the floor and resume packing it, "There's nothing for me here in Gotham. Never was."

There was a problem with Wilson being the Black Wasp. He didn't seem like the kind to get his hands dirty, but he also didn't have enough money to hire someone professional like the Black Wasp seemed to be. Aside from which, nothing in his records suggested a knowledge of poisons. Besides, Robin had said the person was small, possibly a teenager or a woman. Wilson was too large, too heavy and too tall. He did look like his father though, in spite of the darker skin and eyes.

It was the look he had, that expression of smug superiority. Like he knew something that he could hold over the whole world. But it seemed to be a permanent look, not one that came from a specific knowledge so much as an attitude.

However, he was not the Black Wasp.

But that didn't mean he was innocent in all of this. Batman was suspecting, quite strongly actually, that there were at least two villains in this. The Black Wasp had not vanished Batman after shooting him, and had not meant to kill him either. That was far different from whoever had made all the witnesses disappear, including Robin. Some of those witnesses had turned up dead.

Batman felt cold fear building in his gut, no matter how hard he tried to pretend it wasn't there. It was the icy fear that Robin's body would eventually turn up. That his partner, his friend, his son, was dead.

"You look like you could use a new lead," Wilson said in a way only a lawyer could manage, "Here's a question, just for you."

He turned towards Batman and waited for a dramatic moment.

"Do you really think that I'm the only child of William Bernard?"

Batman drew up short. He knew at once who Wilson was referring to. It explained something which had bothered him right from the start, when he first learned of Rebecca May.

William Bernard had a thing for underage girls. Girls of less than eighteen years. Every one of the girls at his residence was under eighteen, most were sixteen. All except for Rebecca May, who was twenty-six. He'd thought she was there because she looked young, but that wasn't why at all.

It was because Rebecca May was William Bernard's daughter.