A/N: Thanks to Kathy and Debbie for the beta.

A/N: I am indebted to the forums at for information on shotgun shooting. Specifically comments made by FiVo3, LA Dep, and Langford PR in the "Tips for shooting shotgun slugs" thread (July 22, 2013).

"At Least I Tried" written and performed by Cy Coleman on the Barnum Original Broadway Cast Recording album (Sony, 1980, 2002).

I'll take the odds

Then let it ride

Just let me choose

Play out my hand

I'd rather lose

Than have to stand along the side

And though there might be hell to pay

I'll take whatever comes my way

And say with pride

At least I tried

—Cy Coleman, "At Least I Tried"

Chapter 32—Letting It Ride

"Okay," Barbara said, closing the drawer and turning her key in the lock with a satisfied smile. "If Powers is still listening, I hope he gets a kick out of hearing us discuss drywall options for the bathroom ceiling, because that's the loop tape. Well, that and floor tiling choices."

Dick shook his head in mock exasperation. "I'm not even going to ask how you have the two of us having a discussion like that on file," he said, "although I'm curious."

"Well," Barbara replied, as she wheeled over to her computer console, "it would never pass voice-recognition software, but computerized manips combined with Kryptonian AI technology can do amazing things. It'll keep him entertained for about two hours."

"And then?"

"Our virtual selves drive to a karaoke bar and stay there until 4 am. Um... I hope you're not too upset that your virtual self sings off-key? Badly?"

Dick laughed out loud. "How about yours?"

"Composite of five Tony award-winning Broadway musical actresses. I want Powers to realize just how lucky you are to have me. Of course, the other patrons of the karaoke bar are much... much worse. And at least three of them will be singing 'And I Am Telling You... I'm Not Going'. The Rosabel 'attitude' remix version," she beamed.

Dick smiled, but confusion clouded his eyes. "Sorry. I know that song's from Dreamgirls and from what I remember, it takes a strong singer to carry it off, but what's so special about that remix?"

"Well, nothing, really," Barbara admitted. "Except that it runs ten minutes and twenty-seven seconds versus anywhere from four minutes eight to five minutes six, depending on whether you're going for the Jennifer Holliday or the Jennifer Hudson version." Her smile grew vicious. "I've had time to think about this. A lot."

"Three people who can't sing," Dick said slowly, "but who will nevertheless persist in doing so for more than ten minutes each... Is that even allowed under the Geneva Convention?"

"Considering that the Geneva Convention only applies during wartime, it's not really relevant here," Barbara replied. "However, while Powers is listening to Lina Lamont and Urkel belt out 'Hey, I Got You, Babe,' we get to discuss what Powers was hoping to gain from sticking a bug on you."

Dick nodded. "We know he told me he wants to break with Paxton. That Paxton has hired a detective to try to get something on Bruce, and that your father surprised a spy in Selina's room earlier this week. Now, Powers asked me straight out if Bruce has any other kids besides me. I didn't give him anything—"

"—Because you're not stupid."

"Thanks. Also because there was that one time back in Bludhaven when I was a little too open with an ADA I thought I could trust. It cost me. Just because I'd like to believe the best of people doesn't mean I can always afford to. Especially not when it comes to someone like Powers, who seems to shift sides whenever it's expedient."

"Or someone who first alerted the PMWE Board of Directors to our creative accounting trick to quietly keep Bruce as the majority stockholder," Barbara added.

"What?" Dick was peering over her shoulder in two quick strides. "Why, that slimy, conniving..."

"Don't be diplomatic, FBW. Tell me what you really think of him."

Dick sucked in his breath. "I think I have to call the Gotham Zoo and tell them one of their vipers has escaped. Meanwhile," he said, after Barbara finished giggling, "let's figure out what sort of line I can feed him and see who the next link in the food chain is. I can't wait to see who he tells..."

Solange Prentiss checked her reflection in her compact mirror again. Reassured that her scratches were nearly invisible, she settled back in her chair and waited to be summoned. She had expected to be seen immediately and was rather surprised to be left in the waiting room for over thirty minutes. Still, her employer was a busy man.

"Ms. Prentiss?"

Solange looked up.

"You may go inside."

She'd been in the office once before, nearly six weeks ago. As she had previously, she found the atmosphere oppressive. It was dark and windowless, with paneled walls and thick carpeting. Much of it was in shadow. Her employer sat behind an imposing walnut desk, illuminated by a single bulb. She started for the seat opposite the desk, but a command checked her.

"Remain standing."

Solange obeyed, noticing that she was standing on a plastic carpet runner that had not been here last time. It was perhaps eight feet long and half as wide.

"Come closer... closer... stop."

Her toes were nearly at the edge of the runner.

"Report."

It didn't take her long to relay her failure. She'd been searching Selina Kyle's room for some sort of evidence that would connect her daughter to Mr. Wayne. She'd been caught and had barely managed to escape without serious injury."

"...And without the very data that we hired you to procure."

Solange wasn't sure whether she was more annoyed at having let her employer down or at being forced to take orders from a child nearly a decade her junior. She swallowed her ire. The man was a rising star in the organization and not one she wanted for an enemy. "I'm sorry, Mr. Fixx. The data wasn't in her room."

"So you failed."

"It wasn't my fault!" she snapped. "The house was supposed to be empty. I had no idea that—"

"You failed."

He was right, damn him. "I failed. This time. But I will do better in the future."

"Ms. Prentice," Mr. Fixx said softly, "You have no future."

He gestured toward the shadows behind his desk and a man she hadn't noticed drew closer. He was holding a gun pointing directly at her.

Solange swallowed hard. "You can't be serious," she managed. "Surely there's some way that I can make amend—"

The gun fired with a muffled 'thwipp' and she fell backwards onto the carpet runner with a red spot on her forehead. The spot spread quickly, losing its neat round shape as the blood ran freely toward the runner.

Fixx sighed. "Try to keep that from spilling onto the carpet," he directed the gunman. "I'll call someone to help you dispose of her."

He smiled. A silenced gun, a soundproofed room, and now, no suspect left for the Bats to interrogate. It was annoying that his spy had been unsuccessful, but a relief to know that she could no longer implicate him or his organization in any wrongdoing.

"Any further orders, Mr. Fixx?" the gunman asked respectfully.

Fixx considered. "Procure me a weapon like yours," he said finally. "I believe I'd like to learn to use it."

"Thanks again, Wayne," Ortega said, as Bruce walked her to her car. "It's a pity the academy top brass isn't likely to allow a field trip out here. They could learn a thing or two from your driving simulator."

Bruce allowed himself a brief smile. "Wayne Industries actually provided the academy's current version," he said. "Unfortunately, that was over a decade ago. There've been several upgrades."

Ortega frowned. "So then..."

"Budget," Bruce said tersely. "The old simulator still works; the graphics and sound effects aren't quite as good, but the skills it's set up to teach are solid." He sighed. "If I were approached by the administration, yes, I could arrange to provide them the latest version, but since I'm currently attending the Academy, I suspect that someone might raise an ethical question."

"You mean, they might think you're trying to bribe a decent grade out of them."

Bruce made a face. "Pretty much. And even though I wouldn't resort to such a tactic, my donating a new simulator at this juncture might invite inadvertent bias in my favor." He blew out an irritated breath. "Whether I passed or failed the program, there would be speculation about whether it was on my own merits, or whether they deliberately went easier on me because of the gift or cracked down harder to avoid accusations of bias. The current simulator isn't a liability in any sense of the word. The Academy can wait until after graduation for an upgrade." He smiled. "They'll get it. Regardless of whether I pass."

Ortega nodded. "I wish I didn't see your point. Or that I could disagree with it."

"I'll see you in class tomorrow?"

"Sure." She smiled. "I wouldn't mind another crack at your simulator next weekend, mind you."

"That can be arranged."

"Will Selina be back by then, do you think?"

A shadow fell across Bruce's face. "I'm not sure, but it's possible."

As Ortega drove off, Bruce shook his head sadly. "It's just not very probable at the moment..."

Cass chewed her bottom lip as she looked at the five essay topics on her screen. Usually, she could find one that flowed for her. Today, though, they all seemed too hard or too silly. Sighing, she reread them slowly, hoping that she'd misunderstood and one of them was actually interesting. Yes, Jeremiah had told her that she could write on a topic of her own choosing, but she didn't feel right about it. As silly as most of these topics seemed, she didn't know if her ideas would be any better. Or safer. She could write about fighting. She could even try to make something up like "Imagine what it would be like to fight crime in a mask and costume." But might Jeremiah suspect? He'd met Batgirl before and Cass suspected that something she'd said to him out of costume had triggered a memory of that encounter.

Besides, since she actually did fight crime in a mask and costume, she wouldn't just be imagining. She would know. And maybe she would know it too well for anyone to think that she wasn't actually one of the... capes. She scowled. Life had been so much easier when she hadn't cared about having a secret identity. Easier... not... better. If she had just stayed Batgirl, she wouldn't be volunteering at Saint Swithin's. She wouldn't have discovered how much she liked working with the physiotherapy equipment or considered a career that would allow her to use it.

She wouldn't have met Doug.

As Batgirl, she might have fought to save Dr. Arkham's life. As Cass, she had fought to make his life easier while in the hospital. Maybe getting the doctors and nurses to address him by his title had been a little thing, but it had been as much a battle as her usual forays into the night.

Her eyebrows lifted and she tore her gaze from the computer screen and looked at the table beside her, where Dr. Arkham was engrossed in his newspaper.

He looked up. "Have you a question, Cass?"

She blinked. "No. Just... thinking."

"A good habit to maintain," he rejoined sharply, his body language proving once again that tone of voice and true feeling could often find themselves at opposite ends of the spectrum. "Carry on."

She flashed him a quick smile and went back to her screen. Maybe she did have an original topic, after all. Carefully, she began to type.

Is a good life an easy one or do you...

She frowned. Something was wrong with the wording. She looked at the sample questions again. Most of them started with a statement, a "premise," Dr. Arkham had called it, followed by a discussion question, with the essay intended as the answer. She wasn't sure if she ought to copy that style, but she could try.

When things go well, people say that life is good. Is it good for life to be easy? Or is challenge better?

She sighed. She wasn't sure if she knew the right answer, but she felt as though she was finally asking the right question.

Maury Chiarello looked over the file again. He had always been meticulous, but with the IPA breathing down his neck, he was taking greater pains than usual and he knew that the other panel members were doing the same.

"We've taken enough time with this," he stated. "Jandt was released from the hospital over a week ago and his brother has been ringing daily to find out what's been going on. The IPA," his sour expression mirrored those of the others seated around the table, "is breathing down our necks on this one, too. We're all aware of the facts. There are some mitigating circumstances, which we've had ample time to review and consider. I'm ready to call for the vote. Any objections?"

There were none.

"Very well. Again, our options are to expel Cadet Alvin Jandt from the Gotham City Police Academy with no possibility of reapplying, to suspend him for the current session but permit him to reapply at a later date, or to reinstate him in the current session with full credit, on the understanding that he makes up the work he's missed in time for graduation." He surveyed the room, his face expressionless.

"Let's vote."

The next evening, Bruce and Jim headed down to the cave, where Bruce stoically removed a shotgun from the trophy room, carried it to the range, and loaded it. It was easier if he didn't think too hard about what he was doing.

Jim watched, his face betraying nothing, as Bruce took up his position before the target and fired a volley of shells. Even from where he was standing, Jim could see that the results were unsatisfactory. After a moment, Bruce trotted to the end of the range to retrieve the bulls-eye.

"I think a lot of it is psychological," Bruce admitted with a sigh. "And this is one mental block I'm... not particularly eager to break."

Jim nodded. "Just because you're expecting something, doesn't necessarily make it easier to deal with. Sometimes..."

"It can become a self-fulfilling prophecy," Bruce interrupted with a slight eyeroll. "I know," he snarled, mentally cursing the twist of fate that had essentially made qualifying with a firearm the prerequisite to donning the persona of a vigilante for whom guns were anathema. "I still need to master this, psychological hang-up or not."

Jim smiled. "Did Farnham talk to you about cheek weld?"

"Yes," Bruce snapped. "I've been working on that, but the only result seems to be a stinging sensation in the spot that presses against the stock. I'm not whining..." he continued, holding up a hand to nip Jim's rejoinder in the bud, "...but I wouldn't mind the discomfort if I had better progress to show for it."

"I can understand that," Jim rumbled. "For what it's worth, some people actually shoot better with a more relaxed stance. Try loosening your shoulders a bit. Your cheek needs to be against the shotgun stock, yes, but despite the term, it's not like you need to fuse it there."

"Sergeant Farnham might disagree," Bruce replied.

"From what you're telling me, Sergeant Farnham isn't giving you much in the way of direction these days. Suppose you stop harping on the last thing he told you and consider that, if he were doing his job, he'd recognize that, in your case, it wasn't working. And try this." He drew one step closer to Bruce. "At the end of the day, you aren't going to be graded on how you hold the weapon. You're going to be graded on whether you can achieve 80 percent accuracy on the shotgun qualification course. Everything else is gravy. In other words, your stance is supposed to help you aim properly. Do what works."

Bruce let the words sink in. Then he set the gun down and did a number of stretches geared toward loosening his neck and shoulders. He picked up the gun again and tried to follow Jim's instructions.

"Okay, a bit more of a cheek weld than that," Jim grumbled. "Either keep both your eyes open or aim with your right eye." He frowned, considering. "In the event that you decide to try aiming with the gun on your left shoulder, it would be your left eye, too."

Bruce nodded. "Got it." He pressed down forcefully on the trigger.

"Don't smash it," Jim warned. "And..." he frowned. "Hold your fire a second. I want to check something." He walked out toward the target at the end of the range. When he rejoined Bruce, he was smiling. "You've been focusing on the target," he said. "Don't. Work with the front sight."

Bruce let out a long sigh. "Got it." He brought the gun up and fired again, trying not to wince when the gun stock smashed into his shoulder.

Jim pounced. "Own the recoil, don't let it own you!"

"I know!" Bruce snapped. "I just..."

"Yeah. There's a lot to learn and you hate guns." Jim rolled his eyes. "I get that. Really. But like everything else you've put yourself through over the years, you need to work at this. Meditate. Try... I don't know, self-hypnosis, whatever. And when you're done, I promise not to cringe if you pound the ever-loving crap out of a Muay Thai kickboxing bag. Meanwhile, keep at this." He gave Bruce a savage smile. "Or I'll offer the kids a chance to observe your performance and invite comments. I think they might see it as a way to pay you back for all the hell you put them through during their vigilante boot camp. Probably jump at the opportunity."

Bruce's lips twitched. "They would," he admitted, adding "Ungrateful brats," under his breath. He shouldered the gun again and pretended that he hadn't seen Jim smirk.

The former commissioner watched. "That's a bit better."

Bruce set his jaw and squeezed off a shot. He exhaled slowly. "Thanks," he said. "For the pep talk."

"That wasn't a pep talk," Jim retorted. "It was a good old-fashioned kick in the rear."

Bruce's lips twitched again. "Were Plastic Man or Green Arrow here, I believe they would interject something along the lines of 'tomayto, tomahto'."

Jim laughed at that.

Bruce had just put the shotgun away and was heading back upstairs when the monitor beeped and Barbara appeared on the screen. "Hey, Boss-man. I hope I'm not interrupting, but you did say you wanted to be informed of any new developments vis-à-vis Alvin Jandt."

Jim was already on his way up the stairs, but he stopped and turned around. "Excuse me?"

Bruce didn't flinch at his tone. "I've been curious as to how the inquiry has been proceeding and, given my current position in the chain of command," his expression soured, "I've had no reason to believe that I'd be informed via conventional channels." He drew closer to the monitor. "What have you found out?"

"If you interfere..." Jim warned angrily.

Barbara hesitated.

"Barbara?" Bruce prompted.

Instead of responding, the face on the screen looked guiltily past Bruce's shoulder with an unvoiced question.

Jim sighed. "Fine. We both know that as soon as I'm back at my place, he's going to get you back on and glower at you until you give in. Go ahead."

Bruce didn't deny Jim's words. Instead, he raised an eyebrow and met Barbara's eyes squarely. "Report."

"They went into a lot of detail," Barbara began. "I've read some reports like this over the years and they're generally thorough, but this one was even more so... probably because of the IPA breathing down their necks. Anyway, the thing that comes across clearly is that Jandt wasn't a model cadet who had a momentary lapse of judgment, took a few too many drinks and then got hatted. They looked at his coursework, his overall attitude, his..."

"Barbara..." Bruce interrupted. "The decision?"

Barbara stopped, took a deep breath, and continued in a quieter tone. "Permanent expulsion with no chance of readmission. The IPA might choose to overturn that, I guess, but based on what I've read, it doesn't look likely."

Bruce nodded curtly. "So," he said, "that's that."

"'Fraid so." Her eyes flickered toward something that Bruce couldn't see on the vid-screen. "I have to go," she smiled apologetically. "Call me later." The monitor winked out.

"Not what you wanted to hear," Jim rumbled from behind him.

"No," Bruce sighed, "although it is what I think I was expecting to hear." He shook his head. "I suppose I'll never know, but I hope that my push for a thorough investigation didn't inadvertently lead to a harsher judgment."

Jim placed a hand on his shoulder. "For what it's worth," he said, "it sounds like the guy had issues he should have worked on before he applied to the academy, and it sounds like there may have been some political strings pulled to get him inside. If that's the case, then personally, I think that kicking him out now was a sound move. Nobody wants an undependable partner in the field. Now, it's possible that what happened to him might have scared him into shaping up, had the verdict gone differently. It's also possible that he would have assumed that his brother stepped up to save the day again and learned nothing. I guess that's something else we'll never know."

Bruce nodded.

"Coming upstairs?"

"In a minute."

"Fine."

Bruce waited until Jim was gone, before walking over to a different area of the Cave. The glass display case was empty now; Dick had removed the costume when he'd cleaned out the Cave after Bruce's arrest, but the plate was still intact. Jason Todd. A good soldier. Bruce sighed. It would have been so easy to have written off Jason as some punk street-kid who would never amount to anything all those years ago. In his short life, though, the boy had accomplished some real good—mostly because he'd been given a second chance. On the other hand, despite that 'real good', it had been a short life. Bruce knew that he hadn't been wrong to take him in, but Jim's comment about undependable partners in the field had hit home.

Both with Jason and with Jandt, he'd done his best and it hadn't been enough... but it also had never been entirely up to him. Jim would probably tell him to let it go. Of course, that was easier said than done. He stood before the empty case for another few minutes before he headed back upstairs.

"So you hadn't thought of a parallel until that moment," Alex reflected.

Bruce shook his head. "No. And I'll be the first to agree that there are vast differences between an angry impetuous youth who, nevertheless, wanted to do the right thing, even if he and I had very different ideas about what that 'right thing' was... and an adult who..."

Bruce's voice trailed off. When he didn't continue after several moments, Alex frowned. "Who...?"

"Honestly?" Bruce shook his head again. "I don't know. I barely knew the man and what I see didn't impress me. He was lazy, arrogant, unmotivated, and in short, probably not the greatest asset to the academy."

"And yet, you fought to keep him there. Why?"

Bruce's brow furrowed. "I'm not entirely sure. I suppose a good part of it was that he did remind me of Jason in one respect: it would have been so easy to write him off as hopeless. I... don't usually do easy." He sighed. "And, of course, Jandt was part of my squad and any failure on his part could be seen in part as failure on mine."

"Mmmm," Alex made a notation on his pad. "By your higher-ups, or by you?"

"In this instance?" Bruce's lips twitched. "I'm not completely divorced from reality. However, regardless of how my... higher-ups choose to view it, I can't allow myself to become complacent."

"Complacent?"

"This time," Bruce said slowly, "someone under my command made serious errors and it did not reflect badly upon me. Next time, it could be that someone will make serious errors because I didn't take sufficient precautions, and not recognize my responsibility until it's too late. I can't afford to not hold myself responsible."

"Mmmmmmmm." Alex started to make another notation. He frowned, shook his pen, and pressed it again to the page. After a moment, he moved it to the margin and scribbled furiously. Shaking his head, he replaced it in his desk organizer and took a different one. "So you kept on top of the case, because you saw his behavior as your responsibility, even though it appears that your commanding officer advised you that said responsibility ended when you filed your report."

"Yes."

"Any thoughts on why you couldn't let matters lie?"

"I know what you're getting at," Bruce snapped. "If I felt that I deserved some of the responsibility, then perhaps I subconsciously arranged it so that I would also be hit by some of the fallout."

Alex waited.

Bruce sighed. "It's... possible."

"It is," Alex nodded. "Although, I'd say that your thoughts on trying to help someone whom others would have summarily written off are also very much in keeping with your usual way of looking at things." He smiled. "It's not a bad way to be, even if it is a harder one."

Bruce gave him a guarded smile in return.

In a small apartment in the working-class neighborhood of Coventry, fifteen men and women sat on folding chairs, their attention focused on the heavyset young man at the front of the room.

"Again," Mr. Fixx was saying, "we don't know that the child is his, but the woman clearly means something to him or he wouldn't have suffered her presence in his home for weeks at a time. And given the number of strays he's picked up over the years, to say nothing of his track record for protecting civilians, it likely makes no difference in his mind whether he has a blood tie or affiliation with them."

Nods and murmurs of agreement greeted his statement.

"The Bats corralled the team we sent to Kyle's last known location before they could penetrate and confirm her presence. They're currently in the GCPD lockup, meditating on their failure. It's almost definite she's moved on from there." Fixx's voice turned businesslike as he picked up his smart-phone. "I'm currently downloading the dossier on Selina Kyle to your phones," he said. "Keep in mind that she has been known to disguise herself in the past and may well do so again, but having a child with her limits her options." He smiled thinly. "The girl seems to be about two years old. A toddler. Toddlers don't bear confinement in safe-houses well. They can be quite loud in their disapproval. I suspect that Kyle may take her outside if she believes it to be safe. Moreover, toddlers are seldom amenable to disguise over the long term. They pull at wigs and smear make-up, both their own and that of others. When they talk, they say whatever comes to mind and don't understand secrecy." His smile widened. "Remember that even if Kyle is using an assumed name, she is likely still calling the girl 'Helena'. Even if she isn't, calling out that name will likely cause the toddler to react, but be careful. If Kyle thinks her cover has been blown, she'll move again."

One of the men cleared his throat. "With respect, Mr. Fixx, there are over eight million people residing in Gotham, to say nothing of the number of people commuting from the suburbs. Without some sort of lead, a search seems pointless."

Fixx's smile dropped like a stone. "Mr..."

"Navarre."

"Mr. Navarre, I don't want excuses. I want you to locate Selina Kyle and her daughter and report back to me when you have a location. You come highly recommended. Is your reputation undeserved?"

Navarre swallowed hard. "No, Mr. Fixx. It is not."

"I didn't think so." Fixx's jaw tightened. "Now get out of my sight. All of you."

Outside in the corridor, Navarre smiled to himself and continued on his way. He waited until he was safely away from the building before whipping out his phone and punching in a number. "False Face here. I don't think you need to be overly concerned about Intergang at the moment. Fixx is trying to gain leverage over Wayne by tracking down one of his old girlfriends. Yes, Kyle." He could practically hear Hush rolling his eyes on the other end. "Yes, it is rather like walking into a powder room with a lighted match and a leaky gasoline can. Yes, I'll continue the surveillance. Fireworks are often a glorious thing to watch up close..."

After three days indoors, Helena was practically climbing the walls and Selina was tempted to join her.

"Mommy, out'ide!" Helena repeated for what felt like the millionth time.

"We can't," Selina said tiredly. "We have to stay here."

"Mommy, out'ide!"

Selina closed her eyes. "Mommy has a headache, Helena. How about you play quietly?" Not that there was much in the way of toys around here, but she'd found a few things that she thought Helena could handle without supervision. Grip strength balls were one such item. Helena liked rolling them along the exercise mats. For that matter, she enjoyed rolling herself along those mats, too. Yoga meditation cushions and wedges seemed to interest her as much as building blocks would have. But there were still so many things that were not safe for toddlers in this place.

Selina was getting tired of saying 'No!' and she knew Helena was tired of hearing it. They were both restless, stressed, and jumpy. The difference was that Helena had a "go-to" stress relief tactic, and after the million-and-first reiteration of 'We have to stay here.' She rocked back on her heels, closed her eyes, threw back her head and used it.

Selina fought the urge to clap her hands over her ears when the screeching started. Truth be told, at this point, she half-wished that she could join in. "Stupidest thing I ever did was grow up," she muttered, as she scooped up her daughter, hugged her close, and rocked from one foot to the other, making soothing noises.

"Shhh... I know, I know... shhh..."

It took less than five minutes, but it felt like an eternity before Helena's wails subsided and Selina set her down gently on the blanketed stack of mats that was serving as a makeshift bed. Helena protested a bit, but after a couple of folk songs, she sighed and curled up, ready for her nap.

Selina watched tenderly, but as she turned away, she was shaking her head. Things simply could not go on like this for much longer.

Derek Powers was on his way into a department meeting when he heard running footsteps behind him. "Mr. Powers?"

He turned to see an out-of-breath Dick Grayson approaching. "Dick, please!" he smiled. "I told you it was 'Derek'."

Dick nodded. "Sorry. Derek. I just wanted to let you know that I spoke to Bruce. And... I don't know. See," he dropped his voice to an undertone, "over the years, there've been a few women who've..." he didn't have to feign embarrassment. He really didn't like this part of it, but he'd discussed it with Bruce and Barbara and they'd both agreed that if Derek was convinced that there was a child, outright denial would only increase suspicion. Dick still hated it. "...Who've claimed that Bruce was the father of their child. Bruce has told me that he remembers four cases. In two of them, it's not... possible, if you take my meaning. Things never got to that point. In the other two... it's not probable. But Bruce didn't want to get the courts and the media involved, so even with the ones that he knew couldn't be his, he figured that the mothers had to be desperate to try to pull something like that on him, so he got out his checkbook and... dealt with stuff. This would have been back in the early days before I was on the scene. Once that happened, he told me that he was worried about whether the Department of Child Services would start questioning whether he was a suitable guardian for me. You can probably guess that it wasn't easy for him to get custody of me in the first place, him being a single parent. So... I don't know what to tell you. Bruce hasn't had any contact with the women or his alleged offspring in... well, I was almost nine when he took me in, so you do the math."

Derek frowned. "He's never mentioned them to you before?"

"I couldn't even tell you how many are boys and how many are girls."

"I see." Derek's face fell for a moment. Then his lips curved upward in a too-broad smile. "Well, if Bruce doesn't know who or where they are, I imagine Mr. Paxton won't find that out either. That should be a load off your mind."

"Yeah."

They faced each other for another moment. Then Derek cleared his throat. "Well," he began, "Well, I'm heading into a meeting now, Dick. I suppose I'll see you around."

"Sure thing, Derek," Dick grinned. He walked away whistling.

Powers' smile took on a pained component, as the tune reached his ears.

And I am telling you... I'm not going...

Dr. Thomas Elliot surveyed the pile of dossiers stacked before him on his desk. Some days, his hands hurt him too much to handle a computer keyboard. Other days, he reminded himself that he hadn't gotten this far in life by underestimating his opponents. With the Oracle operating—and Elliot was so glad that Harold had told him of her existence before the little man outlived his usefulness and had to be eliminated—he had to assume that any electronic search of this nature would contain keywords that would alert her to his activities. No, he'd been canny. His first logon had been at one of the few internet cafes left in the city that actually had a bank of desktop computers instead of simply offering free wi-fi. He'd stayed on just long enough to define his search parameters and obtain a list of likely names. And then, over the course of the next six weeks, he'd visited a dozen public terminals in libraries, internet cafes, and commuter train stations, taking care to allow anywhere from one to five days between searches. At each one, he'd researched a different name.

Now, he reviewed the files before him and assigned an evaluation score based on the subject's skills, strengths, weaknesses, likelihood of interest, and availability. He didn't think that Fixx was necessarily wrong about using Selina Kyle to get to Bruce. He just thought that the young enforcer was being unnecessarily sloppy. He shook his head, but he was smiling. It wasn't so much that if you wanted something done right, you had to do it yourself. More like if you wanted something done right, you needed to do your homework and determine the best man for the job. Or... Elliot smiled. In this case, the best person.

He opened the dossier he'd ranked number one and studied the picture on the first page. Later, when his hands didn't ache so much, he'd need to remember to clip the documents together it so that they wouldn't fall out. The woman in the picture appeared to be in her late 30s. Her expression was fierce, her features striking. He wondered at the white streak in her long dark hair, which reminded him of a character he'd of read long ago in a fantasy novel. He smiled. The head of a ruthless terrorist organization, with ample reason to hate both Catwoman and Batman... yes, Red Claw would be most suitable for this mission. He smiled. She had ties to Multigon Corporation, a business whose stock had plummeted when their affiliation with her had come to light. They seemed to be recovering now, but Elliot would lay odds that some of the old guard still remained. One of them would know how to get in touch with her. He just needed to send someone that they would trust to make the necessary inquiries.

He reached for the telephone. "You have a new assignment," he said when False Face answered. "One I'm sure you're going to enjoy..."

A/N: For the record, the character of whom Hush is thinking is Polgara the Sorceress, who appears in a dozen books by David Eddings.