Okay, here's the deal. My story ideas tend to intertwine, so parts of this One-Shot actually appear as flashbacks in my fic "What Dread Hand?"

I'm sorry if you followed "WDH." It's on hiatus for the mo', all 36,000+ words of it. There was an accident in the family that was too frighteningly similar to the plot I had planned, and I couldn't stand to write another word. I'm over the personal issues now, but I'm having trouble getting back into the Batman swing of things. I thought that expanding on this Graduation concept might be a great kick-start, so here we are.

Bob Kane created Batman. I did not. WB fanagled rights to the Beyond version. I got nothing, dammit.

Graduation Suit

"I'm sending the craft home on auto-pilot and"—he bit back a yawn—"calling it a night."

"Bring the suit with you tomorrow."

He paused. They had been over this. Over and over. "The suit's flying back to the cave."

"McGinnis."

He stiffened at the warning tone, taking a defiant stance in the rain. "You listen to me, Wayne!" he snapped at the air. "I worked hard for this. Long, hard, against the odds. I am not under any circumstances: rain, sleet, or Apocalypse, putting on the bat suit tomorrow. Kapishe?"

—

Hamilton High moved their graduating students through at breakneck speed, but it still went mind-numbingly slow. Only one young man in the entire congregation of purple-robed, square hat wearers was able to keep up the look of excitement after the first eighty minutes. But then, he had been unanimously voted Most Likely to Never Graduate, so his never-ending glee was perfectly understandable.

"Gibson, Maxine," the announcer said. He cheered in a way that made a maniac look sane and completely ignored the looks of the people around him. Nothing seemed able to bring him down. Not his mother and younger brother waving madly every three minutes, trying to embarrass the living daylights out of him. Not the disbelieving looks from the teachers up on the stage who still thought his Boss (Father? Lover?) had bribed the district school board to let him pass. He grinned. Not even the Boss-man himself could ruin Terry McGinnis's moment of triumph.

"Get your ass under the grand stands."

—

He slumped in his folding, metal chair, not willing to believe what he was hearing.

"Now, McGinnis."

He folded his arms and glared at the man sitting in one of the guest of honor seats. He didn't know how Wayne was managing to talk to him from two hundred feet away. He didn't care because he was not listening. La-la-la.

"Terry, there are Jokerz under the stands, wiring a bomb. If people find out, there will be a mob situation."

He groaned. Panicked mobs meant stampedes, and that meant lots of small and weak people trampled to death. Like, say, Max, Matt, Dana, his mother…Goddamn it, why were all the people he cared about short!

On the other hand, a bomb blowing up meant lots of dead people, and then lots of small and weak people trampled to death when the survivors became a panicked mob.

He hated this job.

—

Audrey McFinn and Maeve McNeil exchanged surprised glances as the young man seated between them suddenly vanished.

—

Terry made his way towards the back of the grand stands quickly and quietly. One could argue that was impossible when wearing billowing purple robes, but—hey, he was Batman. ...In billowing, purple robes. Okay, he got a few stares.

Fortunately, the shadows right under the stands were empty, so when Ace appeared with a familiar backpack in his teeth, he could glare daggers at the mutt in peace. He ripped off his graduation cap, then froze and stared at the small speaker taped on the inside. Oh, he was going to kill Wayne, all right. The only question was in how many ways?

He grabbed the suit, kicked off his shoes, and wrangled the damn thing on up to his waist. Only then did his pull off that damn purple gown to reveal his upper body—his bare, utterly devoid of all clothing body. And judging by how the suit clung to his hips, there wasn't anything on under there either.

—

Everyone had their secrets.

—

The grand stands were enormous, fortified plastic affairs completely covered to keep the small children attending from falling through. The backside was open near the bottom, though, and light spilled in along the ground underneath, growing less and less until darkness filled the space between the creaking rafters.

In the deep shadows, a group of Jokerz laughed among themselves. "Time to teach these kids about the Big Bang!" one crowed. Crowing made sense with him. He wore an extensive number of crow feathers—in his dark braided hair, and stitched into his black leather shoulder plate and leggings. A stylized crow tattoo stretched across his bare chest. For old movie aficionados, he also had on the signature sad clown mask of white and black face paint. Very striking on a Native American.

The rest of the clowns were birds of a feather: males dressed all in black with a feather or two braided in their hair. The one with the tattoo was obviously the leader. Just guessing, but he called himself the Crow. Or possibly Draven.

A lone girl wearing round scientist's goggles came into view, looking up from a box heavily chained to one of the stand's support posts. "All right, we're set. Big Bang in ten, Draven."

There was something to be said for watching old movies.

Up above, the announcer called out the name 'Jeffries, Bryce.'

Draven grinned crazily. "Right. Let's clear out, boys." The girl ignored that and brushed off her fishnets as the Crow leapt from the diagonal beam he had been crouching on back down to the ground.

One of the crow clowns walked off into the shadows towards the parking lot. A moment later he was thrown back towards the rest of the group, knocking down two of his fellows. Bowling for Buzzards.

Batman walked from the shadows, waggling a finger. "Let's clear out…boys?" he repeated, scandalized. He gestured at the girl. "Didn't your mother ever teach you about 'Ladies First?"

"Sarah's no Lady," one of the clowns laughed right before she kicked him someplace not so nice. Guess she really wasn't a Lady.

Draven didn't seem to notice Sarah's outburst, his eyes on the Bat. "Why, Hello," he grinned. "Didn't think you were one for the Daylight hours, Bat." He shrugged. "Then again, I could say the same thing about ourselves. Most of us are still asleep in our beds. Sorry, Bats, but you'll have to be satisfied with getting your ass kicked by us few early birds."

It was 4 p.m. Just to put things in perspective.

The rest of the crows had been nervous, but seeing their leader totally blow off the Bat gave them courage. They drew out the usual weapons of a gang: knives, chains, and—uh-oh, an old fashioned but very effective silenced gun. He went after that one first, hurling the batarang and diving. He did both actions quicker and harder than he should have, and his muscles screamed because of it, but he much preferred that pain to a bullet in the crotch. Sarah's gun went off after the batarang hit her arm blunt side first, and the bullet went wild, punching a hole through a plastic support post. The firearm flew from her hand.

He turned his dive into a side roll and powered towards the fallen gun, trying to take it out of play. Then Draven's feet slammed into his gut. As he fell, the Crow swung around the support post once more before releasing his grip and landing on the Bat's back.

Batman was driven back into the ground and felt the air be forced from his lungs. Air that he had just managed to suck back in after that gut pummeling. To make matters worse, Draven had stuck a perfect dismount—on him. Damn, but did he hate trained gymnasts. Martial artists he could handle; gymnasts could kick his ass and make it look choreographed.

He heard the knife rather than saw it. Air or no air, he rolled quickly. Rather than tripping, Draven leapt up and came back down, ready to stab the Bat in his new position. But this time, the Dark Knight was on his back, and he could see the blade aimed at his chest. He got hold of Draven's wrist somewhere close to the last second (the bat on his chest had a little slit in it now), and he hurled the man sideways.

He was finally able to inhale. About bloody time.

The Crow hit the dirt in a forward roll, followed by a flip with a half twist, ending with a perfect landing accented by a sardonic bow in the Bat's direction. The knife was still in his hand. Good God, he hated gymnasts.

Oh, great. Sarah had the gun again. He eyed the other clowns warily. He'd only faced the two of them so far, one at a time. The rest seemed to be hanging around, watching. He did not want them to decide to team up on him. Time to get sneaky.

He jumped up and fired his rockets, flying up into the shadows of the stand's rafters. Then he killed the rockets. The flames died, and he disappeared into darkness. He moved along the rafters quickly. Okay, Sarah had told Draven the Big Bang would happen in 10. It had been a little over 20 seconds of polite hero/villain banter, followed by 15 seconds of getting his ass kicked (just 15 seconds? …wonderful), so he guessed she had meant 10 minutes.

Oh yeah, he had plenty of time. They'd run off, he'd dismantle the bomb, change back into the cap and gown, and graduate smiling.

Only one problem: Wayne hadn't taught him how to dismantle a bomb yet. The bomb was chained and quite possibly welded to the support post. And judging by the way the group avoided it, he was willing to bet it was pressure sensitive too. …Actually that was a lot more than one problem.

Oh yeah, he was doomed.

He looked down at Sarah. Well, she had set up that bomb; she could take it apart. Now if only he could get to her—through Draven and the rest of his thugs. And her gun. He was beginning to see why Wayne hated the things so much.

Well, time was a tickin'.

He turned on his suit's camouflage and melted into the shadows completely. Then he dropped down on the clown he had thrown from the shadows earlier. That one seemed easy enough prey.

He was right. He knocked the clown down and then threw him up to a support post, pulling out dark cord from his belt. He wrapped it tightly about the clown's neck and the post and tied it off before moving on to the next adversary. He didn't like the idea of choking a man unconscious, especially just after he himself had been gasping for air, but he didn't have time to be overly ethical.

As he charged the nearest clown, he noted how quiet the whole thing was. The suffocating of the clown, a few startled grunts as the others tried to figure out where he was (thank you, camouflage), and the annoying voice that called Samantha Kaye to the stage—that was it. He had never met a quieter group of criminals. Actually, he was used to them being quite loud. Then again, he'd never fought a gang in broad daylight directly underneath a crowd of thousands, either. He guessed they didn't want the attention.

He got hold of the next clown's knife and slammed the butt of it into the man's head before hurling it up into the rafters. The clown fell to the ground. The knife thunked solidly into one of the plastic beams. Good, getting rid of the enemy's weapons in a fight was always a good idea. Sarah swung the gun in his direction. Case in point. Freezing, he realized he had been moving too fast for the camouflage to hide him. There was probably a big Bat-shaped outline of him in the air right now. Okay, time to visit the nice rafters again.

Oh, yeah.

About that man choking to death over there…

He threw a batarang. The black cords were sliced, and the clown hit the dirt unconscious. He couldn't tell if the man started to breathe again. He couldn't do much to help, even if the clown wasn't breathing. He'd already hightailed it to the higher parts of the grand stand, and the aim of Sarah's gun was catching up fast.

Then a guardian angel came in a strange disguise.

The Crow slapped her hand down. "No!" he snarled quietly, "You'll hit one of people sitting up there, and our cover will be blown. …How long have we got?"
She glared at him but answered, "Bit more than eight minutes."

Batman took the opportunity to move to the side and drop down on another of the crow cronies. He leapt out of the way as Sarah whirled, leveling the gun. The only thing she ended up aiming at was an unconscious clown. He had disappeared again. "I am so sick of this clown!" she growled.

Someone behind her retorted, "That makes two of us, Lady."

The Bat hit the ground as she spun and fired. Okay, maybe his normal wiseass-ness wasn't helping him here. He rolled as she pulled the trigger again, then just barely registered Draven's foot before it slammed into his crotch.

Um, ow?

He whipped around and gave the same to Draven. The Crow buckled and hit the ground. He jumped to his feet and picked the man up as a shield between himself and Sarah. Hopefully these crows had a Don't Shoot the Leader policy. "Little factoid," he growled into Draven's ear as he moaned. "A man can only get kicked in that area so many times before he adds in a little extra armor. Got me, Crow Boy?"

Yeah, he was a wiseass. It was in his nature, couldn't help it.

"Let him go or I'll shoot your ass." Sarah warned, cocking the gun. Five seconds later, she hadn't shot. Oh, so there was a Don't Shoot the Leader policy. Meaning…

"Catch!" he called and hurled Draven straight at her. She dodged, but Crow Boy flying by was enough distraction that she didn't notice the Bat coming up fast until he barreled into her. He got the firearm into his hand and pressed up against her temple. She froze. Good girl.

He spared a glance up at the rest of the crow clowns—the conscious ones anyway, all eleven of them. Okay, the odds sucked in his favor. He put on his game face—and his evil voice. "…You do realize you've got a "Get out of Jail Free" card here."

They ran over each other hightailing it out of there. Convenient, that.

"Ah, the power of suggestion," he chuckled when they were gone, and then frowned down at Sarah. He dragged her over to the bomb. "Okay, we're going to play a little game. We sit here until you dismantle the bomb."

She laughed bravely. "I'm not afraid of a little Kaboom."

He threw a batarang with cord attached behind him. Draven, Mr. Fancy Gymnast, fell ungracefully into the dirt, the cord wrapped around him from ankles to elbows. Oh yes, revenge was sweet. The knife fell from the Crow's hand, and before he could wriggle to retrieve it, a second batarang knocked into his head, blunt side, and he went limp.

The Bat smiled back at Sarah, who suddenly didn't look so brave. "You were saying?

She gulped and pressed a button on the side of the bomb. The countdown stopped.

He blinked. "That's it?" Shit, his little brother could have done that. Groaning, he hit her on the head with the butt of the gun. He spent a minute tying up all the unconscious crow clowns, then walked out of the grand stands. He found Ace lying curled by the last support post before shadow disappeared sunshine looking off into the distance, probably in the direction the clowns had run. "You could have helped me, you know," he told the lazy mutt.

The dog snorted.

Terry ripped off the mask and wiped the sweat off his face.

"Mayer, Rodney," the announcer called.

'McGinnis, Terry' jerked, realizing there were maybe three people left before he would be called up there. "Shit!" he snarled and kept repeating the word as he grabbed up his cap and gown. He looked down at the bat suit. No time. He ripped off the gloves and stuffed the backpack along with the mask. Running towards the podium, he pulled the long purple gown over his head. Next came the cap, adjusted at just the right angle, an angle made up by some uppity Etiquette expert over a hundred years ago. Why? Because the Bastard could.

The man on the podium, just as bored out of his mind as the rest of the assemblage, called the next name on the list. "McFinn, Audrey."

Terry jumped the twenty feet from the base of the podium to the top, landing in a crouch on the edge. Go Batsuit. His cap angle got skewed. Oh, who really cared anyway? He quickly jumped in front of the procession of graduates lined up to receive their diplomas. The girl in behind him—Maeve, he thought her name was—eyed him oddly, but then the announcer called "McGinnis, Terence."

He winced at his full name but smoothed out his face quickly and walked up to the school Principal.

"Looks like you finally managed to show up on time," the man said through his smiling teeth as Terry grinned back, his pleasure to see the man more genuine.

Terry had taken more acting lessons.

—

He finally got handed the diploma.

A cheer rose up from certain people in the audience. His family, Dana, and Max, of course, but also the nerds, the bully-targets, the ex-cons, and every freak in the school. Yeah, he was wildly popular in some very unpopular circles.

The person who really caught his attention though, wasn't cheering but applauding politely. The elderly gentleman sat among the honored guests at the side of the podium. Terry smiled at him and mouthed the words, 'You owe me.'

The man nodded simply and smiled back.

Terry fell slack jawed. Bruce, he…he had just smiled. It wasn't a game face. He had genuinely smiled. At him. The smile came back to his lips a thousand times brighter.

Oh yeah, this was a great moment.

—

He was still grinning ear to ear when the principal kicked him off the podium.

—

Later, the assemblage roared and laughed and threw their stupid hats into the sky, where applicable. Then all the new grads looked around at each other in dangerous silence until a certain pink-haired student (names would forever remain anonymous) heaved a battle cry.

"Charge!"

With a whoop, Terry went along with the stampede of purple-robed people as their relatives looked down on them in horror. They hit the open green at the edge of the grand stands and started to dash across it. He caught sight of Max, the little pink-haired deviant, and swooped her up in his arms with a laugh. For a minute there were giggled death threats of "Put me down, Terry!" and several shrugs on his part that jerked her entire body up and down in his unrelenting grip.

—

The tumble was no one's fault but the mud, really. But it happened, and suddenly he found himself looking down on Max with her back pressed into the wet, soft ground. He was lying directly on top of her. An amused, high-eyebrows look grew on her face. 'Bat Suit,' she mouthed before grinning madly, obviously remembering all six hundred times he had said he wouldn't be wearing it Graduation Day.

He was about to get embarrassed and make excuses, but then it happened. Totally breathless, looking down into her eyes, he realized something very important about her that he couldn't believe he hadn't noticed before.

'Birthday Suit,' he murmured in her ear, and she groaned, dropping her head back into the mud. She wasn't wearing anything under those robes. They had a quiet standoff before they got over it, got up, and caught up with the rest of the stampeding, purple-robed pack.

—

After all, everyone had their secrets.