Disclaimer: See previous chapters.

Timeline: Knightfall. For those of you who read my first story, Mayday, this story takes place four years later.

A/N: Goju-Shorei systems encompass both weapons combat (cane, knife, and fan) and Karate.

A/N: 'Abba' is the Hebrew word for father.

Chapter 6

Careful the Things You Say

Careful the things you say

Children will listen

Careful the things you do

Children will see—and learn

--Stephen Sondheim, Into the Woods

6:30 P.M.

Callie and Jaime finished the sandwiches Bronwen had sent over for supper. They had just completed the grace after meals when Alfred cleared his throat from the doorway. "You have company, Doctor." Callie sighed inwardly. 'Doctor' or 'Doctor Aaronson' was worse than 'Miss Callie.' She would have protested more strenuously, if she didn't feel the need to keep the older gentlemen on her side. At least Jaime seemed happy enough with 'young sir.' A moment later, the team filed in to the dining room. Bran, Jill, Bron, Maybelle, Natalie, and..."

"Ima!" Jaime exclaimed, running to the statuesque woman whose blond fall gleamed beneath a black beret. Sophia Aaronson-Cardozo stooped to embrace her son.

Callie raised her eyebrows. "You should have called first."

Brandon agreed. "Would have, but the phones are down."

Callie glanced at Alfred. "What?"

Alfred's surprise mirrored her own. He lifted the receiver of a telephone lying on a sideboard, and raised it to his ear. A moment later, he returned it to its cradle. "My apologies," he said, disturbed. "I shall arrange repairs directly."

Maybelle interrupted. "We tried your cell but this place is a dead zone."

Callie grimaced. "That's right. I should have remembered from last time. Bane must have—" She caught herself. "Sophie," she addressed her eldest sister, "Alfred will show you where the library is. Why don't you take Jaime there, and come back?" She turned to Alfred. "I'm sorry. Having a strategy and planning session here wasn't my idea. But as long as the team is assembled, we'll try to keep it short."

"Very good, Doctor." His tone implied that it was anything but 'good.' Having a meeting in Batman's dining room, about how to keep Bane from gaining full control of the city, with Batman incapacitated upstairs was not exactly a stellar display of sensitivity, Callie reflected dourly. This was going to be as brief as possible.

She waited for Sophia to return, before beginning. "People," she said as Sophie took her seat, "time's wasting. Just to confirm some of the thoughts that have been going through certain heads, there's no way to predict, when Batman will be out there again." Alfred turned to leave. "Alfred," Callie said, quickly, "please, stay. I'd rather know ahead of time if he'd have real objections to any course of action we resolve." Alfred acquiesced and pulled the door closed behind him.

"Or if?" Natalie asked, responding to Callie's earlier statement.

Callie frowned, but conceded the point. "Or if." Her sister's arm was in a sling, she noted with concern. She continued. "There is such a thing as confidentiality, so I'm not sharing details, but let's just say it's going to be weeks before he responds to the signal."

"So, if the signal goes up, do we answer it?" This from Maybelle.

Cal hesitated. "I wouldn't make a point of it. If you happen to be in the neighborhood, then by all means, but do not, under any circumstances, get caught up in any discussion about Batman's condition."

Maybelle's head jerked up sharply. "We wouldn't—"

"Oh? If a cop asks you if you think Batman'll be out tomorrow, what's your reply?"

"No."

"Wrong. Bran?"

"Really couldn't say," Brandon answered immediately. "Our paths don't cross often."

"This is the first time you've responded to the signal." Callie countered, continuing to role-play.

"This is the first time we've been in the area, and the signal's been up more than forty-five minutes. If there's trouble, we'd like to help."

Callie nodded. "Better." She looked around. "Get it? Guard any information about his current condition more stringently than you would any of our own... skeletons." She continued. "Fear of running into Batman has been a major crime deterrent. If last night was any indication, I don't think any of us had any clue just how major. Somehow, despite his regular patrols, we've rarely had a slow night, ourselves, since we started up operations here. With Batman out of commission, our job's not going to get any easier. So. Starting tonight, no more solo missions. Once we're back to operating fully staffed, it's going to be teams of two minimum, three preferred. We do not engage any Arkham escapees, or any opposing force outnumbering us by a factor greater than three to one without requesting backup unless signaling or waiting for said backup would likely result in loss of life to ourselves or civilians."

She thought for a moment. "Example: hostage situation. Eight armed hostiles, twenty civilians. You still call for backup, but don't wait. Go in and do what you have to, because, situations like that turn violent in a heartbeat. If, on the other hand, you find a drug processing operation, two of you, fifteen of them, you do not go in without reinforcements. If there aren't any, you call the cops, withdraw and let them handle it." At Brandon's double take, she reminded him, "We're a helping hand, not their competition. If need be, you call on Oracle to bring in the JLA, the JSA, or the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. You do not engage the thugs." She looked around. "Everyone clear, or do you need more examples?"

Seven pairs of eyes looked back at her, comprehension palpable.

Callie smiled. "I shouldn't even ask." She sobered. "Next point of business. For those who haven't heard, Tabitha's disappeared. "Where, we don't know."

Bronwen grinned. "Actually, I've got some idea. The motive's a little foggy right now, but last night, she took a bus to Manhattan. It was an express, no stops, so we know she didn't get off sooner to throw us off the trail. No clue what she's doing there, and no guarantee she didn't buy another ticket somewhere else, of course..."

Alfred cleared his throat. Callie looked inquiringly at him. "You know why she would have gone there?"

"I can but speculate."

"Please."

"Some months ago, Master Bruce reported that Nightwing had assisted two of your sisters in defeating a... rather large number of miscreants."

Maybelle grinned. "Yep, that was Umbra and me." She chuckled. "Talk about outnumbered. I think it was twenty-five against two. Three, after he helped."

"I read the report," Callie replied. "Sorry, Alfred. Please, go on."

"Until recently, Nightwing was the leader of the Titans. And the Titans are based in New York City."

"And Nightwing was Robin," Callie stated.

"Indeed."

"So," Maybelle said, face hard, "on a night when the only thing keeping this city from going to hell is a lack of a sturdy enough hand-basket, one of our key players jaunts off to New York instead of trying to keep a lid on the pressure cooker?

"What?" she asked, when Jill glanced up sharply.

"Nothing, just trying to figure out how many metaphors you've managed to mangle in fifty words or less."

Brandon snickered.

Callie sighed. "I'll deal with Tabitha when she comes back." She glanced at Bronwen. "Thanks, good work."

"I aim to please."

"As far as boosting our profile goes," Callie continued, "don't go overboard. It's fine if they see you, but no mugging for the cameras, no press conferences. It's pretty much business as usual, just spending slightly less time in the shadows."

Phasma spoke up. "Would we want to consider a day shift?"

"I have been," Callie admitted. "If we go that route, though, it means running two skeleton shifts rather than one fully staffed. We get a member on the disabled list, it means throwing in a sleepy substitute. For now, I think it's best to keep that idea as a possibility for down the road, but let's leave it as it's always been, for the present. Questions?"

There were none.

She looked at Natalie. "How's the shoulder?"

Natalie touched the sling reflexively. "Feels fine, now. I think I'm good to go."

"I don't," Cal said flatly. "Those injuries can take weeks to heal."

"We don't have weeks," Natalie protested. "Besides, I always heal faster than the textbooks say I should."

"If Bran didn't reset you in time, you're looking at an average recovery time of six to twelve weeks. I'm not putting you back in the field, so fast." She thought for a moment. "This would fall more under Alison's area of expertise than mine. If she certifies you fit for duty, day after tomorrow, fine. Until then, you keep it in the sling, and you keep icing it."

"But—"

"Once Ali's back, I'll be out again, myself. For the next couple of nights, four of us, plus Robin and—"she raised enquiring eyebrows at Alfred "Azrael?" Alfred nodded confirmation. "Azrael," Callie continued, "will have to be enough." Natalie opened her mouth again to protest. "This isn't open for discussion. The sun rises in the east. You stay in. Period." She looked around. "Anything else?"

Silence.

Callie drew a deep breath. She looked around again. "Naiad and Spectrum will cover Tricorner. Phasma and Pathwarden take downtown. If you get a tip from Oracle, act on it."

Sophie cleared her throat. "I'm not ready."

"I've seen you work out. You're ready, you're just nervous. That's why I'm sticking you in Tricorner tonight. So far, it's been relatively quiet over there. Think of it as a field exercise." Her older sister nodded unhappily. "We're adjourned then." The team stood and turned to leave. "Maybelle," Callie called, "a moment in private."

The younger woman turned back, resigned, as the others trooped out. Alfred left with them. Callie waited for the door to close before speaking again. "I'm listening."

Maybelle stood at attention, arms straight by her sides. "I'm sorry. When he pulled the trigger, training took over. I retaliated."

Cal shook her head. "You blocking the bullet was training. You counterattacking that way, that was instinct." She held up a hand to still her sister's protest. "Instinct has its place. That place is not in the driver's seat. You don't have a lot of time to think, out there, but use what you have."

Maybelle nodded her acknowledgment, but persisted. "He shot at me once. He wasn't going to get a second chance."

Callie agreed. At her sister's surprised look, she continued. "He had one of Natalie's trank darts in his hand. It's a wonder he was able to pull the trigger once." Her eyes narrowed. "Also, that he was able to release his grip on the gun before the heat from your fireball incinerated him. Got a reason for that little display of grandstanding?"

Maybelle went chalk-white. "He had a rifle on Natalie. He fired it on me. All I could think was to make sure he couldn't use the thing again! I attacked the weapon, not the creep holding it!"

"And if he hadn't been able to drop that weapon, whether the fireball impacted the gun or the gunman would have been fairly academic, no? I'm still waiting to hear about the fiasco with the iceball," she added.

"I thought..." Funny. She couldn't remember what she had been thinking.

"No. If you'd been thinking, you'd have come up with something better." Callie sighed. "We both know you're too smart to act this dumb. "What's going on?"

"Nothing."

Callie cocked her head. "Nothing?"

Maybelle glowered. "Well, apart from having these fantastic abilities I don't dare use because they only make things worse. Is it grandstanding that I can put fifteen opponents out of commission before Bran takes down two?"

"No," Cal said slowly. "More like coasting. These abilities we have, these things we do, they're weapons. Important weapons in any arsenal, yes, but there's a danger in relying on any one thing too much. When was the last time you tried Goju-Shorei, or Kung Fu? That fan you keep tucked in your tunic belt isn't a fashion accessory, you know." She looked away. "As always, the issue is less whether you can do something, than whether you should. Cutting loose with fire and ice in an enclosed space with lots of breakables is, in general, not advisable."

"You can take off the kid gloves," Maybelle said sourly. "I'm not Jaime." She flinched as Callie turned a furious glare on her.

"No, you're not. At your level, you're expected to understand the ramifications of your actions, and judge accordingly. If you can't do that..."

"What?" Maybelle shot back. "You'll 'bench' me?" She snickered. "Boy, so far, we're down Kensai, Umbra, you—now you want to suspend me?"

The calmness of Callie's tone belied the rage in her eyes. "Believe me," she said quietly, "suspending you is the last thing I want to do. But if you performance remains at current levels, then yes, it will come to that. Keep coasting on your psi skills and pulling one grandstanding show after another and you'll be too much of a liability to the team for me to do otherwise." Her eyes bore steadily down on her sister, and it was the younger woman who looked away first.

Cal put a hand on her shoulder. "Think of this as a challenge." She slapped both hands onto her own hips and thrust her chin forward. "I dare you to get through tonight without grandstanding." In a more serious tone, she continued, "and I'm trusting you to watch out for Sophie. She has more skills than confidence right now."

Maybelle's eyes went flat. "And I'm the reverse, right?"

"No. But you act like it. So, please, stop. You're capable of so much more."

Maybelle was silent.

Callie sighed. Then she vanished. An instant later, she teleported back, holding her staff, helmet, and armguards. "Outside," she ordered.

"What?"

"The hedges out back are high enough that we won't be visible to road or neighbors. You can use fan, knife, and any martial arts you choose. I'll stick to staff-work. Right now, you want to pound me. I'm giving you a golden opportunity."

"What's in it for me?"

One corner of her mouth quirked upwards. "If you win, Brandon's undying gratitude. And, if anyone on the team finds a camera within five hundred yards of us, my eternal humiliation."

"What's in it for you?"

Callie shrugged. "I need a workout. Coming?"

Maybelle reached into her purse and withdrew an oriental silk fan. Swiftly, she tied her hair into a ponytail. "You're on!"

VVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVV

Jaime closed The Magician's Nephew. He'd been right—the lady that Digory woke up in Charn was the White Witch—or she was going to be. He looked around him. The room was bigger than Abba's study, but was filled with books, ceiling to floor, just like at home. Most of the volumes here, however, were in English, not Hebrew or Aramaic. Curious, he walked from bookcase to bookcase, reading the titles. One unit's shelves at his eye-level held books he'd already read, but these were hardcover, bound with leather, not cloth: Adventures of Tom Sawyer, Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, The Prince and the Pauper, Pudd'nhead Wilson. He lifted Tom Sawyer off the shelf and leafed through it. Funny, the words seemed a lot harder, and there weren't as many pictures. He replaced it carefully. Next to the Twains, were three volumes of Donald J. Sobol's Two-Minute Mysteries, followed by a half-dozen familiar Encyclopedia Brown titles. These last were in softcover.

His aunts and uncle always told him that if he used his eyes and ears, he'd pick up a lot of things other people missed. The Sobol books were dog-eared, their bindings cracked in more than one place, he thought. That meant that they had been read often. Jaime's eyes lit up at the next shelf. Aunt Tabitha had told him that theAlfred Hitchcock and the Three Investigators mysteries were out of print, but here were two shelves packed with them! Aunt Tabitha had found a few at a library discard sale, and Jaime was reading through them whenever he went to visit her. Yes! Here was the one he was more than halfway finished. He pulled the book off the shelf and, unable to find a chair his size, sat on the carpeted floor by a large window. In a moment he was caught up in the three boys' search for the tattooed man.

He so absorbed by the story, that it wasn't until he came to the epilogue that sounds from outside drew his attention. He looked down from the second floor. Aunt Callie and Aunt Maybelle were practicing below. Maybelle executed a series of leaps and rolls, now using her steel-edged fan to deflect a blow from Callie's staff, now darting in to slice at her sister's unprotected upper forearms. Callie's style was slower, steadier. She never seemed to hurry, and yet her staff always seemed to be in position to parry or thrust as needed. Shouts reached him from below.

"...Can't block me forever, Dragon Lady!"

"Your name isn't Morse, so stop telegraphing!"

"Make me."

"Aren't I?"

Watching the two, it occurred to Jaime, that while Aunt Maybelle was fighting to win, Aunt Callie was fighting not to beat, but to stop her younger sister. Her deliberate counters made Jaime think of a mountain. It could rain on a mountain for a long time, before the mountain wore down...

"Call that a defense, Sil?" Naiad taunted, as she feinted with the fan, and kicked her sister solidly in the kneecap. "Reminds me of Tchaikovsky's sixth—Pa-the-ti-que!"

Silver Dragon fell back but regained her footing almost immediately. Using her staff as a vaulting pole, she leaped behind her sister, and—as the younger girl turned around—picked up the staff again, and caught Naiad just below her ribcage. "More like Haydn's 94th in G. Surprise!"

"Oh, you are going to pay for that one, Jolly Green. Just. You. Wait."

Jaime froze. What were they doing? The first rules Aunt Callie had drilled into him when she had started teaching him, the rules that she made him recite, at the beginning and end of each lesson, why were they breaking them now? He repeated them softly now. Rule one: code names in costume, street names in civvies. Rule two: GIGCY. Grandstanding is gonna cost you. Rule three: training is to be done it the training room, only. Rule four: no weapons practice outside the training room—EVER. No weapons fighting outside the training room unless you're in costume and in the field. Rule five: If you have to defend yourself out of costume, only use basic martial arts. So, why were she and Aunt Maybelle half in costume, using weapons outside the training room? And 'Sil' and 'Dragon Lady' sounded way too close to 'Silver Dragon.'

"You'll always find out a lot more if you don't show you're interested," Aunt Tabitha had told him once. "Take it from someone who's been doing this since she was younger than you. People, even people who should know better, think that when you're a kid, you either don't understand, or don't care about what's going on around you. The minute you show them they're wrong, they'll clam up. Of course, if you can't ask questions, that means you'll need to work extra hard to put all the pieces together, but that's life."

He remembered in the car, earlier, how Aunt Bronwen had shut off the radio, and how she had reacted when he had said he wanted to hear what was on the news...

"Hey!" Ima called out to her sisters, as she strode into view. She was in full costume, Jaime realized—mask and everything. And she was carrying a short spear, maybe a little taller than he was. Why wasn't she reminding them not to fight in the open? What if Tim saw, or Alfred? What if Bruce heard? "Is this a private party or can anyone join in?" What?

"Help Naiad," Callie grunted. "She needs it."

"Only because I can't do this the fun way," Naiad shot back.

Alfred crossed the lawn, setting a tray of glasses with a pitcher of water down on the picnic table. Jaime blinked. Alfred either didn't notice, or didn't care, what his aunts were up to. Something was very wrong.

Think. In his mind, he imagined Umbra standing next to a blackboard with a chalk-pointer. Slowly, his aunt wrote a word in block capitals at the top centre: SPECIFY. And underneath that, smaller, she wrote: What is wrong? What does it mean?

Jaime thought back. As memories surfaced, envisioned his aunt writing them down in the "what is wrong" column—just like she did for real, when she was teaching him.

One. Ima said Bruce was sick, but he looks more like he got hurt

Two. Aunt Callie is breaking her own rules

Three. Aunt Callie was wearing part of her costume when I got here. She changed later.

Four. Alfred doesn't care about the costumes or weapons.

Five. Every time the radio comes on, if it's about Batman, someone turns it off or changes the channel.

Another thought occurred to him.

Six. Aunt Callie just got to be a doctor last month. She doesn't even have an office, yet. How did Bruce know to call her?

There was something else... something bothering him that hadn't before... what... his eye fell on the nearly finished mystery novel. How had Jupiter Jones figured out that the villain was in disguise... hands! That was it. The bad guy had dressed up like an old man. The mask was perfect, but the hands hadn't had any wrinkles, or brown spots, or anything. Jaime looked down at his own hand. It might not be wrinkled, or old, but it wasn't smooth either. He had blisters and calluses from learning to hold—and use a staff and dagger properly. There were bruises on his knuckles, and one nasty purple one under his index fingernail from when he hadn't been able to move his fingers out of the way of Aunt Callie's staff. And Bruce... Bruce's hands were the same way! But if you got hands like that from training or fighting, then how—

He thought about the other column on his mental chalkboard: What does it mean?

Well, Ima could have gotten confused about hurt and sick. You needed a doctor for both after all. Maybe that one wasn't important. The next three points, when looked at together, seemed like they all meant the same thing: Alfred already knew about Psion Force. Maybe Tim, too. But how? And if Aunt Callie had been wearing part of her costume before, it meant that she must have come here in costume. Why would she do that? And why did nobody want him to know too much about Batman...

Somehow, he felt that he should know what was going on. It was like trying to put together a jigsaw puzzle with one or two missing pieces. Even without them, he should have a good idea of what the whole thing looked like. He thought he almost saw it, but it was as if there was a heavy door, blocking him from understanding. He was chipping away at that door, but it was taking too long.

Maybe Aunt Callie knew Bruce from before. Just because he'd never heard her mention him before didn't mean she never had. Bruce had seemed to know who she was, when Jaime had said she was his aunt. And the bit about the hands, well, his Ima, his aunts, his uncles, all had hands like that. Aunt Callie said was normal to have hands like that if you wore a costume, or if you were training to. But, Bruce was hurt all over. He said he couldn't remember how. Maybe his hands got hurt the same way? No. Just from keeping his eyes open when Alison or Aunt Callie was patching up the team, Jaime had learned to tell the difference between fresh bruises and old ones. Most of Bruce's were old. And you didn't get calluses from getting hurt—you got them when the blisters stopped hurting.

How else could you get calluses? Aunt Natalie said she had them on her fingers from learning to play guitar. He'd read somewhere a story about a boy growing up on a farm, who got them from doing his chores. But this wasn't a farm. Did Bruce play guitar? He could ask.

Maybe there was an easy answer—something obvious that he wasn't seeing. Probably if he just found one of his aunts, or Uncle Brandon, they'd explain it to him. He decided to go downstairs and look for somebody to ask.

Between the library and the staircase were a series of closed doors, which might lead to bedrooms. None were Bruce's—his was past the stairs, almost at the other end of the hallway. As Jaime passed the third door on the left, he noticed that it was partly open. Seated on a sofa, watching television, his back to the wall, was Tim. Jaime eased the door open further, and slipped noiselessly into the room. Ima didn't like him watching television—they didn't even own one. If Tim knew about that, he'd probably make him leave...

VVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVV

Tim felt like a highway driver passing an accident on the shoulder of the road. At least he thought he did—he was thirteen—still too young even for a learner's permit. "You're watching GSN," came the voice of the announcer, "Gotham's own twenty-four hour news station. Now, here's Angie Lim." The camera focused on a petite Asian woman. "Good evening," she said. "GSN has received video footage taken by a spectator in Robinson Square last night." Behind her, a large screen sported a city map with the letters GSN superimposed on it. On cue, the map dissolved to show a tall building. From the angle of the video cam, its user had to be at ground level, probably somewhere at the opposite side of the square. Atop the edifice, a man, huge, squat, masked, held something aloft in both hands. No. Tim felt sick. Not something. Batman.

The camera hadn't picked up sound, so Angie Lim provided running commentary: "As you can see, Bane is hoisting Batman over his head, preparing to throw him," she said in the same tone as she might have used for "As you can see, a cold front moving in from the north will make the overnight low thirty degrees." Tim closed his eyes—and heard a choking noise behind him. He twisted around to see Jaime standing just inside, eyes wide, both hands cupped around his mouth.

Bane. The door barring Jaime's understanding blew to smithereens. Bane! Right before Ima had taken him up to the library, Aunt Callie had started to say that Bane had something to do with the phone not working. But why would Bane have come here in the first place, unless...

"What are you doing in here?" Tim asked, more harshly than he meant to. He'd told Callie he'd help watch the kid, but the last thing he felt like doing right now was listen to some first-grader prattle on about some book or other.

"I heard the TV," he said in a small voice. "And I know."

"You know." Tim said, not sure if he had heard right. And if he had, in fact, heard correctly, was he jumping to the right conclusion about what the kid knew?

"Yes." Jaime said. "So could you please tell Aunt Callie she doesn't have to pretend around me anymore? Just tell her..." He couldn't say it to Tim. What if he guessed wrong and Tim really didn't know? He couldn't think of anything else to say. "I know!" he said, and rushed out, kicking the door shut behind him.

He hadn't meant to slam it. He dashed down the hallway, bypassing the stairs. At Bruce's door, he stopped, and knocked gently, entering at Bruce's invitation to "come in."

Tim saw Jaime vanish into Bruce's room. He shook his head. He had to get Callie.

VVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVV

"Jaime!" Bruce smiled. His smile faded when the boy entered the room silently, climbed into the chair he had moved by the bed, and sat, unsmiling, eyes shut tightly, both hands grasping the armrests. It was something of a stretch, literally, for Jaime to grip both armrests at once, and would have looked comical, were it not for the fact that the boy was plainly agitated. "What's the matter?"

He opened his eyes then. "I think I found something out just now. If I'm wrong, you'll laugh at me. But I don't think I am."

Bruce looked at him. "I don't... laugh... often." He said.

Jaime went on as if he hadn't heard. "But if I'm right, I think you'll be mad at me. And that'll be worse."

Whatever his secret was, it was clearly weighing heavily on the boy. Bruce knew what that felt like. "I won't get mad," he replied.

"How do you know?" Jaime implored. "You don't even know what I'm going to say."

Bruce struggled through the fading painkillers to frame a reply. He was off the respirator, now, at least. "You're right," he admitted. "I don't know. But I think I have an idea about what it's like to want to tell someone something important, and know that once you do, you can't... take it back. I know that can be... frightening." Vicki. If he had trusted her with his secret, would they be together, now? Or would she have run, even faster, unable to deal with the ramifications? Letting her go had been for the best. At least, he kept telling himself so. "It's not... a good feeling."

Jaime nodded agreement. "No." He closed his eyes again, thinking. A moment later, he opened them, nodded again, and drew a deep breath. "I think Aunt Callie's afraid that if you know what I found out, you'll think she told me. She didn't." He thought for a moment. Actually, she kind of had, hadn't she? "Well, she didn't mean to. She told me, when I was little, that she wanted to be a doctor for people who..." his forehead creased in concentration, "who it would be worse for them if they went to a hospital than if they didn't, even if they were real sick or hurt real bad. You know the kind of people I mean?"

Bruce's expression froze. "Go on," he said, ignoring the question.

"She's only just a real doctor, now. I know she's a great one, but out of the family, I don't think she's famous, yet. But she came here, and you're letting her help you. But don't you have another doctor, from before?"

Bruce didn't answer. Partly, he was stunned by the turn the conversation was taking. It may have been the medications in his system. Partly, he had to admit to himself, at least, that he was impressed by the boy's reasoning. Jaime continued, explaining about the phones being out, and Callie's... slip. There was no other word Bruce would use to describe it. That had been a costly one. It probably would have gone right past most boys Jaime's age, Bruce realized, and even most of those a few years older. But Jaime had caught it.

"I can't tell you the rest of it," Jaime continued. "Because, if I'm wrong, and you're going to laugh, I think I'll be telling you things I'm not supposed to talk about outside the family. But I think that the reason my Aunt Callie is your doctor is because you won't go to a hospital. And I don't think you can because..."

Bruce regarded him solemnly for a moment. "Jaime," he said gently, "if you have something to say, say it." He reached a hand out to the boy.

Jaime took it between both of his, and turned it over gently, looking again at the bruises and the calluses. Would his own hands look like that when he was as old as Bruce? "I think you're Batman."

Bruce pulled his hand out of Jaime's, and lifted it. The boy flinched as Bruce brought it down lightly on his shoulder. Bruce winced. Was this what it came down to? Terrifying the very people... the very children... that he wanted to protect the most. It would be so easy to do what Jaime was dreading. Laugh the whole thing off, come up with some other plausible explanation for everything the boy had observed, Jaime would feel a little embarrassed around him for a while, but he would come around. Except... it was a relief to actually have this out in the open. And... Psion Force already knew who he was. If he disavowed the facts now, and Jaime learned, or guessed at some later date, Bruce's denial of the truth now would make matters worse. What should be harder, he thought to himself, to do the detective work and present the facts to somebody who you knew probably wouldn't want to hear them, or just to confirm the hypothesis? And, when all was said and done, when Jaime had figured it out, he hadn't run to his aunt to crow over his discovery—no, Jaime had come to him. He squeezed the boy's shoulder briefly.

"Well done," he said.

Jaime looked up, incredulous. "I'm right?"

"You are," Bruce confirmed.

"For real? For real, I'm right?"

"Yes."

A muffled gasp from the doorway caused them both to turn their heads. Tim, Natalie, and Callie, stood looking in. Natalie rested her forehead against the doorframe, a goofy smile on her face. "I suppose," Callie said in consternation, "that one of the chief risks in teaching deductive reasoning to children is their tendency to apply said reasoning in circumstances that one truly wishes... that they would not. I'm sorry, Bruce.

"This isn't funny, Natalie!" she snapped as the younger girl guffawed loudly.

"Oh... yes... it... is!" Natalie gasped, between chuckles. "Yes... it... is!" She drew a deep breath. "Tim comes running downstairs in a panic that he somehow let the ca—I mean BAT out of the bag by turning on the TV while you—"she pointed at Callie "you—oh, this is just tooooo... much. Cal, you are NEVER going to live this one down. Not ever!"

Tim was smiling, Jaime was grinning. Bruce and Callie exchanged a glance. Later, neither would remember which of the two had said "she's right," and which had laughed first. Not that the order really mattered.