AN: This is to be my second official fanfic on this site. I'd attempted to carry on another's work prior and, it frankly didn't pan out no matter what I put into it. After a prayer and some work, I found that this is more my speed as I have my vision to work with. I hope those of you who read this fic enjoy yourselves, and I will see you next time.

Pagliacci-11.

Chapter 1

It had been a substantial amount of time and effort before she had found her stride. Even after she'd found out his secret, she was still stunned at all she'd been witness to in hindsight. The dangers he'd put himself in and yet how he'd been able to maintain such a collected resolve throughout it all was still staggering. However, now that she herself was in this and had been in it for a while, Max had to admit that all the work that she'd now been part of was part of a unique tapestry that made up what could only be called academically, "The Human Condition."

Terry had advocated for Max to join the team what was now four years ago. The sheer amount of things she had seen in just the first year was mind-boggling enough, and during her third year, she had become somewhat numb to the thrill that first enhanced a lot of the work as Terry's operation's coordinator. She'd more than heard from the old man how the thrill should never be part of the work, but at the time, Max thought that the rush in itself was a portion of it, a form of passive reward.

However, as time went on and Max saw the same patterns over and over again, it wasn't excitement that filled her so much as it was—predictability. Regardless of criminal method, the motives always remained the same, maybe with the slightest form of variance if one was generous. However, the work didn't bore her. Once she'd earned full access to the elements of the Batcomputer, she began to satisfy her own time by compiling data on all of the criminals Terry had faced. Over time, this wealth of information became its own systematic subroutine for Max. Through her connections with the likes of Chelsea Cunningham, this wealth of information had turned into a career of somewhat noble repute.

Max had come into her realm, albeit she felt still in the junior end of the pool compared to the peers that surrounded her. The criminals that she and Terry had faced and cataloged comprised the backbone of Max's career as a criminal psychologist. In many ways, by all appearances, she wasn't dissimilar from many undergraduate students who came before her, ones seemingly insatiable in their thirst in understanding the criminal mind. However, with Max, this was different. This dangerous field of expertise was an attempt to rehabilitate the deranged as was best she could. She wasn't like the once-promising Harleen Quinzel, who was fascinated by the macabre and the horrors that lay before her. For Max, it was about genuinely trying to treat the patients.

Over time, it was more than fair to say that the optimist in her had been tempered by experience. Experience from dealing with the likes of first the mercenary Inque then, further by the extremist in the form of "Mad" Stan. The destruction of the once-great Powers family was also a darkly exciting case study. Yet, at the end of the day, Max had been able to make peace very early on with that some people did as they did and had no shame doing so.

Inque was a mercenary in it for the money to build a hedge around her daughter in a sense; Stan was angry as any institution that treated people as puppets at best or tools at worst. Rage against the machine was something that very much came to mind with old Stan. Then there was Derek Powers, the man who served as a thorn in the sides of many in the name of his own vision for power at first, but then to conceal his condition later on, if you could call it that. The difference being with Mad Stan and Inque, to a degree, was that Powers kept the monster as best he could beneath the surface; the aforementioned Inque and Stan had no such qualms. As her grandfather would have said, as he often did when she was very young, "At least they owned their shit."

It was hard for Max not to think of her upbringing in a compare and contrast kind of way. It happened every so often, and when it did, Max ended up with indifference at the worst and joyful on the best of such days. Her elevation both in school and the world of Gotham afterward was owed to her willingness for adaptation. Much as it was in her childhood, so was a lot of the world. It dealt unfair hands more often than it favored, and Max understood this early on, having been made to confront it. She elevated herself by using her head and her hands, teaching herself the more complex abstract sciences, but after enough time, the abstract became ever-present in terms of clarity. When she was able, at the age of eighteen, to evaluate and dissect people and events from the psychological level, she knew that she was able to navigate the larger world to a point on her own.

Her work with Terry had more than helped temper her confidence and help her define the strengths of her growing toolset better. It was true; she hated the idea of being a young woman in tights as he predecessors were, but she knew that really what made the aspect of the Batman persona tick. Despite what Bruce said, what made the dynamic work, regardless of protégé, was a team willing and able to fight alongside the figurehead of justice, be it seen or unseen. Bruce had Alfred for the longest time, and Alfred served as the ballast until Nightwing took up the mantle and so on down the line.

The whir of the batmobile's approach interrupted her thought, and she got up from the computer. She went to the runway and saw the vehicle pull in. It had been an easier night for Terry in evidence from the comms, a few Jokerz here and there, a minor incident at the chemical plant, it was a nicer night. As Terry often said, "A slow night for you is a good night for me." After enough patching up of the more grievous wounds from time to time, Max was far quicker to agree with this mindset.

She had admitted in private when Bruce was showing her the ropes that cleaning poison and shards of metal out of her best friend was less than ideal. It wasn't that she was squeamish, but eventually, she had to look at the cause-and-effect relationship. A night that would result in Terry getting the stuffing kicked out of him or being shredded by bombs from the likes of Stan, would greatly impact Terry's effectiveness, at worse, making a mandatory hiatus. Even with the progressive adaptation of the batsuit and resilient as the base model was before her own touches, the suit could only shield from so much if Terry wished to keep the suit from being too clunky.

As the cockpit decompressed and rolled back, Max saw Terry get out, and to her surprise, his suit was nearly entirely shredded; down to the more delicate wires of the suit and even in critical places was slashed through into his flesh. He got out and gestured two. Max went and got a stretcher, and Terry sat down when he was more into the cave proper. He took off the suit, and Max saw the extent of the gashes and slashes. It would be a long night, that was for sure; Gotham would have to do without its hero and Dana without her boyfriend for a night or two at the minimum.

"What happened?" Max asked as she took away the suit to be repaired by the nanomachine maintenance station.

"I met a new guy in town. Dude named Lothar when I investigated an alarm at the docks after the Chemical shed. The dude nearly killed me. Didn't you hear my comm go out?"

Max shook her head negatively as she reappeared with the usual medicines and stitches for his more grievous injuries. "I was at the computer all night; I didn't hear anything out of the ordinary, nothing, period. Everything seemed normal."

Terry grunted loudly as she applied the antiseptic, "Sorry," Max said as she continued in her work. Despite his pain, she knew she had to deal with this quickly. "Geez, McGuinness, what did this Lothar cut you with?"

"An axe. A good ole' lumberjack axe," he replied through the pain.

Max looked carefully at the scars and said, "How'd he get you this much? I mean, an axe doesn't just do this, you know?"

"One, I learned he loves his axe. Two, he's shockingly focused for a guy looking like he does; he could spot me as I cloaked; you know how hard that is. Three, Aaaah!" he screamed as Max applied the cleaning agent to his ribs, "Fuck Max!"

"I'm sorry, Terry." She replied as she put the bottle down, "I've finished the worst of it. Now, I'm going to inject you with the nanite healers and scrubbers."

"I hate the scrubbers, Max; you know that."

"Do you want this job done right? I know their expulsion isn't nearly ideal, but we have to treat this now before it gets worse. Next time, don't take so many risks."

"That's easier said than done, but I get your point. Shoot me up, and we'll deal with this as it comes."

"So, what was this guy like?" Max asked as she prepared the nanites for injection.

"I've not seen his kind before. He looks like a Viking out of legend, but he's not. That said, he fights like all Hell has broken loose. I've never seen a guy with that much focus except for maybe old Stalker. But I fought as best I could. I depleted my batarangs; he just deflected those one by one, the one that did strike him, he just tore out, and it only phased for a moment or two. I tried wrestling his axe from him, and when I say he loves his axe, he loves his axe. He wouldn't let go, even high above the city, and we fought on the rooftops, descended to the mid-level and on ground level and back to mid, all with an effortless transition for him."

"So, these gashes and slashes, how did you get these? I see they're edged but—"

"The man knows how to use his axe, Max, that's all I can say. He somewhat knew my air game. He anticipated and counter-slashed as I dove; that's why my ribs are so messed up, he anticipated with perfect precision, and the thing is, he had an entire gang with him who were going through the docks, but only he would fight me, the rest of them just carried on with their thing."

"Huh, so going the true Viking raider route, is that it?" Max asked, "Injection in 2-1." She shot the nanites into Terry's shoulder.

Terry grunted, "Oh, uhh!" his face grimaced and puckered, "The—iron taste, ugh!"

"I don't how that happens with you, honestly. The aftertaste?"

"I don't know either, and I don't have time to know. I just—can't stand it. Good thing it's only momentary. Anyway, I saw a ship in the harbor, but it wasn't big like normal. It wasn't even midsize; it was smallish with smartsail."

"Smartsail, huh? That narrows it down, actually. Very few produce it for small ventures. I'll do a cross-reference after we get the worst of this dealt with. So, this Lothar, what's he look like?"

"Uh, he's average in height. Has a beautiful, braided beard, though; I tired grabbing it, but it's been so oiled, or whatever it is, I couldn't keep hold it. It's like a weird slimy resin almost."

"It's still on your gloves?"

"Yeah, it is. You can run a scan of it to see its properties. I'll tell you this much; it has a very nice smell to it. If you figure out what it is, tell me, I want it for my cologne."

"Okay, well, what's his axe like? I mean, not many axes at all can cut through the suit; it takes effort."

"The effort was done by gravity and my angle. The guy somehow knew that and used it to his advantage. Oh, there is one thing. On his chest and on his arm are two unique tattoos. One is a gorgeous tree; I think it's what'd they call it, Yggdrasil? The other was an eyeball being shared by three old women."

"The Graeae Sisters." Max replied as she applied a topical oil to the back of Terry's neck, "They're from the myth of Perseus, the old women who told him where to find Medusa. I don't think you'll find that design often, so it'll narrow it down considerably. Let me ask you; you got a look at these tattoos; what were the color of the inks?"

"It's black; the lines are thicker. I've seen the style before many times. I'd recommend we go through all databases and see what criminal has those tattoos. We're looking at Theseus, so maybe Greece to start but also scan the traditional Scandinavian countries; I want to be sure about this guy. We're looking for a man, maybe mid-thirties but no more. He's pretty spry, and besides, he's got a lot of strength that only comes from near prime conditioning. His hair is black with grey, but I think grey's a stylistic choice. Also, his axe, is unique. It has a solid gold shaft with, I think, silver and emerald for an inlay around it. The axe-head is of the splitting type so, with that, we can narrow it down.

But I think you're right; our closest lead is the smartfiber sail they had for their ship. It was black with an emerald design, but what it was, I couldn't see."

Max thought on all this as she gave Terry's body another once-over, "All good, we're done here. You'll have to rest for a full two days at least. The minimal strenuous movement if you can help it while the nanites restore you."

"Thanks, I appreciate it. I'm just gonna' rest. In many ways, I'm glad the old man is out. I'd be getting hell for this kind of result if he were here."

"Thankfully, he's in Turkey right now trying to close off some merger." Max said as she put the bloodied cloths and cotton strips in a nearby waste bin, "It's easier for his old public face as well."

Terry got up slowly and, looking over at the computer, said, "Going over old case files?"

"Eh, just reminding myself of how far we've both come. You, as Batman, me as a published criminal psychologist. It's quite a road."

"That's saying the least of it," Terry said with a chuckle. "I'm going upstairs and gonna' get some food. Care for some?"

"I'm alright. I had some while you were out. There's some General T's for you fresh in the fridge if you'd care for it."

Terry laughed, "I love how you say fresh in the fridge when we both know it's been there for an hour and a half."

"Hey, McGuinness, considering your line of work, an hour and a half is fresh when it comes to you chowing down."

"Fair point. Right, well, gonna' eat and then rest. Don't stay up too late. Oh, what should I say to Dana? I mean, considering—"

"You were attacked by a vicious Viking? I'll tell her that you were called to be with Mr. Wayne in Turkey, and you'll be back when he returns in four days. That will buy you enough time, and the nanites will have finished their thing by then."

"Thanks for having my back, Max."

"Hey, I've been doing this for years. Rest up; I'll be along with you in a minute or two."

Max returned to the supercomputer, and as she went over the cases one last time, she noticed something that wasn't the usual. If the file had been there, it was bizarrely her first time seeing it. It was called File 584. Max went to log in to see what it was, and immediately the red mark came up saying, "Access Denied." When she tried to authorize as administrator, it still read, "Access Denied." Max was curious. She saw when the file was added two years ago; apart from that, she knew nothing.

Max wouldn't ask Terry about it right now, she knew he had to rest, but it was so unique. Everything in the archives of the Bat-Family was in the account, but this file was the one locked anomaly. She knew where all the trophies were, but this file was never part of the trophy room either.

Standing up, she said, "Computer, what is File 584?"

The computer replied, "Access is only permitted to Mr. Wayne and Mr. McGuinness. This is your third attempt to access the file. Please desist, or your clearance will be revoked until it is reinstated by Mr. Wayne."

Max sighed, and she asked, "Question: On what grounds is the file, as mentioned earlier, blocked from my site?"

The response came, "The information requested is classified."

Max sighed and, turning off the computer, headed up the stairs into the mansion. She was curious now more than anything. She wanted to ask Terry, but as she entered the private living room off of the foyer, she saw that Terry was gently nodding off to sleep. Max went to the fridge and took two bottles of water from it. When she returned, she saw that Terry was fully asleep; the nanites had fully sedated him to negate the pain of their healing process. Max placed one of the bottles on a coaster near Terry so when he woke up, dehydrated as he'd likely be, he could replenish himself. After a moment of thought, Max turned and placed the second bottle near the first on another coaster.

Heading out, she checked out of the manor and accessed her phone. Once she'd activated a program, she called Dana. After a few rings, the machine picked up, and Max replied, "Hey, Dana. It's me; Mr. Wayne has called me to go to Turkey to help him shore up one of his last ventures abroad. I know it's last minute, and I know we had plans, but this is what has to be done.

I'll make it up to you when I come back. We'll go to The High Tower when I come back; Lord knows I'll have the money for it. I love you, Dana, and I'll be calling you once a day, every day after the conferences let out. I'll see you then."

Max ended the call and put her phone into her pocket. This system was far better than telling Dana all kinds of what Max had come to call "renegade lies." The program disguised the phone as Terry's both in number and voice, and because Max had run it through a VPN in Istanbul, she could successfully make it seem as if Terry was there. All that was needed was that she make a schedule hinging around Bruce's conferences. It would be easy to do, and she could do it from home.

Max looked out at the shimmering jewel of Gotham, a city of beauty and vileness equally, the ever-present dichotomy. She got on her bike, and once it fired up, she silently departed the manor grounds for home.