I met with a specialist that Tuesday, at Wayne Tower in the penthouse. His name was Michael Sellers, and we'd chosen him over the literal one hundred fifty-seven psychologists we had on our contacts list because he'd been working with the mentally ill for fifteen years at that point. I met him in the lobby of Wayne Tower and shook his hand.

"Dr. Sellers," I greeted him, smiling. "How are you today?"

"I'm fine, Mr. Wayne," he replied, returning the smile. "I heard you needed to speak with me about something."

"Of course; right this way, please."

I led him up to the penthouse, where Alfred had already put my demonic protégé in his room and had set out refreshments for us. We sat across from each other, him in the armchair and me on the couch, and got down to the business at hand. "It's about my little brother," I began. "His name is Tim, and he's…well, he hasn't been well lately."

Sellers nodded. "What condition does he seem to be in—symptom-wise and such?"

I swallowed hard. "You see, Tim's had a bit of a hard life. Both of his biological parents were murdered, and then he lost three friends, his girlfriend, and his stepmother. And then, of course, Bruce died, and he just…I don't know. He snapped. He claims that he sees them all, that they talk to him, and he refuses to believe me when I tell him that they're all dead. He's been behaving in some rather…self-destructive ways, doing things he wouldn't normally do. He's not suicidal as far as I can tell, but he's damn close. Oh—pardon me."

Sellers waved it off dismissively. "Is Tim a very social person by nature?"

I shook my head. "No, Tim has never been very social. He's always very anxious and tense, and he doesn't like to be around people very much. We're lucky to get him to spend a little time with the family every once in a while."

"Does he ever appear emotionless or flat at all?"

"It's not uncommon."

"Does he ever have delusions of grandeur or participate in violent or criminal acts?"

I wanted to get defensive, to tell him that Tim was a good kid, but he'd never get the help he needed if I didn't tell Sellers what was really going on with him. "Delusions of grandeur I'm not so sure of. Violent or criminal acts, however…well, that's another story."

"I see." Sellers took a sip of his coffee. "Is your brother—Tim, is that right?" I nodded. "Is Tim on hand where I can speak with him for a while?"

I felt myself squirming in my seat a bit, and my eyes wandered to the windows before returning to Sellers' face. "He would be," I told him, "but…before I could get in contact with you and have him properly diagnosed, he was shunted off to Arkham Asylum for treatment. About a month and a half ago, there was a massive breakout. They're still rounding up the patients, but they haven't found Tim yet."

"Ah," Sellers said. "Well, the way you've described it to me so far, it sounds very much like a case of schizophrenia. Symptoms can include hearing or seeing things that don't exist, or hallucinating, self-destructive behavior, as you've told me, participating in or perpetrating violent criminal acts, delusions, suicidal thoughts or behavior, and, of course, paranoia and restlessness. Environmental settings are recognized as triggers for schizophrenia, but it's not known yet whether or not they specifically cause it.

"Now, these types of symptoms don't develop overnight. Your brother didn't wake up the morning after your father died and was suddenly schizophrenic. It's safe enough, right now, to assume that symptoms were gradually building over an extended period of time, and he just never said anything for fear of being sent to a specialist or to a mental hospital such as Arkham Asylum. Some people do deny themselves treatment. Do you happen to know if there was any history of schizophrenia in Tim's biological family?"

I racked my brain for a moment or two before shaking my head. "As far as I know, the only schizophrenic member of Tim's family was a paternal grandmother who passed away in 2006. Of course, Tim was never very close to his parents, so it's possible that one or both of them might've had it and just never told him."

Sellers nodded. "It's believed that a main cause of schizophrenia is a hereditary history of the disease in parents, grandparents, and such, but there are usually also triggers. The stress Tim experienced as a result of the losses in his life was probably the biggest trigger for the disease, though there were probably other, smaller things that contributed to it, as well." He paused and adjusted his tie, but I could tell it was just to buy a little time. It was the Batman in me hard at work, even then. "Now, Mr. Wayne, I'm going to tell you this, but I don't want you to panic and think it's too late for Tim. Schizophrenia can be life-threatening in some cases when one reaches the stages of hallucinations and dangerous behavior, as you tell me Tim has displayed. It's imperative that, as soon as Arkham officials locate your brother, you have him properly tested for schizophrenia and treated immediately after diagnosis. There is no cure for schizophrenia, but I'm sure that the doctors at the asylum can give your brother the treatment he'll need in order to improve and live a more normal life.

"I'm not saying that symptoms will completely disappear once treatment begins. There's always a risk that they could recur. And there is also the very high likelihood that he won't want to be treated."

I gulped my coffee down around the heart-sized lump that had risen up in my throat and tried to comprehend that little bit. "I-if that happens," I stammered, "if Tim doesn't want help…w-what do I do?"

Sellers shrugged. "I won't presume to tell you what's best for your family, Mr. Wayne," he responded, a note of genuine sympathy in his voice. "If Tim refuses treatment for his condition, you need to do whatever you feel you have to, whether that's making sure he follows through with it or not forcing the issue. Did any of this help in any way?"

I was stunned, but I nodded. Sellers stood and smoothed out his pants and jacket, and I followed suit. I stretched out a hand to him to shake. "Thanks again, Dr. Sellers," I told him. "You can't imagine how much this is going to help us."

"Think nothing of it, Mr. Wayne. It was my pleasure."

~J~

The south side was a sleazy part of Gotham, the part best known for its drug deals and its pretty prostitutes. Its alleyways were so dirty that month's worth of the Bat-clan's cleaning the streets couldn't clear all the filth out. It was a slum full of garbage, crime, and despair, a place you hardly ever saw a cop who wasn't crooked or dead.

It was also Black Mask's most profitable territory.

He rode the streets in style that night, cruising in his favorite black Lexus. The fluorescent blue headlights illuminated a wide parabola of the asphalt of Gregory Street and the concrete of the sidewalk on both sides. Everyone caught in its glare couldn't help but turn to see who or what was passing by. They were winos, bums, hookers, pimps, thugs, and just poor people with no place else to go. But one in particular stuck out, a young woman walking in front of Black Mask's car. She wore a dress with a red-and-black plaid bodice, tightly fitted to her torso, but whose skirt flared out in red-and-black stripes. Polka-dotted leggings of the same color scheme were pulled up her slender legs, emerging from ankle-high, wedge-heeled black boots. Her dark hair was done up in pigtails that spouted from her scalp like twin waterfalls of brown, black, and red. Black Mask raised an eyebrow. "Stop the car," he commanded, and his driver did so, pulling up right alongside the woman.

He rolled the window down in the backseat and leaned across one of his security guards to call out of it. "Chilly night, isn't it, honey?"

She stopped and turned to look at him, her eyes caked with dark makeup and her lips red as rubies, somehow bright in the night. She folded leather-gloved arms over her chest and smiled. "Sure is," she replied.

"Why don't you come on in and I'll take you someplace to get you warmed up?"

Her smile grew seductive, and she approached the car.

The security guard on Black Mask's right opened the door for her, and she clambered in. She squeezed into the small space between the two men, but ended up mostly on Black Mask's lap. He wrapped an arm about her shoulders and was about to tell the driver to continue on down the road, but he was stopped by a rapping on the window up front. He looked to see a man in a leather jacket, striped purple, with a purple hoodie on underneath, standing by the passenger's side. The hood had been pulled up and cast the man's face into shadow, but it was obvious by the way he was insistently knocking on the glass that he thought he needed to speak with somebody about something. Black Mask rolled his eyes. This would be the third one that night trying to peddle his cheap crap to them. "Roll down the window and see what this dumbass wants," he ordered.

The security guard up front did just that…but by the time the window came all the way down, the man on the other side had taken a step back and was leveling a Smith & Wesson M1911 at the guards. Two shots were fired off before anyone could react, the driver and the guard jerked, and then both were dead in their seats. The woman on Black Mask's lap drew two knives from seemingly nowhere and plunged them into the chests of the guards sitting next to him. He reached behind him for his own firearm, but she'd twisted around and was pressing a third blade against his throat, grinning wickedly.

"Holy shit!" he sputtered.

"Oh, there's shit here, alright, but it ain't holy," the woman quipped, reaching up into the front seat to unlock the car.

The man had come around the back, tucking his gun into a previously-unseen holster as he went, and yanked open the door, dragging the body of the driver out. He plopped down into the seat with a sigh, shut the door, pulled down his hood, and turned around to look at his captive and accomplice.

"Ooh, looky here," Tim said in mock excitement. "We've got ourselves a mob boss! Excellent catch, Harley."

The woman—Harley—giggled. "Thanks, J-Baby."

"J-Baby…?" Black Mask repeated, stunned. "What the hell…?" Then it dawned on him: the color schemes, the war paint, the crazy attitudes… "You're that guy…the one who killed the Joker!"

Tim smirked at him. "Actually, you've got that wrong. I'm not just 'that guy' anymore; I'm your new business partner."

Black Mask eyed him warily. "And what makes you think I'm willing to do anything for a freak like you?"

Tim turned back around and buckled in. "My proposition is impossible to refuse."

With Harley cackling madly in the backseat, the Lexus sped off down Gregory Street and to a familiar apartment complex.

~B~

"I hope you realize how much I'm risking just by being here," I said, wringing my hands. "I'm not playing around. I'm taking serious chances—putting a lot in jeopardy by giving you this opportunity."

"Yeah, yeah, whatever, I get it. So, what exactly is it that you want me to do?"

I took a deep breath before I continued. "As you know, Tim is…unwell."

"And by unwell you mean bat-shit insane, but yeah, I know."

"And he…well, I have reason to believe he's behind a string of killings of Gotham's most-wanted. First was the Joker, and then was Harley Quinn, Poison Ivy, Penguin, Two-Face, and a few street thugs who got in his way."

"Oh, so somebody finally offed that son of a bitch. I'm happy."

"Don't be. Tim's taken his place and is committing crimes in his name. He's turning himself into a monster, but…I can't stop him without help. Damian's too young, too inexperienced. He'll be endangering himself. I wouldn't think to ask Blackbat—too much emotion there. Huntress is with the Birds of Prey again. Bruce is gone, and the rest of the family's off doing their own thing, so there was nobody else to ask but you."

"You still consider me a part of the family, then?"

"I never stopped considering you a part of the family. Bottom line: I can't do this without you."

"Well, I wanna know what's in it for me before I start making promises."

"I can guarantee you a clean slate. You help me with this, and you'll walk away a free man with a fresh start. No more jail time, no more Arkham or Blackgate. You get to go do whatever you will with your life—until you screw up again, that is."

"Huh. Even with that insult tacked on the end, it's still a sweet deal." Jason leaned forward in his seat, making his handcuffs rattle. "I'm in."