Disclaimer: Batman and all associated characters are the property of DC Comics, with movie rights belonging to Warner Brothers. The original characters created for this story are my creation and hence they belong to me.
Author's Notes: Wow, the last full scale chapter of Smoke is here, and it's the longest one so far. You have no idea how strange it feels to be nearly finished with this story, it's been in my head for many months now, so it's kind of exhilarating and strange at the same time. I have an epilogue in mind that I plan to write and post, but, as always, I'd love to hear your opinions. Do you want an epilogue or do you like the story better 'as is'? Reviews are encouraged and appreciated, like with all the other chapters, and if you have questions or any other kind of feedback I'd love to hear that too. A big thank you to all who has reviewed and offered opinions and words of encouragement so far, you've all made my work worth while.

Detective Crispus Allen gripped the steering wheel tight as he turned his head to make temporary eye contact with his partner, sitting in the passenger seat.

"No, I don't understand, damn it! There is a bomb, no wait, not one bomb, several bombs at Wayne Tower, and we get sent to a disturbance call! Come on, we're with Major Crimes. A bomb is a major crime, disturbance…drunk and disorderly, whatever this is, is not!"

Suddenly remembering that he should be keeping his eyes on the road, he turned back to face the windshield. His partner, Detective Gerard Stephens, shot him a sideways glance and replied;

"So, you're saying we should just ignore anything less serious than a bomb threat?"

"No! I did not say that… but what are rookie cops for? You know as well as me that this is probably just going to be some kids who got their hands on six-pack and some cans of paint, either that or one of these wannabe vampire covens, trying to reanimate a long lost master… neither of which is going to be that though to break up. So why is Sawyer sending us out, instead of using a pair of rookies from the precincts who could use the training?"

"Maybe because she needs the rookie cops at Wayne Tower to do her dirty work, while they still remember the whole 'protect and serve' thing... I don't know, but let's just get it over with… Likely we'll have plenty of time to get back downtown, and then you can jump around and be a hero all you want."

Allen retorted by giving him a look that could have passed for white hot embers, but didn't say anything further.

Deep inside Wayne Tower, Connie Tate was still sitting in one of the rooms designated Research and Development, but she was becoming less and less aware of her surroundings and, almost despite herself, more and more absorbed in the game. In the Hourglass Room, as she had begun calling it in her head, half of the hourglasses had been shattered, and the floor was strewn with virtual pieces of glass. It had been close a couple of times, but so far she had managed to grab the teleports before the Minotaur, aka Edward Nashton, caught up with her. The maze itself seemed to get more and more complicated, with more dead ends and twists and turns, but she had managed to use that too in her favor on a couple of occasions. Now she found herself in the Hourglass Room again, this time facing the riddle:

In a tunnel of darkness lies a beast of iron. It can only attack when pulled back.
What is it?

A beast of iron? A train maybe…an old fashioned one? No, that didn't seem right somehow. Trains hardly attacked, did they? A sword, maybe? But it's not necessary to pull back a sword to attack…A sword could be used to stabbing, even if it wasn't ideal. She glanced around, looking for something to put her on the right track. The 'attack' part implied a weapon of some sort. It could have been a bow, but bows were rarely made of iron. But some sort of weapon for firing, perhaps?

Unexpectedly, the answer came to her by way of a dismantled office toy on a nearby work table. Why it had been dismantled, she didn't know. Maybe Ethan or someone else had thought of a bright idea and needed new parts. It wasn't exactly uncommon for her, or the other people in R&D to look for, and find, parts in unusual places, but now the small silver orbs from Newton's cradle put her on a very different, but no less rewarding path.

Could it be a bullet? 'Tunnel of darkness' could be consistent with a gun barrel, bullets could easily be made of iron, and the 'attack when pulled back' part could be referencing the hammer of a revolver-type gun.

She looked back at the screen, and saw that the current hourglass only had about a third of the sand left in the top half. She was running out of time, and was at loss for a better suggestion. Apprehensively she typed in 'bullet', and bit down on her bottom lip as she pressed 'enter'.

The few seconds that it took for the hourglass to shatter seemed like an eternity, and her body was frozen with her eyes locked on the screen for a moment before she dared to exhale. One more step in the right direction.

The concentrated beam emanating from the flashlight shone just enough light on the stone that he was able to read the name engraved on it. But it wasn't the name he was looking for. True enough, he didn't know for sure what that name would be, but he was sure that he would know when he saw it. So far, Edward Nashton has showed impeccable showmanship, it was almost a character trait for him, so ingrained in him that he would not give it up even when it threatened to get him caught.

And there it was, right in front of him, and to him it was so obvious it appeared almost as if something solid red had just appeared in a sea of black and grey. To an untrained and inattentive eye the small structure would be completely unremarkable. It looked like it had once been a light grey color, but now the color was stained with areas of darker grey and black. In some areas the stone was chipped, and the copper plaque inscribed with the names of the supposed inhabitants was green from oxidization. On the occasion that someone walked by, he or she would probably read the names and wonder, but nothing more. With his insight, the names were a red flag.

Shirley Anderson
Thomas Holmes
Sam Marlowe
Phillip Spade

Or, if you swapped them around;

Shirley Holmes
Thomas Anderson
Phillip Marlowe
Sam Spade

All of them became fictional characters. Sam Spade and Phillip Marlowe were both protagonists in crime fiction, Thomas Anderson was an alias for a hacker in a relatively recent movie, and Shirley Holmes...well, Shirley was probably a little more inconspicuous than writing Sherlock, and Edward Nashton's way of taunting him by using the name associated with perhaps the greatest fictional detective. The Batman flatly ignored the attempted taunt; it took more than word games to get to him. Nashton was getting overly confident and even somewhat cocky – that was good, it would make it so much easier to take him down.

He moved slowly towards the door and the copper plaque. When he was just inches away, he stopped again, noticing a detail that only confirmed to him that he was in the right place. Carved in the stone above the door was a thin border that ran the width and length of the door frame that, from a distance, just looked like one of the few decorative elements of the mausoleum. Up close, where he now stood, he saw that this too was a manifestation of Edward Nashton's belief in his own abilities, because the word 'enigma' was continuously embedded into the border. In his mind it was the confirmation he needed, and he slid the door open, ready to face the darkness he knew would meet him inside, in some form or another.

Connie watched as another hourglass flipped over, and the sand beginning its journey from the top half to the bottom. On the screen in front of her stood the words;

It cannot be seen, cannot be felt,
Cannot be heard, cannot be smelt.
It lies behind stars and under hills,
And empty holes it fills.
It comes first and follows after,
Ends life, kills laughter.

Connie grinned.

"Nice try, but I read that book. Not to mention I have a brother who read it before me, and who loved to torment his little sister by making her guess the riddles…"

She typed in 'darkness' and pressed enter, watched the hourglass shatter and prepared herself to go back into the maze. Before it began she had thought that the riddles were going to be by far the most challenging part of the game, but she soon found out that it didn't work like that. Navigating the maze in a constant effort to find the damn riddles was proving much more of a challenge, especially when Edward Nashton, in the appropriate guise of the Minotaur, was after her. She knew that there were formulas that were designed to find the most likely path through a maze or labyrinth, but even if she had known one of them it wouldn't help her. After all, she wasn't trying to find her way out, and she wasn't aware of anyone who had, as of yet, come up with a formula designed to find a series of golden question marks in a maze. Except maybe the Riddler himself, but he wasn't going to willingly share it with her in any case.

She turned a corner and almost shouted out loud in shock and surprise. Because on the narrow path in front of her stood the Minotaur, black and gleaming with eyes that were like glowing embers. Had this been an ordinary computer game, Connie would have taken the fight without thinking much of it. After all, in an ordinary computer game you have the option to save and start over if something goes wrong, but in this game things were far from ordinary.

She turned on her heel and ran. There wasn't much else for her to do, really. The Riddler hadn't given her character any weapons other than her own wits, and he had made it very clear that if the Minotaur ever caught up with her, it was game over.

She was about to turn a corner to try and throw the beast off the trail, but just as she made the turn she noticed that the Minotaur didn't seem to have moved at all. For a brief moment she hesitated, before taking her finger off the forward button and turning around. Had he stopped, and if he had, why?

When Connie looked back, she saw that the Minotaur appeared to have not only stopped, but frozen in mid-movement. A crooked, somewhat cruel smile crept across her lips. If Edward Nashton's computer had crashed, it was no more than he deserved. She didn't linger to enjoy the moment, but turned her character around again, and kept searching for the next teleport. After all, she didn't know how long Lady Luck would stay on her side.

Little did she know that Lady Luck had very little to do with Edward Nashton's computer malfunctioning. The one responsible for that was a considerably darker character, whose rage was now directed at the Riddler, manifesting in a rather violent fashion.

He took a slow, deep breath and let a strange feeling of comfort wash over him. It was the darkness; it made him feel at home. He knew that it was abnormal, even dangerous, but it was also the strongest advantage he had when fighting the scum of Gotham City. He was as familiar with the darkness and its effects as those he hunted. In the darkness he became a skilled predator, and tonight, like most nights, his prey had no idea they were being trailed. At least not until he wanted them to know.

Edward Nashton sat absorbed in what was happening on the screen in front of him, and was oblivious to the fact that he was no longer alone. Something was watching him from the surrounding darkness, a creature created of the anger and the rage of all those wronged by crime, waiting for the time to strike.

Batman stopped to survey his surroundings. The small, bunker-like room looked pretty much the same as the hideout underneath the abandoned warehouse had done, it had exactly the same simple furnishing and cold atmosphere, coupled with a sophisticated computer system that appeared to be adapted from prototypes or other technology so recent it wasn't yet available on the commercial market, probably built and adapted from blueprints stolen from several major companies. The system and its nature would surely make a solid argument in the court case against Edward Nashton, but that was someone else's concern entirely. Where he stood the Batman was concerned only with Edward Nashton himself. He felt as the beast inside him fought against its shackles…and won. Without hesitation he took the first step.

Edward Nashton did not notice his unwelcome visitor until he saw the growing shadow that was reflected in the screen in front of him. For a brief moment the remnants of a smug smile flickered across his face, before his expression turned to shock and he spun around to face the intruder. His mouth opened, as if to say something, but he never got the opportunity, because he was lifted from his seat and thrown head first into the screen, cracking the glass and sending sparks flying into the now completely darkened space. The iron grip that had been around his neck loosened, and he fell to the floor, whimpering.

"Please…" he begged, desperately,

"Please don't hurt me!"

Batman watched the huddled figure on the floor for a moment with nothing but contempt and disgust in his eyes. Then he took a tight grip on the man's shoulder and pulled him to his feet.

In the darkness Edward Nashton could just make out the outline of the creature that now had him in its grip, and he knew one thing for sure – this was not a human being, this was a creature of the night, as pure and vivid as in his nightmares.

"You have been playing God in my city long enough, Nashton. Your game is over."

Edward Nashton's eyes were wide with terror, and his voice trembled as he asked;

"A-are you g-going to k-kill me?"

"No." Came the answer, after a long moment of silence. But before Edward Nashton could breathe a sigh of relief, the vice-like grip on his shoulder tightened, and the menacing growl continued;

"I will find every place you have been in this city, and I am going to search through them with a fine tooth comb. I am going to find trace of every code you've ever written, in every place you have ever hacked into, until I can deliver enough evidence to the police to keep you locked up for a very long time. Do you doubt me?"

The arm that held him moved, and he felt himself being lifted into the air, and he was suddenly forced to look into the beast's terrifying eyes, eyes that to him seemed to be almost glowing in the dark.

"N-no…" He stuttered, helplessly.

The creature gave one nod of its head, before speaking again.

"Good. Because if you ever do, and try to play God again, I will not be forgiving. I will come for you and make you remember this; every breath you take from now on, you owe to me."

Detectives Stephens and Allen were knee-deep in snow, wading through a deserted part of Rose Hill cemetery, shining their flashlights on the surrounding area as they went.

"Disturbance call, my ass." Allen said, stopping to catch his breath, before turning to his partner who had come to a halt beside him and continuing;

"There's not a soul here! Remind me, why are we here again?"

Before his partner could answer, something happened that would add a new meaning to the term 'disturbance' for the both of them. There was a loud crash, and the door that sealed one of the nearby mausoleums flew open. From the darkness within came first a fluttering sound, like that of many wings, then a jet black figure came almost soaring through the opening. It took a moment before Allen and Stephens realized that the figure was familiar and bat-like, but that it also seemed to be carrying something, or rather someone else.

"I'll be damned," Stephens said, almost in awe, before going for his weapon. His partner was one step ahead, and had already drawn his firearm and directed it to where the living shadow now landed in front of them. But there was no way either Stephens or Allen would risk the shot, because a thin, dark haired man, who was obviously terrified, stood directly in front of the Batman, and was firmly held in place.

"Alright," Allen began slowly, after a long moment of clear hesitation.

"Let him go, put your hands up nice and slow, and no one is going to get hurt here…"

Batman didn't move. Allen wasn't surprised, but his training told him to always try the gentle approach first. When that didn't work, it was an entirely different ballgame. The order was clear; the vigilante known as Batman was wanted for the murder of five people. Allen knew this, and yet a part of him, the part that knew how it felt to feel forced to take a life, hesitated. And when the Batman spoke, he listened.

"This man is Edward Nashton. Lately he's been calling himself the Riddler. He is behind the bombs planted at Wayne Tower, and it was him who threatened to cut the city's power supply. When your techs analyze his computers, I'm sure you will discover he is the mind behind more events as well."

Allen and Stephens exchanged looks. Even if they couldn't decipher each other's glances in the dark they still felt the other's skepticism. No one knew better than them how slippery this 'Riddler' guy had been. Major Case had spent the majority of their resources on finding him ever since he started wreaking havoc in the city, and now it seemed they had been upstaged by the resident vigilante once again. But there was one question on the mind of both police officers; What if he was lying?

Commissioner Gordon had trusted the Batman, to the extent that an honest veteran cop could trust anyone who placed himself outside the boundaries of the law, but most of the other people on the force didn't share his view back when the Batman had emerged, and most certainly didn't now. Both detectives now facing the giant bat knew this, and still both of them hesitated. Because to their knowledge he had never been wrong…Always when the Batman brought criminals to the attention of the GCPD he had all the bases covered and there was more than enough evidence available to ensure a conviction.

In the end it was Stephens who took a step forward, at the same time as he holstered his weapon and slowly pulled a pair of handcuffs from his belt.

"Okay." He said, in a way that sounded like he was trying to calm down both hostage and hostage taker.

Stephens measured every step as he walked towards the looming, black-clad figure and the shivering man he held in front of him as a shield. As he stepped forwards, the Batman stepped back, leaving Edward Nashton standing in between them. At this point he could probably have made an attempt to escape, but the image of those burning eyes looking down on him still lingered, and he remained standing perfectly still.

Stephens reached him, and put the handcuffs on without any fuss. Allen had followed his partner, his gun still drawn and pointing at the Batman, who now stood a short distance away from the three of them.

"Hey!" Allen called out to him,

"Don't move."

For a moment it looked like the Batman was actually planning to follow the order, but then a gust of wind caused his cape to billow, giving him the distraction he needed to get out of the line of fire. In a rush of black fabric he dove out of the spotlight created by the flashlights of the two detectives and back into the shadows.

He heard the muffled sound of running footsteps as Allen gave chase, and knew that the sooner he could get away, the better. He knew he could incapacitate Allen if he needed to, but he didn't want to stir things up further by assaulting a police officer. Something like that would probably spread through the papers like a wildfire, and would probably ruin any chance he might still have to work his way back to some sort of acceptance from Gotham's inhabitants.

The sound of a gunshot pierce the silence, and a split second later he felt a burning pain in his side. Since it took some skill to hit a moving target by the light of a flashlight after dark, Allen was apparently one of the GCPD's better shots, but fortunately for him not good enough to have seriously wounded him. Still, no need to give the detective a chance to rectify that…best to get out of the way as soon as possible.

Batman leapt into the air just as another gust of icy cold wind swept through the cemetery. The wind carried him for about twenty feet before he somersaulted sideways into a landing between two monumental grave markers and kept running. He still heard Allen's running steps, but they were further away now, and he was no longer in view of the detective's flashlight.

The freezing air stabbed at his lungs as he reached the top of the hill that bordered on the Gotham River and threw his body into a desperate, barely controlled dive to escape. Just as it looked like he might be forced to go for a cold swim in the river, another strong gust of wind came to his rescue. It picked him up and carried him away from Rose Hill and towards the island known as the Narrows.

The Narrows were not the ideal place to render first aid, but he didn't really have a choice in the matter at the moment. Luckily he had been right in his previous assessment, the wound wasn't deep, only a flesh wound caused by a bullet grazing the side of his suit. Still, he couldn't risk the effects of excessive blood loss sneaking up on him, there was still something he needed to do.

A powerful antihaemorrhagic powder, borrowed from Wayne Medical, would provide an efficient, but painful temporary solution to the problem. He gritted his teeth as the stinging sensation spread through the wound, signifying that the blood vessels in the area were being sealed off.

For a moment he sat completely still, just breathing, leaning against the damp, dirty brick wall that closed off that particular roof. Without him really knowing why, his thoughts went to her. He wondered if she was still alive, if she had played the game until he stopped it, or if she had failed before that and was waiting, wondering, or trying to get used to the thought of dying. Once again he felt as powerless as he had done in the moments when he had heard the reproduction of her voice on that recording; it was as if his actions at the cemetery had never happened at all. For all he knew Nashton could have killed her already.

He had to know. He had to risk it. He knew he should head somewhere safe, hang up the suit, stitch himself up and stay off the radar for a while, but he couldn't. He feared what he might see, what he might hear, but he needed to know. Taking one last, deep, controlled breath he stood up, stepped onto the ledge with a grace that only a creature of the night could have, and leapt once more into the darkness.

Lucius Fox watched as a dark-haired woman in her early fifties navigated her way briskly through the sea of officers, police tape and perimeters now in place around Wayne Tower. When she reached him, he greeted her with a quick but firm handshake, and the words;

"Leslie. Glad you could make it."

She gave him a brief smile, and replied;

"I got your message. Scythe, huh?"

He nodded grimly, but didn't say anything.

"What's the time frame," she followed up, glancing at him as if trying to read his state of mind.

"Best I can tell…couple of hours, maybe more."

"And the dose?"

He shrugged.

"She couldn't say."

"Damn," Leslie replied, with feeling, before continuing;

"How do we know she's even alive?"

"We don't," Lucius replied, some of his desperation and resignation finally seeping into the tone of his voice.

"How long is it going to take us to get in?" Leslie asked, still trying to get a picture of the situation.

He shrugged again, and replied;

"I don't know. Hopefully not much longer…"

They stood for a moment in silence, watching the officers of the GCPD Bomb Squad move around inside the tower.

"Listen, Lucius…" She began carefully,

"I know you care about this woman, and I want you to know that I'll do everything in my power, but…you know as well as I do, that Scythe wasn't made to be reversible…"

They exchanged glances, and after a moment Lucius nodded slowly, to acknowledge that he knew.

By the time they were cleared to re-enter the tower, Leslie and Lucius was in the company of several other employees from Wayne Medical, none of which Lucius knew by name. None of them knew what would meet them when they entered the sub-level belonging to Research and Development where a fierce battle of minds and wits had been taking place in the last few hours. Lucius feared the worst, and if he were to judge by the solemn look on Leslie Thompkins' face, so did she.

The elevator pulled softly to a stop and the group with Lucius in the lead, but closely followed by members of the GCPD bomb squad, began making its way toward the facilities of Research and Development.

Lucius had a fair idea where they might find Connie, and led the group through a narrower set of hallways, to a part of R&D that lay somewhat off the beaten path from the other departments on the level. It was used by R&D primarily for building various small scale prototypes, and would be a good place to trap someone.

The door slid open and let them in without protest of any kind. True, he hadn't known what to expect, but he had thought that getting to her would be much more challenging. But then again, maybe the easy access was caused by the so-called genius being caught off guard…

The group spread out, some moved into different rooms, all searching for the same thing; signs of life. For a while they searched in silence, but then, after several tense moments, one of the members of the bomb squad came upon the unconscious body of Ethan Clark, and then, a few seconds later…

"Lucius! I've found her!" The voice of Leslie Thompkins carried through the large, open space they were in, and Lucius moved quickly towards the sound, not waiting to ask;

"She still alive?"

He approached, and saw Leslie crouching behind one of the desks. The first thing he saw on the floor beside her were wisps of long, dark brown hair, and as he moved closer he could see the rest of Connie Tate lying sprawled on the floor, her arms and legs at odd angles. The feeling of utter disbelief and sheer terror hit him square in the chest. She couldn't be dead, it just wasn't possible. She was always so full of life, it was as if it flowed through her like some kind of elemental magic…something like that couldn't just disappear in the blink of an eye, could it?

Leslie's voice was grave when she answered;

"Barely."

Lucius' heart leapt. There was still hope. He could tell from the look Leslie sent him that it was just a sliver, but he was convinced that it was enough for Connie to cling on to.

"We need to get her out of here now. Her body is already starting to shut down…every minute we don't administer the counteractive agent, she's one minute closer to massive, multiple organ failure."

The building that now housed Wayne Medical had been constructed during William Earle's last year of tenure as C.E.O of Wayne Enterprises, and was finished, ironically enough, shortly before the disaster in the Narrows. Administratively, Wayne Medical was responsible for the majority of Gotham's hospitals, as well as a number of free clinics funded by the Wayne Foundation. In addition to this, Wayne Medical, prided itself on being on the cutting edge of research concerning the field of medicine, much like the other parts of Wayne Enterprises did in their respective fields.

To an outsider the research facilities would probably look like a cross between a hospital and a spaceship, but Leslie Thompkins and the crew she worked with were as far on the inside as one could get, and even though treating a victim of Scythe wasn't something they had trained extensively for, all of them still worked together like a well-oiled machinery. And that was a good thing, because at this point Connie Tate's life was hanging by a very thin thread.

Lucius was watching the spectacle in horror, and every time he saw a needle or a tube or any kind of medical paraphernalia being forced into her lifeless body, the knot that was now his insides tightened. He tried to get a grip, tried to think straight…thought about her family, that he needed to find out who to call, thought about her co-workers; they would want to know what had happened to her… But most of all his thoughts revolved around the basic theme of;

This is wrong!

Things like this weren't supposed to happen! Not to an innocent, loveable, fun-loving, smart young woman with everything finally going her way. Not like this.

Across the street a figure sat hunched on the very edge of a rooftop. No one could see him, and even if they could he sat so still most would mistake him for a part of the architecture. But his appearance was once again deceiving, because behind the mask, beneath the armor, his mind and spirit was in turmoil.

Only once in his life before had he felt as helpless as he did now, and that was many years ago, in what now seemed to be a different life all together. His eyes were watching what was happening in a room a couple of floors below on the building opposite so intently that is was almost as if they pierced the glass by sheer strength. As he watched he felt the steady rhythm of his heart beat violently against his ribs, like it was trying to compensate for the irregular heartbeats of the woman in the hospital bed. And yet, despite his will and desire to do something to help, all he could do was watch.

He sat perched on the rooftop for over twelve hours, watching as she worsened and was put on life support, and then improved again to the extent that she could be taken off. He watched Lucius make several calls, to her family as well as some of her friends and colleagues, many of which showed up some time later, and were promptly showed to a spacious room on the floor below, where most of them stayed and kept vigil.

It was now close to six a.m, and it would still be another hour before the sun came up. The restlessness that had been building up ever since he first settled on that rooftop was now almost unbearable, and he knew that he had to move. Not chiefly because his limbs were stiff and cold from not being in use, but also because he realized that he couldn't call off his own vigil without getting a closer look at her, just to make sure that she really was still breathing.

He was aware of the risk. If anyone saw him, he would have no choice but to run, and he would have to stay away from her for a long time. But it was a risk he was willing to take. This was one rare occasion where his emotions overrode his logic, and he let them. He couldn't rationalize as to why, after all, he wasn't even sure what kind of emotions he was dealing with. It wasn't love, nor friendship…it couldn't be. Both of those indicated a sense of familiarity, of knowing, and he didn't know her outside of Edward Nashton's game. She certainly didn't know him. And despite that, there was something in her eyes when she looked at him that made him feel like she did.

Connie couldn't pinpoint exactly when her mind returned to consciousness, but the moment it happened she wished unconsciousness could have lasted a little bit longer, because her body felt like it had been through a wringer. She opened her eyes only to find that not only were her surroundings almost completely darkened, they also appeared blurry and out of focus.

After a moment, her field of vision had cleared considerably and she began to slowly register her surroundings. She realized she was lying in a bed, hooked up to an intravenous drip and a few different monitors. There was a window on one side of her bed; the blinds weren't shut so she could see out into the darkness outside, where large flakes of snow were drifting whimsically towards the ground. The wall directly in front of her was also made out of frosted glass, and appeared to contain some sort of technology she didn't instantly recognize. The wall on the other side of her bed was brick painted white, and there was a glass door and another window, this one leading out into a brightly lit hallway.

She closed her eyes again and took a deep breath. She had no idea how she had ended up there, wherever 'there' was. The last thing she remembered was that a moment after she had seen that the Riddler seemed to have problems with controlling his Minotaur the rest of the game had frozen as well, and she had gotten up to stretch her legs and try to figure out what to do next. After that, everything had gone black. It had to be the Scythe drug that had knocked her out…she couldn't think of any other explanation. Not that she really tried either, her brain wasn't really functioning at its best at that point, which was why, when she saw a shadow move ever so slightly out of the corner of her eye, she wondered if she was seeing things that weren't there.

It had never been his intention to wake her, all he had ever intended to do was watch the even rise and fall of her chest, maybe get a glimpse of the peaceful expression on her face as she slept and hear the soft sound of her breathing. Yet he found that when he suddenly saw her eyelids flutter and open, a deep-set feeling of relief seemed to settle into him. And strangely enough, with it came a feeling of annoyance that begun to seem familiar to him now. Stupid girl, she had risked far, far too much...

A part of him thought that maybe it would be best if he didn't reveal himself to her, arguing that he had already trespassed on her life more than once, and that she should be left in peace to recover from her ordeal. But the other part, though lacking the reasonable arguments, was just as fierce in its reasoning for him to stay. Once again he let instinct trump logic, and made one small move, just enough to make her look in his direction again.

Even though her instincts told her that what she had seen was only a trick of a tired mind, they also made her look again. That was when she saw the by now familiar silhouette of a tall, black clad figure watching her from the darkest corner on the wall facing the outside. When their eyes met in a silent acknowledgement of his presence, he took a step towards the bed and said in a low voice;

"You are either the bravest woman I have ever met, or the most foolish."

In response she made a noise in the back of her throat that would normally sound like a short laugh, but now sounded more like a cough, before saying;

"Do I get to choose?"

She was surprised at how weak her voice sounded, and in her head she would have liked it to sound a bit stronger and more confident because a part of her didn't want him to see her in a hospital bed, vulnerable and weak. But another part of her was glad to see him; after all, in a strange way he had been her only constant point of reference in all that had happened, the only one who knew the details like she did, and more…

For a long moment there was silence between them, but his eyes were focused on her, and she was looking back at him. Her eyes were tired, but he noted that they still had the spark that seemed to keep pulling him towards her, even though he knew he should stay away. After a while he said;

"You risked your life for those people."

She gave him a tired smile, and said silently;

"You noticed."

"It was a foolish thing to do."

From her bed she managed to give a sort of one-shouldered shrug, before she replied.

"Yes, maybe it was. But don't come telling me you would have done any different had it been you in my place."

He didn't answer, but sent her one of those piercing looks she had gotten her fair share of over the past few weeks.

"You seem to think I'm arrogant, that I'm trying to be some kind of savior… I'm not. The choice I made…it wasn't easy. I thought about my family… I have an overprotective brother, a niece I wouldn't leave for the world, and a mother who has lost more than she should ever have had to… But so does the hundreds of other people who were in that building. I wasn't trying to be a hero…"

"But you were courageous."

She had half expected it to be an accusation, and was somewhat surprised to find it didn't sound like that at all.

"Did you actually just give me a compliment?" She asked, stunned and a little bit amused, especially when the result of the question was another long moment of silence.

She smiled again, and slowly moved to a more upright position on the bed. It seemed for a moment as if he was about to say something to stop her, but he didn't, and she pulled her legs up under her and looked his way again.

"I was actually kind of hoping you would show up. I know it's stupid, but… I wanted to say thank you."

"Don't. It wasn't me who saved you from that building."

Connie stopped for a moment and considered what he had just said. Then, she shrugged and continued;

"You got me out of the Opera House alive. I never asked you to fight my battles for me, but occasionally you did anyway. And when you didn't fight for me you fought with me… you helped me, in a way that no one else could have done. That's more than enough, and I'm grateful to you for that."

He didn't know how to respond, but he didn't want her to think that he ignored her so he took a hesitant step towards her, then another, a bit more confident this time. Seeing this, she smiled, and seemed to understand what he could not put into words.

She hesitated for a moment before she said;

"I don't believe you killed those people."

"What?"

"The people they accused you of killing…after the Joker was captured. I don't think you did it…"

"Based on?"

She moved so that she rested her elbows on her knees and turned her head to face him, cocking her head slightly to one side.

"I've seen you fight…but I've never seen you use a gun. Not once. Not even when it would have ended a fight much faster. That SWAT guy at the Aquarium, you took his rifle…you could have shot him, that would have incapacitated him for much longer…but you didn't."

She was looking directly at him through those deep brown eyes, and when their eyes met he got the distinct feeling that she could see some of what was going on underneath his mask. Not in the sense that she knew who he was, but she seemed to have above average abilities to make an educated guess as to what he was thinking and feeling. Meeting someone with that kind of skills was unusual for him; most were distracted enough by his mask to not dwell on the thoughts of the man underneath.

"It's alright…" she said after a while, when she realized that he wasn't going to say anything on the subject.

"You don't have to say anything."

Again there was silence, and it seemed neither of them could think of anything more to say. Now it was his turn to have his gaze fixed on her, he watched as she rested her head on her arms and took a deep breath. He was struck by how frail she looked, compared to the feisty woman he had met in a deserted church a few weeks back. That woman was still there, behind those eyes somewhere, but he saw now how the things she had been through had eaten away at her.

"You should sleep." He said matter-of-factly.

She turned her head slightly, just enough to look at him, and replied;

"I'm fine."

"Four hours ago you were on life support, twelve hours ago you were minutes away from massive multiple organ failure…you're not fine. You need to rest."

It wasn't an order, but it was spoken with a finality that showed it as a simple fact.

"Ok…come closer."

"Excuse me?"

"If you come closer, I'll go back to sleep when you leave."

He thought about the request for a moment. It was unlike any request he had gotten before, and he didn't understand it, but he assumed it couldn't hurt to oblige. He stepped closer until he was standing right next to her bed.

"Why?" He asked, almost in wonder.

She gave him that soft, knowing smile, and stood up so she was standing stretched out on her knees on the bed. Now their faces were almost level and for a long moment their eyes rested on the other. Then the corners of her mouth twisted upwards in that same mischievous little smile he had seen on her face so many times already, before she briefly leant forward and kissed him softly on the cheek and whispered a soft 'thank you' in his ear.

The part of him that moved in the daylight and the wealthy circles of society had kissed his fair share of beautiful women, and had become adept at pretending that he was enjoying himself immensely, but despite that he couldn't remember the last time he had been truly surprised by a kiss. Nor could he remember the last time a kiss had set off a fireworks display to his inner eye.

Connie had curled up among her blankets and was watching his surprise with a sort of childish satisfaction and a smile she had the feeling she should have been trying to conceal but couldn't. When he showed no signs of moving, or even reacting to what she had just done she shrugged, closed her eyes and tried to get comfortable. She was planning on keeping her promise.

For a long while she didn't hear anything, and assumed he had left silently like he had done so many times before. But then she heard the rustle of his cape as he took a step towards her, and completely unexpected she felt a hand brush a strand of hair away from her face, before very gently caressing her cheek.

"My pleasure."

It was as if the words themselves made his voice sound different, giving it more the sound of a man and less the sound of an animal, and for a second she thought that it reminded her briefly of another voice she had heard, but she couldn't place it and despite what she had claimed she was far too tired to search her memory further.

There was another soft rustle of fabric, followed by the sound of careful footsteps, then a gust of wind and a window closing, and she knew he had gone.