Author's Note: And here we are, the next installment that I know some people have been waiting for since War of the Seven Clans. I'd like to give credit for this story's title to an anonymous Guest, who suggested it in a review for The Eighth Sin. Quite frankly, both ShadowMajin and myself fell in love with the title and now we're using it. As for what this one's about, it's definitely something that has been in the works for some time, perhaps longer than anyone realizes. Hopefully by the end, it all comes together, but until then, enjoy.

Disclaimer: We do not own Batman

Warning: language, violence, death

Paying Respects

There was a soft, caressing breeze blowing. It caused the manicured grass to sway in waves, the blades waving to one side before returning to attention, only to repeat. There was a tree nearby, its leaves ruffling from the wind.

The hem of a dark coat was pulled as well, though it didn't billow out. It didn't move far from its wearer as he stood in silent contemplation. Before him were rows upon rows of tombstones, polished and gleaming in the morning sun. Sunglasses protected his eyes as he focused on one tombstone in particular.

Bruce Wayne gazed at the smooth stone, noting it had been well cared for even after all of this time. In his hand, a pair of roses were held, their red petals standing out at the solemn scene. Their thorns had been expertly clipped, so he was able to hold them barehanded. Kneeling then, he placed them before the grave.

When his parents had been murdered, the entire city had mourned. There had been calls for extravagant pageantry and a grave marker that marked their final resting place opulently. Bruce vaguely recalled the designs placed before his eight year old eyes, statues of angels and columns. In retrospect, it would have been a sight to behold.

Eight year old Bruce, however, had chosen something simple. Though it was one of the larger markers in the cemetery, standing nearly as tall as he was now, it was of smooth, polished stone and not much else. Its only adornment was of the family crest, the embellished W at the top of the marker. At the lower third were two small rectangles, one favoring the left side and the other the right. One rectangle held the name Thomas Wayne along with the years of his life, the other with Martha Kane Wayne.

If Bruce thought hard enough, someone had expressed disappointment in his choice, but they had been firmly removed by a stern Alfred. In fact, he was certain everyone involved in this morbid business had been hoping to make some money on his parents' death, from the funeral director to city officials. Alfred must have run interference to shield him from such people to protect his broken mind and world.

All these years later and he found himself doing the same thing. He would stare at the gravestone, as still as a statue. On occasions he had heard people talk to the markers, something he had tried one or twice, but never found to be comforting. Andrea had spoken to her mother's stone-one that was two or three plots behind his parents'-and you would have thought she could hear every word her mother said.

A bubble of dark humor welled up within Bruce. There had to be some sort of irony in him finding a potential wife in a graveyard.

It had been a long time since he had visited. The events of last year had proven to be time consuming. The clean up from Pamela Isley's attack on the city, as well as Bane's war with Ra's al Ghul, and the U.S. government's destruction of all the bridges connecting Gotham to the outside world was nearly complete. All of the rogue plantlife had been removed, save for a few areas in which the vegetation took over desolated neighborhoods. The city had taken the opportunity to turn them into parks, which wasn't an entirely bad idea.

As for the bridges, the last one had been completed repaired two months ago. That was the official end to Gotham's isolation, an event celebrated throughout the city, and surprisingly the state. Government officials that had originally backed the quarantine had been removed from office be it by the recent election, or by the recently removed officials firing others in a poor attempt to save themselves. There was a new state governor, a new city mayor, and prominent figures just to name a few.

As for Bruce, his body was completely recovered from the injuries he had received from Bane. His last check up with Leslie Thompkins had given him a clean bill of health, at least if you ignored the other nightly damage he did to his body.

However, just because he was getting back to normal didn't mean everything was well. Cassandra was drawing away from him, he could see the distance growing with every day. Though she lived in the manor, their interactions were few and far in between and he wasn't sure how to repair that gulf. On top of that, she was patrolling the city solo. He had kept a sharp eye on her movements that first night, always staying out of eyesight, but keeping her in his. As the months went by, he found himself watching her less and less as she proved she could take care of herself.

The other vigilantes were keeping up their Network, the group they formed in his absence. Though they had largely returned to their original teams of the Birds of Prey and Batclan, they still kept each in the loop of their activities, even going so far as to involve each other in their missions.

The only one not participating was him. With Cassandra on her own and Huntress returning to the Birds, Batman was once more a solo act. It was strange after all of this time and he wasn't entirely sure he liked it.

For all the people around him, somehow he ended up being the one lonely in a crowd.

Taking note of the shortening shadows around him, indicating the sun had risen higher into the sky and an indeterminable amount of time had passed, Bruce felt it was time to leave. Yet, he couldn't find it in himself to simply leave.

"I'm...sorry...it's taken so long to visit," he said stiltedly, if not uncomfortably. See what he meant by not liking to talk to slabs of rock? "Things got out of hand lately and I've been busy. I'll...try to come again...soon. Much sooner."

Alright, his awkwardness was getting to be too much. Inclining his head once to his parents' grave, he then turned to his left and began to leave, walking back to the gravel pathway. The path would lead back to the entrance of the cemetery, where he had left his car.

There was one more flower inside the car, one he hadn't taken with the roses. There was one more grave he needed to visit, one on his way home.

The Atlantic Ocean was a sprawling body of water, a deep blue that stretched from horizon to horizon almost endlessly. Clear skies where hardly a cloud in the sky made it appear desolate, a nightmare for anyone who found themselves trapped in it.

A Learjet raced over it, travelling at speeds that were a mere parlor trick for it to accomplish. The ride inside of it was smooth, no turbulence to be felt anywhere inside of it. To afford such an aircraft would be a triumph, but for the sole passenger, it was pocket change.

Relaxed in a seat, a nondescript man who you would lose in a crowd if you took your eyes off of him, sat before a large laptop computer, his hands intertwined while his brown eyes bored into the monitor. His body was contained in an unbuttoned black jacket, a gray turtleneck peeked out and lovingly wrapped around his neck. Dark slacks clothed his lower body, completing an ensemble that spoke of comfort and casualness.

"Greetings, all," the unremarkable man greeted to the computer. On the lit up screen, six small windows greeted his eyes, one completely dark while the remaining five held the darkened silhouettes of five individuals. "By answering this call, you are the first five to respond, and thus I extend to you an invitation for the next game. Yes it is that time of year again, and this year, I bring to you the greatest one yet."

"That is what you said last year," a gruff, accented voice refuted. The dialect was peculiar, definitely of Middle Eastern origin. "What I saw was...adequate but not impressive."

"I found myself entertained," replied a reedy voice, one of the silhouettes moving in his window, making himself comfortable. "There were a few novel events. Even with the outcome being predictable, I left satisfied."

"I see such things daily. I only answer for the promise of something new," the gruff voice responded.

"I do not make promises lightly," the normal-looking man cut in, not in the least bit perturbed by the remarks.

"He is right. Let's hear what he has to say," a deep, almost regal voice spoke up.

"Gentlemen," the man said, barely moving in his seat, not even to make himself more comfortable. "Every year, I put forth one noble individual, one who we test thoroughly, and you gamble on the outcome of whether or not this soul triumphs or fails. No matter what the outcome is, there is always a good time to be had, and this year is no different. Unlike last year's bishop, this year I give to you perhaps the noblest soul ever put forth as a subject. All of you know who he is, what he does, what he has accomplished. In fact, I would not be surprised if all of you have followed his endeavors for years.

"That is correct, gentlemen. This year, the subject of this game is none other than the Dark Knight himself: The Batman of Gotham City. A man whose name has reached all corners of the world, inspiring equivalent acts of heroism as well as villainy unlike anything seen in history. This game will seek to undo all of it, and bring about his downfall, one from which he will never recover from."

There was a moment of silence from the computer, the prospective men taking in the news. The jet bound man was not offended or disheartened. It wouldn't be the first time he was met with such silence after an announcement of this year's subject. This silence was a sign they were all thinking about his words, considering what could possibly be done to such a man as to bring forth such a promised fall.

"You have promised the Batman before," the gruff, Arabic voice accused. "You have done so for years only to replace him with someone else. How do we know that you will keep your word this time?"

"I'll have to agree with my friend on the other side here, partner. Always the last minute, ya switch him out and we get some schmuck that ain't half as interesting." That was another accented voice, but one native to the North American continent rather than Asia or North Africa.

"I understand your concerns. It's been very…" he paused as he thought of an appropriate word, "...frustrating that we haven't been able to follow through on such a grand promise before. All the other occasions, some large event, a crisis if you will, interfered before we could set our game into motion. If this is to be a spectacle unlike no other, I need the Batman's full, undivided attention. I need not remind you that mere months ago, the city of Gotham was under siege and the Batman nowhere to be found, seemingly defeated for good. That he has returned once again only proves his resolve and strength, yet another confirmation of his will. To break that will be an enormous undertaking, and one I am perfectly fit to do.

"Already, I have taken measures to ensure nothing outside of our operation will distract the Batman. Pressure on the criminal elements is already underway, certain facilities are being secured so that certain celebrities do not interfere. More important, the first gambit is already underway. The challenge is being issued as I speak. There will be no interference this time, whether it's the Joker, Harvey Two-Face, or Bane.

"Prepare your schedules, gentlemen. I know you to be some of the wealthiest men in the world, and you go through a lot of effort to keep it that way." One of the silhouettes snorted, but no other interruptions happened. "In two weeks' time, everything will come together and you will witness an experience like none other."

"What makes you think that you will be the one to end Batman? Where all others have failed, what do you have that will guarantee your success?" The fifth voice finally spoke, though also with a Arabic accent, it was much smoother than the first, gruffer voice.

"Because the Batman has let me into his head. I know him like no other," the nondescript man claimed, his lips curving upward cruelly. "I know his strengths. I know his weaknesses. I have taken great pains to leave my mark on his psyche, buttons if you will, that I will press one at a time until his self-destruction is inevitable. Truly, it will be a work of art, one that will never be forgotten.

"So, before I end this call. Who here wants to participate? How much do you wager? Who here is brave enough to gamble on the triumph of good over evil? Or will you play it safe, and bet on evil once more? Every soul that has captured our attention has never escaped our grasp. So what say you all? Care to make a bet?"

One at a time, in an almost orderly procession, the five voices began to talk amongst themselves, some excited while others were restrained. However, he had their interests, and it would only be a matter of time before they gave their respective consents, and their wagers. The outcome was inevitable, but on the off chance anyone of them tried to withdrawal, the risk of exposure was too low, and another would be contacted to replace him.

The odds were always on his side and this game would be no different.

Advantage: evil.

The gravel crushed beneath the tires, the car bouncing from the occasional big rock. Every so often, Bruce was struck with the thought of having the driveway paved so that the last quarter mile of his trip home wasn't so jolting. That thought would die the moment he set foot in the house and make the trip into the Cave.

Spotting the tree that Alfred's grave laid under, Bruce slowed the car down until the front passenger side door was even with the tree. Putting the gear shift into park, the young man sat in his seat, looking through the window at the grave marker.

It had been a long time since he had paid respects to his former butler. This in spite of the fact Alfred had been buried on the grounds. While the tree wasn't right next to the driveway, it was still viewable every time he passed by. Something within him told him that Alfred deserved better than the occasional glance every day. Reaching to the flower on the passenger seat, he picked it up and opened the car door.

Climbing out, he left the car running, the door wide open. There wasn't anyone for miles that would steal the car; the manor was just too far out to make grand theft auto worth it. This wouldn't take long either. Making the trek around the car and across the lawn-one that needed some maintenance, he noted-Bruce closed in on the grave.

It was a testament to his state of mind that he didn't notice anything suspect the entire journey. He felt like he was in a daze, a heavy stone being carried in his stomach. As much as he cared for his butler, his grave was a reminder of one of his greatest failures. Even though he had worn a mask and done everything he could to protect those he cared, evil men would still find a way to hurt him. The only shocking part was that Alfred's death wasn't a result of Batman's actions so much as the target on Bruce Wayne's back just because of who he was.

Irony-it was a son of a bitch sometimes.

Suddenly, Bruce came to a screeching halt. The ground beneath his feet shifted and crumbled. A look of horror swept over his face as his mouth dropped open and his eyes widened with disbelief. The flower in his hand slipped between his loosening fingers and fell from his grasp.

The ground before the tombstone was dug up, leaving a wide open hole. Small piles of dirt had been left all along the edge of the grave. Numbness overflowed through Bruce's body as he stared into the dark abyss, the flower he once held falling into the hole.

What...what was this? How had this happened? Alfred's coffin, it was gone. Someone had taken it. Who? Who had taken it?

And how had he missed this? It wasn't like you couldn't see the grave at all on the walk here. It was as if he hadn't wanted to look straight at the grave until the last moment. And still, with his analytical mind, he should have caught this.

Slowly, his hands clenched tightly into fists. Someone had made a huge mistake. While he didn't know why anyone would go out of their way to dig up Alfred, he would find them and show them exactly why it was a bad idea. They would pay dearly for this travesty.

Jerking his head up, he began looking in every which direction, searching for any clues left behind. To dig up a grave, it would take time and tools. Considering the small piles of dirt and the distinct lack of a much larger pile that would properly fill up the hole before him, that meant a machine had been involved. Looking at the ground, Bruce began to back away when he found something.

There were footprints pressed into the ground. Having taken the time to walk back in his own footsteps, he knew these footprints weren't his. Multiple people had been out here. And over there-tire tracks.

Bruce frowned. Those tracks, while they led to the driveway, they also went off towards the woods further into the property. Why was that? Moving towards the tire tracks, he began to follow them as he walked towards the woods. There were answers he needed and by God he would get them.

And his wrath would be great.

Author's Note: Now who could have done that? If you're curious, the face Bruce has on is the same look of horror he had when he found out his parents' graves had been robbed during the Tower of Babel storyline.