CHAPTER 52:
"The Smart Ones Never Die"

Making love to Barbara was like a heavenly dream. When they entered the shower, not a moment was wasted, and they knew things were going to get hot and heavy even before things began.

Too much time had passed since the last time they had been together and ecstasy exuded from their loins like fireworks, bursting forth in an explosive outpouring of lust and rapture. The sound of the rushing water masked their loud cries of intensity and joy.

If music had been playing, and if they could hear it over the sound of the water, Dick figured the song: "Nothing Else Mattered" by Metallica, would be it. The song was perfect for the moment.

After their love making, they took each other in their arms and embraced, allowing the water to flow and caress down their naked bodies, saturating their hair, and covering them in warmth. Neither one of them wanted to leave. This was a perfect moment, a forever moment. After the act, they had a shower, and washed each other down, lathering themselves down with soap and oils—they were in their own world—washing the other's hair and bodies.

Then, their desires exploded once again in an exuberance of passion.

After everything they'd been through over the years, and just recently, this was the point when everything came together. To Dick, nothing else mattered, just like the song, except for this very moment. But when they left the shower, they weren't finished, and continued their love making on the bed, their bodies pressed together for a third time.

When finished, Dick laid next to Barbara. He knew above all else she was the love of his life. She had always been there for him, and now, he would always be there for her. Though thick and thin, through the calm and the tough. Apart from the engagement, that pretty much summed up how they acted while crime-fighting, too, and he smirked at the irony.

"So, what are you smiling about?" she asked, looking at his face.

He gave her a soft look. "Oh, nothing," he said. "Just wondering if I could borrow some of Bruce's secret stash for another round."

Barbara grabbed a pillow from behind her head and hit him in the face playfully. He smiled, and they rolled around on the bed, and then kissed. He was young, and at the moment, he didn't need any help to get him excited again.

"Woah cowboy, don't wear yourself out," she said. "Remember your blood pressure."

"If it had any effect on me after what we've just done, I would've felt it already," he said. "But yeah, maybe you're right." He leaned back and laid next to her. Since they were alone, they didn't need to worry about exposure and allowed themselves to be free.

Barbara leaned over and placed her head on his naked chest. "Your heart is racing, Dick."

"It's racing because you're with me," he said, and kissed the top of her head.

He cradled her in his arms and they lay there still for a few silence moments. But only for a few moments, like five-seconds, before Dick's stomach suddenly grumbled, breaking their interlude.

She playfully slapped him on the stomach. "What a way to ruin the moment," she said.

Dick laughed short. "Not my fault, I'm hungry. I just burned a lot of energy." He paused in retrospect. "I know its not for us, but I think we should get back to the party and be seen. It'll look bad if we're perceived as abandoning Bruce like that. It is a fundraiser for a good cause, after all. Two causes, actually."

Barbara sighed. "Yes, I agree. But can we just stay here for a little while longer? You feel so warm." Dick agreed to her request, and held her. He never wanted to let her go.

Fifteen minutes later, they were dressed again, and Barbara was able to fix her hair to almost the way it had been, and with a hair dryer. Dick had wondered if he had time for another shower, but then ultimately declined the idea.

This was one of two guest suites in the Manor. Neither one of them lived here—both had places in Bludhaven—but this was their room for the time being, and they had brought all the comforts of home when they arrived in the early afternoon for the party. Alfred had set up the room for them. Dick's old room had been converted into a sitting room.

If Dick knew prior that the party wasn't for him, he probably would have declined and stayed home, like Wally said. He and Barbara would be at either one of their places in Bludhaven, right now, and in the same situation, albeit sooner, and wouldn't have to leave the bed for anything. Regardless, he was glad he was with family and friends.

Over the last couple of days, he had had some weird and disturbing dreams—but not night terrors.

He had confided in Barbara that he feared his night terrors would return with his memories resurfacing, that he would recall all those people he had tried but was unable to save throughout the years. So they went back to the hospital during the week to speak with the doctor who had performed his brain surgery and was prescribed medicine for night terrors just in case it was needed.

The dream he had the night before last had to deal with yet another unknown, shadowy foe, much like the dream he originally had about Jake Handles, but this time the foe was not after Dick, it was after Damian—demanding revenge. But for what?

Dick knew it wasn't Jake Handles. The fall had killed his old Spyral colleague when he stepped back and plummeted into the open crevasse back on Treasure Island, despite not seeing a body. The crevasse was so deep that Jake had fallen into the darkness. The Maritime Authorities were now looking into the island's destruction.

He originally thought Jake Handles had some sort of trick up his sleeve and survived the fall, but he was kidding himself.

He was shaken out of his reverie when Barbara put a hand on his shoulder. "Dick, you okay? You blanked out there."

Dick smiled at her. "Sorry, just thinking back to our adventure on Treasure Island. I always liked that story, but now it'll have a completely different meaning for me." He turned to her. "In the end, a treasure was found. And my treasure was you."

"Oh, you're being so sappy." She reached up and began to straighten his tie, Dick could never get it right. "You're all thumbs when it comes things like this. You never could tie a bow tie right."

"I have an excuse, my fingers are numb." He winked. "But sooner or later, I'll be able to tie one knot properly, and give you my last name. But for now, my first name will suffice." He smiled boyishly, and Barbara smiled with humour at the innuendo, giving him a playful slap to the chest, as she finished trying his tie. "We're going to have to pick a date, maybe sometime in the summer."

"That's a little ways off, it's still winter," she said. "We have plenty of time. But we'll have to find another place to live when we move in together, preferably someplace in Bludhaven. I've grown more attached to that city than I have Gotham lately."

"I don't think we have to worry about that," he replied. "I have it on good authority that Damian is going to give us the condo he purchased with Bruce's money that he was using as an HQ for his 'Nightwing Junior' persona."

"Do you think he'll continue to wear the Nightwing Junior costume or go back to being Robin?"

"The persona did its job, so it'll be up to him. But frankly, I wear it better. And Damian is just not Damian unless he's Robin."

"Do I detect a little bit of jealousy in your voice, Dick? If things ended tragically, and your life was different—say you didn't even remember me, stuck with your amnesia—do you think he'd keep up the persona, and take up your mantle?"

"He probably would, with his own fighting style and ethics. But I think someone else would've also dressed up as me and used the Nightwing persona to enact some sort of personal vendetta, like a new Nightwing. I'm glad that didn't happen. I'm sure there are plenty of weirdos out there who'd think about it, though. I can understand cosplay, but vigilantism is where I stand the line."

Barbara gave him the strangest look.

"What? Do I have something in my teeth?"

"Um, Dick—who do you think Nightwing is? What we all do?"

Dick thought about it and then rolled his eyes. "Can I take that back? Let's just say I'm tired and leave it at that. Besides, I haven't been getting the best night sleep lately. I keep having these strange dreams. One about Damian, and then another, but not a night terror, about Wally and Roy Harper, and they both died at the hands of some crazy lunatic."

Barbara blinked shocked. She asked him to describe more. And he did, what he could remember. He could only recall some images, and the emotions he felt in regard to the dream imaginary.

"Lucky it was only a dream," she said. "Sometimes you scare me with your dreams. In a dream analysis course I took online, just because I wanted to—I had a few dreams I wanted fully explained and the internet wasn't helping—it revealed that dreams can have a deep meaning in the real world. It's a way for the subconscious to convey a message to the conscious mind that the brain doesn't understand yet using abstract imaginary. Some say dreams can become true under the right circumstances."

"Or the right villain," Dick added.

Over the years, they'd battled some powerful villains with abilities that would shock and surprise some. Like Scarecrow, who used hallucinogenic drugs to manipulate the mind and make a person's deepest, darkest fears, and nightmares real.

But Dick didn't think his dreams were anything sinister or prophetic. His dream about Captain Cold was proof of that. He didn't come out of his brain surgery completely unscathed, however, any brain incident or accident was profound, and there was some lingering effects. They were mild, but they were there, and he was dealing with them with medication. His blood pressure for one.

He was asked to get a check up every three months with an MRI every six months to see how he was healing. He felt violated with Jake Handles doctor, but at least he had the support of his friends to help him get through it. That was important.

Just then, his cell phone began to chime. And at the same time, there was a knock on the door to the room.

Barbara said she would answer the phone, while he answered the door.

Dick wondered if it was Alfred checking up on them. It had been over an hour since they disappeared from he party.

But when he reached for the handle and began to open the door, Barbara gasped, and shouted: "Dick! It's Wally, he says…"

Suddenly, a man barged into the room. With him, he carried a large rifle, and he quickly struck Dick across the face with the butt.

The last thing Dick heard before dropping to the floor was Barbara screaming his name.

x x x

He opened his eyes slowly, peaking through slits, noise of worried mutterings from people around him seemingly brought his mind to bare from its dormancy, and the moment he did, Barbara immediately kept him quiet.

He found himself in the main living room, the den, along with a dozen other people, all gathered together and sitting on the floor, surrounded by masked men, and all wielding, collectively, guns and/or rifles, hovering over them like guardsmen. Handcuffed behind his back and on the floor near a wall, Barbara assured him that things were calm for the moment.

She whispered some information to him and was told that the guests at the party were separated into different rooms to better guard them, most being housed in the Ballroom, overhearing it from someone else.

The Manor had been invaded by people who appeared to come out of nowhere and using some sort of cloaking technology on their watches. They had infiltrated the party pretending to be guests, totalling approximately twenty marauders, and they all wore black, their eyes masks hiding their identities—not unlike Nightwing's own mask.

The call received from Wally just before the man burst into the guest room door was a warning to them of the sudden takeover.

Unfortunately, Wally had been subjected to a burst of knock out gas that rendered him unconscious, similarly that was used on other guests, to keep resistance back. He was handcuffed and bounded tightly on the floor in the same room.

Unbeknownst to the marauders, supposedly, even The Flash could be rendered inert.

He asked Barbara if she knew where "the others" were, but she didn't know. Either they were hiding, had been caught, or were separated with other guests. And if the others had been apprehended, or even gassed, they wouldn't be able to fight back as they normally could under their secrets guises for fear giving themselves away, or were like Wally, and unconscious.

Suddenly, the architect to this house invasion walked out from an adjacent room, and the shock it brought was beyond belief. Of all the people to orchestrate something this brazen, no one expected it to be Edward Nygma aka The Riddler.

He was dressed in a dark green question-mark designed suit with darker gloves, wearing a bowler hat, and carrying his Q-Staff, his mask matching that of his marauders. Was Riddler here to steal valuables like a common thief? His crimes were normally intelligent criminality capers. His Q-Staff was of particular interest, because it was much more than it appeared. It was a powerful rifle, custom made. With a single shot, it could take out a man at ten paces and blow a hole straight through. It was new.

"Ah, Mr. Grayson," Riddler said, noticing the wakeful hero. He crossed the floor of the large den and came to stand over him like a god. "You've finally returned to us, good. I was afraid my man had hit you too hard and caused irreparable damage, or even worse, brain haemorrhaging, knowing, of course, that you are still recovering from brain surgery after been recently shot by some thug."

It was no secret about his accident, the media had done several stories on the shooting, so Riddler knowing of it was no surprise.

"Thanks for your concern, Nygma," he said straightly. "I'm recovering well. What's the meaning of all this?"

Riddler put up a finger. "First, you must tell me your secret. How did you manage to incapacitate my man in the hallway, whereas, another one of my marauders had to subdue you further? The blow delivered to your face should have rendered you unconscious immediately, the bruise starting on your left cheek is evident of that. I wonder if you can fill me in on this curious feat? I don't see the beautiful Barbara Gordon acting untold like some vigilante? Unless you are some meta-human in disguise?"

"No, and I don't remember…"

"Of course, seeing you may have amnesia of the event. But a blow to the head will do that."

Riddler was a smooth talker. He had the ability to sell ice to an Eskimo and make him pay full price for it. And he was one of the deadliest members of the Rogues Gallery.

If he was ever to reform, he would make a great ally and a good detective. He'd probably even set up shop somewhere with his own detective agency. And, as alternative timelines went, he may have been reformed somewhere. But not here and not right now.

"A vigilante in my mind has always been a fool," Nygma said, "and he or she, believes death is something that happens to someone else, never for them to experience. But, how naive, the fool is. Heroes often fall in battle, even the simplest of ones." He tapped the side of his head, as if to indicate Dick Grayson's injury, and the shooting incident. "You are a hero in your own rite, Mr. Grayson, once an officer for the Bludhaven Police Department. And Bruce Wayne tries to be a hero to the masses, this fundraiser is proof of that. A fundraiser to help rebuild Bludhaven. While I applaud the effort, the end result will be futile, and the criminal element will eventually return and erode the city once more. There's always someone waiting in the wings to build a proud criminal empire."

"Why are you here, Riddler?" Barbara then asked. "Please get to the point."

Nygma stood up straight like a proud peacock. "Yes, of course, Ms. Gordon—or can I be so bold as to refer to you as Mrs. Grayson from this point on, as you two are engaged—be it slightly premature? Let me offer my congratulations on your upcoming nuptials."

Nygma waited, but neither one responded to Riddler's felicitations. He cleared his throat, and shrugged.

"Very well, suit yourself. Be rude. As for my presence, I'm here under the hospice of another and he has paid me handsomely for this venture," he continued.

"He even provided all the tools for it to be a success. For reasons of his own, he says he knows you. But he has not brought me into the loop. The mystery astounds me and I do enjoy a good riddle."

Nygma paused a moment. "Here's an easy riddle: What makes a person both an acquittance and a friend simultaneously?"

It was constructed to be simple and not one of Riddler's best. But maybe it wasn't meant to be? And meant to be solved quickly?

Barbara said: "History."

"Correct," Nygma said, slightly mockingly. "But any fifth grader could have guessed the answer."

Riddler shifted his weight and extended a hand towards the entrance way of the room. The focus was to one of his men standing near by holding a silver hand gun. The man fingered the watch on his right wrist with his gun hand that every one of Riddler's men wore, and image of the gun-toting marauder blitzed, masqueraded by clocking technology that had been used by all to invade the party, disguising themselves—this man masking his real identity by way of a third disguise. And his real identity was soon revealed.

Barbara gasped when she recognized the man. He looked just like he had on the beach of Treasure Island when he came out to confront Dick under the guise of his former self, untouched by the explosion that had burned eighty percent of his body.

He wore all black clothes, and had a black waist belt with two gun holsters on either hip, one gun holstered, the one in his hand. He inserted the gun into its empty holster on his left hip. He also had shoulder straps which appeared to harness his own set of escrima sticks, crisscrossed behind his back.

"Oh, my, god," she said. "Jake Handles…"

"But you're dead? We all saw you die!" came Dick's shocking toned voice.

"Hello, Dick," Jake Handles said with a friendly smile. "Surprised to see me?"

Dick's face was aghast with disbelief.

"We were partners in Spyral, a once secret organization of espionage and intrigue, now defunct, disbanded, and criminalized," he explained to Riddler, when inquired. Riddler nodded, apparently satisfied to learn the riddle of their known relationship. "I was also presumed dead, but it was from my own predestined design. Now I've risen back to providence just like the holy prodigal son! Hallelujah!" Handled cleared his throat, chagrined. "Forgive me for that rather crude humour."

Riddle nodded.

Handles directed his attention back to Dick and Barbara. "Illusion is a magician's best trick and death itself can be itself an illusion. A magician, or rather, someone with my intellect, can make people believe what they want to see as truth. Much like your friend, Arkells, who had me believe it was his body and abilities I absorbed. I, too, had a trick up my sleeve. When I dropped down the crevasse, I was able to escape through an underground passage to one-man submarine. So, when the island exploded, I wasn't on it." Handles smirked. "Kind of cliche, I know—like a super villain unknowingly escaping a secret agent whom he believes he has killed, then returns with a grande plot of revenge. But when you don't confirm a kill, these things come back to bit you in the ass. Isn't that one of the things you told to me when you had your adventures? I knew things were going south, so I choice to fake my death much like you did to become a member of Spyral, after other events forced you do to so."

He gave a sideways glance to Riddler, it was obvious he hadn't told him everything, keeping some secrets to himself.

Handles continued, "I have now adapted my Photo-Kinetic technology to permanently restore my previous appearance with a more youthful look, a glorious new me." He smiled gloatingly. "You seem to be doing quite well, Dick, no more toque." He brushed a hand through his own dark hair, as if to mock Dick's that was growing back after his brain surgeries. "I also came back with something else that I had been working on while on the island, something very special. But I'll keep that to myself for the time being."

"Harvey Two-Face didn't erase all the data of your sonic device?" Dick pressed.

"Unfortunately, Harvey Two-Face was successful in that endeavour. But I will rebuild it." Handles tapped his temple. "Everything is in here. I'll reconstruct the device—even better, and stronger, than it ever was. Then the world will be my oyster."

Handles gave a look to Riddler and Nygma took two steps back. Handles stepped forward and then grabbed Dick by his shirt collar, yanking him up face-to-face. Nygma swung his Q-Staff upside down and stopped it short in front of Barbara to cease any retaliation.

"However, there is still the matter of my revenge," Handles said firmly. "You're stubborn, Dick, even at dying. You may have survived my plot to destroy you, but now, I'll do things right. I hate leaving things unfinished, that's what OCD does to you."

Suddenly, Jake Handles began to pummel Dick repeatedly with his artificial hand, delivering punches, with devastating brutality and crushing blows. With Dick's arms handcuffed behind his back, he was unable to defend himself.

Barbara screamed for Handles to stop, but Handles was relentless.

Riddler grabbed her arms and held her back when she tried to intervene, clutching her tightly. Nygma was surprisingly strong, not like other times he had battled with members of the Batfamily. Nymga was strong mindfully, but when it came to his body, he used others to physically fight. But his hands felt like vice grips, as if he had been doing strength-training, and she couldn't break free.

"I've been awaiting a long time for this, Dick Grayson," Handles said, beating him bloody. "And this time, I'll get what I want! And what I want is for you to die!"

To be continued...