Chapter 10 - Eight Little Letters

Having a bedroom in the Batcave isn't as glamorous as it sounds.

First of all, I couldn't move from my bed, so the whole exploration factor was removed from my stay. There are also bats flying overhead constantly, which is aggravating when you're trying to sleep. I couldn't hang out with the boys, because when they were in the Batcave, they were busy with work, and when they weren't… well, Bruce had a real job, Damian had school, and Jason spent a lot of time in town, as Alfred told me through pursed lips. My constant and often only companion was my dedicated but admittedly quiet uncle, and after a week, his sullen presence started driving me mad. He just sat there, reading. Maybe he thought the proximity of a book would rekindle my old flame. It didn't; I was happy to stick to the fancy new phone Bruce gave me.

Thankfully, being friends with Damian comes with its perks. He let Titus come down to the cave, and even brought Pennyworth once. Pennyworth still acted aloof, but considering he spent almost his whole time in the Batcave curled up in my lap, I don't think he actually minded the copious pets I gave him. Titus was his usual social self, although whenever he was in the cave at the same time as Bruce, he put on this odd little show, standing at attention and making these gruff little sounds deep in his throat. It was almost like he was mimicking Batman. It was adorable.

That whole week, my legs didn't respond to anything. I tried picking them up at first, just bending my knees, anything. It was like trying to move a couple of dead eels. I ended up simply willing my pinkie toe to move, as a starting point. Nothing. Not a twitch. Breakfast trays, Alfred's hand, the cat in my lap–I never felt any of it.

At least I got some good entertainment. The first night of my captivity, Oddjob appeared again. He attacked two jewelry stores, stole some black pearl necklaces, and vanished, leaving behind only a rusty car part. Tim identified it as an old car axle and immediately ran it through the decoder, but even though he tried A, C, even X, there were no meaningful results.

Twice over the next three days, there were mass burglaries. A couple rival gangs, probably emboldened by Oddjob's success, decided to have a theft-off, and broke into five different stores on opposite ends of Gotham City. Those nights were busier than usual; the boys had to split up and even call in some more obscure Batfam colleagues–and no, I didn't meet any of them. Oddjob himself didn't show, but we could all sense his influence.

Saturday was the best day of the whole week. I was bursting with energy and bored out of my mind, so the boys came up with the brilliant idea to turn the cave into an amusement park. They made up ridiculous rides, like "The Batcoaster" and "Red Hood Rodeo," all of them intended to get me out of my bed and laughing again. Dick carried me from attraction to attraction, and even though they were little more than pushing each other around on swivel chairs or playing chicken while riding piggyback, they served their purpose. I smiled for the first time in days.

But it didn't last. I spent Sunday alone, while the Batfamily trained and Alfred watched the Manor. Monday wasn't much better. After Tim kindly supplied lunch for Alfred and myself, Alfred up and left; when I asked for a reason, he said he had to clean the main ballroom–and he had to do it himself, because he didn't trust the boys around the chandeliers.

As he walked away, I turned to Tim. "Any reason in particular Alfred is cleaning one of the ballrooms?"

"Bruce is finally having a party," Tim said. He made a face. "It's going to be a big one."

"What's the occasion?"

"Uh… my birthday."

I raised my eyebrows. First good news I had heard in a week. "When's your birthday?"

"July 19th." He sighed. "I didn't really want a big party, but Bruce wanted an occasion to invite all his business partners over, so…"

"Is it going to be an actual ball? With fancy dresses and everything?"

"Pretty much."

I was ecstatic for all of five seconds. Then the grin slid from my face. "I won't be able to make it."

"Why not?" Tim smiled. "You're one of the first people I'd invite."

My eyes travelled down to my unresponsive legs, and Tim followed.

"Sam, you can't think this will last all the way until then."

"It's already July 1st," I moaned. "If they're not back by now…"

Tim grabbed my hand. "We'll figure it out. Babs managed to look pretty good in a dress and a wheelchair."

My head whipped up. "What?"

Tim faltered. "Don't… didn't Alfred tell you about that?"

"Barbara was in a wheelchair? When?"

"A while ago." Tim scrunched up his brow as he recalled. "It's not a pretty story; I don't blame Alfred for leaving it out."

"What happened?"

"She got shot. The bullet hit her spine. She was paralyzed for a long time."

I stared at Tim with wide eyes. "And… how is she better?"

"Technology," Tim said. "An implant in her spine. If worst comes to worst, it's probably something we could try with you."

I looked back at my legs, those foreign, faraway lumps hidden under the blankets. I couldn't imagine having to live without them, but I also couldn't imagine getting technology implanted into my body.

"I have some work to do," Tim said, getting to his feet. "I'll just be over at the computer, if you need me."

He left me with a lot of strange, dark thoughts and a strong urge to think about something else. My eyes fell on Alfred's book, sitting on his usual chair. Pride and Prejudice. Again? I knew for a fact he had read the whole thing thrice before. I reached out and picked it up, examining the cover art.

All of a sudden, all the lights went out, plunging me into darkness. I froze, my eyes searching for signs of life.

"Tim? What happened?"

I heard Tim stop typing. "What?"

"What happened to the lights? It's gone dark. Over here, at least."

Tim didn't respond for a long time.

"Sam," he said slowly. "The lights… are fine. They're all on."

I blinked into the blackness. "Then why…"

Oh.

I was deaf a few weeks ago. Last Monday, I became paralyzed. And now, I was blind.

"Tim," I said, my voice shuddering. "Can you say something? Make some noise?"

I heard sounds, familiar sounds-Tim rising from his chair, walking toward me. The sound of a chair being pulled across the floor, and someone sitting in it.

"I'm right here," Tim said, his voice much closer now.

I reached out my hand. "Tim, I can't see. It's an attack."

"I know." Tim's hand wrapped around mine. "It's okay. I'll stay here until Alfred comes back. Do you want me to call him?"

I felt his fingers start to loosen. I gripped him tighter.

"Don't leave. I don't want to be alone."

"Okay."

We sat there in the dark. Every few seconds, I'd ask Tim to make some noise. He told me he was here. He said everything was fine. I hoped he was right.

With nothing to do but wait and hope, I started to think. For the first time, I was experiencing two attacks at once-paralysis in my legs, and blindness. It meant my illness was progressing right on schedule. And if everything continued according to schedule, I'd be dead in about two years.

It's strange to know how long you have left to live. For me, it was a little better; two years is a long time. It gave me something of a chance to figure things out. There was time for my legs to get better, to be able to walk again. There was time to get to know the Waynes better and close out my time with them smoothly. There was time for me and Alfred to be alone, and time for us to be with other people. I was seventeen; I'd be just over nineteen when I died. A lot can happen between seventeen and nineteen.

But only two years? Other seventeen-year-olds were only just starting their lives-they had decades ahead of them. What if I never met someone and fell in love? What if my legs never got their feeling back? What if the end of my existence would be a leaf falling to the ground, barely a whisper in history? I wasn't ambitious; I didn't have an insatiable desire to make my mark or become something legendary. I just didn't want to give up all my potential, all the life I could have lived, to a disease.

"Tim," I said. "If I never… if my legs never work again… or I'm permanently blind… what'll I do? With the rest of my life?"

Tim squeezed my hand. "That's not going to happen. We'll find a cure. We found a cure for Barbara, we'll find one for you."

"Don't be too confident," I said. "You've got two years to find a cure they didn't manage to get for my parents in four. What do you have that's different?"

"Well, your parents didn't have Batman, and he's got a lot of resources."

My brow furrowed so hard, it gave me a headache. My parents didn't have Batman. They didn't have many friends at all-just doctors and scientists. Nobody cared about them as people, just as test subjects.

"Do you think," I said, "that if my parents had had Batman on their side, and all those superheroes, the super-thinkers and super-healers, all of those brilliant minds, on their side… do you think they would have lived?"

"I'm sure of it. That's why you're going to live."

"But why didn't Alfred tell Bruce about my parents? Why didn't they have Batman on their side?"

Tim hesitated. "I… don't know. Maybe Alfred wasn't as close with them as…"

"No, he was close with my parents. My mother was his niece. He loved them both. He wasn't around that often, probably because of Batman, but… once he knew they were sick, why wouldn't he tell Bruce and ask him to help? Where was he when my parents were dying?"

Tim's hand left mine. "If you're okay by yourself, I can go to the computer. Do some searching. But I don't think Alfred would ignore your parents and not you. There must have been a good reason we didn't know."

"I'm okay. Go."

I heard Tim stand up and walk away. I waited for a long time, listening to the tapping of the keyboard.

He never found me an answer.

/

Nothing was better. Everything was worse.

After that day, the attacks got more frequent-daily, in fact. My blindness had only partially subsided by Tuesday; I could just barely make out basic shapes, and I could tell what was a person and what wasn't, but I had no idea who was who until they started talking. Then, that afternoon, I had a head bomb again. I screamed into my pillow and held Alfred's hand in a death grip for half an hour until the pounding subsided to a dull throb.

Wednesday, my sight returned in full. I was hopeful. My migraine was gone. Maybe my legs would get better, too. But no! Instead, on top of paralysis, I got a fever. A bad fever, complete with vivid and wild hallucinations. It lasted until Friday, and my sight was hardly worth it, because I spent most of two days sleeping. Even awake, it seemed my world had turned into a nightmare. And Friday morning, just as my fever began to subside, my right arm went dead again.

So, there I was, Friday night, mostly paralyzed with shaky chills. And Oddjob chose then to show up again.

I woke up just in time to see the Batfam return. None of them looked happy.

"I can tell it didn't go so well," Alfred said, setting aside a cup of tea as he swiveled away from the computer.

"It didn't really go at all," Nightwing said. "He broke into three jewelry stores and stole-I give you three guesses."

"Black pearls again?"

"Give him his prize."

"He left a handkerchief behind," Batman said, handing it to Tim. "Scan it for fingerprints. See if he left anything on it."

"There haven't been fingerprints on any of his other tools," Dick said, taking off his mask. "There won't be any on this one."

"It's still worth a look," Batman said.

Jason removed his helmet. "Well, I, for one, am completely fed up with this b-grade villain. He's annoyingly good for a newbie."

Damian walked purposefully past Alfred to the computer. "Shall I enter the mission data into the computer, father?"

"I can take care of that," Bruce said, removing his cowl and cape. No one else was watching, but I just managed to catch the meaningful look that passed between Bruce and Tim. "You boys should head to bed. It's late."

"It's only 4 a.m.," Jason said.

"Which makes it early," Alfred said. "If you boys wouldn't mind, the ballroom floor is rather scuffed up. I'm enlisting you to wax it for Master Timothy's party."

"Bed it is." Jason made a show of yawning and stretching as he headed for the elevator. "G'night, all!"

Alfred grinned roguishly. "Nothing like a little motivation."

I barely noticed the interaction. I was watching Tim and Bruce. They kept looking at each other with increasingly odd looks, as if they were holding a silent conversation. Something was up.

Dick and Damian came over to say goodnight to me. As soon as they were close enough, I whispered, "Stick around, you two. I think Bats is hiding something."

They both turned to look at Bruce. Dick frowned. "He's Batman. Of course, he looks like he's hiding something."

Damian shook his head. "No, she's right. Look at Drake and my father. There's clearly something going on between them."

"They're holding some sort of psychic conversation," I said. "And not telling the rest of us. That's definitely suspicious."

Dick nodded. "I trust you. Damian, we'll go to the stairs and wait there. Keep an eye on them, Sam."

"Not really doing much else."

They left, but not for good. Alfred was quick to follow, giving me a weary pat on the head and trudging off to the elevator. Tim sat down at the computer as Bruce came over to my bed.

"How are you feeling?" Bruce asked.

"Tired," I said. I didn't need to pretend; I was pretty zonked from fighting my fever. "I think I'll go to sleep. You and Tim do what you need. I'll be fine."

"Alright."

I closed my eyes and faked sleep for five solid minutes. I heard Bruce and Tim talking in hushed voices, and Tim typing on the computer. There was a moment of silence. Then they began to mutter more rapidly, and with heat. It sounded like they were discussing something important. I opened my eyes a crack.

The computer screen was opened to the decoding program. Tim had plugged in the last letter-H for handkerchief. My eyes travelled down to the top result.

SAMANTHA.

It took every ounce of restraint not to sit bolt upright. The eight objects… spelled my name? That couldn't be a coincidence. But why… who…?

Before I could settle my thoughts, Dick and Damian burst from the shadows. They stormed up to the computer.

"So, this is your big secret!" Dick said. "How long did you know the letters would add up to this?"

Tim threw up his hands. "Great! Now there's more people freaking out."

"We didn't know," Bruce said. "We speculated. And hoped it wasn't right. But it was obvious from the beginning that the letters were all a part of her name. That's why we made sure to mix in a couple incorrect ones-so the rest of you wouldn't start to worry about it."

"You tricked us?" Damian cried. "I thought you trusted us!"

"With my life," Bruce said. "But this isn't about trust; it's about fear. And Sam is already under so much weight from her illness, I didn't want to risk her finding out."

"So much for that," Dick said, pointing in my direction. "She's the one who figured out you were hiding something."

They all turned to me. I could only stare back at them.

"We're sorry," Tim said.

"I'm sure," I replied. I got into a better position and fixed them all with a pointed stare. "What were you afraid of, exactly? That I would go after Oddjob myself to find out why eight random objects he just happened to pick for his heists coincidentally spell out my name? Or that the stress of knowing would kill me faster?"

"We couldn't be sure," Bruce said. "We had to wait and see if all the letters were there, as well as if the coincidence was… too coincidental."

"You think there's a reason for this?" Dick asked. "That she's somehow involved in whatever's going on?"

"Why not?" Tim said. "She showed up at our house the same day Oddjob appeared for the first time. Who's to say they're not connected?"

"I'm not a villain," I said. "Or a spy."

"Maybe not. But there are other ways to be involved in a crime, in the broadest sense of the phrase." Tim tapped the arm of his chair. "Think about it. You and Oddjob coming onto the radar on the same day, his tools of infiltration matching the letters of your name like a code or an anagram… it's all too familiar. It's like every supervillain we've ever fought-something strange happens, people end up being unexpectedly connected, and ultimately, Gotham ends up in turmoil."

"It can't be our Samantha," Dick said. "There's got to be a ton of Samantha's in Gotham."

"We checked. There are five," Bruce asked.

"There you go," I said. "Can't be me."

"One is ninety years old and lives in the Gotham Senior Center," Tim said. "Three are under ten years of age. And the other one is you."

"So… maybe Oddjob's going to attack the senior center?" Dick asked.

Tim shrugged in defeat. "We can't know. The only thing we do know is that our Sam is the only one in a position to see and understand the message."

"If it even is a message," Damian scoffed. "This is only one possible answer…"

"But one we shouldn't discount." Bruce crossed his arms. "You know how this works; we count everything as a possibility until it is proven impossible. So now, we do our best to figure out if we're right or not."

"I'm going to monitor the other Samantha's," Tim said, turning back to the computer. "Just in case."

"And then we're all going to bed," Bruce said emphatically. "For real this time."

I snuggled down under my covers and closed my eyes. I couldn't shake the feeling that this wasn't a coincidence. My time at Wayne Manor had seemed pretty normal, up until I found out about Batman. Now I kept thinking, what if it's not an accident? What if me being here, finding Batman, and now being witness to Oddjob's shenanigans, was meant to be?

And if so, who was Oddjob? What did he want with me?

/

We all gathered in the Batcave the next morning to tell Jason and Alfred. Jason took it fairly well; of the whole family, he seemed to care the least. But Alfred was instantly terrified.

"If that man is looking for Samantha, or trying to contact her in some way, who's to say he doesn't already know where she is, who she lives with, and exactly how to get to her?" Alfred sat forward in his chair. "You're looking into this, I trust, Master Bruce?"

"We're going to, Alfred," Bruce said. "All of us. But if Oddjob wants to keep secrets, it won't be easy to find them out. We have no idea where he goes each night, no idea if he's just a really good jewel thief or if he has a larger goal. We've never seen his face, he's of completely average build, and the objects he uses have no connection whatsoever; there's nothing to track. Nothing to trace back to him. If we can't find where he lives, how are we supposed to find out what his plans are?"

"How do you deal with the Joker, sir? How do you figure out what a madman like that is planning?"

"Because Joker leads us on," Jason scoffed. "He doesn't really want to make things that hard, he just wants to make everyone miserable. But this isn't the Joker, so we'll have to think of something else."

"Well, think faster," Alfred said, getting to his feet. "I want my niece off the villain menu by tonight. I'm going upstairs to make breakfast."

As he stormed away, I had a sudden vision of Alfred in the kitchen, beating eggs and whisking pancake batter as if they were his arch nemeses, all the while wearing a fearsome scowl. It was enough to make me grin. Alfred might not punch things to get his anger out, but he had his methods, and they were just as terrifying.

Dick noticed my smile. "Feeling better today?"

"I took my temperature this morning," I said. "Fever's gone. Now all I have is this stupid half paralysis. It's really annoying that I can only use one of four limbs, and it happens to be my non-dominant hand."

"You know what's even more annoying?" Tim said. "Having broken fingers on both hands so that you can't use either, especially when you have an electronic class to submit a paper for by midnight. Speaking from experience."

"Yeah, I had to type it for him," Dick said. "Which was disheartening, because he's a way better writer than I am."

"That's nothing," Damian said. "I once was attacked by one of father's personal enemies. I had all of my fingers broken, and nearly had my innards liquefied."

I wrinkled my nose. "Seriously?"

"That's nothing compared to how we've found Bruce once or twice," Dick said. "He'll come crawling into the Batcave with his cape torn off and half his mask missing, and he's got fifteen broken bones and seven fractures, plus a concussion and a punctured spleen. And he still gets up the moment Alfred's done stitching him back together and starts doing push-ups. He's seriously a beast." Dick glanced up. "Please don't tell him I said that."

"What about you, Jason?" I asked. "Any gruesome tales of woe for us?"

Jason gave me the ultimate deadpan look. "I died."

The cave went silent. I could feel the color drain from my face as I remembered what Alfred had told me: Jason was the first Robin to die on the job. How could I have been stupid enough to bring it up? He must have been horribly traumatized…

And then, Dick and Tim started… laughing.

I stared at them with eyes big as saucers. That only made them laugh harder. Even Damian was smiling.

"Your face," Dick sighed, wiping away a tear. "Oh, priceless."

"He brings it up almost weekly," Tim panted. "It's like the worst inside joke ever."

"It's a joke?" I cried, a little affronted by their lack of tact. "He… died. And you're laughing?"

"Don't take it that hard, kid," Jason said, a satisfied smirk on his face. "They're just more used to my sense of humor."

"Or lack thereof," Damian added.

"Come on, Lil' D," Jason chuckled. "One of the few things I got beaten into me that day was an instinct for comedy."

Beaten?

"It must have been the Joker's incessant jabbering getting caught inside your skull," Damian sniffed.

Joker?

That one calmed them down a bit. I could feel the mirth in the atmosphere drop a few levels. Within a few minutes, each of them had found an excuse to leave. I stared in bewilderment at their retreating backs. The last thing I had expected to get out of a conversation like that was new insight into the circumstances of Jason Todd's demise. Those two words rattled around in my head – beaten, Joker, beaten, Joker.

Had the Joker been responsible for Jason's death? If so, how could they laugh? Death by Joker was one of the least funny things on the planet. I should know. The Joker–or at least, one of his laughing-gassed goons–murdered my brother when he was five.

My brother. That was the third time in two weeks he had come up. And thinking about my brother made me think about my parents. Thinking about any of them made me mad. They had all been killed by something-in my twin brother's case, someone.

Joker.

Not who I wanted to be thinking about right now. I pounded my one working hand into my covers and tried to clear my head, but nothing could wipe away the nasty image of a smile-a wide, vacant smile like the grin of Death himself.