Disclaimer: Batman, Alfred, and other DC characters appearing in this fan- fic are, of course, DC's. A Separate Peace, by John Knowles, is an actual novel. In the Bantam/Doubleday/Dell edition published 1985, the quote, which I have used, appears on page 208. It is being used without the permission of the publisher. 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: If anyone out there has a canon source for the date of the Wayne murders, please email me at In the absence of such a source, I've picked a date arbitrarily.
A/N: Special thanks to gothamnights. for the great map. Without it, I wouldn't know what areas of Gotham surround Crime Alley.
A/N: I'm not a doctor. I have no idea what sedative would typically be administered in the situation described below. If anyone has a better suggestion than Valium, please email me at the address in my profile. I really do try to get the pesky little details right.
Chapter 4: Maginot Lines Drawn and Crossed
Tabitha had finally left him alone in the cave and gone upstairs to have her shower. He had put her through a basic no-win scenario---the computer creating opponents of increasing difficulty, until the subject was overwhelmed and subdued. It had taken almost forty-five minutes for that to happen. She was that good. Much as it rankled him to admit it.
He exchanged his bathrobe and sweats for a costume and put himself through an advanced combat routine. After using the cave facilities to shower, he donned a fresh costume, leaving off the gloves, cape and cowl, and pulled the robe over it.
Returning to the computer, he attempted a background check on the Aaronson clan. The details, when they came, posed more questions than they answered. The children had been born in Whitehorse, in Canada's northern Yukon Territory. The Jewish presence in that area had to be miniscule if it even existed. Their father had died in the Sudan, but there were no details on how, or why. There was a three-year gap between the last record of their living in Whitehorse and the first record of their living in Toronto. Prior to that break in the pattern, the three eldest (and there was an older sister, Sophia, whom Callie had not mentioned) had gone to private non-denominational schools in Alberta, as had Maybelle. Callie, apparently, had not received any formal education until the age of ten, when she had been immediately placed into sixth grade. And, there was no mention anywhere of a legal guardian. It occurred to him that they might have falsified certain details as a safety measure, in case someone suspected their identities...
He blinked. That clinched his suspicion, because this next bit could not possibly be right. There was simply ... no way that Natalie Aaronson had been the recipient of her elementary school's basketball "team spirit award" from grades four through six. Callantha was plausible. But Natalie?
Tabitha came downstairs, stepping just slightly more noisily than was necessary. "Find what you were looking for?" She asked, from midway down the steps. At that angle, there was no way that she could see the data display on the screen.
He did not reply at once. Tabitha shrugged. "Cal used to try the silent treatment on me, too," she said. "After all this time, I think I'm immune." She joined him at the console. "Oh. That's ... us. Should I be flattered, or nervous?"
"There are anomalies," he said quietly.
Tabitha clasped her hands behind her back. "Such as?"
Silence
She cocked her head. "Okay, at what point did you get the impression that I didn't want to discuss things? Look, if there's anything I can clear up, now's your chance."
"How old were you when you first started this?"
"Working nights?" Her lips curved in a sardonic smile. "I was five. And, looking back, I'd have to say that I was very, very, lucky."
"Silver Dragon sent an infant—"
Tabitha's blue eyes flashed. "Watch it!" she snapped. "Telling a person she looks younger than she is only becomes a compliment after age 30." When he didn't answer, she continued in a milder tone. "The truth is, at first, Callie tried to leave me home with a sitter. But, she was dealing with a person who walks through walls---not to mention locked doors, windows, trees, and most other substances you can name. I found ways to be in earshot when she was discussing strategy, and then I'd follow any way I could. Later on, she realized that she was expecting me to put in an appearance, and trying to account for that in her planning. After that, it just got easier to include me. And there weren't any sitters freaking out when I disappeared. And, given that when I'm intangible, I don't get hurt easily, it wasn't really that risky. Also, please, remember she was twelve at the time, and five didn't seem as young to her then as it would now."
"And who looked after you at that time?" he shot back. "Do you expect me to believe that she was your legal guardian from the age of... ten? Seven?"
Tabitha frowned. "We're getting into a tricky area," she admitted frankly. "See, anything to do with me, I'm free to talk about, or not. You're asking me, though, for info on the rest of the team, and some of that is--- personal. I can't get into it. What I can say is, that Callie is not now, nor never has been my legal guardian. She is my big sister, my leader, and, really, the only mother I've ever known. She's been raising me since I was three, and she was ten. I know there's a three-year gap. That's one of the things I don't think I can go into. We both know it's there, but please, let's just leave it for now. In the long run, does it really matter whether she was seven or ten? It was too young, you, me, she, the rest of the team, and Mrs. Berger know it, but it happened—let's move on."
"Did she use telepathy to keep people from asking questions?"
Tabitha jerked her head up angrily. "Howdare you?" she exclaimed, in a voice no less intense for all it was controlled.
"It's the only explanation that would make sense. Isn't it?"
"No!" The fury in her eyes was genuine.
"Tabitha," he said inexorably, "she was ten. I've checked the birth records on all of you. Even Sophia wasn't more than fourteen at the time. Yet somehow, you managed to secure living accommodations, attend school, pay bills. You lived in Toronto for eight years. And nobody wondered why they never saw any adults? Nobody asked why your parents never came for teacher conferences? Explain."
Tabitha is three. She is wearing her best blue dress, even if nobody can see it because she's wearing a snowsuit over it. The skirt is uncomfortably bunched up in her leggings. It's really too warm to be wearing a snowsuit in April in Toronto, but it was colder when they got on the bus from Whitehorse to Edmonton. And she has slept for the better part of the two-day train ride from Edmonton to Toronto. Callie hasn't wanted to take the leggings of the snowsuit off, because she can't quite believe that it would be warm enough for that this early in the year. Tabitha clasps her green-mittened hands around Callie's leg, and peeps out from behind her sister's plaid skirt at the lady before them.
"So," Sophie is saying, nervously, "we don't have anywhere else to go, and since Dad actually owned this building, I—We—well we'd like to stay together, and we're quiet, and if there's an apartment nobody's using, please..."
Callie interrupts. "No foster home is going to take on all seven of us kids," she says bluntly. "You know it. We've been split up for years—boarding schools and so on. But now, we're all we've got. Anyway, we own this place, or we will once Sophia turns eighteen. Let us stay in one of the vacant units, and I promise you, if there are any complaints, you can kick us out, or call Child Services, whatever you have to." It's a big chance Callie's taking. Tabitha doesn't fully understand what's happening, but she knows her big sister is frightened. Her big sister has never been frightened of anything before. Well, not before a few days ago, anyhow, she thinks. She twists her head to look at Natalie, but Natalie stares at the ground. Natalie hasn't spoken in almost two weeks—not since that morning when everything changed. Tabitha doesn't like to think about how everything changed. But suddenly, she has a new brother and three new sisters, all of them older than she is. They've been away, but now they're home. Or so they say. But this isn't home.
The lady is asking about money, and Sophie is talking about something that sounds like 'trust fun an-ta-rust'. What does it mean: trust fun? Trust fun, rust fun—rust is no fun—you have to be careful not to step on a rusty nail in Daddy-Ben's workshop, or Callie says, your foot'll turn green and Daddy-Ben'll have to saw it off. Callie always called them Daddy-Ben, and Mummy-Tamara never just Daddy and Mummy, like Tabitha and Natalie do. She doesn't remember what the others called them--she barely knows them.
Sophie is handing over a notepad to the lady. "I think we can make it work, if I did the math right," she says. "Mr. Markovitch arranged for the interest to be automatically transferred to our personal bank accounts each month, so we have access to that, at least." Her hand is shaking as the lady takes it from her. Tabitha has heard her talking things over with Callie the night before they left Whitehorse, talking about what different things cost, writing things down, crossing them out. Big sisters always know what to do—don't they? Up to this very minute, she knew that Callie did, but now, she's not sure.
Callie advances, seemingly oblivious to Tabitha's death-grip on her leg, but then a hand reaches down to cup the back of the tiny girl's head. At the same time, Tabitha sees Callie's other arm encircle Natalie's shoulder. "Please," she says softly. "Let us try this. With the interest from our trust fund, and a roof over our heads, we should be able to manage. If it doesn't work," she swallows, "we won't run. You can call whoever you want. But give us a few days. Let us try," she repeats, softly.
The lady thinks forever. Finally she says, "Well, we'll talk this over in the morning. For now, your father did keep one unit available for his personal use. Since your mother never authorized its rental, it's empty right now, so I suppose, you children can sleep there tonight."
The sighs of relief are palpable. Callie hoists Natalie over one shoulder. "Thank-you Mrs. Berger!"
"Don't thank me, yet," she says sternly, but not unkindly. "This is a trial period only.
"Kay!" she calls behind her.
A girl about Sophie's age comes to the doorway. She has Mrs. Berger's brown eyes and hair. She smiles warmly. "Hello."
"This is my daughter, Kay," Mrs. Berger says. "Kay, these are Mr. Aaronson's children. They'll be staying in his apartment for now. Why don't you show them up?"
Kay grins as she accepts the key from her mother. "I always wanted to see inside the penthouse." She hunches over, curving her arms outward and bending her knees forward. "Pliz to valk theees vay," she hisses in a faux- Eastern European accent.
Brandon snickers, and slouches after her. Maybelle rolls her eyes, and follows suit. The others exchange glances, and turn in that direction, but do not slouch.
"You straighten yourself up, right now, young lady," Mrs. Berger orders. Her voice snaps, but Tabitha can tell that she's not really angry. Callie hoists Tabitha over her other shoulder, grunting a little, but making no other complaint and they follow Kay to the elevator.
"Callie always told us not to get into trouble," Tabitha continued. "Not to do anything that might get the principal calling home for a conference. Mrs. Berger signed our report cards, always with a note saying that our mother was away for an extended period of time, and that in case of emergency, they could call her. It wasn't really a lie," she added. "Three years-plus is pretty extended in anybody's book. Anyway, once Sophie turned eighteen, it got a lot easier."
"Where is she, now?" he asked. "Sophie?"
"My guess would be on the 51st floor of Wayne Enterprises. She works in your finance department. You'll find her listed under Sophia Cardozo. She took a temporary leave of absence from all of this stuff when she got married. It became permanent ten months later when my nephew was born. He's almost three, now." She grinned. "Guess I can tell her that if she misses a few days without an excuse, her CEO might actually accept 'abducted by interstellar pirates,' at face value."
"I wouldn't," Bruce said flatly. "Who are 'Daddy-Ben' and 'Mummy-Tamara'?"
"Classified. Sorry, you'll have to dig that up yourself. But getting back, Callie's talent doesn't work that way. She can read minds, yes, and she can project her thoughts, but she can't force someone to do something they don't want to, and definitely not long-term. I mean, she could maybe force you to treat us to ice cream today, but she wouldn't be able to make you deliver two gallons of Neapolitan every week for the next five years. Once she relaxes her concentration, the compulsion is gone. That's today. Twelve years ago, what you suggested would have been even harder. So, no. No, Callie did not use her telepathy to keep people from noticing things. She couldn't have. I didn't mean to fly off the handle like that, but if you had any idea how hard she tries to avoid being in a position where she could even be suspected of that kind of thing, you'd know how offensive a question like that was."
Bruce didn't answer.
"You know, most people would apologize, about now."
Silence.
"Fine, be that way," she sighed. She returned to her knapsack and pulled out a copy of A Separate Peace, a wire-bound exercise book, and a ballpoint pen. "You ever have to read this?" She asked.
"No."
"Cal says everything is a learning experience, even if the only thing you're learning is what not to do. I love this last line," she added. "All of them, all except Phinneas, constructed at infinite costs to themselves, these Maginot Lines against this enemy they thought they saw across the frontier, this enemy who never attacked that way, if he ever attacked at all, if indeed he was the enemy." She smiled ruefully. "Words to live by, especially out in the field. Now, if I can just discuss that in a 750-word essay. Why do teachers always have to over-analyze perfectly good novels?"
"Problem?"
"Well, yes and no. I mean, I can write, completely off-the-cuff, breakneck speed, no real effort, five true-life examples of how that phrase can be applied to situations outside the novel. Unfortunately, they all involve capoeira, air walking, and knife throwing. Sometimes I wish I didn't know half the things I do." She shook her head and continued softly.
"Sometimes, I wish my homeroom teacher hadn't asked us to complete local history projects on the historic neighborhoods of Gotham. Because if she hadn't, I probably wouldn't have known why Natalie was so sure coming here would be safer than going to a hospital." She took a deep breath. This was not going to be easy, but if she didn't clear it up, of course he was going to blame Natalie for revealing his secret. Okay, Cal, I'll own up and take my lumps, just like you taught me. She continued. "I was the one who blurted out your identity — Natalie would have let Jill end up in a hospital, and our photos end up in the tabloids, before she'd blab, unless she was sure there was no other way to save a life."
Bruce looked up, but said nothing. He didn't have to. It was painfully obvious which neighborhood she had covered for her project.
Tabitha toyed with her pen, absently pressing the top to extend and retract the ballpoint tip. "I picked Park Row," she confirmed. "I did a pretty good job, looking up old newspaper stories, pictures. Obviously, the single incident that generated the most copy ink was..."
"You can say it," he said tersely when her voice trailed off.
"I don't really have to, do I?" she asked. "So, I read the articles, the opinions and editorials. And I handed in the project. It was due on November 16th."
Three days before his parents' murder.
"On November 19th," she continued, "I started out patrolling the Victoria Place Industrial Park. After a couple of quiet hours, I thought I'd head over to Manchester. I think, gosh it's all coming back. I think Pathwarden was staking out the Van Dyke Gallery. And then, I realized that I was cutting pretty close to Crime Alley. With all the reading I'd done on the place in the last month, I'd never actually checked it out. So, I took the aerial approach, and headed over.
"I'm sorry," she continued. "I saw you down there, in costume, with two roses. And all of my research was just too fresh in my mind. I had to draw that conclusion. It didn't feel right to intrude, so I headed off. Maybe, I should have joined you at ground level, but it just seemed like the wrong time to introduce myself. Anyway, I thought I should tell you."
Silence. She hadn't mentioned---she hadn't HAD to mention that she'd seen him kneeling on the filthy pavement, pounding his fists on the ground—the one night of the year when he really allowed himself to grieve openly---if you could call visiting that site in full bat regalia in the dark of night 'openly.'
"Right," Tabitha said after a moment. She returned to her homework. Bruce had moved the fruit bowl over to the workspace she had claimed as her own. Tabitha absently murmured a blessing as she reached for a cluster of grapes, plucking them off their vine with one hand while writing with the other. After twenty minutes of furious scribbling, she laid the pen down. What she had would do for now, she could flesh it out later.
"How's your friend?" Bruce asked.
Tabitha looked down. She smiled. "Coming around, I think. Look."
Bruce strode over. Positioning himself at the head of the cot, he asked "Wasn't she---blonde before?"
Tabitha's smile grew broader. "Yep. If she's casting illusions, that sedative must be nearly out of her system by now. I'd say she's definitely coming out of this."
As if in response, the girl on the bed, now a frizzy-haired brunette, mumbled something unintelligible.
"Jill?" Tabitha asked.
"Ga—uhhnnhh..." came the groaned response. The hair returned to blonde but now appeared short and spiky. Her skin took on a mint-green tint.
Bruce frowned. "Does this happen all the time?"
"No," Tabitha replied. "What sort of painkiller is she on?"
Bruce told her.
Tabitha nodded slowly. "The sedative that Mr. Pennyworth gave her---it wouldn't by any chance have been Valium, or something from that family, would it?"
"Low dosage," he confirmed.
Tabitha sighed. "It's really harmless, more awkward than dangerous, but yep, combining those types of medications can temporarily weaken her control. At least, it can when she's semi-conscious. Hence, these involuntary physical changes. Once she's fully awake, she'll be able to reassert her defenses. It looks a lot more serious than it is."
As if on cue, Jill opened her eyes. Simultaneously, her hair returned to its normal, shoulder-length, straight honey-blond. Her skin reverted to its regular peach tones as well. She looked at Tabitha. Her eyes then darted over to take in her surroundings. Seeing the stalactites, and reddish stone walls, her lips quirked upward. "I'm alone in here with you?" she asked humorously. "This must be Hell... lo!" she exclaimed as Bruce moved into her field of vision. Bracing her palms on the mattress, she attempted to lever herself into a sitting position, but gave up, gasping, as her ribs made their condition known. "I'm Jill," she introduced herself. "Jill Perkal."
"Bruce Wayne," he replied. "How are you feeling?"
Jill grinned. "I'm alright, except for the constant pain. Ow!"
"If it hurts when you try to sit up, girl..." Tabitha broke in--
"...Don't sit up!" Jill chimed.
"What's the last thing you remember?" Bruce asked.
Jill hesitated. "Not to talk to strangers," she said softly. "Where am I? This isn't a hospital." She looked around again, confused. "Tabitha, is this place OK?"
Tabitha glanced at Bruce. "Depends on what you mean by OK. But it's safe to talk freely. He knows."
Jill nodded. "Amusement Mile. I think I was fighting with a wrecking crane. Ooohpf! I think it won."
"Well," Tabitha said, "you know what they say. Whether the wrecking ball hits the ribcage or the ribcage hits the wrecking ball..."
"It's going to be bad for the ribcage," Jill finished. "Tell Callie I want a suit of armor. A nice shiny one."
"I think we could improvise," Tabitha suggested. "Maybe if I take a blowtorch to a trashcan, and make some holes for your head and arms."
Jill groaned. "No fair making me laugh, when the painkillers are wearing off." Her eyes flicked to Bruce, then back to Tabitha. "You sure we can trust him?"
"You sure you can trust ME?" Tabitha countered. At Jill's exasperated sigh, she relented. "Yes. Completely," she said, eyeing Bruce meaningfully.
"Okay," Jill said. "Here's hoping I don't regret this, but if you already know some things about us, then let's start over." She smiled at Bruce. "Hi, I'm Phasma."
Bruce hesitated, only for a moment. There really was no need for secrecy. If she didn't find out from him, now, she would probably find out from her teammates later. Slowly, he brought his hands to the neckline of his bathrobe, and pulled it aside, enough to reveal the bat symbol on the suit underneath.
Jill's eyes widened. "Thank-you," she said gravely. "It's a real honor." And she smiled again.
