Disclaimer: Batman, Alfred, and other DC characters appearing in this fan- fic are, of course, DC's. Psion Force is all mine. This story is being written for fun, not profit.

Timeline: Four years before Knightfall. Roughly two years before Dick Grayson leaves to become Nightwing


A/N #1: After Bane, manor (and presumably, cave) security was enhanced. This takes place a bit earlier.

A/N #2: The fighting moves mentioned in this chapter are capoeira, a Brazilian martial art which is practiced today more as a game of skill then a mode of attack. That doesn't make a kick any less painful if you're on the receiving end of it.


Chapter 3: Taking Measures

Tabitha finished her morning prayers, closed her prayer book quietly, and kissed it before putting it away. She moved a swivel chair away from one of the cray consoles and pulled it over to Jill's cot. Sitting down, she pulled a cloth bag out of her knapsack, from which she extracted a square leather carry box and small velvet sack. She unfastened the clips on the box and raised the lid to reveal a series of throwing knives, each one sheathed in its own holder. Tabitha picked up the one at the far left, and removed a stack of polishing cloths and a whetstone from the velvet sack. Silently, she began to hone the blade.

Bruce watched her. Alfred had gone back upstairs a few minutes earlier, muttering something about getting breakfast. The girl had not said a word to either of them in the fifty-four minutes since the van had left. She had simply staked out a section of the cave and made herself comfortable. It wasn't even a large section. She wasn't badgering him with questions about his exploits or bragging about her own. She wasn't asking to join his crusade, nor was she demanding a chance to prove herself. If he hadn't been looking in her direction, he wouldn't even have realized that she was there. But of course, she was there—invading his privacy, knowing his secret—although that likely would not be a problem, he had to reflect. If Kensai had known about it for two years, and had not acted on the information, there was no reason to think that she—or the rest of Psion Force—would try now. Still, there was no way that he was going to leave her alone in the cave while he went to Wayne Enterprises. Lucius was going to have to manage without him. Then again, Lucius usually did.

He looked at Tabitha from time to time, as she worked. Occasionally, she met his gaze. When this happened, he saw a glint of humor flash and just as quickly vanish in her eyes. Quiet, he thought to himself, but not shy. Alfred returned, and set a large tray with several covered dishes down before him. Prominent on the tray was a fruit bowl. Bruce raised an eyebrow. While he usually did have a grapefruit in the morning—when he didn't skip breakfast—Alfred rarely brought down a full assortment. At Bruce's unspoken query Alfred flicked his eyes toward the girl. Of course, he realized. If she kept kosher, then just about the only thing she would be able to eat in his house would be raw, uncut, fruits and vegetables. Trust Alfred to pick up on that. He nodded his understanding. Alfred withdrew. Bruce went back to his computer, but he found himself watching Tabitha again, periodically. She worked swiftly, methodically, with a practiced ease. By the time she finished attending to her blades, applying stain remover to various spots on her costume, which evidently needed it, and spraying and polishing her boots, nearly two hours had elapsed. Only when she had refolded her costume, repackaged her knives, and replaced everything in her knapsack, did she extract a small tool case from her satchel, place the transmitter he'd planted on Callie on the work stand next to Jill's cot, and set the tool box down next to it.

"Hungry?" Bruce asked, finally tired of the silence.

"Not really," Tabitha looked up. Her eyes narrowed. "You must have cameras over every square inch of this place," she said. "Why did you even bother with this bug?"

He did not answer.

The girl met his glower levelly, held it for a moment and then threw up her hands in mock surrender and went back to her equipment. From her toolkit, she removed a miniature screwdriver. In short order, she had the bug disassembled. Clearing off another space on the table, she pulled her costume out of her knapsack again, and removed a device from a pocket in her uniform tunic. It was slightly larger than the bug. She disassembled that as well. Then she began to compare the two, piece by piece. Fifteen minutes later she looked up. "Oh, so that's why," she said aloud. "No offense taken, I'm pretty sure Cal would have done the same thing, but all the same, I think I'll just return this to you." She held up the homing beacon that had been incorporated into the bug. "Here," she said, smiling. "Catch." He caught it one-handed. "We'd like to keep a few secrets, if that's OK."

She was good; he thought grudgingly, he'd give her that. What had it cost her, though? She must have been in costume almost from the time that she could walk. How much of a childhood had she had?

"What are you doing?" he asked abruptly. She was scribbling furiously in a spiral notebook.

"Writing my report on last night's patrol. Callie's big on that kind of thing. Don't worry about this place, though. I'm off-duty, now." She hesitated. "I don't mean to be a pest, but I was wondering whether you have a gym or something. Normally, I work out for an hour or so before school, and I'm getting a little antsy."

He had to admit he was curious about her abilities. "Did you want a standard workout or a combat simulation?" He asked.

Tabitha smiled impishly. "Surprise me." She picked up her equipment. "Where can I change?"

He showed her. When she emerged a few minutes later, she wore a long tunic and leggings in a shade of purple she called 'dusty mauve'. A hooded brown cloak, secured by an ivory clasp with a black psi-symbol embossed upon it, fell fully to mid-calf. Her boots, belt and arm-guards were brown as well. Her gloves, mask and helmet were gray. The cloak parted as she walked, revealing a half-dozen knives in her belt. There were two more in each boot, and one more sheathed in each arm-guard. She still held her knapsack and satchel.

"You can leave that here, you know."

Umbra thought for a moment. "Cal told me not to bug you. If I do leave this behind," she began her tone suddenly more formal, "would you extend the same courtesy to me, to Jill, to our belongings, and to anything else which we—or any Psion Force member—might rightfully take with us when we leave?"

It took every iota of self-control not to smile. "You have my word."

Umbra nodded gravely. "Good enough for me." If he kept promises he made to mooks and stoolies, he'd keep this one too. And the buzz on the street was that the Batman never reneged on a deal.


Umbra entered the training room and found herself in Robinson Heights at night. Holy Star Trek, Batman! the quip came to mind unbidden, the man actually has a holodeck in the cave. She squelched that thought. This was serious; she had to concentrate on the task at hand. It was like youth theatre—you wouldn't be in the performance if the audience wasn't out there, but you had to act as if they weren't. This scene, this simulation, was the only reality that could exist for the duration of the exercise, but she had to forget that Batman was observing her and that it was an exercise. "Thou shalt not grandstand," was one of Callie's cardinal rules—almost her Prime Directive, if you wanted to keep the Star Trek metaphor going.

If this was a pure hologram, she thought, nothing here should be solid. She slapped the wall of a brownstone experimentally and hit rough brick, cold, even through her glove. "Guess it's not a pure hologram," she muttered. Maybe later she could ask Batman for the specs on this setup. Sure, right after she asked him for his ATM PIN, the secret identities of the rest of the JLA and a letter of reference for the Teen Titans—Sheesh!

Umbraused her grapnel to propel herself to the roof of the three-story brownstone. From there, she withdrew to the shadows, making good use of every scrap of cover she could. Swiftly, silently, she moved from rooftop to rooftop, using her grapnel to gain altitude, and her cloak to slow her descent, as necessary. Economy of motion, she told herself. Economy of style. Make every move count. Grandstanding costs. Grandstanding kills. She had covered about ten blocks, and reached a seven-story low-rise when she heard sounds of battle further west of her position. Showtime she thought to herself, then winced at the cliché. She sped up, covering the necessary distance in minutes.

She dropped to a fire escape a half-story below. There was a muffled bang as her boots hit the metal slats, but from her current height, nobody heard. In the alley below, she saw five youths--two in Loboys and three in Street Demonz jackets. Turf war. Joy. Probably do everyone a favor if I let them kill each other, she thought, as she secured her line to the railing. Sometimes I really hate being one of the good guys. She calculated her leap accurately, and executed a double somersault, landing at the mouth of the alley, about twenty feet from the gang members. It took a moment before one of them, a beefy boy in Demonz colors wielding a set of nunchukus, noticed her.

"You know, Michelangelo, if you're not careful with those, you're gonna take out an eye," she said lightly.

All other fighting stopped. Smirking, 'Michelangelo' took a step toward her. "Maybe," he leered. "Maybe one of yours, Mama."

"If I was your mama, I'd have drowned you at birth," she retorted. "Guess yours wasn't smart enough."

The boy let loose a furious bellow. "You gonna pay for that, skank!" Dropping his nunchukus, he charged headlong toward her. "Gonna rip you 'part with my bare hands." Umbra sidestepped and countered with a martelo kick-and-punch combination. Michelangelo dropped as if he had been pole axed, thanks to her steel-toed boots.

"Moron," she said as she fastened a plastic tie about his wrists. "Those nun-chaks were the only thing you had going for you."

It took the rest of the gang members about thirty seconds to process what had just happened. Then the other four of them came at her at once. Umbra noted, detached, that two were Loboys, two Demonz. Nothing like a common threat to get these creeps to unite, she thought as she executed a queixada, kicking outward in a semi-circle while pivoting on her other leg. Two more went down. Completing the move, she whipped out one of her knives and threw it. It buried itself to the hilt in one of the Loboys' thighs. He collapsed with a gasp. The remaining boy in Demonz colors tried to escape by scaling the chain-link fence at the other end of the alley. As he hoisted his upper body above the top of the fence, a well-aimed bola brought him down. She made sure that the plastic ties were secure, and bound the boys' ankles for good measure. Then she walked up to the Loboy who had taken the knife wound. "You're wearing a bandana," she said softly, pulling the red square of fabric off his head. "That's lucky for you." She bent down and knotted the cloth tightly about his thigh, above the knife. "Try anything—and I do mean anything—and I'll take this off and let you bleed to death." She grasped the knife by the handle and yanked it free, eliciting a suppressed scream and a stream of blood from the older boy. Taking a fresh knife, she deftly cut one sleeve off the boy's jacket, folded it into a packet, and pressed it to the wound. "I tied your hands in front of you for a reason," she said, not unkindly. "Keep holding it like that 'till a doctor looks at you." She picked up the nunchukus, fired off her grapnel and took to the rooftops.

A gunshot in the park drew her attention, moments later. This was going to be harder, she realized as she assessed the situation. There were non- combatants around. Russian Mafia—didn't I just tangle with these clowns last night?

"You again!" one exclaimed

Guess that answers that question. Cute, Mr. Wayne, real cute. Resigned, she executed a combination of capoeira, kickboxing, and hapkido. It was actually helping that they were concentrating on her, she realized as she blended moves from other martial arts. It enabled her to draw the fight away from the civilians. A few had run, but enough idiots were enjoying the show that she still didn't dare to try phasing through the bullets. If they passed through her and hit someone else in the line of trajectory, that would be her fault. That left her intercepting the ammo with the only parts of her costume that were bulletproof—helmet, arm-guards, and boot- soles. Finally, they stopped firing long enough for her to concentrate. Instantly, intangible guns dropped through suddenly slack fingers. They solidified before they hit the ground, but she kept the bullets phased. Things turned around noticeably after that. It was harder, there was no question that it was harder, she thought as she subdued the gunmen, but given the time to focus, it was possible for her to phase an object without actually holding on to it.

Locating a public phone, she called GCPD for a pickup, and then returned to the rooftops. Fifteen minutes later, she found herself in a completely empty room, with wall floor and ceiling paneled in black. Yellow gridlines surrounded each rectangular panel. Holodeck, alright, she thought to herself, resisting the urge to say "Computer: Arch!"

Bruce opened the door behind her. "Come," he said. Umbra followed him out of the room.


"How's Jill?" she asked.

"The same."

She nodded. "No better but no worse. Okay. I think I could use something to eat, actually, if that offer still stands." Her eyes lit up as she saw the fruit bowl. "Thanks, this is great," she said taking a banana and pausing to murmur a blessing before biting in.

"You're still not going to ask," he said after a moment.

"Sorry?"

"You know that what you went through was as much an evaluation as it was a workout, and you're not going to ask how you scored."

Tabitha faced him. "If you want to tell me, you will, whether or not I want to hear it. And if you don't, you won't—no matter how much I plead. An eleven-year-old girl doesn't make it to age fifteen in a costume in this city if she doesn't have some skills, so I know I'm good—"

Bruce cut her off. "Yes. You are. But you could be better."

Tabitha closed her mouth. He had her full attention.

He continued. "I don't generally see a lot of capoeira. What I saw on the monitors was impressive. Your hapkido needs more work, though. You have a red belt?"

"Yes, that's right."

"You should have a black one. What's your level in karate?"

"Brown."

"Judo?"

"Brown."

"Ninjitsu?"

"Red."

His eyes narrowed. "How long?"

"Year-and-a-half."

"Aikido?"

"Black."

"Good. You should have used it more. Kung Fu?"

"None. "

Just like Silver Dragon, he thought with amazement. No excuses, no defensiveness. Just an answer to a question. "I can give you a few names," he said after a moment. "Is there any reason why you kept trying to draw unfriendly fire to your head?"

"Because I can't find Kevlar at Fabricland. The helmet happens to be one of the few parts of the costume that can handle a bullet at anything but point- blank range."

"If you could phase the guns, why didn't you phase the bullets they were firing at you?"

"They were moving too fast. I need time to focus." At his silence, Tabitha remarked, "Look, just because I've got a metahuman talent, it doesn't exactly make me Supergirl, here. I do okay, though."

"Are you satisfied with that?"

"No," she replied seriously. "But I'm better now then I was last year, and next year, G-d willing, I'll be better still. I would appreciate those names, though. So, what's my final grade?"

"You've met Batgirl?"

"No. I've seen her in action a couple of times."

"You're about half-way between where she is and where Robin is." For the first time all morning, a full smile appeared on his face. His tone, however, remained serious. "If this is really what you want, do not allow yourself to grow complacent. You're right. You are good. But you have it in you to be great."

Tabitha's eyes widened. "Thank-you!" she exclaimed, making a supreme effort not to squeal. Batman actually thought well of her! A cynical voice in her mind noted dryly that if she weren't interested in his approval, she wouldn't be so affected by his praise. Still, this was the first time that someone outside of the team had evaluated her and, she had passed. Maybe it wasn't a high pass, but it wasn't a fail. She finished the banana and quickly recited the after-blessing.

She realized then that she was sweaty, and itchy, and more than a little tired. "I really hate to be a pest," she said, "but is there any way that I could take a shower? I could use one."

"Upstairs," he said. "Alfred will show you where."

"Thanks."

She pulled off her helmet, started to head upstairs, then turned back. "You weren't trying to—go easy on me, were you? I mean, I've been in tighter spots than what you put me through in there."

Bruce raised an eyebrow. "You had a fifteen-minute warm-up, twenty minutes high-intensity cardio-vascular, ten minutes cool-down, another twenty minutes aerobic, and a fifteen minute cool-down. If you'd wanted a combat scenario, you should have said so."

Tabitha grinned. "You're right. But—I mean—come ON, the guy dropped his weapon. How often does that sort of thing really happen?"

Bruce didn't answer.

Tabitha considered. "Okay, you're right, it does happen too much. But why give me that kind of break in a simulation?"

"I needed to verify certain aspects of your abilities. You needed exercise. Again, this was a workout not a combat simulation."

Tabitha sighed mentally. She knew he was goading her. Callie would have risen above it. Too bad. I'm not Callie. She pulled her helmet
back on. "Then let's have the combat simulation," she demanded, her blue eyes suddenly as implacable as his own.