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

"Suffocating" written by Miranda Lambert and Hillary Scott. Recorded by Blake Shelton on his All About Tonight album (Reprise, 2010).

The memory of what used to be cuts me like a thorn
Loneliness starts rollin' in like thunder from a storm
My strength starts to sway, I feel the winds of change
It's such a paralyzing place, oh, and it's suffocating

—Miranda Lambert, Hilary Scott, "Suffocating"

Chapter 33—Paralyzing Place

The woman known as the Red Claw was even more imposing in person than she had appeared in her photograph. Nearly six feet tall, she wore a red sleeveless jumpsuit that displayed muscular arms and a red tattoo in the shape of a bear claw on her right shoulder.

"May I offer you some coffee?" Hush inquired.

Red Claw shook her head. "Thank you, no," she replied in smooth, but accented English. "I'd prefer we dispense with the social niceties and move on to business. Your contact said that you have a proposal for me."

"I do," Hush returned smoothly. "Or, at least, an opportunity."

Her upper lip curled. "An opportunity," she said, suspicion plain. "Proposals generally include financial compensation. Opportunities, on the other hand..." her face hardened, "opportunities frequently involve a suggestion that I should be happy to work for you for the mere thrill of the experience. I believe you call such assignments 'portfolio builders'. I hope that you were simply using a poor choice of words."

Hush smiled. "Call it a proposal and an opportunity, then," he said, unruffled. "I'll be blunt. I want to hurt—not kill, although I wouldn't be upset should that happen—but hurt Batman. The original Batman; not the protégé currently wearing his costume. The method for so doing is simple: strike at those closest to him. He has the amusing conceit that he can protect them. Every time he's shown that their safety is outside his control, he becomes more driven, more erratic," his smile turned predatory, "more vulnerable. I like the thought of his being destroyed. I simply prefer to watch as he does it to himself."

Red Claw rolled her eyes. "I presume that there is a point to this? Or did you invite me here because you needed an audience to tell you how clever you are?"

If Hush was annoyed or irritated by her questions, he didn't let it show. "Forgive me. I know that you have been outside of Gotham for the last several years, and you may not be aware of current developments—"

"I'm aware that the Batman you want to hurt is the industrialist Bruce Wayne, who was incarcerated in a mental institution for nearly two years. I do try to stay informed," she cut him off, sounding bored.

"Ah," Hush said, consciously imitating her tone. "Then you're aware that he's currently in a relationship with Selina Kyle... I think you knew her as Catwoman?"

For an instant, her eyebrows shot up. Then she quickly regained her composure. "So. That is the opportunity. I am now willing to entertain your proposal."

Hush named a figure. She nodded curtly. "I will consider this," she said. "You will have my answer within twenty-four hours."

In truth, she could have told him now and she would have been willing to take the job for far less, but Hush struck her as a man used to getting his own way. Far better to let him sweat for a day over whether she was on board. And if he was willing to offer such generous remuneration, she had no objection to taking his money off his hands.

She waited until she was back in her chauffeured limousine, hidden from public view behind dark-tinted windows, before she finally allowed herself to smile.

Bruce arrived at the academy at half-past six the next morning. By ten to seven, he was standing outside the driving simulator room. He wasn't the only one there, although he might as well have been. The others clustered together ahead of and behind him. Bruce wasn't about to demean himself by trying to insert himself where he wasn't wanted. He knew that when Sgt. Uminga appeared, they would straighten out the line.

Kotsopoulos flashed him a quick, guilty smile, before he looked away and resumed his conversation with Burns and Rodriguez. Bruce tried not to judge him too harshly. He'd always preferred to be on the sidelines of any group, as it was. There was no reason to resent Kotsopoulos for throwing his lot in with the majority, particularly as he'd encouraged the few cadets still speaking with him to do the same. Kotsopoulos' behavior was disappointing, but Bruce didn't blame him for it. At least, he shouldn't.

"How's it going?" Norton asked.

Bruce turned toward him. "It's morning," he replied.

"Yeah. I was in the stables last night and overheard something about J—"

Bruce held up a warning hand. "If we're meant to know, we'll find out soon enough. Meanwhile, that's confidential."

Norton blinked. "You already know?"

"Not relevant," Bruce said. "It's not a topic for discussion." He frowned. "Speaking of stables, you mentioned that your father keeps horses. Have you taught riding before?"

"Not really. I mean, I can tell if a rider's not gripping or the horse doesn't understand the signals, but the horses we kept were usually in need of rehab after bad experiences. If we got them to a point where they could be ridden, we'd send them to other stables. If not, they stayed with us."

Bruce nodded. "Years ago, I taught a nine-year-old boy. He already knew the basics. In fact, he was a trick rider of some skill." His lips twitched. "I suppose the hardest part was teaching him to stay in the saddle for any length of time. Not because he was prone to falling off, but because he was prone to standing upright while the horse was at full gallop. Among other things."

Norton frowned. "How was the horse in all of that?"

"The ones he learned his tricks on were part of a traveling circus. As for our rides... I don't know, but he performed those stunts in full view of the stable staff. The horse didn't appear to be suffering and the staff didn't protest, once they realized that the boy knew what he was doing."

"I didn't mean to imply anything," Norton said. "A couple of our rescues came to us from owners who thought they could train stunt horses. They were wrong and the animals suffered. I tend to get my hackles up a bit when I hear about trick riding now, even though I know that there are plenty of trainers and tricks that aren't abusive."

"I understand," Bruce smiled. "It was a fair question." He sighed. "Unfortunately, I don't have a benchmark against which to gauge Brenner's progress. I've noted some improvement..."

"A lot of improvement," Norton said. "Especially in one key area: he's more relaxed on horseback and the horse is calmer, too." He glanced up, smiled, and waved. A moment later, Brenner strode up.

"I was just telling our squad leader that you and Taupe are starting to work really well together," he said warmly.

Purposeful footsteps in the distance quickly ended all conversations and the cadets fell into line a moment before Uminga rounded the corner. Not before Bruce caught the surprised smile on Brenner's face and a mouthed 'thanks' aimed at both himself and Norton, though.

"Nicely done, Cadet Ortega," Uminga said crisply as she made a notation on her clipboard. "You've been practicing."

Ortega drew herself up to stand at attention. "Ma'am, yes, Ma'am," she replied.

After the sergeant moved on to the next cadet, she cast a grateful look in Bruce's direction. "Thanks," she whispered.

Bruce gave her a quick smile.

The day wore on. Bruce ignored the jibes and cold shoulders and tried, as usual, to discourage the few friends he had left from speaking with him. It did little good. Norton still seemed oblivious to the hostility. Ortega maintained that the extra practice with the driving simulator was paying off. And Brenner... well, he had to work a good deal more closely with Brenner than he did Ortega. Ortega simply needed time with his simulator. Brenner needed riding lessons.

They practiced the mounted drills for nearly an hour after classes officially ended for the day. Then he made sure that Brenner finished tending to his mount. "Go on," he said finally. "I'll finish up here."

Brenner frowned. "I could wait, Squad Leader," he ventured. "It's my fault you're staying later, as it is."

Bruce shook his head. "I won't be long, Brenner. You go ahead. There are those search and seizure practices to review."

Brenner looked as though he was about to voice another protest, but all he said was, "Yes, sir."

Bruce watched him go. Then he started brushing Shilling. He was reaching for the currycomb, when a voice behind him rumbled, "You're working wonders with that cadet."

Bruce glanced over his shoulder. Then he rose quickly to his feet. "Thank you, sir."

Captain Alanguilan smiled. "At ease, Squad Leader. Don't keep your partner waiting."

Bruce allowed himself a fleeting smile. "Yes, sir."

"Shilling's a surprisingly good judge of character," Alanguilan continued. "Better than most people, I think. Have you given any thought to your placement after you graduate?"

As long as it eventually allowed him to wear the cowl without courting arrest, he didn't care if it was guarding the evidence room in the city's quietest precinct. Well, he cared, but he would still accept any assignment they handed him. "No, sir."

"Start," Alanguilan said. "Some posts fill up faster than others. Incidentally," he added, "you might want to give special consideration to openings with First Precinct in Old Gotham. The woman in charge there—that would be Captain Samnee—she ran into some trouble early in her career very much like what you're going through now. If you're under her command, I believe you're likely to get a fairer deal than elsewhere. Just something to consider." He started walking away.

"Don't be here too much later, Squad Leader. I can't lock up until you leave."

"Understood, sir," Bruce called after the captain's retreating back. In an undertone, he added, "Thank you, sir."

Cass rarely let anyone sneak up on her. Cain had impressed on her early the need to be aware of her surroundings and any potential threats at all times. However, despite Jeremiah's coaching, the civics portion of the GED was still her second-weakest area.

She supposed that she shouldn't be surprised. She'd been in her late teens when she'd arrived in the United States and she hadn't known or understood any more about its government than she had that of China or Japan or any of the other countries she'd passed through after running from Cain. She hadn't fully understood the concept of countries or borders at that time; she'd only known that if she got past a certain point on a road, she needed to slip past uniformed men and women unseen and once she did, the sounds of the spoken words she hadn't understood often changed. The colors of the printed paper rectangles and the sizes of the metal discs exchanged for food and other necessities altered as well—although the passersby she encountered tended to store them in the same spots on their persons and she knew how to be stealthy. The shopkeepers had accepted the colored rectangles and discs when she'd handed them over as well. Often, they even gave her more in new colors and sizes. But she hadn't known about countries then or how they differed.

She looked at the sample questions before her now. At the top of the page was a chart that listed different types of government, their characteristics, and countries for each type. She frowned. "Mon-ar-chai," she said under her breath. "Monar-chee?" She shook her head. She didn't have to know how to say it out loud. "Dic-tay-tor-ship. Ol-i-gar-chee. Dem-o-cra-see." She read the characteristics and examples carefully and looked at the first question.

A military leader uses his power to overthrow...

"Hi, Cass!"

Startled, she half-jumped in her seat. Then, forcing a smile to her face despite her embarrassment, she looked up. She knew the voice. "Hello, Doug."

The head of Volunteer Services smiled back. "I guess you made it home okay the other night," he said.

"Yes." Too abrupt, she realized. "Thank you. I... had a good time."

"I was wondering," Doug hesitated, "do you like sports? I know someone with season passes to the Knights games and he sometimes gets me tickets for the ones he can't make."

Cass frowned. "Baseball?" Grown men waving a stick to hit a ball and running around... She could understand practicing aim, speed, and endurance. She might even enjoy playing it herself. But why in the world would so many people want to watch it? "Um... no."

Doug looked so disappointed that she added a belated "Sorry," to her statement. "Maybe... martial arts? Gymnastics?" She might be able to get some ideas for moves and combinations that she could incorporate on patrol.

"Hmmm..." Doug seemed thoughtful. "I can check into that. There might be something. How's the studying going?"

Cass sighed. "Bad."

"Trouble?"

"Civics."

"Oh, right," Doug nodded. "I'm guessing from the way you speak, you probably weren't born here, even though you don't talk with an accent. Yeah, taking it all as a crash course is going to be rough." He sat down next to her. "Mind if I take a look?"

"Here."

Doug skimmed the page and let out a low whistle. "You've got a better excuse than I do," he said.

"Excuse?" What was he talking about?

"Yeah," Doug smiled. "You've never taken this before. I have, but even though the questions all look familiar, I'm ashamed to say I've forgotten a lot of the answers. Do you understand what you're reading?"

Cass started to nod, but honesty won out. "Some."

"Okay... why don't you try explaining it to me? Maybe that'll help me remember."

She smiled. "Sure, Doug. Okay. So... um... Monarchee—"

Doug coughed. "Actually, it's 'monar-key'."

"Oh." Her eyes widened. "Oh! So is this one... Ol-ee-gar-key?"

"That's right."

Cass exhaled. Monarchy. Oligarchy. Okay. Okay, she did know those words. At least, the telepath who'd rewired her brain years ago had included them when he'd given her an understanding of the English language. She'd just never heard them spoken before and so, she hadn't connected the senseless spelling with the right sounds. Okay, she could do this. Okay.

Bruce's good mood lasted until he returned to the manor and found it still empty. Not that he'd expected Selina or Helena to be back. He would have taken Selina to task if she had been there. Still, the house was far too quiet.

On cue, the harsh jangle of the telephone broke into his thoughts and he grabbed the extension off of the hall table. "Hello?"

"What did they offer you?" a harsh voice demanded without preamble.

Bruce suppressed a sigh. "Good evening, Councilor. To what do I owe the pleasure?"

There was a slow, bitter laugh on the other end. "Don't give me that, Wayne. Was your old buddy Jim worried that Alvin would find some stuff he'd slipped under the rug? Why would you want to destroy my brother? Who paid you off?"

This time, he didn't suppress it. "Councilor," he said tiredly, "I had no say whatsoever in the decision of the tribunal. If your brother wants to appeal their decision—"

Neal Jandt laughed again. "Please. He's off in some bar getting plastered again. Don't you understand? This is destroying him."

"Again," Bruce said, holding his ire in check, "I had no influence and no say in the tribunal's verdict. I doubt very much that you can file the appeal on your brother's behalf, though you're welcome to try."

There was a long pause. Then, "Oh, but you could have had influence, Wayne. A man of your reputation and standing? Had you wanted to sway the verdict, we both know that you could have done so. But... have it your way. I'm sure I'll have 'no influence and no say' when your own hearing rolls around in a few months time. And don't be too surprised if a complimentary case of Glenfidditch turns up at your front door when you come back from that. See if you deal with the outcome any better than Alvin. That's assuming you do return home after your hearing. Perhaps I'll have to ship it to you care of Arkham Asylum."

The line went dead.

Bruce replaced the phone in its cradle and tried to put the councilor's words out of his mind. The hearing wasn't for months yet, and he was fairly sure that Jandt wouldn't have a voice in the proceedings when it did roll around. All the same, he knew that his freedom was still a delicate thing and he wasn't sure that he could shrug off Neal Jandt's insinuations as so much chain-rattling. He had an uncomfortable feeling that municipal politicians might wield a good deal more influence with the Mental Health Authority than a police cadet with an academy disciplinary tribunal.

Red Claw fought down a surge of frustration as she watched the Teen Titans converge on the gang of ersatz Jokers in Robinson Park. Their white make-up and green wigs announced boldly their admiration for Gotham's Clown Prince of Crime, as did their name: Jokerz. They were armed with rubber chickens, seltzer bottles, and other ridiculous-looking gag props, all of which were deadlier than they appeared to be at first glance.

One of the Jokerz cackled madly as he swung a rubber chicken. Electricity crackled and Harrier flipped out of the way.

The bird impacted a young birch tree and wrapped about it. A smell of charcoal wafted toward the hidden woman and she noted that the white bark bore scorch marks when the youth jerked his weapon free.

"Whaddaya think?" the clown drawled mockingly. "Is it a roaster or a fryer? Hee hee! Let's find out..."

"Let's not!" Ravager snapped, swishing her sword through the air. It sliced through the rubber chicken—and the fingertips of the Jokerz thug's glove, as though both were tissue paper. For a moment, the clown-faced youth gaped, first at her, then down at his hand, as though reassuring himself that his fingers were still intact. Then he dropped the remains of the chicken and turned to run.

Harrier's bo staff smacked into his belly, knocking the wind out of him. Meanwhile, Dodge seized hold of two more and vanished. They reappeared a moment later, the two thugs trembling and wide-eyed as they collapsed to their knees.

"W-we surrender," gasped one.

"Don't s-send us back there!" gulped the other.

A scream from Miss Martian made Harrier's smile drop. One of the Jokerz had a flamethrower and was giggling as he waved it slowly, tauntingly, forcing the green-skinned teen back against a stone wall.

"Hang on, M'Gann!" Static, the team's newest member, lunged forward, seizing the Joker wannabe's arm.

"YEARGH!" The youth's green hair rose on end as Static's electromagnetic power surged through him, shocking him to unconsciousness.

Three more fell to Wonder Girl's lasso. Once they realized that their fellows—including their leader—had been subdued, the remaining Jokerz raised their hands in surrender.

Harrier exhaled. "Miss Martian, see if you can find a few squad cars to take these guys off our hands." He did a quick head count. "Looks like we've got a dozen here." He surveyed the rest of the team. "Nice work, guys."

"Want to see what else is doing?" Wonder Girl asked.

Harrier shook his head. "It's late. We'll just head back to base for debriefing..."

There was a groan from Ravager.

"More paperwork?" Static demanded. "I've still got to tackle my physics homework..."

"Fine," Harrier relented. "We'll just head back to base. Debriefing tomorrow afternoon."

Red Claw turned away with a sigh. She'd been tailing Harrier in hope that he would lead her to Catwoman instead of joining up with his friends and taking down a bunch of toughs that her organization wouldn't deign to use for target practice. They weren't worth the cost of the ammunition it would take to eliminate them.

She debated whether to look for another vigilante to tail. A look at the night sky, decided her. It was clear enough for her to see the thin crescent of the moon and the bright pinpoints of stars, but there was no Bat-signal shining down tonight. Gotham was large and the local vigilantes were stealthy. Better by far to return to her current base of operations and rest, than to wear herself out looking for needles in haystacks.

Crime, like the moon, waxed and waned in Gotham, but never disappeared. The Bats and Titans would be out again tomorrow, and the night after that. Sooner or later, one of them was going to slip and lead her to Catwoman. Unfortunately, that wasn't likely to happen tonight.

Reluctantly, she slipped out of the park and into her waiting car.

Bruce discharged his shotgun, ignoring the sting in his cheek and the force of the recoil. Part of him wondered if maybe he needed the pain as a reminder that the gun was a serious weapon. He suppressed a sigh. No. He did not need a reminder.

He watched as Farnham went out to the field, collected the targets, made a notation on his clipboard for each one, and returned.

"Excellent work, Cadet Laramie," he said, handing back the sheet of heavy paper with its pockmarked bulls-eye.

"Keep it up, Cadet Norton."

"Cadet Dawson, you need a better cheek weld. It shows in your scores."

"Yes, Sir," Dawson mumbled.

"Cadet Wayne." Farnham handed him the sheet and moved on without further comment.

Bruce looked at it. His lessons with Jim had paid off. He'd discharged every shot into the "kill" zone. Well, perhaps Farnham would get off his case, but Bruce was hard-put to consider this anything to be proud of.

Helena had finally stopped jumping off of the cot, jumping on the cot, clamoring for agua (and Selina had no idea where she'd picked up the Spanish word for water. She had a suspicion that Bruce was trying to teach her another language early.), pleading for a story or whimpering for a cuddle. Selina smiled fondly down at her sleeping daughter and wondered how it was possible that the little hellion who had spent nearly an hour fighting naptime could turn into a little angel when she finally succumbed to sleep.

She tiptoed away from the cot, scarcely daring to breathe, as she made her way to the exercise area. Today, she opted for a Pilates routine. With Helena asleep, she could finally allow herself to focus on the exercises. It also helped her keep from dwelling on the fact that they hadn't had a breath of fresh air in nearly five days. Selina hated confinement.

She reminded herself fiercely that Bruce had passed the better part of a year indoors in Arkham. Then again, Bruce hadn't exactly been in his right mind at the time. Then again, regardless of her frame of mind, she ought to be able to handle a few days! She sighed. And there went her focus. It looked like it was going to be gymnastics, after all.

She started with the uneven bars and soon moved to the balance beam. After her last dismount, she lay back on the mat and went through a series of stretches. She wasn't as tense anymore, but she was still feeling the effects of cabin fever. Sighing, she stalked over to the computer monitors.

"Talk to me, Oracle," she said as she collapsed into the padded swivel chair. "I'm about this close to checking what's on TV. At this time of day, it's going to be the soaps and I don't want to get hooked on one of those."

The overhead monitor winked on and the Oracle mask appeared. "Shh! The Brave and the Brilliant just came back from a commercial."

Selina sucked in her breath. "I hope you're kidding."

The digital mask fell away. "Of course I'm kidding," Barbara said. "Who has time for TV?"

"Right now?" Selina sighed. "Me. Unfortunately."

"Feeling restless?" Barbara clucked sympathetically. "I know what that's like."

"I... guess you do," Selina admitted, chastened. "Sorry. I didn't mean to..."

Barbara shrugged. "Hey, you don't have anything to apologize for. In my case, it was by choice. And that didn't mean I didn't go a little stir crazy every so often."

Selina nodded. "Got any tips?"

"Yeah," Barbara grinned. "Look to your left. That big data-server is a holo-projector. Bruce used it mostly for training, but it can replicate just about any environment. It's not perfect; you get sight and sound, but you're on your own for smell and taste. Touch... the projectors will modify anything solid within the target area. So if you move that chair you're sitting on into a Victorian sitting room, it's going to morph into a wing chair or an ottoman, but it'll still feel the same. Bruce made some modifications for combat practice; something about interfacing with the cave's defense systems so that it looks like an opponent is punching you, but it's more like an airbag on an extending arm. Anyway, that doesn't sound like something you'll want to use."

"Nope," Selina smiled in return. "I just want to pretend I'm outside for a while. No combat, no natural disasters, no evil masterminds. How do I do that?"

"Turn on the server," Barbara directed. "When it asks you for a password, type 'clocktower'. Capitalize the second 'c'. The first 'o' is a zero and the 'l' is an exclamation point. No, that's not one of Bruce's passwords. But a while back, he created a back door into my systems. I just returned the favor."

"Sounds fair to me," Selina replied, walking the short distance to the server and hitting the power button. "Okay. I'm typing 'c!0Cktower' now. Then what?"

"Just follow the prompts. Call me if you hit a snag, but you should be fine."

"Will do." She thought for a moment. Then she began typing 'Big Cypress National Preserve'. She had a sudden desire to see a Florida Panther up close...

He was in Crime Alley, but something had changed. He wasn't eight years old anymore. He was big and he had a gun. As he emerged from the alley, eerie laughter echoed through the narrow streets. That was wrong. The streets weren't narrow. It was an old neighborhood, built in the days when the roads had needed to be wide enough to accommodate horse-drawn carriages. This maze of winding roads didn't belong here. Strangely, though, even as one part of him recognized that this wasn't the Crime Alley it should be, his feet seemed to know which way to go.

Sure enough, he rounded a bend and found himself face-to-face with the Joker. At his feet, he saw Jason's mangled body. He saw Barbara, her face contorted in a grimace of pain as she tried to crawl away using only her arms as a spot of red on her back widened, staining the blue of her cape a deep, murky, purple. That was wrong too, the detached part of him noted. Barbara hadn't been Batgirl when Joker had shot her. And Jason hadn't died in Gotham. As he tried to reconcile his memories with the scene before him now, his gaze fell on Sarah Essen-Gordon, sprawled on the ground, a baby in her arms and an entry wound in her right temple.

No. No more. Enough was enough. The gun was in his hand almost at the speed of thought and his aim was steady as he pulled the trigger. The Joker crumpled and fell without a sound.

Bruce took a cautious step forward, hardly daring to believe that it was really over. He turned the body gently...

...And looked into a stranger's face. Yes, there were some similarities; the shape of the jaw, the color of the suit... but the dead man on the pavement wasn't the Joker. He'd shot an innocent man.

A choking sound behind him made him turn and he saw a child looking on in horror. "D-dad?"

Bruce awoke in a cold sweat. Dream. It had been a dream.

But he would have to be a fool not to realize how easily it could come true...

Neal Jandt looked at the bottle of scotch sitting innocuously on his desk blotter and then at the drained shot glass before him. This wasn't like him, not at all. He tried calling his brother again and hung up when he rang through to voice mail. He hadn't heard from Alvin since the verdict. He'd spoken briefly to Michelle, but she hadn't had anything helpful to say. She seemed resigned to her husband's drinking binges... or perhaps she was afraid that confronting him would guarantee another night out, whereas letting matters lie only granted the possibility.

Neal rubbed his forehead. His sister-in-law deserved better. Had Wayne played ball, she might have gotten it. Instead, she had a husband who was a virtual time-bomb set to explode their suave comfortable image and destroy his political career in the process. Alvin could put them all under a microscope, and nowadays, who didn't have some embarrassing secret they wouldn't want made public? Wayne thought he had problems with his own secrets out, but Wayne wasn't embarking on a political career. No, Wayne was another time bomb. He had to be defused. And Neal Jandt had an idea of who to approach to do it.

He pulled out his phone again and punched in a number. "Captain Carruthers," he said cordially. "Hello, Sid. Neal Jandt here. I was wondering whether you might care to join me for a coffee whenever you come off duty. I'd like to talk to you about the possibility of increasing your precinct's budget. A special favor... friend to friend?"