Chapter 10

William was absolutely certain he was the first one up the next morning. There was no sound of movement throughout the whole house, and as he walked down the stairs, he heard every squeak of his boots on the floor. He went into the kitchen and started making coffee. He was pouring in the grind when he saw a freshly made carafe, and he realized he was the second person up. He went to the screen door—his mother was in the backyard, dressed in a loose sweater and jeans. She wore her hair in a loose ponytail. She was cleaning up the mess they had left last night, and she cleaned with a lax, easy energy. William listened carefully—she was humming to herself.

His mother suddenly headed back inside with a large table. She carried it like a surfboard across her body. She saw him standing behind the screen door and her face ballooned pleasantly with surprise and William opened the screen door. She kissed him on the cheek as she came abreast of him.

"Good morning, my son. How did you sleep?"

"I slept fine," lied William. The truth was that he hadn't slept more than a couple of hours. His brain was rushing with too much energy. But he wasn't tired—he was excited.

"I'm glad. Did you like your party?"

"It was . . . surprising," he said.

She set the table against the kitchen wall and poured herself some coffee as well. With her back towards him, William briefly pressed his weight against the table on the kitchen wall. It wouldn't budge.

She returned to him with her coffee in hand. She watched him as she stirred.

"What's up, Will?"

"Nothing."

"You look a little quiet."

"I'm just thinking."

"About what?"

"About what happened last night."

"Brothers and sisters fight all the time, Will," said Diana good-naturedly.

"No, I mean what happened after the party. Ra's and Talia."

Her smile became strained, as if she had tasted something harsh in her coffee but did not want to reveal it.

"Forget about last night, Will. I'm taking care of it. You have nothing to worry about."

"It sounded pretty serious, Mom."

"And I told you I will take care of it."

William sipped his coffee. The skepticism was loud with the gesture. He looked at her casual clothes, the coffee in her hand, and finally on the table leaning against the kitchen wall. So this what how she was 'taking care of it'?

Diana smiled quite pleasantly but patronizingly. "Have you ever been in a battle, Will?"

"No," he admitted, because what else could he say? His mother knew the answer already.

"Then believe me when I say that I am 'taking care of it,'" she said in a pleasant voice to match her smile. "This Ra's Al Ghul is not a problem. He's more of a nuisance, really."

William knew his mother was lying. He had heard the doubt yesterday in her voice. But this was to be expected. This is what protective mothers did: they shielded their children from scary realities. He understood that perfectly. It was patronizing but forgivable.

But William saw something else in the love residing his mother's blue eyes. It was a glassy prism warping the world around her, changing the dimension and severity of reality. She was a proud woman, a strong woman, but even proud, strong women could fall underneath spells.

William brought his coffee back down. He was beginning to understand something else.

"It sounded serious, is all," he said, watching his coffee easily. "I was even thinking of maybe telling some people at GCPD. Maybe they could help."

This was a new maneuver designed to outwit his mother. There was no way out. If she refused his offer, that meant that the situation was too dangerous for police officers—normal people, in other words—which would contradict everything she had already said.

But if she accepted his offer, then there really was no threat.

And William knew this. Diana looked at her son with a strange look. She knew it, too.

"I don't think that's a good idea, Will," she said after a brief pause. "That'll just cause unnecessary panic for something so trivial and small."

So she actually believedin what she was saying. Now he understood—the prism over his mother's eyes was worse than he thought. Her love for her children was a threat to the city. It made a battle-hardened woman into a denier. Did she really believe that Roland was no big threat? She had seen the photos from the waste facility, and Roland possessed an army—how could that be 'trivial and small'?

William made sure to keep the realization off his face. He finished his coffee.

"Well alright then, Mom." He set his empty mug on the kitchen island. This rounded out the conversation in a natural, easy manner. It reminded William of his mother's ponytail. "Seems like you got it under control. I'll see you tonight."

Suddenly her eyes became suspicious. "But where are you going? You don't work weekends."

"Paperwork," he said. It was a half-truth. "I have to finish it before my shift tonight. I'm working City Hall security—the Commissioner's retirement."

His mother's face fell. She had forgotten that he was a police officer. This was obvious.

"But you can't work tonight," she said. "Surely, not tonight."

She said 'tonight,' so as to include everything that had happened—Ra's, Roland, the army. She wanted to impress upon him the silliness, the stupidity, the danger, of working that night.

"Why wouldn't I?" he returned innocently. "Nothing's going to happen right? You just said."

She realized that trap he had laid out for her—he saw it as it happened. The way her eyes narrowed like the slits of a cat. Her lips twisting with displeasure.

He kissed her cheek. Her expression had not shifted.

"I'll see you tonight, Mom."

She turned from him and picked up the table and she headed for the basement. She was furious. But he didn't have time for her anger—he was angry, too. It was clear and obvious that she had forgotten he was a police officer. And she never even suspected that he might have been on call for the dead girl at the waste facility.

That's how low her expectations were of him. But he would prove her wrong. He would prove everyone wrong.

He got into his car and drove straight for Gotham Water and Power. It was located in Old Town. There was a plate mounted on a door that had the office's business hours: William had arrived not a minute after they opened. William walked in, fixed the officer's badge on his chest, and waited at the front desk. A tall skinny clerk emerged from behind a door. The clerk hadn't said one word before William announced himself as Gotham Police and put in a request for maps of the city's sewer grid.

"I want a complete accounting of the city's underbelly," said William. "Actually, make it the county. I want the boondocks past the city limits. And I'll need a consultant to ride shotgun with me to three different locations."

The clerk behind the desk looked at him with a blank stare. "You want all of the maps? Do you have any idea how oldGotham City is, Officer? How deep those pipes go?"

"And I'll need a consultant," said William. He did not correct the clerk for calling him 'Officer.' He liked the way it sounded, especially after the morning conversation with his mother.

The clerk had his hair parted in vain attempt to cover his bald crown. The clerk kept running his hand over his crown, as if to check that the hair was still there. "There's nobody here on Saturdays except me, Officer."

"Well," said William.

The clerk realized what William meant. He combed his hair miserably.

They drove first to the boondocks. It was a pine forest outside of the city. The clerk sat in the passenger seat while trying to explain the sewer systems to William.

"Gotham City sits in a basin, so most of the water from the mountains moves down by gravity drains; and the waste in Gotham City is pumped out into the bay."

"How big are those pipes?"

"You mean how wide? It depends on the system. Most sewage pipes are only twelve inches, that's called lowbore sewage."

"What about the other kind?"

"Those can be pretty big—six or seven feet in diameter."

"And it's all connected?"

"What do you mean?"

"Could I get to the boondocks, from the city, via the pipes?"

"What, do you mean can a human being travel in those pipes?"

"Yes."

"No."

"Not even theoretically?"

The clerk sighed. "Yes, it's theoretically possible, but it's a ridiculous proposition."

"Why?"

"Why? Well for starters you'd have to be able to crawl uphill—I told you, Gotham City is located in a basin, and these boondocks are above sea level. And look how long we've been driving."

"So it is possible."

The clerk looked like he wanted to laugh. "'Possible'—you're talking about superhuman strength to pull yourself up through those tunnels, Officer."

William pulled off the main road into a narrow, perpendicular dirt channel. Up ahead, a large section of the forest was cordoned off by police tape.

The clerk gulped. "I thought you said this was a consultation."

"It is," said William.

"But this is a crime scene."

William parked the car and shut off the ignition. He got out.

The body had long since been removed but there were stains of blood on the floor of the forest. It was dried and caked out from the summer sun. There were many footprints from the crime scene investigation.

The clerk stopped a few feet away from the blood. "My god, did someone die here?"

"Where are we?" said William. He was looking in the direction of Gotham City.

"I don't know—thirty miles outside of the city, I think."

"I mean on the sewage grid. Can you locate our position?"

"For what?"

"I want you to see if there's a drain, a pipe, or a manhole nearby."

"Why the hell would you want to know—?"

"Just do it."

The clerk flinched at the authority in William's voice. He went back to the car and started rifling through the scrolls of blueprints. William opened a little notebook and started taking notes.

This was the first of the murders. And its located far outside of the city.

The clerk raised his head. "There are a few systems running through this area."

"Can you find me one?"

The clerk pointed eastward. "There should be a serviceman's access that way."

They walked in the direction for ten minutes and came upon a tall, concrete cylinder coming up out of the ground. They looked down the throat of the cylinder; there were rungs leading down to a dry bed of concrete at the bottom. There was a large channel of piping running perpendicular underneath the ground.

"These abandoned systems are supposed to have lids on them," said the Clerk. He was touching the rim of the concrete cylinder.

"Why?"

"For obvious reasons—kids go down there and get lost."

William felt around the rim of the concrete cylinder—the edge was jagged upward, as if something had been yanked off.

"Someone tore this one off," said William.

The clerk shook his head. "Probably some bum."

William looked back to the crime scene—it was a very short walk, easily doable. The clerk had a look of sudden realization.

"Wait, you think the perpetrator killed a person and then escaped via these tunnels?"

"Does it sound so ridiculous?"

"It does. There's no light down there, and I mean no light. And there's all sorts of rodents and spiders and who knows what else. He'd die of starvation and exposure within a week."

William wasn't listening. He was looking down the concrete cylinder. The bed of the concrete was stained with mineral deposits and it made a stamp-like image—a whorl of rust, and William looked into like a Rorscah test and he saw a familiar image in the rust. It was the shape of a Bat.

Suddenly the trees swayed with a summer wind. The sedges of the woodland rustled. There was an echoing—a curling whisper that unsettled everything for a brief moment before turning it back to a complete rest.

"Can we leave now?" said the Clerk. He was looking around uncertainly.

"Yes," said William. They started heading back to the car. The sun was a little higher on the eastside, which meant it was around 10am. The Commissioner's retirement speech was at 6pm. They still had plenty of time.

William fasted his seatbelt. "Do you like Greek food?"

The clerk looked pale in the face. He started running his hand through his hair. "What do you mean?"

William started the car. "Get on your phone and find us a good place to eat on our way back. We have two more stops to make."

Emma Trevor sat silently at the top of the stairs. Downstairs, in the kitchen, her brother and her mother were arguing.

"But you can't work tonight," she said. "Surely, not tonight."

"Why wouldn't I?" said William in an obnoxiously meek voice. "Nothing's going to happen right? You just said."

Emma watched William leave through the front door. Meanwhile, their mother went down to the basement. There were loud and volatile sounds coming from the basement—as if Diana was throwing around tables and boxes. Then Diana stormed upstairs to kitchen. She turned the gas stoves on and started cooking breakfast. Within minutes, the smell of eggs, bacon, and toast carried through the room.

Emma walked down the steps and into the kitchen. Her mother was at the stove with her back toward Emma. The hiss of the oil on the frying pan and the pop of bacon was all there was to part the silence. Emma walked silently to the coffee carafe, still hot, and poured herself a cup. Then she took out the cream and the sugar from the cabinet and refrigerator. She was the only one in the family who liked cream and sugar. Her mother said nothing the entire time.

"Good morning, Mom," said Emma finally. She put the cream back in the fridge. "Great party."

Her mother worked the frying pan with the spatula. "Emma, do you want some breakfast?"

The softness in Diana's voice was threating. As if Diana didn't really want to offer breakfast to Emma but was doing so out of cordiality.

"Sure, Mom," said Emma. "What are you making?"

"Eggs and bacon and toast," said Diana. "Your father's favorite."

"Who doesn't like eggs and bacon?" said Emma, trying to jest. But her mother did not laugh.

Damn, thought Emma. Mom is really pissed off at William.

They heard David's muted wailing coming from upstairs. It sounded like had just woken up. Diana put the spatula down. "It's your brother. He's just woken up."

"Dad's upstairs," said Emma. She sipped her coffee.

Diana was coming around the kitchen island. The eggs and bacon were still cooking on the stove. "Finish cooking the breakfast, Emma?" said Diana in a tone that was not really requesting. "I'm going to go see David."

"Dad's upstairs, Mom," repeated Emma. But her mother did not listen. She walked brusquely by the kitchen island and went up the stairs. Emma turned to the hot stove. The blue-orange flame flickered underneath the curve of the frying pan. The spatula lay beside the stove.

"I don't cook, you know that, Mom," said Emma, chewing her lip. She picked up the spatula and seized the frying pan by the handle. The eggs were a thick wad of bright yellow and the bacon was crimped and shriveled on the other side of the pan. Emma pushed the spatula underneath the eggs and flipped them. The underside of the eggs was a nutty brown. Then she reached for the bacon.

The bacon popped like a gunshot and sent oil flying up at her. Emma yelped and raised her hand to shield her face, instinctively, but this upset the frying pan and sent the eggs all over the stove.

"Shit," she hissed. The eggs had fallen in between the grates of the stove-tops. She worked the spatula between the grates to fish out the eggs but the spatula's rude surface only pushed the eggs further underneath the grates. The bacon was still burning on the stove and now it was brittle black.

Emma laid out the bacon on a plate and went to the fridge. She took out the carton of eggs and went back to the stove and cracked six eggs onto the frying pan. Then she remembered about the oil and took out the bottle. She poured for as long as she had seen her mother pour olive oil into the pan. She picked up the spatula again.

The green olive oil sat on the yellow globules of yolk. And there was the underlayer of bacon gristle sitting underneath the transparent egg whites. It looked like some strange presentation on pathogens. Emma turned up the gas and worked the frying pan.

"What happened?" said Diana's voice over her shoulder.

Emma worked the eggs. "I spilled the eggs. But I have it under control."

Diana came over to Emma's side and watched silently. Her eyes went to the discarded eggs lying in the grates and to the olive oil sitting on the counter.

"Did you put olive oil into the pan?"

"Yes, Mom. I remembered."

Diana made a small disappointed sound. "The grease from the bacon acts like an oil. If we put in more oil, the eggs come out too greasy."

"Oh," said Emma. She did not look up from the frying pan. Her face felt hot, but it had nothing to do with the heat from the frying pan.

Diana took the olive oil and put it away. Then she started putting out plates on the table.

"Did you like your party yesterday?"

Emma continued to work the eggs. She pushed the shiny globules into the bacon grease. It was slowly coming together. The shiny yolk was gone as was the transparent liquid of the egg whites. Puffy wads of egg were clinging at the edges of the pan.

"I did, Mom. Thanks."

"I think someone at the party got your brother sick."

"William is sick?"

"David," said Diana. "He seemed different this morning."

"He was asleep all last night, Mom. How could he have gotten sick?"

Diana came back to look over Emma's shoulder. Emma felt like she was trying to pass some exam.

"Stir along the edge of the pan, babe. It'll stick."

"The spatula is too wide, Mom. It won't fit."

"You just have to press a little."

Emma pressed the spatula's grille into the curvature of the frying pan. The spatula missed all of the egg along the surface.

"I'll need you to babysit today, Emma."

Emma pressed the spatula uselessly. It was too wide. "I have plans, Mom. Get Alfred to do it."

"Alfred can't do it. I need you to do it."

"Why?"

"You're not pressing, Emma."

"I am pressing, but it just won't go. Why can't Alfred do it?"

"You know why, Emma."

The spatula snapped at the joint. The handle was in Emma's hand and the grille of the spatula was resting on the bed of eggs. Diana turned off the gas from the stove.

"I have a spare downstairs."

Emma laid down the broken handle. She picked out the grille from the eggs. Her mother left the kitchen and she was gone for a few moments. When she returned, she had a spatula loosely in her hands.

"Occupational hazard," said Diana. She placed the spatula beside Emma and picked up the broken pieces of the former. "Don't worry, babe."

"Not my occupation," muttered Emma.

Diana tossed the broken pieces into the trash. "What's that?"

"I said why do I have to babysit?"

"Well," began Diana, in that tone a parent uses when they are speaking to a precocious child. "Because you're my daughter, and because I asked you to do it."

"It doesn't sound like you're 'asking,' Mother."

"Okay, I'm asking now—can you babysit?"

"No. I have other plans."

"Why are you being difficult, Emma?"

"I'm not being difficult, Mom. You asked me a question, I gave you an answer."

Emma sipped her coffee. It had gone stale while she worked the eggs. The she lowered the mug to the table. "Why didn't you ask Will to babysit, Mom?"

"He has plans tonight, Emma."

"As do I."

"I can't believe this," muttered Diana. She was shaking her head most dramatically. "I'm asking my one and onlydaughter for afavor."

"You have a son, by the way—two of them."

"Are you really going to make me say it, Emma Trevor?"

Emma folded her arms guardedly. She leaned against the counter. "I have no idea what you're talking about, Mom."

She adopted the same tone her brother William had used earlier—that obnoxious, faux meekness. But this time Diana was ready for it.

"This family already has one sarcastic child, Emma," said Diana angrily. "We don't need two."

"Everyone always said that Will was the smart one," Emma shrugged. "I still don't know what we're talking about, you know."

"You're really going to make me say it?"

Emma stayed silent. Diana came a little closer to the table—it looked a vague threatening, challenging gesture.

"I need you to take care of the family, Emma Trevor, because you're the only one who can do it."

"Because I take after you. I have your abilities."

Diana straightened up. She looked to be struggling with the words, as if they were bitter pieces of food lodged in her throat.

"Yes. That's why."

Emma laughed with her arms folded on her chest. She pushed off the counter.

"I recall the woman who didn't let me join high school track, or soccer, or volleyball, or any of the million other activities that I might have had fun in—and why? Because you didn't want the world to see me. But now? Now you're suddenly very proud to call me your daughter—now you want me to embrace that other side of me? How very convenient for you, Mom."

Diana was standing and stewing in frustration. Emma knew it.

"And another thing," she continued. "I heard you talking with William earlier. You said there was nothing to worry about. Then why are you asking me to babysit my little brother? The only reason I can think of is that there is a problem. And you're afraid of leaving the safety of our home in the hands of 'regular' people like Dad or Will or Alfred."

A strange exhilaration was running through Emma. She had never been so explicit with her mother. It felt good, to finally let out her voice.

"So, if you want my help, you need start trusting me more. I'm not a child anymore, Mother. I want to help you with whatever is going on."

"Absolutely out of the question," said Diana firmly.

"Then I won't help you," said Emma simply.

"By the gods, I don't know what I did to deserve this," exhaled Diana. She was looking away from Emma, looking away to some deity where she could deposit her misery. "I don't know why you're making this so difficult—I'm trying to protect the family, Emma. I'm trying to protect you."

"I don't 'need' protection, Mom," countered Emma. "I can handle myself—you said it yourself."

"When did I say that, Emma?"

"You just told me that you want me to protect the family—our family."

"That's a last resort, Emma. I didn't mean that you were ready."

"I could help you, Mom. I could help so many people. You've seen what I can do! I know how to defend myself and I could."

Diana became scornful. She held up a hand. "Now stop it, Emma. You don't know anything. You don't know battle formations. You don't know flanking tactics, how to beat a retreat, how to spar, how to use a sword nor a shield. You don't even know how to throw a punch – or a kick!"

Emma suddenly became red in the face. "I—I know how to throw a punch, Mom."

Diana narrowed her eyes. "Okay, throw a punch."

Emma looked around the kitchen. "Here?"

"Yes, I want you to throw a punch at my face."

"I'm not going to hit you, Mom."

"I didn't say you were going to hit me. Just throw a punch."

That prickled Emma. She balled her fingers into a fist.

"I don't want to punch my own mother, but if you keep egging me like this, then—"

In a matter-of-fact motion, Diana stepped forward and slapped Emma across the face. Emma's head whiplashed to the side. Her face stung across her jaw.

By the time Emma registered and processed the slap, the pain of the blow was secondary in Emma's consciousness. What hurt Emma immediately was the stinging humiliation. Her own mother had hit her—not punched, but slapped.

And Diana was bringing her hand, flattened like a spatula, for another blow.

Emma ducked the incoming slap and threw a hellish blow toward her mother's face. It was heavy handed and fisted, like a hammer being brought down. Her mother stepped around Emma and the punch sailed downwards.

Her mother came round Emma's leftside and slapped Emma's left ear with the same nippy irritation—then she moved out of the way, and Emma punched the space her mother had recently occupied. This was how it played out: Diana dodged and Emma followed her mother's movement with vicious, hammering punches. Finally Emma punched too wildly and she hit the kitchen cabinets. Wood exploded from the cabinet, as did puffs of flour and cane sugar that were sitting in the cabinet.

Emma found herself standing with her arm extended across her face, her hand in the cabinet, her face red and her lungs out of breath. Her mother was standing a few feet away, watching coolly.

"You've depended on your raw strength your whole life, Emma. So you don't know how to throw a punch. You need to draw your hips into the motion; that's why you're so slow. You've never been in a fight, so you don't know how to spot a telegraphed punch—or slap, in this case."

Emma gingerly removed her hand from the cabinet. A waterfall of cane sugar poured out from the hole. It collected on the counter like sand from an hourglass.

Diana made a 'tisk' sound. "Now look at the damage you could do, Emma. I saw in your eyes how much anger you put into that punch – imagine if that was Will? Or some other poor sparring partner? You could kill someone, Emma. How many times do I have to tell you?"

Emma closed her eyes. She couldn't believe what she was hearing. She was trapped in her home, suffocated by love. Anything she did was the wrong thing. Always she had to hide herself for the good of others.

The humiliation and the frustration fused together to create helplessness. Hot tears brimmed at the surface of Emma's eyelids. But she fought them off. She was furious with herself.

"Then what the hell am I supposed to do, Mom?" said Emma in a tone that was guttural in order to mask its shakiness. "You could have put me in boxing lessons, or in any martial arts class. You could have taught me to control it."

Seeing her daughter in such a hurt state evaporated all irritation and anger. What remained was gentleness and shame—Diana did not like what she did. Mothers did not hurt their daughters.

The sugar was still pouring onto the counter. And upstairs, they heard footsteps—Alfred or Steve, or maybe both, were going to come down soon.

"I'm sorry for doing that, Emma," said Diana. She didn't know whether it would be alright to caress her daughter's shoulder. "That wasn't right of me. It's just you're so headstrong. Like your Dad."

"It's alright, Mom," said Emma in that same quiet voice. She was clearly wrestling with the fact she couldn't even throw a punch.

"I'll clean all of this up, baby, okay? Don't worry."

Diana went to the corner of the kitchen and found the broom. She worked silently, and was unable to look in Emma's direction.

Emma moved away from the kitchen. She couldn't even throw a punch. She went upstairs, and with each step the thought dug deeper, and deeper, into her humiliation: not a punch. All this power, all this strength, and she couldn't control it. She went inside her room and locked the door. She looked at her room for several moments.

Someone had been in her room. She knew this because there was a package lying on her bed. It was neatly wrapped in brown paper and tied with a single string. Emma cautiously went to it and took it in her hands. It weighed virtually nothing. She pulled the string and very slowly shed the wrapping away. That's when she heard the knock on her door.

"Come in!" she said. She quickly hid the parcel underneath a pillow.

Alfred slowly opened the door. He was in a full tailored suit, his pink scalp carefully combed and his shoes shining. He was looking at her most cheerfully.

"Emma, will you join us downstairs for breakfast?"

"I already ate, Grandpa. Thanks."

"No worries. How do you like my gift?"

"I—" Emma looked underneath the pillow.

"Yes, that's from me to you. I meant to give it to you last night—but something told me to hold off for a better moment."

"What is it?"

"It's something I think might interest you. And something to jumpstart that wonderful childlike innocence I remember."

"I'm not a child anymore, Alfred."

"No, you're not, are you? You are an impressive young woman. An adult. Glad of you to remind you. Maybe you should remind everyone else."

Alfred's eyes twinkled, and Emma knew, instinctively, that he was saying one thing and meaning another. She thought about his words. He was smiling as if nothing was happening.

"Well, I won't keep your father waiting any longer," said Alfred all of a sudden. He was looking at his watch, apologizing. "He is threatening me with a hearty breakfast and I don't want to disappoint."

Alfred walked out but stopped at the door. And then he said, as an afterthought. "And try not to get too worked up, my dear. Mistakes are part of the journey. All we can do is take it on the chin."

He said this last line with the look in his eyes, as if he was speaking to her soul, and then he was gone. So he had seen what had happened in the kitchen. Emma turned back to the package and unwrapped it. Or maybe it was just a coincidence. Either way, Alfred's words buzzed in her mind.

He had given her a laminated newspaper clipping. The headline was this: Masked Vigilante ruins police sting operation—suspects run away; several officers wounded. Below the headline was a grainy photograph of a man in a black balaclava and climbing gear. He was on a fire-escape with several police cars underneath him. He was clearly running away, and the poor grain of the photograph only added to the amateurish quality of the masked man. Emma looked at the date. It was the first year of the Batman's appearance in Gotham City.

Emma put the laminated newspaper to the side. The rush of her mother's slap was still there. It still hurt, still stung. But so was the gradual warmth of Alfred's gift—it began at her fingertips holding the newspaper, and traveled up her arms and into her body. Slowly, the lesson took shape; it provided a bridge over the humiliation—a bridge Emma could walk from one end to the other. She could not throw a punch. She didn't know about fighting. This was fact.

She looked at the laminated newspaper: Neither did he. But he learned, through experience. He took it on the chin. And so could she.

Dusk fell upon the manor when Diana finished the cleaning. It was a good feeling—to walk through her home and take account of how well-polished, well-swept, and well-organized everything was. Now she wanted a bath—that would be the best thing after a day of cleaning. But instead of taking a bath she went upstairs to check on David. He was still sleeping. She took the baby camera in her hand and inspected it – the batteries were half-empty. Diana started looking for replacement batteries. Better to be safe than sorry—there would be no spared expense when it concerned the wellbeing of her children.

The doorbell rang. She knew who it would be—she had been expecting him.

Clark Kent, in a large trenchcoat, stood on her doorstep. He did not hide his disappointment when he laid eyes on her.

"Di, I thought we were getting ready for tonight?"

She was still in her loose sweater and jeans.

"We are," said Diana. "I'm going to change in a second into something more comfortable."

Clark stepped inside. He had his hands in his pockets, and he looked uncomfortable. Diana knew what clothes he wore underneath that coat.

"Are you really wearing it?" said Diana. She was clearly amused. "Really, Clark?"

"What?" said Clark defensively. "We're going into a field operation, Di."

"'Operation' is hardly the right word, Clark. I think you're over doing it."

Clark looked down at himself. A touch of embarrassment tinged his cheeks "I thought it was fitting. We're making a return—we should return to our old uniforms."

"We aren't returning, Clark," she said. "Heroes are not allowed anymore. Not after what happened. If we go out dressed like that, we're going to draw attention."

"So what do we do?" said Clark. He shifted uncomfortably in his trench coat. "I don't have any extra clothes."

Diana laughed. "I have some old clothes that might fit you. They're in the basement. C'mon."

They went to the basement together. Clark looked down at the steps of the basement.

"That's new," he said, pointing to the rubber grip strips on the wooden step. "Did someone slip?"

"With David and Alfred, I figured why risk it, right?" said Diana. "It's an accident waiting to happen."

They walked into the spacious center of the basement. Along the left wall was a rack with unused bicycles and fishing tackle. On the right wall was shelving with neatly organized boxes of surplus cookingware, bedsheets, and holiday decorations. These were the more eye-catching boxes of the basement: the baubles and silver bells of Christmas poking out of an open box; a ceramic jack o-lantern standing atop a crate of weed killer.

Diana sighed. "Dammit, Steve."

"What's wrong?" said Clark.

"Nothing. It's just the weed killer is supposed to be outside in the shed—with the rest of the gardening equipment."

Her old work desk covered the middle wall: the wall directly across the basement steps. She had bought the desk ten years ago for what she thought would be an excellent opportunity for woodworking. It was a massive piece of wood, and the cabinets housed all sorts of carpentry tools. But that idea lay long forgotten. Now the work desk was a glorified shelf for gallons of household cleaner, a crate of sterno cans, an old karaoke set, propane tanks, and old clothes.

Diana started removing boxes from the work desk. Clark walked around and spotted the Christmas tree.

"You have an artificial Christmas tree? What happened to the holiday spirit?"

"Do you have any idea how wasteful it is to throw away a perfectly good tree every year?" said Diana. "Besides, this one requires no energy, and no water. It's perfect."

Clark left the Christmas tree and approached the rack on the left wall.

"Can I borrow these?" Clark picked up a few fishingpoles. "I've always wanted to do some lake fishing. I was thinking in the Canary boondocks"

"I think those are deepsea rods, Clark. You need flyfishing rods for the boondocks."

Clark put the rods away. "Oh."

Diana found the box with the black marker on it: Steve's clothes. She raised the pile of clothing to her nose. "They're clean but smell stale. Let me wash these for you upstairs. We got some boots here, too."

"Why do you have so many spatulas?" said Clark. He was eyeing a cylinder of spatulas on a shelf.

"Long story," said Diana. She felt that twinge of guilt and embarrassment. "Let's go upstairs."

They headed upstairs and Diana put the clothes into the washing cycle. While they waited, Diana brought out a tray of tea and biscuits out into the living room.

"Tea?" said Clark. He was fighting an urge to chuckle. "What are you doing, Di?"

"We have some time to kill," said Diana, shrugging. "Besides, Alfred is coming home soon."

"Yeah, where is everyone?" said Clark, as if it suddenly occurred to him that other people live here.

"Steve took Alfred out for some errands, William is at work, and Emma . . . I don't know where she is."

Her voice was rough and tired. Clark sat there a little uneasily. He didn't know whether to take up this topic of conversation or ignore it.

"I brought you something," he said finally. He dug into his trenchcoat pockets and produced a box. He opened it with the same air and suspense of a proposal wedding ring. He was even grinning.

Inside the box were two tiny black beads. Diana picked one up with her forefinger and thumb. It weighed virtually nothing and she was afraid of squishing it. They were radio earpieces.

"I thought you destroyed all of our tech years ago?" she said.

"I did," he said. "They're prototype that Bruce gave us – samples, essentially."

"And they still work?" she rolled the bead skeptically.

"Yes, they do. I mean the contacts were fried and the batteries were old. I had Lucius replace both of them."

"Did you?" said Diana quietly. "He didn't mention that to me."

Clark saw the look on her face. "He's just trying to do his part, Di. We all are."

She put the bead back in the box and closed it. She didn't like that Lucius went behind her back—but a part of her knew that there was nothing to be angry about. Why was she so angry? Why did she feel betrayed?

Clark was watching her. "Are you okay, Di?"

Diana put the mug back into the saucer. "Clark, I love that you're so well-prepared. But don't you think all of this is overkill? The clothes, the earpieces, getting Lucius involved."

Clark narrowed his eyes. "Roland has an army, Di."

"According to a man we've never met before," she said. "An this army is comprised of what?—homeless, vagrants, and orphans? C'mon, Clark."

Clark put the box away in a subdued but guarded manner. He clearly did not think as she did. He clearly thought she was wrong.

"Don't give me that look, Clark."

"I didn't say anything, Di."

"I know. I said don't give me that look—"

She set her tea cup back in its saucer. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to snap at you. I'm just a little tense."

"A little tense," he muttered. "You look like you could take a bite out of me, Di."

"I know," she said, reflectively. Then, after a beat, she asked. "How's Lois?"

"She's back at home. She's a wreck as well," he added with a conciliatory smile.

"Yes, but she has a reason—she's expecting."

Clark put his cup and saucer on the table. It looked ridiculous but sweet—his huge, bulky fingers handling the delicate china. "It's understandable, Di. Now that we're about to be parents—I get it. I really do. That kid isn't here yet and I'm already worried and excited. I can only imagine having three of them."

"It is hard," she said.

"We're going to be fine, Di. Don't worry."

"It's not right of me to be like this. I understand that, Clark. But I just can't shake this feeling. It's like there's a shadow over my entire home. It came on so suddenly and violently, and everything is cast in gloom."

"What do you think is causing it?"

"It's a silly thing. It's been so long, you know."

Clark's face went sober and grey. "Is it Bruce?"

Suddenly Clark's ears perked up. He turned toward the door. "Someone is coming."

Fear and imagination conspired together in her mind. A torrent of images ran across her mind: scenes of her family's demise, the danger and the threat of something unknown but inevitable coming to hurt everything she loved. The adrenaline seized her focus, seized her motor-functions, and suddenly she was standing up, ready for a fight.

The front door opened, and there was a steady clop clop: Alfred appeared around the corner. He stopped and beheld the scene like a man seeing something he was not supposed to see.

"Oh—I'm sorry."

The adrenaline receded, and Diana's focus came back. The exhaustion now took its toll—it was worse than any fatigue she felt after cleaning. This exhaustion did not feel good. It did not deserve a bath. It was ugly, cold, and life-sucking.

"Alfred," said Diana. She was felt like she was swaying on her feet. "Take my chair."

Alfred and Clark exchanged a look. Then Alfred started walking very carefully. "Yes, thank you, I will."

Both men were pretending not to notice what had happened. They were pretending everything was fine, and Diana knew it. She breathed out her anxiety, her embarrassment.

"Did you talk to Emma?" said Diana in a voice she did not recognize. It sounded to be coming from another body, another mouth.

"She's on her way home," said Alfred. "She'll be here within the hour."

"Tell her to call me when she does. I need to talk to her."

"She knows, Diana. She'll be here soon," said Alfred. It was like he was speaking to a skittish child.

The drying machines suddenly beeped. Diana was grateful for the sound and she excused herself hurriedly. The clothes smelled of lavender and they were clean-warm. She worked mindlessly now, folding and pulling the clothes out. She didn't want to think—not after that adrenaline. She handed the clothes to Clark and he walked into the downstairs bathroom to get ready. Then Diana went upstairs to shower. The water was warm on her skin. She applied the concealer and then the shampoo gel, lathering herself into fresh soap. It was a good routine. She felt like she was going to work.

When she came out of the shower she was herself again. She put on calfskin boots, jeans, a cotton shirt, and a black jacket. She caught sight of herself in the mirror—it looked like she was going out for a coffee. She came downstairs and Clark was dressed very similar to her. His boots were gray, his jeans dark green, and he wore a large red flannel that made him look like an urban lumberjack. They both came into the living room.

"Is this how you two are going to fight?" said Alfred. He sipped tea most nonjudgmentally.

Diana threw him a look. "It's not a fight. We're laying a trap. Pretty routine for what we used to do. Chances are we'll both be home in time for dinner."

From her peripheries she saw Clark was looking at her again. it was that same pitying, almost too understanding look. He was weighing something, clearly.

"Where are you meeting Ra's?" asked Alfred.

"GothCorp," said Diana. She looked at a clock on the wall "We're supposed to be there in twenty minutes."

"Is that by taxi or by air?"

"I—"

"We're going by air," said Clark hurriedly. "Of course ,we can't do this by car."

Alfred nodded in agreement as he sipped his tea. So it was two against one—they had her outnumbered.

"Fine, we're flying," said Diana. "Are we ready to go?"

"Yes," said Clark. "I'm ready to go."

She saw the worry on Alfred—it was paternal, judgmental, and entirely patient. It was like a parent watching their child from afar, waiting for the child to make a mistake and the parent would not intervene because the lesson would then be lost. She hated this sudden reversal—she was the parent; and she was the warrior. And woe to a man named Roland who threatened the woman who was both warrior and parent. Now she was like the night—she was would fall upon Roland. It was simple inevitability. It was just a matter of time.