Disclaimer: See previous chapters. Some dialogue written by Chuck Dixon, and owned by either Dixon or DC. References to Batman: Azrael. Credit Undead Spawn on the DC message boards for one line I've put into Azrael's head.

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

A/N: Sorry for the delay. Writer's block. Other ideas intervening. Excuses, excuses. I'll try to post the next chapter faster.

Chapter 13

Discomfort Zones

"But I want to go-oh, too-oo!" Jaime wailed as Bruce wheeled himself into the hallway of the north wing. The boy was standing in the middle of the hallway, small fists clenched at his side as his uncle looked down at him.

Ignoring the impending tantrum, Callie smiled a welcome in Bruce's direction. "Any further improvement?"

"Not… yet." He looked inquiringly at the red-faced six-year-old blocking the path of the chair.

Callie sighed. "Bran's leaving for shul… um… synagogue to you. Jaime wants to tag along, but it's too long a walk."

Bruce considered. "If you need to borrow a car—"

Brandon shook his head. "Once the Sabbath starts, we don't drive. If he can't walk it, we've got problems."

"I can too walk that far!"

"How about twice that far?" Sophie strode down the hallway from the direction of the bedrooms. "It's not just there, it's back," she pointed out. She tousled her son's hair. "Sorry, honey. If you do get tired, there's no eruv in Bristol. You know what that means?"

"What?"

Bruce wanted to know, too.

Sophie grinned. "It means," she said hoisting Jaime into her arms, "that if you got too tired, your uncle Bran would only be able to carry you four amos," she walked forward approximately eight feet, "before he'd have to put you down!" She lowered him quickly, holding him dangling a few inches above the ground, until he kicked, giggling. She set him gently down. "Then… he'd have to pick you up again!" She swooped down and seized him. Over his laughter, she continued "and he'd have to carry you another four amos! And then he'd have to put you down, again! And you know what he'd do next?"

Jaime doubled over. "Pick me up again!"

"Right!" Sophie complied. "And by the time you two got back, it would be about two o'clock in the morning, and we'll all be starving. And that would make us…"

"Cranky!" Jaime shouted gleefully.

"Right! Now, do you want to see all of us cranky? Do you want to see your Aunt Callie cranky?"

Jaime shook his head, still giggling.

"So you'll stay put?"

He nodded, giggles subsiding as he twisted round to throw his arms around his mother's neck.

Sophie set him gently on the ground. "Then go wash your face, and meet me in your room. We still need to work on your exercises. Okay?"

"'Kay," he ducked his head, and sprinted for the washroom.

Sophie smiled apologetically. "He's a terrific kid, but sometimes, it's the 'kid' part that gets emphasized."

Bruce shook his head, dismissively. "I don't mind. You mentioned an… eruv?"

Alfred cleared his throat. "On their Sabbath, they are not permitted to carry objects outside of an enclosed space for a distance of greater than four cubits. An eruv is a barrier of sorts that encloses a larger area. I believe that the one in Gotham city encompasses some twenty square miles."

Sophie looked meaningfully down the hallway. Callie nodded and waved her on. As her older sister left, Callie's eyes narrowed. "Spill," she ordered.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Alfred," Callie replied, "when Tabitha came here that first time, you brought her a fruit bowl. Not a fruit salad, mind you, a fruit bowl. The implication being that you're more familiar with the Jewish dietary laws than a lot of the people who should know. You haven't batted an eye at the disposable crockery," she gestured vaguely toward the dining room, "and Natalie told me that you asked her whether the hot-water urn needed filling, and whether the fridge light should be unscrewed. Things like that, I could chalk up to anticipating the needs of a guest. But you know about an eruv. And that doesn't dovetail. So, spill."

Alfred glanced about him. He noticed with some satisfaction that Bruce appeared as curious as the Aaronson clan. It had been a long time since he had last seen that expression on his master's face. "In my youth," he said, "I spent a good part of my summer holidays visiting one of my aunts. During the War, she resided in Shefford."

Callie absorbed that. Then, she nodded. "Mystery solved."

Bruce blinked. "Is it?"

"Well, for me, anyway." She glanced at Alfred, "if I may?" At Alfred's nod, she continued. "This is probably nothing new for you, but when British school children were evacuated from major urban centres, during the blitz, those who weren't sent abroad were billeted with families living in the countryside." She waited for Bruce's impatient acknowledgement, before continuing. "An entire Jewish day school was sent to Shefford and other villages nearby. It proved an enlightening experience for all involved."

"I can just imagine," Jill emerged from one of the bedrooms. "I've just tested the setup and it's solid," she announced. "Any reports of an Arkham escapee sighting or level five CIP, and it'll pick it up. Three keywords in five minutes and a tone will sound." She raised an eyebrow. "I'd like to meet the brain who designed that monitor. Any clue where Umbra finds these people?"

Callie shook her head. "If you ask her, she'll probably tell you. You know that, right?"

Jill nodded, grimacing. "This is me rushing to pick her brain," she deadpanned, standing stock-still.

Callie turned back to Bruce. "As you've probably gathered, we generally don't go Out on Friday nights. However, if it's a life-threatening situation, it's not only permissible for us to get involved, it's obligatory. So, with that in mind, we're monitoring police band for…" she shook her head with a wry smile. "These nights, I don't know if we can actually call it 'unusual activity.' If your people seem spread a bit too thin tonight, we'll be out there."

"On foot," Bruce stated flatly.

Callie blinked. "No, once lives are at stake, one is obligated to do everything necessary to preserve them. If we need to be out there, we'll use the fastest means available."

Bruce absorbed that. Brandon looked at his watch and yelped. "I didn't realize how late it was getting!" He dashed into his bedroom and emerge a moment later jamming a black fedora onto his head. "Good Shabbos, Jill! Gentlemen!" He grinned suddenly at Callie. "Later, Blister!" Then he was gone.

Bruce glanced at Callie. "Blister?"

Callie looked away. "Big Little Sister. He gambled I'd let him get away with saying it in front of you." She sighed. "And he was right."

A laugh from the doorway drew their attention. Dick stood there, flanked by Tim and Jean-Paul. "We were just heading down to the cave." He inhaled theatrically. "Alfred, m'man, you've got competition." He glanced at Callie. "You wouldn't be giving out samples?" he asked hopefully.

"Come back in one piece, and you can have a plateful," Callie countered without an instant's hesitation. "Joker's still out there. So's Scarecrow," she continued seriously. "And Bane."

"Yes, mother," Dick replied, rolling his eyes. Catching a frown from Bruce he sobered. "We'll be careful."

Callie nodded. "I didn't mean to imply otherwise. But all the same, consider the cookies an incentive." She looked up, a glint of humor in her eyes. "Or, consider them a bribe. Or whatever it takes for you lot to get yourselves in before sunrise." The look she turned on the three was milder than Bruce's but no less compelling for that.

As the three turned to leave, Tabitha rushed past. "Hi, Mr. Wayne," she called, without breaking her stride. "Dick, can I talk to you a sec?"

Dick gestured to the other two to go ahead of him. "What's up?" he asked, as he shut the door behind them.

Tabitha motioned him a bit further down the hallway, away from the door. "Those things my kids made. Has Bruce seen 'em yet?"

Dick shook his head. "So much has been happening, today… every time I've thought about it, the timing's been off. Did you want to take them back?"

"No," Tabitha said. "At least not right away. I was thinking, if things don't get too crazy out there tonight…" she broke off, seemingly flustered. "I thought… well…" she twisted her fingers together. "Don't go suggesting I try Arkham's outpatient clinic for dreaming this up, but," she drew a deep breath, and spouted a surprisingly credible imitation of a young Wally West at his most excitable: "doyouthinksomeoftheGCPDwouldwanttosendsomecardsandletterstoo?"

Fortunately, Dick Grayson had spent a good portion of his teen years translating Wally West at his most excitable. "I—don't know."

"Could you ask them?" Tabitha said. "It just got me thinking… a bunch of letters from a gang of kids he doesn't know might be…"

"Cute?" Dick smiled. "Sweet?"

Tabitha nodded. "Exactly. I'd be touched. He, on the other hand, probably wouldn't know how to handle it. But the getting the same things from people he does know… look, do I really have to say a lot of his recovery is going to depend on his attitude? I'm no doctor, but even I can figure that much out. Maybe some stuff like that would help." She exhaled noisily. At Dick's silence, she shook her head. "Or maybe I watched too many Care Bears episodes back when I was a kid, I…" she shook her head. "Forget it. It was a stupid idea. Forget I said anything." She ducked back toward the north wing door, face burning. Of all the stupid, saccharine, sentimental claptrap… she thought furiously. No wonder Callie tossed the television!

Nightwing stared after her, a faintly bemused expression on his face. Then he squared his shoulders and headed down to join Tim and Jean-Paul in the cave.

Two hours later

It was a good thing that at least one of the Batmobiles was a four-seater, Nightwing thought to himself. He was driving, Azrael seated beside him in the front, and Robin in the back, while police band provided background noise. As they passed over the Robert Kane Memorial Bridge, and the police dispatcher started crackling with reports of a shooting at Gotham U, a harsh yellow spotlight with a black bat silhouette clicked on above them in the night sky.

"GCPD's on the way," Nightwing said tersely. "I'll get out there, then you two head over to the university. I'll catch up."

"Check." Azrael, nodded, a barely controlled gleam in his eye. Dick frowned. It's not that he's intense, I've dealt with 'intense' for years, he thought. This is bordering on fanatical. He glanced quickly at the Tim via the rearview mirror and saw his own reservations mirrored in the boy's expression. Robin and Azrael had been out together before, Nightwing noted. He'd have to remember to ask Tim about it, later.

He stopped the Batmobile three blocks away from GCPD headquarters and got out.

"I'm taking the front," Robin said, opening the rear door as Azrael shifted to the driver's seat. As Robin exited, both passenger doors suddenly slammed shut, and the Batmobile screeched away, a plume of exhaust rising behind. "Hey!" both young men exclaimed, watching the car disappear around a corner several blocks away.

Robin shook his head, incredulous. "I cannot believe he just did that."

Neither could Nightwing. "Looks like you're coming with me, for now," he said lightly, not about to let the boy see how disturbed he was by Azrael's action. And Bruce and I will be discussing this later.

Scum. Five of them. Young. Not one was more than twenty-five, but strong, mean, tough. A good warm-up. Azrael was glad that he had left Robin behind. He needed all his concentration, for this. The boy would only get in the way. And if the 'system' takes over, will I even be able to protect him? Nomoz told me that Azrael doesn't save, he avenges. I overrode the programming once, weeks ago, to save Batman. Would I be able to do that again? I wonder…

He checked himself. He couldn't afford the luxury of introspection when one of the punks, a boy only a few years older than Robin, was bearing down on him with a brick affixed to a stout piece of kindling to make a crude hammer. Crude, but it would be effective enough were it to connect. So, I'll just have to make certain that it does not. He slammed his fist heavily into the face of another young thug, breaking the man's nose in the process, then dodged the hammer blow. The momentum of the thrust carried the hammer's swing forward, to connect with another attacker. The hapless gang-member went down with a grunt. Azrael stepped over him contemptuously, and dusted off the hammer-wielder with an uppercut to the jaw and a kick to the solar plexus. He looked around. Four punks lay incapacitated on the pavement in various states of consciousness. Where was the fifth?

"Stay back, Man! I'll hurt you, Man!"

Right behind me with an axe. Perfect. He allowed himself a thin smile, unseen by the mook behind him. Then, he turned slowly to face the lone remaining assailant. "Hurt me?" He asked, a hint of mockery in his tone. "You could never hurt me." He leveled his gaze at the young punk, feeling a brief satisfaction as a look of terror flitted across the youth's face and he retreated a step raising the axe defensively. Not an axe, actually, he noted, detached. Just another hammer. Pressing his advantage, Azrael advanced on him, continuing. "You hand over that hammer and you hand it over now. Unless you want to spend the rest of your life on a respirator."

His would-be attacker gulped. He wavered a moment. In that fleeting moment, Azrael wondered whether the thug was going to try to swing the weapon out of desperation. Part of him hoped so. But the moment passed, and the thug held the handle out slowly. "Okay, Man. You got it, Okay?" He gulped. "I'll go easy."

Easy? Yes, actually it was easy. With the system, with the added instruction that Robin had provided, it was almost embarrassingly so. He was a natural. His hand shot forward to seize the haft of the hammer. "You're all cowards," he said softly, almost gently. Then he snarled. "Every. Last. One. Of. You!"

The mook trembled. "What d'ya want, Man?" he stammered.

There was a rushing in his ears, a resonance within him telling him that he was at one with the system, and the system was good. It had kept him whole. It had kept him alive. It had made him victorious. Barely aware of what he was doing, Azrael raised the hammer and swung it behind him, preparing bring it forward again and down. "I'll show you what I want!"

The punk squeaked, tried to run, but stumbled backwards and fell heavily to the ground. He raised his hands hopelessly, instinctively to block the impending blow. "No, man," he whimpered. "Please, no…"

And within the harmony of purpose between mind and body, as he raised the weapon over his head, a faint… dissonance became apparent. What was he? He was about to kill? …That wasn't, couldn't be him. Azrael, the avenging angel, kills when necessary. I am Azrael. But I am not a killer. Not me. Not yet… "Get. Out. Of. Here." He forced the words out from between clenched teeth.

The mook didn't wait to be told twice. Finding his feet, he turned tail and dashed out of the alley as if Azrael might reassess his sudden magnanimity.

Azrael lowered the hammer shakily. If the youth had stayed any longer, he might have reconsidered. What, he wondered again, had the order of Saint Dumas done to him? He looked at the four bloodied but breathing thugs still lying in the dust at his feet, then turned to the wall and was quietly sick.

Concealed by the shadows, Robin watched Nightwing descend to the rooftop of the GCPD.

"You can turn it off, now, Commissioner," Nightwing said, indicating the signal.

"You," Gordon said trying to stifle his disappointment.

"Afraid so, Commissioner," Nightwing returned. You think you'd rather it was Batman responding? Believe me, so would I. But, since he can't, it looks like you're stuck with me. "This is to do with the incident at the university?"

Gordon nodded tersely. "Bullock says it was Scarecrow. We're trying to keep that quiet for now." He shifted the signal-switch to the 'off' position and watched the spotlight fade from the sky.

"Bullock," Nightwing repeated, dubiously.

"Yes, Bullock," Gordon snapped back. "He happens to be a damned fine cop."

As long as someone's holding up a Krispy Kremes outlet. He bit back the retort. That particular quip would have been uncalled for back when he wore the red-green-and-yellow, forget now.

"Details?" He asked tersely to cover his embarrassment.

Gordon sighed. "He rented one of the lecture halls using a false name, posted flyers advertising for test subjects.

Nightwing digested that. Scarecrow wasn't one for hostages. Either the eight missing were somehow connected to something in his past, or they were integral to whatever he had planned. Better figure it out fast. As fast as Bruce would if he were out there.

"How is he?" Gordon asked.

Just fine, thanks. That's why I'm standing here realizing that I should have pulled a disappearing act by now so I wouldn't be stuck here trying to come up with an answer to that question that isn't going to sound like a lie.

"Nightwing?" Gordon asked, softly, "Is he—"?

Nightwing flinched as he understood what Gordon couldn't bring himself to ask. "No!" he said quickly. "No, no, nothing like that—he's still here!" He caught himself. "I mean, not here—here… on the roof with us, but he's not …gone…"

Gordon exhaled. "That's something, anyway." He hesitated. "You know that two of my people were on the scene."

He hadn't, but nodded anyway.

Gordon continued. "They said he was hurt pretty bad. Like they weren't expecting him to be back." He kept his voice flat, even. It was the tone he used when he was filling Batman in on the details of a particularly nasty crime, and didn't want to let his emotions spill over into the details.

This has to be worse for him, Nightwing realized. He knows I can't tell him anything, even if I want to, and I'm the only person he can ask. And he doesn't want to push it but—"

"Nightwing?" Gordon repeated.

Daydream in daylight, Grayson! He met Gordon's eyes again. "Sorry, Commissioner, what was that?"

Gordon sighed. "Your mentor and I generally don't pry into each other's personal lives. It makes things easier all around. But, those officers who witnessed it—they generally don't exaggerate. If his injuries were as bad as they made out… are the medical expenses a problem? Because, maybe we could discreetly—"

Nightwing smiled in relief. At least here, he was on solid ground. "Thanks for the offer, Commissioner. That's already being handled."

Gordon didn't seem surprised. "Of course. It would be." He shook his head ruefully. "Forget I said anything." He couldn't see Nightwing's eyes widen slightly behind the mask. "I appreciate yourtelling me what you could. Anyway. You'd better go after Scarecrow, now. If there's anything else we can do…"

Nightwing mulled it over for a few seconds. "Actually, Sir," he said, "there might be."