Chapter 25

For the first time that he could remember, Bruce Wayne was happy to be at work. Pamela told me to be happy, so I am happy.

He was happy—about being at work, and about Pamela—but the fact that he was doing nothing except sitting around in his office… bothered him. When she greeted him at the entrance to Wayne Enterprises this morning, she had told him to wait for her instructions and in the meantime do nothing. Of course, he obeyed, but it was surprisingly difficult to sit around and do nothing; something within him seemed to urge him to action, any action. Pausing, he searched within himself, and could almost grasp it: a spirit or something, struggling, fighting to break out. Curious, he was tempted to let it out, but that would mean doing something, and Pamela had told her not to do anything, so instead he sat in his very plush seat, kicking back and waiting.

Time passed, and the urge to do something grew ever stronger. It was becoming increasingly difficult to resist, but before it became unbearable, Pamela finally came in.

"Good morning, Bruce!"

"Good morning, Pamela!" She was lovely as always, wearing her white lab coat and glasses, her hair up in a bun. Before he could react, she was in front him, her glisteningly moist hand inches from his face… Flashes flickered before his eyes; her clothes darkened, taking on greenish hues; her hair seemed to float free from her head, swirling about in an agitated crimson whirl. Her lips beckoned, closer and closer…

"What?" Bruce shook his head. Breathing deeply, he suddenly felt at ease again.

"Are you feeling good, Bruce?"

Was he? "I'm not sure… should I—"

"Of course you do! You feel wonderful, don't you?"

Thinking over her words, he slowly but surely was feeling better. "Oh yes, Pamela, very good!"

Pamela smiled, which lifted his spirits even higher. "I'm so glad to hear it. May I ask a favor?"

"Anything, Pamela."

"Would you sign this? There's something I need to do, and I just need your signature so I can get on with doing it." Nodding, he reached out to sign it, but she pulled it away. "No need to read it, now, is there?"

Signing a piece of paper sight unseen felt… wrong, somehow. But Pamela was standing there, a slight pout on her face. He couldn't deny that.

"No problem." He took out a pen and held it out. Pamela proffered the form, and he signed it. "Anything else?"

She smiled. "No, that's all. You can go about your daily affairs now, but remember: don't tell anyone about me or what we're doing. That would make me… unhappy, and you wouldn't want to do that, would you?" She placed his hand on his cheek; it made him shiver as his body convulsed in reaction to her touch.

"Absolutely not!"

"Good. If you're not feeling good, read this, and everything will be all right again." Bruce nodded eagerly as Pamela handed him an envelope. "Till then!" She waved and left the office. Seconds later, the intercom on his desk started buzzing.

"Mister Wayne," his secretary said in an agitated voice, "there are four people on the line, insisting on talking with you! I don't think I can put them on hold any longer."

"Very well, put them through."

For the rest of the day he went to work with great diligence, in part because that was what Pamela had told him to do. He was in the middle of working through a mountain of paperwork when his cellphone rang. Annoyed that someone had interrupted his duties, he said curtly: "What is it?"

"Mister Wayne?" It was Fox. "I just wanted to confirm this transfer order with your signature on it, from one Pamela Isley."

The mention of her name sent a flare of anger through him. "Pamela Isley is no concern of yours!"

There was a pause on the other side. The old fool sounded surprised: "Uh, if you say so, but this is a most unusual request—"

"None of your concern, Fox, do you understand me?"

"Very well, Mister Wayne, but I really think—"

Bruce was so angry he slammed the cellphone down, knocking the battery loose. Silencing it made him felt better. With a smile, he went back to his paper work.

Bruce and Alfred ate dinner in silence. Every time Bruce lifted his head up, he noticed Alfred was casting furtive looks in his direction. When he could stand it no more, Bruce dropped his spoon down, causing a loud clang. "What?"

"Sorry, sir, I just wanted to know about last night. Did you find anything?"

"I—" All of a sudden, he had difficulty speaking. The image of Pamela floated before his eyes. As he tried to speak, she was kissing him, preventing his lips from moving.

Alfred got out of his seat. "Are you all right, sir?"

"I'm fine," he said quickly, trying his best not to bring up the subject of Pamela. After all, that was what she wanted.

"Will you be going out tonight, then?"

"Sorry?"

"As Batman." Alfred's eyes narrowed. "Green Dawn is still on the loose, I was wondering if you had some other idea."

"'Other idea'?" Bruce found himself curiously unable to move.

"I assume your meeting with Doctor Isley at that club last night has disabused you of the notion that she is involved in Green Dawn."

"Yes, yes! Exactly!" It seemed like forever since he had donned the suit, but a torrent of memories poured into his head. Of course Pamela had nothing to do with Green Dawn—she said so, didn't she? He couldn't quite remember, but he was pretty sure that's what she said. "This… this is a bit of a setback, we may have to go back to the drawing board." He smiled awkwardly, trying to ignore the beads of sweat dripping down the side of his face.

"I see," Alfred said noncommittally. "In that case, are you still going out on patrol?"

Yes! I have to! "No, I think I'll turn in early tonight." After all, she didn't say she could go on patrol, did she?

A flicker of surprise passed through Alfred's face, but it vanished quickly. "Very well, sir. I'll clean up."

"Thanks." He got up and hurriedly went to bed. Bruce felt dizzy; he felt powerful impulses washing over him—he wanted to contact Pamela, talk to her, see her, smell her… but he also felt a new impulse, nameless fear—of her. He was so jittery, he jackknifed out of the bed, landing with a thud on the floor. What's happening to me?

He splashed some water on his face, which made him feel better. Concentrate on Pamela, that will help… He did so, and all his discomfort leeched away, as he recalled her wishes more clearly. Say nothing about me, she had said.

"My lips are sealed," Bruce said happily, drifting off to bed.

Bruce woke up with a start. He felt cold, clammy; his hands were shaking badly. Slowly, Pamela's image came to mind again, but this time instead of evoking soothing sensations, he felt a terrible craving. Over and over he tried thinking of anyone, anything to push her out of his mind, but she was still there, her smell and taste. The sensations made him sick; he barely got to the bathroom before totally losing it.

What the hell is going on? Bruce thought, bewildered. He had to do something, quick, or he'd go crazy. He opened the mirror and scowled at the spare medical cabinet. As a rule, Bruce distrusted medicine and drugs, so he tried to avoid pharmaceutical aid whenever possible. Till now, it had always seemed like a good idea.

Cursing, he went back to the bedroom. On the desk, there was a plain envelope with the words, 'Important Reminder' on it. For the life of him he couldn't remember what it was for, but something impelled him to open it. He did so, and found a lavender cloth with Pamela's picture on it inside. Taking it out, a powerful jolt hit him; it took him a moment to get his bearings, but when he did, he felt completely normal again. Holding his hands in front of him, they were rock-steady. Now, he remembered exactly what he had to do, because it was written on the cloth in his grasp.

In his office, Bruce was perfectly content sitting at his desk, doing nothing once more. The buzzer on his desk wailed out again and again, but he ignored it. The TV was showing the latest outrage committed by Green Dawn, and the horror it provoked vanished as quickly as the morning dew—it was nothing to worry about, he was sure she said so.

It did seem odd to be doing nothing, but that was okay. Once he heard from Pamela, he would know what to do.

His happy nothingness was rudely interrupted by the unexpected opening of the door. In stepped Fox. He was annoyed, angry, but because he had been told to do nothing, he did not respond. Even as the tall elderly man walked towards him, he did nothing, although with Fox standing right in front of him, Bruce decided it would be okay to do at least something.

"I left instructions to be left alone," Bruce said harshly.

"Sorry, Mister Wayne, but it couldn't wait. I want to talk to you about Doctor Isley."

The moment he spoke those words a spark ignited within Bruce. With a cry of inchoate rage he leaped to his feet, certain that he had to act to eliminate this threat to Pamela. However, the fact that she had wrote to him to do nothing unless she said so caused him to hesitate—unsure of whether he should kill Fox, or do nothing, he froze in momentary paralysis.

His arms stretched out at Fox, Bruce was even more surprised when Fox pulled out a gun and shot him. Blackness instantly consumed him.

With a triumphant grin, she saw that the final test results were positive. It's finished!

Pamela Isley was extremely happy; infiltrating Wayne Enterprises had proved more profitable than she could have imagined. With access to their sophisticated labs and supplies, she had been able to cut weeks off her final schedule. All I need is another night, and I can begin!

Carefully she loaded her samples into a travel kit, and picked up a small box of supplies. There was just one last detail—

"You! Isley! Stay where you are!" As I was saying...

Smoothly she rotated on her lab bench to face Daryl Issacs, the supervisor for this lab, a lab which she technically did not have access to, but had managed to acquire through gentle amounts of 'persuasion'. Two security guards were with her.

"What can I do for you, Mister Issacs?" she said innocently.

"You're in big trouble, lady, not least because you shouldn't be here," he said crossly.

"Mister Wayne himself said I could be, you can ask him if you'd like—"

"—Mister Fox has final say over laboratory access for employees, and he expressly refused your improper attempt to bypass protocol. We're going to take you in for questioning, we have been investigating missing supplies for days now, and we think you have something to do about it."

Pamela nodded, and got off the bench. "Very well, we'd better go." She started walking towards the door, as all the other people in the lab watched in confusion. Behind her, Daryl began running after her.

"Stop, you do what we say—"

"—and that is your first, and last mistake, when it comes to me, Daryl." Turning to face them, she smiled sweetly. "Better take a deep breath," she said, as she pulled the fire alarm.

Instantly the sprinklers showered the room in a fine mist of water. Normally nothing to worry about, except Isley had yesterday spent the evening preparing her escape, and had attached a tank filled with concentrated hydroflouric acid to the sprinkler system. Immediately the dozen people in the lab began shrieking and falling to the ground, as the chemical sank through their skin and began reacting with the calcium in their blood, sending them all into calcium shock. They twitched horribly, then died. Fortunately for her, her implants were now flooding her bloodstream with all the calcium gluconate necessary to counter the effect. Elsewhere, the hydroflouric acid burned and dissolved all the exposed electronics in the laboratory. By the time security made their way in, there would be no trace of her presence.

Walking out the door, alarms began ringing through the building. She had slipped into a decontamination room, gotten cleaned up and left the building just in time before security arrived. Like he said, I shouldn't be there, and everyone who knew I was there is now dead. "Therefore, I was never there," she chuckled.

Stepping outside into the late afternoon, she made her way back downtown. There were many things left to do, but once they were done, she would bring down the Machine once and for all.

"He seems to be coming to," a distant voice said.

"Let's hope he's finally clean," another voice replied.

Bruce realized he was strapped to a gurney. Straining, he turned his head, and saw several IV-lines running into his left arm. Looking around, he realized he was in one of Lucius' personal laboratories, where he did his special 'evening' work.

"How are you feeling, sir?" Bruce saw Alfred standing over him, a look of concern on his face.

I'm not sure, Bruce thought, because he wasn't. Opening his eyes, he took in a few deep breaths. Aside from a growling stomach and the beginnings of thirst, he felt—

"—Fine, Alfred." Bruce smiled reassuringly. That seemed to relieve Alfred, for he smiled as well and patted him on the shoulder.

"Hope you're feeling like yourself again, Mister Wayne," Lucius said gruffly as he came to Alfred's side. "Let's make sure, shall we? Tell us what you know about Pamela Isley."

Pamela Isley… A jumble of impressions wafted by, many of them unpleasant, but none of them definite. "I'm trying to remember, it's a bit of a blur, the last thing I remember was seeing her in that club…"

Lucius smiled. "Looks like we broke the spell. Excuse me." He came up and undid the strap that held him down.

"Thanks," Bruce said uneasily, sitting up and rubbing his chest.

"Sorry about that, sir, but Alfred told me you didn't seem quite yourself, ever since you went to investigate Isley. 'That witch has him under his thrall,' I believe those were your words?"

Alfred smiled. "Well, almost; I don't think I said 'witch'…"

The two men laughed, and after a moment so did Bruce. "You're lucky Alfred is such an astute judge of your character, otherwise we might never have been able to help you." He paused. "There's no exact scientific term for what happened to you, so I made one up. What happened to you I call, 'pheromone-induced psychosomatic compulsion.'"

Puzzled, Bruce said: "I think I know what happened, but hopefully you can tell me why."

"After I neutralized you with that sleeping dart gun, I had you quietly brought down here and a complete series of blood tests done. Your samples were filled with an amazing number of drugs and chemical compounds. Some of them were memory-suppressors, things that would make you forget things that had happened shortly before they were administered. Others were various trace elements of poisons and toxins—fortunately for you, or you wouldn't be here anymore," Lucius said over his glasses. Bruce nodded.

"Finally, I found a whole series of unusual chemicals: female hormones, antidepressants, and one unknown compound which I eventually identified from the information you got from Cataldi. Something called RTN-335A, or what they called 'Atlas', a drug designed to increase sexual desire."

"Quite a cocktail," Bruce mused. "I remember finding Isley very attractive—so much so it was hard to keep it down—but she was beautiful regardless." Bruce fell silent. "Everything else is a haze. I remember doing things, but not being told to do so, it seemed like I was just acting out of my own free will."

"Despite the compulsion caused by the drugs, in a way you still were," Lucius said gravely. "Think of a narcotic addict, they'll do almost anything to get a fix, and while the addiction is compulsive, they still retain the ability to choose their actions. This 'Atlas' drug has a similar addictive effect. But the interesting thing is that your blood was filled with drugs that suppress sexual desire as well. It seemed contradictory, but then I realized that the use of both at the same time would cause withdrawal symptoms to manifest much quicker, leaving a person desperate for a fix. By being next to you as the addictive effect hit, Doctor Isley became the manifest means by which you could satisfy that craving. If she managed to give you more of this Atlas after you agreed to do what she asked, she would have sealed in your mind the belief that doing what she wanted would restore the pleasurable effect."

It took a while for Bruce to digest what he said, but when he did the ramifications were so horrifying it took every ounce of willpower to keep from exploding. "So you're saying Pamela Isley definitely has the ability to compel men, however she does it, to obey her?" Lucius nodded.

Bruce swore, liberally and lengthily. The thought of not being fully in control of his mind and body, that someone else was playing him like a puppet, was so disgusting he almost vomited again. The bones in his hand creaked under the pressure of his fists curling up. Rage approaching the anger he felt as a little boy coursed through his veins.

"Of course, this is all merely informed speculation," Lucius added.

It took some time for Bruce to cool down. Sourly, he said: "No, I'm sure you're right. Think about it, how many times has Green Dawn managed to pull off seemingly impossible attacks? Attacks that required improbable inside help? Take the bombing of Gotham Financial—she must have drugged Lewison and forced him to sneak that bomb inside. My God!" Bruce shuddered. If Isley had 'suggested' something like that to me, would I have done it? I might have!

Lucius asked: "How did she administer the drugs to you? Most of these chemicals would have to be ingested or injected to work."

"I'm not sure," Bruce said morosely, "my memory of the last few days is all mush."

"Try, sir. I injected you with some neurotransmitter stimulants, they should help amplify your memories, if you concentrate hard enough. Think back to the first time you met, and take it from there"

Bruce did so. The last memory he had was going into the club, so he concentrated from that time onward. The void slowly formed into new images: lights, sounds, sensations. He remembered her in her incredibly forward garb, blazingly gorgeous even without her sinister cocktails. Focusing, time slowed…

…Without warning she surged forward, took his head in her hands and kissed him, a short but wet one full on the lips. Pulling away, she said: "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have done that, but I wanted to make you feel better…

"It was on her lips!" Bruce exclaimed. "She kissed me, and then I started feeling funny—no, yes, then I couldn't keep my mind off her. She then said, 'Have a drink', I wasn't thirsty, but I did what she said. Damn it!" Bruce slammed his right fist into his left hand. "She must have painted the chemicals on her lips, to use whenever she wanted."

"Maybe, or maybe something else," Lucius said guardedly.

"What do you mean?"

"I managed to recover most of the deleted files that you downloaded," Lucius began. "Before Isley started working on the Atlas project, she was working on implantable Islet cells." Responding to Bruce's blank looks, he continued: "She apparently perfected a technique where you could implant almost any kind of celltype into the body. She was able to implant allograph Islet cells for diabetic patients, cells that could produce insulin, but in theory it would be possible to implant any kind of cells, including those modified to produce certain specific organic materials. Things like methanol, cyanide, curare, tetrodotoxin. Sound familiar?"

Bruce thought for a moment, then it hit him: "The poisons used by Green Dawn, both before and after Cataldi! So you're saying she… produced them? Like a snake?"

Lucius nodded. Alfred said: "Are you saying she's literally poisonous?"

"Exactly."

"Jesus, maybe she can secrete poisons from her saliva, or possibly her lips, maybe even her fingertips." Bruce was thunderstruck. "No need to sneak the poisons past security, or risk getting caught administering them, all she would have to do is whet the edge of a glass, or scratch someone with her fingertips, or even just kiss them!" Agitated, Bruce began to pace, lost in intense thought. "That would explain it, yes indeed, that would explain a lot of things." Abruptly he stopped. "Wait a minute, if Isley produces these poisons from these implants, wouldn't they poison her as well?"

"Not if she also created cells that could secrete the antidote," Lucius replied. "Implant cells that make methanol and its antidote, fomepizol; tetrodotoxin and neostigmine, you can go down the list."

Thinking about that, more things fell into place. "Of course! That's how she could have handled all those poisons without any special protective equipment. No need to hide a gas mask when you're poisoning people with nerve gas if you've already got the antidote inside you. No need to wear gloves while using curare if you're already immune."

Lucius said: "She must be the best molecular biologist in the world, to do even half of what we're talking about, simply incredible."

The rush of information and their implications churning in Bruce's mind, a final revelation suddenly became clear: "Lucius, Alfred, Pamela Isley—Poison Ivy—she isn't just a member of Green Dawn, she is Green Dawn. Everything they've done, everything they could do, all of it comes from her genetic powers." Even as he said it, the implications staggered him: Pamela Isley, a mild-mannered, attractive scientist passionate about saving the environment—a cold-blooded sociopath responsible for killing more people than Ra's and all his minions had managed to not long ago.

And what could she do next? "She had to be looking for something. Lucius, what did Isley manage to get from Wayne Enterprises?"

Now Alfred and Lucius were grimly silent. "What? What is it?"

Fox said gravely, "I went behind your back, sir. I told security not to give Isley access, but apparently she managed to get it anyway. A few hours after we brought you in, there was an accident in a lab at Wayne Enterprise—hydroflouric acid spill, fifteen dead. It was a lab Isley may have gotten access to, although we have no proof she was there at the time."

A deathly chill filled Bruce. "She did it," he said quietly. "Did she take anything else?

"From another lab, there are twelve liters of ultra-pure growth agar missing," Lucius replied instantly. "You use it to grow cell cultures."

Bruce was no scientist, but he wasn't ignorant, either. "Is she planning to… plant new cells inside her, so she can use new poisons?" I didn't know there were so many.

"That, or she's planning to grow some other kind of microorganisms."

"Like anthrax," Bruce said darkly.

"Or worse," Lucius replied.

For a moment there was silence. Bruce said: "We have to stop her. Let's get to work."

The next few hours were among the most stressful in Bruce's life, and given all he had endured that was saying something. Given that Isley had managed to fool the FBI into believing she was an informant, he simply couldn't trust going through official channels to have her apprehended. Not telling even Rachel or Gordon troubled him, but he decided it was the safer thing to do. Besides, Isley managing to subvert his mind and will to her nefarious purpose was an insult that required a very direct, very individual payback.

Perhaps he was mistaken, but Bruce considered his motivation an asset and not a liability.

They had to make their move against Isley tonight, if it wasn't already too late—Bruce knew the location of Isley's main hideout and probable base of operations at Club Evolution, which she used presumably as a cover for her recruitment activities, but she might have vanished already. Even if they did, they might have left a clue. Bruce did not remember seeing any obvious defenses, and he was willing to gamble that like most terrorists, Isley preferred security through stealth. He and Alfred painstakingly poured over the maps of the neighborhood Evolution was located in and the blueprints of the structure itself. Fortunately, there were almost no readily-accessible mass transit lines or roadways nearby for her to make an easy escape.

How many other members in Green Dawn? Knowing what he did now, probably fewer than he thought at first, given that Isley was not only the scientific brains behind the group, but its main operative as well. They might be armed, but in the confined spaces of a nightclub, Bruce was confident of his abilities. And whatever her intelligence and cunning, Pamela Isley, Ph.D. was probably not an accomplished street fighter, so apprehending her would be a straightforward task.

Unless… If what Lucius said was true, however, there was theoretically no limit to the array of toxic weapons Isley could use against him or other innocent bystanders. After brainstorming a lengthy list of potential agents, Lucius bluntly reminded Bruce of the old aphorism, 'an ounce of prevention is better than a pound of cure.' With that, he told Bruce to forget any idea about carrying around cures and antidotes, and started work on perfecting the NBC protection of the Mk III suit.

Bruce was still worried—no matter how good the passive protection of his Batsuit, experience taught him that you needed a backup plan. But Lucius was right: there was no way to protect against every poison out there, so why bother? While Alfred made dinner, Bruce struggled to find a way to cram as many antidotes on him as humanly possible. The real problem was not so much carrying antidotes as administering them in the unlikely event the suit was breached. That was a much more difficult problem, so much so Bruce reluctantly decided to abandon it.

Another unpleasant thought occurred to him: what if Isley had managed to enhance herself in other ways? What would you do if she was twice as strong as you, or twice as fast? The idea was absurd, and yet... I need more weapons. Did he dare contemplate using a gun? Chances were, she wasn't immune to a bullet. It disturbed him that it took a long time and much thought to decide no. Agitated, he tried to think of other things. A taser? He thought back to his first encounter as Batman with Rachel and smiled. Next. The next obvious thing was some kind of tranquilizer, but a moment's second thought quickly revealed the flaw in his logic. If Isley protects herself against poisons, she's probably protected herself against non-lethal agents as well.

Looking for any edge he could find, Bruce decided to flip through the reports Lucius had managed to salvage. Almost all of it was completely over his head, but he was able to follow the executive summary Isley had wrote for Staughton. Was it before or after she killed him? Bruce thought sourly. The writing was cool and precise, befitting a scientist of her stature. Then he suddenly felt a great sadness. What could possibly have turned her into such a monster? As much as he wanted and looked forward to the justice system punishing her, he still wanted to know why she did it. This was not something he had thought much of when he first started, but things were not so black and white, and if there were ever to be a permanent solution to Gotham's woes, a whole lot of Whys would have to be answered. But will we like the answers?

As Bruce scrolled through long inventories of laboratory items and materials, his eyes started to blur. Munching on a sandwich, he was about to go and check up on Lucius when he paused—something caught his eye. Reading more carefully, it led to a thought, then another, and another. Reasoning through the causal chain, he arrived at a startling endpoint.

Bruce got up quickly; now he had something very important to discuss with Lucius.

"Bottom line, do you think it would stop her?"

"Stop her? Hell, it would probably kill her. I know that's not your style, but frankly I wouldn't lose too much sleep over it." Lucius was typically a genial, gracious man, but there was no warmth in his voice as he said those words.

"I would." Bruce was surprised that his suggestion had more than the desired effect; normally life didn't work that way. But despite all she (probably) did, all she was guilty of, he didn't want to kill her. That's very important to me. In dark times like this he wondered whether he would rather be killed than kill, if he had to choose. Next question!

"If we used a different preparation," Lucius began.

"What? What would happen?"

After a pause, Lucius said: "You could use it."

"Do it."

It was past eleven in the night when it was time to act.

"Anything we missed?" Bruce asked, looking at Lucius and Alfred.

"Everything's ready on the equipment side," Lucius responded.

"It's a good plan, sir, you'd have made a fine officer," Alfred said, unable to hide his proud feelings about Bruce. "Just remember what happens to plans when they first make contact with the enemy."

"Unlike them, I intend to survive," Bruce said dryly. Lucius and Alfred smiled, but only a little. His smile fading, Bruce said determinedly: "The three of us, and Rachel and Gordon, we've made a difference in Gotham City. Your efforts and sacrifices are every bit as important as mine—none of us could have done it without the help of everyone else." Now he smiled. "I only wished I didn't need to rely on you as much as I have, for that would mean that Gotham was back on the right track. It's started down that direction, but as you know the last few months we've had to face a terrible menace. Again, thanks to the efforts of everyone here, and those who aren't, we're very close to putting an end to their crimes once and for all. All that remains is this last step, but unfortunately it's the most perilous one of all."

Bruce paused for reflection. He started speaking again: "I won't lie to you, this will be very dangerous, and some of us may not make it back. But no matter what happens to us, we're going to stop Green Dawn—stop Poison Ivy—once and for all. And we're going to do it without losing our humanity in the process. Alfred was the one who told me about a favorite saying of my mother's: what you do in life sometimes doesn't matter as much as how you do it. It's something I've always tried to uphold in my own life. Tonight, everyone, friend and foe, will not only know what we stand for, but that we go about it the right way." He grinned again. "Maybe not the 'legal' way all the time, but definitely the right way." That evoked chuckles from the other men. The laughter died quickly, though. When Bruce spoke again, he was very quiet.

"Still, this is first and foremost my fight, my burden, and I have no right to ask of you more than you have already given. If this doesn't go to plan, if something happens to me, your first priority is to alert the authorities… and not to save me." Lucius and Alfred shifted, but Bruce continued: "This is the last thing I must ask before we start: do I have your word, gentlemen, that you will do that?"

There was but a moment of hesitation from the two older men, who in different ways looked upon Bruce as the son they did not have. The possibility of losing him, like they had lost his parents, pained them deeply. But they were men of duty first and foremost, and nothing made them prouder than the fact that this haunted young man had grown up to embrace a duty so much larger than himself. Only that fact made their decisions possible.

"You have our word," they both said unstintingly.

Bruce Wayne nodded. "Let's go gentlemen. Good luck to us all."