Warning: A little bad language . . .

"How soon can you get the formula synthesized?"

"Shouldn't take more than a few hours," Barry said.

Batman looked at the clock. It was already getting late. For all of Robin's energy during the meeting, he was definitely lagging now. Thankfully, his pain and nausea were still being held at bay.

"Tomorrow would be better," he said. "After everyone has eaten and gotten some sleep."

J'onn nodded. "I am staying on the Watchtower. I will oversee the making of the formula in the meantime."

Barry smiled. "That works for me. Iris has barely seen me in the past couple of days. And I am famished!"

Batman shook each man's hands. "I thank you for taking time out of your heavy schedules to do this for us," he said.

"Think nothing of it, my friend," J'onn told him. "Your young protégé is quite adept at endearing himself to others."

Barry agreed. "There is no way I could have refused. That kid of yours is a beacon of light, and we all know the world needs every one of those it can get."

Bruce stood over Dick's bed watching the boy sleep. It was good seeing some of the boy's normal boundless energy and personality again, however fleeting it was. He sat down on the edge of the bed, and stroked a hand through the silky strands. He hesitated at edge of his head wound. The swelling was gone, even if the stitches were not.

Perhaps once the triggers were gone, and it was safe to let him roam again, it would be easier for his memories to return. He was pleased that the ringing had retreated well enough he caught parts of the conversation in the lab today. It gave him hope that the hearing loss wasn't permanent.

He shuddered remembering the blood that ran from those ears just two days ago. It would take him years to get over that moment, and he knew that the image would continue to haunt him until the day he died.

This theory that Flash and the Martian had come up with had better work. The side effects were daunting, and the chances that Dick could come out of this unscathed were slim. It wouldn't matter to him, Bruce, because Dick would always have a place in his home; in his heart, but it would matter to Dick. He couldn't return to the field as Robin if the side effects were debilitating. How could he when he wouldn't be able to look Batman in the face without losing it?

It was better than death however, a voice inside his head reminded him. He silently thanked Jeremy Cantor, wherever he was now, that he had taken the precautions he did to protect Robin. Bruce wouldn't have been able to live with himself had he been the one to bring on the attack that ultimately killed the boy.

What Barry had said about the boy being a beacon, had been correct. The world needed him, but most of all, Batman needed him, and . . . Bruce Wayne. Had people once called him cold and emotionless? They hadn't seen him lately.

Dick frowned in his sleep, a tiny moan slipping out between his lips.

Bruce sighed. He knew the nightmares would come. The boy seldom could pass two nights without at least one, and after the events of this week, it was only a matter of time. So far, his exhaustion had kept most of them at bay, only two had shown up to plague him.

Batman had work to do, but patrol wasn't for a few more hours yet. Bruce kicked off his shoes, lifted the covers and rolled Dick over. He slid in behind the boy and pulled the child back against his chest; laying a protective arm around his small frame. He could use a nap anyway, and knew that Alfred would wake him in a few hours if he overslept.

Dick wrapped an arm around Bruce's larger one and sighed, whatever monster lurking in his subconscious slain by the mere presence of this child's protector. It was interesting how Dick could somehow sense his presence even in sleep. Hell, he had done something similar in the medical bay while blindfolded. Alfred said they had a bond . . . Bruce closed his eyes and let sleep take him on that thought.

"I'm sorry, Master Bruce," Alfred was saying. "I went through every Lydia that the computer listed and compared their photographs with the composite image you had left for me. None of the women listed matched."

Bruce clenched his teeth, and struggled not to allow his temper reign. "This is madness, Alfred," he growled. "The woman couldn't have simply popped up out of thin air fully formed. She had to come from somewhere!"

"Perhaps if we took the search further afield, sir?"

"What? Should we be searching the entire United States for her?" Bruce swung around and walked to the Batmobile. He opened the door and tossed his cowl on the passenger seat. He wouldn't put it on until after he passed out of the Batcave.

He scowled as he tried to think of where the woman was hiding. Possibly with Crane, himself, he thought, as he walked back to the computer. He wished that Alfred could stay and help him solve this problem. The man was fairly gifted with thinking outside the box, despite his proper English upbringing. Perhaps it was his years of having to deal with the Batman that had warped his thinking . . . But Alfred needed to head upstairs and be with Dick. Even though the boy was sleeping peacefully, thanks to the baby monitor that Alfred had purchased earlier while they had been at the Watchtower, it could change in a heartbeat, and any separation from one or the other of his protectors made Bruce nervous.

His eyes strayed to the receiver sitting prominently on the edge of the computer. Dick hadn't noticed the monitor when he went to bed. He could barely keep his eyes open as he went through his normal bedtime routines. But tomorrow . . . Tomorrow, Bruce had a feeling both he and Alfred would be feeling the boy's wrath upon learning that they were using a monitor for babies to check on him. Amusement made his mouth quirk up into a fleeting smile.

"Is it possible that the woman changed her name, sir?" Alfred's voice cut into his thoughts and brought him back on subject.

"God, I hope not," he grumbled, all traces of amusement banished. "That would enlarge the scope of our search to nearly impossible parameters."

"We could start small," Alfred suggested. "Gotham City's female chemists, biochemists, laboratory technicians, psychiatrists, and psychologists."

"Add to that every female student and recent graduate in those fields at Gotham Community College, Gotham's University of Science and Technology, and Hudson University not named Lydia," Bruce grunted. "That's hardly starting small, Alfred."

"What choice do we have? Before I head upstairs," Alfred added. "I will continue a second search of Lydias in those fields outside of our hundred mile radius; one that will encompass the state."

Bruce shook his head. "This is ridiculous. It will take us a week to go through all of these names. There has to be something we're missing!"

Alfred looked up from where he had begun programming the newest search parameters into the Batcomputer. "Perhaps you might try speaking with that detective that had so impressed you before. Harlow, I believe his name was?"

Bruce frowned, glancing at his butler-cum-everything. "You know," he mused. "That might not be such a bad idea."

As for thinking outside of the box, Bruce strongly suspected that there hadn't been a box made that could contain the clever Detective Harlow. As uncomfortable as it was to have the man read his every thought simply through observation alone, it intrigued him. He'd like to see if he could do it again. Maybe it was some sort of parlor trick . . . Although, if it was, it was quite an impressive one.

Alfred hummed as he initiated the search. He straightened, picking up the baby monitor receiver, and turned to his employer.

"Yes," he said, dryly. "I have been known to come up with one or two of those 'not-bad' ideas upon occasion."

Bruce smirked. "You know what I mean."

"As frightening as it is to contemplate, Master Bruce," Alfred looked at him; a single, raised eyebrow the only expression on an otherwise stoic face. "Indeed, I do."

"Well, I needed to reassure the man that he would be getting his evidence back soon, anyway. He's too talented to be fired for helping me." Bruce put on his utility belt, and picked up his gloves.

"And tomorrow the Martian Manhunter and the Flash will be attempting to rid our boy of those dreadful triggers permanently?" Alfred asked.

"Yes," he said. "Although it still bothers me."

Alfred tilted his head, frowning. "How so, sir," he asked. "I thought that this was Master Dick's best chance."

"Unfortunately, it is," Bruce slapped his gloves against his leg in agitation. "But there are side effects that could still plague him for the rest of his life. In fact, the odds are good that this will be exactly the case."

"Oh, dear," Alfred sat down in the chair at the computer. "What sort of side effects?"

"J'onn said that panic attacks when confronted with the original triggers afterwards were common. He also mentioned unreasonable fear or even pain could occur. In at least one case, the effects were debilitating enough that it prevented the victim from resuming his normal life."

"But death is averted?"

"Yes, Alfred, thank God for that. Death is averted in every case." Bruce admitted. "He also said the reversing the triggers in all those cases were done without the help of drugs. He feels that by using Cantor's formula, it will increase Dick's chances for a full recovery."

"It appears we don't have much choice in the matter, then, sir. The boy certainly cannot remain as he is. Better a life with some small handicap than to risk death every time a glass is shattered or he turns on the television." Alfred nodded, as if reassuring himself that this was true.

"I still worry," Bruce admitted. "Even with this treatment, Dick's days as Robin could be over."

Alfred stood up, pausing to brush nonexistent wrinkles from his perfectly pressed suit. "I'll admit that I don't find that particular outcome as terrible as Master Dick might."

"Ah, that may be, old friend," Bruce pursed his lips and grimaced. "But that is only because you wouldn't be the one to explain it to him."

"Yes," he said. "There is that."

"I hate this, Alfred . . ."

"I thought that despite the potential side effects, that this was to be considered a good thing, Master Bruce," Alfred frowned. "In what way does this bother you still?"

"It's just that everything is still so uncertain. No one really knows what will happen after this so-called treatment," he said. "Crane used Dick to experiment on, as if he were some kind of lab rat. The bastard even kept him in a cage, Alfred! And now, we will basically be doing the exact same thing: experimenting on him."

"I hardly see the similarities, sir," Alfred protested. "You won't be doing this against his will, and certainly no one will be strapping him down or holding him in a cage!"

"Semantics! That is all it is, Alfred! Semantics!" Bruce snarled. He turned away and began shoving his hands into his gloves. "I-I'm sorry, Alfred. I'm not angry with you, but the situation. I shouldn't have yelled."

"There is nothing to forgive, Master Bruce," the butler reassured him. "The situation is a horrible one, but not one without hope. We must keep our spirits up, and do the things we must, however distasteful we may find them."

Hope. There was that word again . . . Bruce nodded and waved to the man who had essentially raised him to adulthood. The butler was more like a father to him than a mere employee. His wisdom, when taken, had never failed him. Sliding behind the wheel of the Batmobile, he prepared to do what he must, no matter how distasteful . . . But there were certain things that were too bitter for even him to swallow without protest.

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