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

A/N: "Forever" written by Jason Sellers and Neil Thrasher. Performed by Rascal Flatts on their Unstoppable album (Lyric Street, 2009); But Not the Hippopotamus written by Sandra Boynton (Little Simon, 1982).

Sometimes I get so mad, I scream, I swear at this
cause this isn't how we planned it.
I sit here in a cold room
Prayin', waitin' on you

—Jason Sellers, Neil Thrasher, "Forever"

Chapter 38—In a Cold Room

The metal helmet with the long donkey ears and face mask was heavy and uncomfortable. Lester Paxton had been wearing it for what felt like hours. Scarecrow had locked the device onto his head when he failed to name it. Above him, the film that depicted various torture devices came to the end and immediately looped around to the beginning once more. As Paxton moaned, the cell door slid open and Scarecrow re-entered.

"Well, Lester," the spindly man said genially, "are you able to tell me now what that silly-ass thing you're wearing is?"

Paxton nodded as best he could, shackled to the table as he was. "It's a mask of infamy," he mumbled.

Scarecrow rose to his tiptoes and leaned toward him with the grace of a dancer, one hand extended to his ear—or, at least, to where his ear ought to be under the burlap bag of a mask that enveloped his head. "Pardon?"

Paxton repeated his statement a bit louder.

"Ah, good. You have been paying attention. And what is the purpose of this mask, Mr. Paxton?" he demanded, every inch the academic professor.

Miserably, Paxton replied, "It's used to humiliate the wearer."

Scarecrow rubbed his hands together. "Excellent. Well, then. I think we can remove it." He gestured to one of the hulking zombies that loomed in the shadows behind him. "Unlock his mask. Remove it. Put it on its stand on the shelf over the table." He smiled at Paxton. "We may need it again."

He giggled a bit when he saw Paxton flinch. "I'm pleased that you've stopped struggling against your restraints," he said, advancing toward the trestle table. "I have cameras mounted along the walls of this chamber. The door is locked and guarded. And once you are caught attempting to escape," he paused ominously, "I'm likely to take that as a request enroll in a more... how should I put this... advanced seminar? I can assure you that you would find the experience... grueling.

Paxton whimpered. Then he exhaled in relief as the mask came off.

"Now then," Scarecrow continued, business-like. "Where were we? Ah yes. Who is the current head of building security at PMWE?"

Paxton closed his eyes. "His name is Sal Fiorini," he said heavily.

"How long has he been with the company?"

"At least eight years."

"Open your eyes, Lester, and identify the image on the ceiling."

Paxton's eyes inched open slowly. "That... that's the Scavenger's Daughter."

"Very good, Lester. Now, for the opportunity to have one wrist unfettered, how does it work?"

Paxton swallowed hard. "It's a rack in reverse. It compresses the body instead of stretching it."

Keys jangled as the Scarecrow approached. "One wrist it is, Lester. Now. Let us discuss Mr. Fiorini in greater detail."

Oracle took a breath and let it out with an angry hiss.

"Trouble?" Dick asked. When Barbara turned to face him, he asked, "Do we have any more of the travel-size toothpastes or did we use them up?"

Barbara thought for a moment. "I think there might be a shoebox of them in the linen closet. You know, Metropolis isn't in a third-world country. I'm pretty sure you can find a drugstore there. That's if the hotel turns out to be the only one in the city that doesn't provide complimentary toiletries."

"They'll probably have spearmint," Dick muttered, "not peppermint."

"You'll survive," Barbara smiled heartlessly.

In a completely different tone of voice, Barbara continued, "To answer your question, Scarecrow's been on the loose for a few days. Blackgate reported it, but the police have been keeping it out of the media. I guess they're afraid of panicking people."

Dick sighed. "I guess with the so-called zombie attack, they don't want to add to the general tension."

"If Scarecrow hadn't escaped, there wouldn't be a zombie attack," Barbara replied. "He's using them to terrorize the city."

Dick groaned. "So, basically, he's mind-controlling half the population to scare the other half?"

"I'm thinking there are a lot fewer zombies than that out there. Seriously, one zombie can probably frighten a few hundred Gothamites. And since Crane's all about scaring people, it would make sense for him to have more," she made a face, "scarees than scarers."

Dick gave her a pained smile. "Want me to postpone Metropolis? I can even tell Sal the truth about why."

Barbara considered. "With Batgirl and the Titans hanging around, I'd say we can manage. There is something else, though."

"Hit me."

Barbara pulled up a file. "This is the visitors' log at Blackgate. Normally, Scarecrow doesn't get anyone but his lawyer. But for the last three months..."

Dick read the name and frowned. "Who's Dr. Linda Friitawa?"

"The name didn't mean anything to me either," Barbara admitted. "So I did some digging. She was a geneticist, until she lost her medical license for conducting unauthorized experiments on human beings. And... the last time that the board declared Crane fit for release, he rented a lab—supposedly for more ethical experiments in fear induction; guess we know how that ended—and hired her as his assistant. While the authorities found out that he was back to his old tricks and shipped him back to his old cell, there was no proof that Friitawa was guilty of anything other than association. She was never charged."

"You think she might have been in deeper?"

Barbara nodded. "Let's just say that I think it's interesting that she started visiting Scarecrow shortly before that bomb scare at PMWE. One of the objectives of terrorism is terror, after all."

Dick glowered. "Were any other buildings targeted?"

"If they were, it didn't make the media outlets," Barbara replied. "But that doesn't mean they weren't. Nobody reports when a fire alarm goes off, unless there's a fire. Someone calls to report a bomb on the premises; they evacuate and call for a bomb squad, but if it's a false alarm, and it's not a slow news day, it might not be newsworthy. I mean, if they have a choice of stories to feature and it comes down to 'Prank call empties office building' or 'Firefly torches City Hall,' I know which one they're going to go with."

Dick sighed. "And in PMWE's case, it was a little different, because whoever it was saw an opportunity to strike out at me. Or Bruce. Or both of us. It's a good hypothesis, but do we have anything to back it up beyond 'these people get off on fear and a bomb threat scares people'?"

"Beyond the timing?" Barbara shook her head. "I'm working on it."

"Okay." He bent down and gave her a peck on the cheek. "Keep me posted. I'm going to check the linen closet for that peppermint toothpaste."

"Okay," Brenner said slowly. "I think I see part of the problem. You remember when Farnham had us balancing dimes on the gun muzzles?"

Bruce nodded slowly.

"The guns were empty that time. Now what's happening is that you're anticipating the recoil and—"

"Flinching," Bruce interrupted. "I know." He sighed. "I'm not... good with guns."

Brenner nodded. "It took me a few years before I could get behind the wheel of a car."

"Pardon?"

"When I was seventeen," Brenner said slowly, "I was driving home after a football game. I was giving a couple of the guys a lift. There were three of us in the car; two in the front seat, one in the back. And as we were going through an intersection, a car slammed into the rear passenger side. Lewis didn't make it. We found out afterwards that the other driver had been drinking. Me, I kept thinking, maybe if I'd waited another second or gone a drop faster or..." He shook his head. "You know what it is to have people telling you over and over that it's not your fault and even knowing that they're right, but still feeling like it is?"

Bruce closed his eyes. "Yes."

Brenner nodded slowly.

"Therapy helped. But I still got nervous about driving, especially if there was someone else in the car with me. It took me a long time to get past it. I still get nightmares from time to time," he admitted.

"But the defensive driving module..." Bruce began.

Brenner gave him a fleeting smile. "It's all been simulation, so far. Video games? A vacant lot full of traffic cones? That's nothing. I'm okay with normal defensive driving; the stuff everyone needs to pass to get a license. As for what happens when I'm actually on the road and in pursuit of a suspect," he shrugged, "I'm not looking forward to it, but I think I'm at the point where I can handle it when I have to."

Bruce nodded. "I suppose my family history precedes me."

"Well," Brenner admitted, "the media has brought it up a few times. Look, there's one thing I did know about riding before you started coaching me."

"Let me guess," Bruce said wearily. "When you fall, get back on the horse."

"Pretty much," Brenner replied. "I mean, with respect, Squad Leader, you've been through a fair amount of hell here already, what with the whole... Jandt business. It'd be kind of stupid if you worked through all of that and let a hunk of steel drive you away."

"Point," Bruce sighed.

"Sir, you do know that flinching isn't a sign of a weak character, right?"

Bruce was about to retort that of course he knew it, that on paper, in theory, he knew the course cold; it was only when he had to put it all into practice that his problems surfaced. Instead, he nodded. "As much as you know that the car accident wasn't your fault."

Brenner gave him a fleeting smile. "Yeah, well. I'm working on my issues. We'll work on that flinch."

"I've been working on it," Bruce said testily.

"Well, the main thing now is that you're tensing up before you pull the trigger. I'm not sure how much of that is fighting that part of you that doesn't want to do this and how much is bracing for the recoil, but tensing up makes the recoil worse."

"I'm aware of that," Bruce snapped.

"Then you're aware that you need to relax," Brenner pointed out.

"You make it sound so easy," Bruce sighed.

Brenner was silent for a moment. Then, "Sir... when you get ready to fire, I've noticed that you're leaning forward from the waist. Try leaning with your whole body. It'll adjust your—"

"—Center of gravity, I know," Bruce replied. "I know. It just..."

Brenner sighed. "You're going to make me drag out one of my favorite Star Trek quotes, aren't you?"

Bruce's scowl gave way to a resigned shrug. "What? 'You're a stubborn man, Mr. Spock?'" A memory sprang to mind of how he'd had to threaten to revoke teenaged Dick's television privileges for a month to get the youth to stop tossing that particular line in his direction.

"Nope," Brenner grinned. "Damn you, sir, you will try."

Bruce's eyebrows shot up. Then he gave Brenner a bleak smile in response and picked up the shotgun, correcting his stance as the other man had suggested.

An overly-genial representative from PMWE's Metropolis office met Dick at the airport the following evening. Once the usual pleasantries were out of the way, the man escorted Dick to a waiting sedan and drove him to the Halldorf Hotel.

"We'll see you at ten tomorrow," he said, after he'd checked Dick in. "They'll be expecting you at the reception desk. Meanwhile," he handed Dick a USB drive, "this should give you an overview of what we're looking for. I presume you've brought a laptop?"

Dick nodded. "And a smart phone. It's just harder to type up a report on one of those."

His escort laughed. "I take your point. Well, I wouldn't be up too late going over the material. A lot of it's going to be repeated at the briefing in the morning, anyway."

"Still," Dick grinned, "it never hurts to be prepared."

The rep left him at the elevators. Once in his room, Dick plugged the USB drive into his laptop and hooked the laptop up to his smart phone to establish a secure wi-fi connection. As he'd hoped, the first file showed a planned schedule for the next two weeks. After letting Barbara know that he'd arrived safely and leaving a message to advise Bruce of the same, he called one more number.

"Hey, Clark. I'm here. And it looks like PMWE's leaving me to my own devices in the evening, apart from theater tickets next Friday night. So, if you want to get together at some point while I'm here, give me a call back. I'll be up for a bit."

As soon as Bruce rounded the corner of the corridor, headed for his first class of the day, he knew something was wrong. He wasn't surprised to find more than a dozen of his fellow cadets there ahead of him, whispering among themselves. He didn't have Cass's expertise at reading body language, but he recognized apprehension when he saw it. The tension was thick enough to cut with a knife.

At his approach, the others looked up to see who it was. A couple nodded to him before resuming whispered conversations. After a moment, he walked over to where Ortega stood, leaning against the wall. "What's going on?" he asked.

"You haven't heard?"

"That's why I'm asking."

Ortega sighed. "I had a call from Dawson last night, asking me if she needed to notify me before she resigned from the academy or if she had to go directly to admin. I tried to talk her out of it, but her mind was made up."

Bruce frowned. "I see. Did she give a reason?"

"Just that she'd already failed one test and the way she felt about her score on the make-up yesterday, she wanted to leave before they kicked her out."

Bruce's frown deepened. He and Dawson had never really had much to say to one another, but he knew her and he'd seen nothing in her performance to suggest that she was foundering. The test papers that he had to grade only had their student ID numbers, of course, no names. He'd had no way of knowing how she was doing on those. However, in those disciplines that he could observe: drills, firearms, driving, and so on, she'd seemed to be fine.

"I didn't tell anyone," Ortega continued, "but you know that gossip is about the only force in the universe capable of exceeding the speed of light."

Was everyone in this class a science fiction buff? Bruce wondered.

He hesitated, considering. "Are you aware of any others who are having difficulties?"

Ortega blinked. "I... I think most of us are in one thing or another."

"Yes, but we're addressing your issues with the driving simulator. Brenner is working with me on the firing range, as is a close friend. He and I are dealing with his equestrian drills. I'm talking about people who aren't getting that help."

Ortega frowned. "I know what you're getting at. I don't know. Dawson dropping out comes as a shock to me, but she might have confided in someone."

"Or she might have been concerned about..." Bruce took a deep breath. "I know something about being part of a team and being concerned that admitting a weakness would result in a suggestion that, perhaps, I was in the wrong place." He shook his head. "It took some time to realize that I was harder on myself than any of the others were." Not that he'd ever admit it to Clark. Well... Clark probably knew already. Hal, however, was a different story. He had no intention of ever mentioning anything like this to Hal.

He frowned, thinking. "Are you still coming over this weekend?"

"Is it all right?" Ortega asked. "I'm doing okay in the class, but since it feels like the extra practice is paying off, I'd like to keep it up."

"It's fine. It just occurred to me that I might... we might... want to expand the extra coaching. Extend it to others who might need it." He wished Dick were here. Dick would be able to sound far more enthusiastic about what he was suggesting. "We're meant to be a team. That's what all of these collective penalties are meant to drive home. It's too late to help Dawson. But, perhaps..."

"You mean some sort of peer tutoring?"

"After a fashion," Bruce nodded. He heard footsteps heading their way and recognized them as Sgt. Tyrell's. "We'll discuss this later," he added, as they hurried to get into line before the sergeant approached.

In Keystone City, Selina sank back on the Wests' sofa and watched her daughter working on a pre-school puzzle, doing her best to fit the wooden pieces in the correct holes. In just over a week, Helena would turn two.

Selina sighed wistfully. A year ago, Bruce had still been in Arkham, but out on weekend passes. They'd been reconnecting slowly, each trying to feel the other out, see if they could rekindle what had been. Helena had helped with that, she thought. Bruce was usually much more ready to cut people loose than put in the effort to keep them. Even with Helena's presence, he'd tried to push her away, but less forcefully than he might have, and he'd let her back into his life sooner.

It had been a long year; a hard one; sprinkled with numerous absences from Gotham: Maine and New Hampshire, Birds of Prey missions, the Solomon Islands, and now, Keystone City. Would she be back in Gotham for Helena's second birthday? She hoped so.

"Momma!" Helena had finished the puzzle. With a huge smile on her face, she applauded herself.

Selina laughed. "Very good, Helena. How about a story?"

"Yaw."

Selina smiled, wondering where Helena had picked that one up. 'Yeah' or 'yes' would have been understandable, but 'yaw'? "Okay. Want to pick a book?"

"Yaw," Helena repeated, and started to dig in the plastic milk crate that held a stash of picture books. In short order, she was curled up next to her mother, peering seriously over an open Sandra Boynton board book.

"A hog and a frog do a dance in a bog, but not the hippo..."

"...Po'muss!" Helena squealed.

"Good! A cat and two rats are trying on hats..."

Although Bruce was deadly serious, the expression on Tim's face nearly made him crack a smile. "Well?"

Tim shook his head in disbelief. "You want the Teen Titans to face off against the police academy cadets," he repeated. "You're not kidding."

"I don't kid." He sighed. "A classmate dropped out this week. That kind of thing hurts morale. We're nearly at the halfway point. For me, that means that I'm that much closer to being able to get back out there and do what I do. For the others, it means that they're that much closer to going out there for the first time and trying to do what they'll have to if I'm not around. I suspect that the vast majority of my classmates have never met a metahuman, much less fought one. The unarmed combat module at the academy provides a decent enough grounding in the basics, but that won't be enough."

"But you think an afternoon with us will."

Bruce glowered. "You know me better than that. Just as you know that sometimes, repeated drills don't achieve anything close to the same esprit de corps as a... a... free-for-all, or," he paused, remembering earlier days and roughhousing with a different incarnation of the Teen Titans, "a game of frozen tag."

Tim tilted his head sideways. "Who are you and what have you done with the real Bruce?"

"Tim..."

The youth ignored the warning growl in his mentor's voice. "Is it Starro? Are you a double? Did Hugo Strange—?"

"Believe me," Bruce gritted, "if I could have found a double willing to undergo the academy in my place, I might have considered it... but there are some things even my rogues gallery won't stoop to."

Tim's eyebrows shot up. Bruce's lips twitched. Tim spun about abruptly and leaned against the cave wall, shoulders shaking. Bruce took advantage of the opportunity to collect himself. "So," Tim said, taking a deep breath and managing a poker face, "you think that giving them a chance to try to take down the Titans will boost... um... esprit de corps?"

"We outnumber you roughly five to one."

Tim sighed. "Do we have to lose?"

"Of course not," Bruce replied. "However, if your opponents don't make foolish mistakes or act too overconfident, there's no need for you to win, either."

"Ah."

Bruce regarded him sharply. "Are we clear?"

"I think so."

"And you'll do it?"

"I will. I'll have to ask the team if they'll go along with it."

Bruce's lips twitched. "Ask them," he nodded. The twitch became a full smile. "I believe that, despite your training, even you might find it a challenge to defend yourself against thirty-one opponents all by yourself." His smile grew wider. "Particularly as I intend to be one of them."

Tim gulped.

After Tim left, Bruce sat down at his monitor display, his previous good humor gone. He called up a new session and checked Skrype. Many of his contacts showed available, but Wally West was not among them.

Sighing, he pulled out his cell phone, frowned, and replaced it. He didn't know what he would say if Selina came on the line.

A year ago today, he had been a far worse situation, but the way ahead had looked brighter. He'd actually believed that his troubles would be mostly over once he was released from Arkham. There had been a time when he'd tried to have contingencies for every eventuality, but there was no way that he could have predicted or prepared for the last twelve months.

He checked his email and smiled. Selina had sent him a photo, probably taken with her smart-phone, of Helena playing with her blocks. The attached message read only, "We miss you."

Bruce sighed. He missed them too, but if they knew how much, he worried that they might be on the next flight to Gotham. Selina could be impulsive that way. He debated leaving the message unanswered but good manners won out.

"Stay safe," he typed. Then he hit 'Send' before he could start wondering whether to add anything else to his reply.

From his penthouse accommodation on the top floor of the Halldorf Hotel, False Face gazed down at Metropolis' Centennial Park. Through the overhanging tree branches, he could just make out the two statues of Superman and Superboy.

He left the balcony and re-entered the suite. He'd read of such opulence, though he'd never dreamed he'd encounter it. Well, to be fair, at one time, he'd nearly colluded with Hugo Strange in a plot to have Bruce Wayne kidnapped and take his place. Had that caper gone as planned, well, while False Face had never been inside Wayne Manor, he imagined its décor and furnishings to be very much like the suite in which he now found himself.

Sadly, that caper had never come to fruition. Strange had been too obsessed, too discomfiting. He'd also been one of those who expected False Face to work for him in exchange for no money down; just a share of the profits down the road. While False Face could appreciate that many of his potential employers suffered from chronic cash-flow problems and depended on their underworld activities to fund their operations, he himself insisted on a reasonable retainer paid up-front. An individual who couldn't accommodate that request wasn't an individual with whom False Face felt he could do business.

Even those who could accommodate that request weren't always trustworthy. Which reminded him: he hadn't made Paxton squirm in a few days. He'd have to attend to that shortly. Meanwhile, he needed to let Hush know that he'd arrived safely.

He pulled out his cell phone and punched in the number with no small difficulty. The bandages on his hands—bandages wrapped over a pair of thin cotton gloves as an extra precaution against leaving fingerprints behind—made his fingers stiff and clumsy. He wondered how Hush managed it on a regular basis, particularly with the damage that Nightwing had done to his hands. He smiled slightly. As much as the gloves and bandages were inconveniences, they also helped to make his disguise more believable. Anyone from Intergang who might have met Dr. Thomas Elliot within the last two years would likely have noted his injuries. Having normal use of his hands might arouse suspicion. Still, this was going to take some getting used to.

"I'm in," he announced, when Hush's voice came on the line. "No," he replied in answer to his partner's question. "No difficulties. And, if they do intend to kill me, at the very least, they're making my final days on Earth fairly enjoyable. I'm in the penthouse at the Halldorf." He laughed. "Yes. Yes, it is everything it's reputed to be."

False Face frowned then. "What about Paxton?" As Hush kept talking, his frown gave way first to surprise, and then, to amusement. "Oh, dear. Well, yes, I was rather put out when he tried to send me up the river and I suppose I did mention it in the Iceberg. Give me some slack, Elliot, I was angry. But how Crane could have found out about..." He blinked. "Well, yes, there was a lady, as I recall. Yes," he said in surprise, "I believe she did fit that description. Oh, my. So, she was one of Crane's assistants and she passed the information on to..." He began to laugh. "Oh, dear. Why," he chortled, "I could almost feel sorry for old Lester Paxton. Almost. No, no, not really. I don't envy him, though. I suppose that's close. Well, not close, but... No, Thomas," he continued magnanimously. "Don't put yourself out on my account. I just wanted the old codger to squirm a bit. I think we can count on the good Professor Crane to ensure that he will. Just let him have his fun."

With an answering laugh, Hush dropped the subject and continued quizzing him on his experience in Metropolis thus far. Sounding satisfied, he began relaying new instructions. False Face listened attentively.

"Well," he said, when Hush was finished. "That all seems fairly straightforward. I'll keep you apprised."

He ended the call and went back out to the balcony. The sun was setting, turning the sky into a lake of orange flame. As he gazed once more on the park below, he saw a streak of red and blue fly low over the treetops. Beneath the bandages, his eyebrows shot up. The Man of Steel wasn't alone tonight. And his companion was certainly no stranger to anyone visiting from Gotham City...

"Not flying too fast for you, am I?" Superman asked, touching down on the globe atop the Daily Planet building.

Standing next to him, Nightwing gave his grappling line a tug to free it from the "D" of "Daily" that he had snagged to swing over. "Do I look out of breath?" he grinned.

"No," Superman admitted. "You actually look pretty good for someone who was suffering from a bad case of flu and hives the last time I had a real visit with him."

"Hey, better that than smallpox." Although Nightwing's voice was light, he was hard-put to suppress a shudder. That had not been a good time.

"So," Superman said, "what did you mean earlier about this being a good excuse to come in? From the way you put it, I think you had something else on your mind besides keeping me company on patrol."

Nightwing laughed. "Especially since you're deliberately holding back, so I don't lag behind." His smile faded. "Intergang." He quickly brought the Kryptonian up to date on what had been happening in Gotham, beginning with Selina's car exploding outside the pediatrician's office. As he talked, Superman's eyes darkened. Nightwing took an unconscious step back. He rarely saw Superman upset, but it was plain that when he did, he could rival Bruce in powers of intimidation. Not that he would ever mention that observation to anybody but Babs when he got back to Gotham.

"Mannheim's been quiet lately," he said, when Nightwing was finished. "As far as my day job goes, I haven't been on the city beat for a while," he continued. "When I lost my powers, I also lost my ability to dash to the site of a story and get it typed up and on Perry's desk ahead of the pack." He looked away. "I've been doing all right with sports, entertainment, and the odd op-ed, but now that the red sun effect has finally worn off,well, as Superman, I generally deal with higher-level threats. As Clark? My old job has been filled and I'm waiting for Perry to give me a chance at the news again." He smiled. "Lois, on the other hand..."

Dick smiled back. "She knows more?"

"She wouldn't actually tell me anything until she submitted it," Clark laughed. "I guess she still worries about my scooping her to show Perry I'm back in form. But I do know that she exposed one of Intergang's schemes, a few months ago. It was just after Thanksgiving, actually. And since that story's already appeared in print..."

"...She might be willing to part with her notes?"

"She might be willing to share the highlights with you."

Dick laughed. "I'll take it."

"I'll talk to her tonight. How late can I call you?"

Dick shrugged. "It doesn't matter. I always set my phone to vibrate before I turn in. If I don't pick up, just leave me a message."

"Will do." His eyes narrowed. "Something's going on in Suicide Slum and I don't see any police cars close by. Are you up for it?"

"Point me in the right direction."

Superman smiled. "I'll do better than that. Are you up for a bit of flying? It's faster than your grappling line."

Nightwing grinned. "Second time in less than forty-eight hours. First time without a plane, though."

Superman laughed. Then he wrapped a strong arm around Nightwing's waist and leaped off of the Daily Planet globe.

Sal Fiorini had told his people that even when he was off-duty, he was always on call. So, when he received an urgent message in a stressed-sounding voice about something going haywire with the new security system, even though it was nearly midnight, he jumped out of bed and got dressed.

The voice on the other end had sounded vaguely familiar. The name had not, but then, it wasn't just building security that operated twenty-four-seven. It had probably been someone in one of the tech support call centers.

He frowned. But then, why had the voice sounded familiar? He didn't know any of the night supervisors in those areas. As he drove through the dark streets, against the flow of traffic leaving the downtown core for suburbia, he was mentally cycling through the list of call center supervisors he did know. Quite possibly, one of them was working the night shift as a special circumstance.

All at once, his eyebrows drew together. He did know that voice. That had been Lester Paxton! But why hadn't he identified himself? And what the hell was he doing at PMWE at this hour? He wasn't supposed to be on the grounds at all.

Sal thought quickly. If there really was something going on at PMWE, it was his responsibility to look into it. On the other hand, if Paxton had truly gone so far as to hire a known criminal to frame Bruce Wayne and bolster a bogus restraining order... He took a deep breath. Then he pulled over to the side of the road, took out his phone, and punched in a number. He sighed when his call went immediately to voice mail.

"Hello, Lucius," he said. "I'm on my way to the office. I just had a call that there's an issue with the security system. The problem is, I'm almost positive the call was from Lester Paxton. I'm phoning the cops to meet me there, as soon as I get off with you. If I don't come in tomorrow..." He hesitated. "If I don't come in tomorrow, and you don't hear from me, assume that something happened and take what precautions you can. Dick's in Metropolis, but I have a feeling that Bruce might have some ideas. Hopefully, I'll see you tomorrow."

He ended the call. "Hopefully," he repeated.

It took another minute to call the non-emergency police line. (One did not call 911 in Gotham City unless it was a confirmed emergency, which this wasn't. Not yet.) The dispatcher was polite and professional, as she told him that she was sending a car and it would be there in fifteen minutes.

Sal was there in ten. In the shadows, he could see a tall muscular man, wearing an officer's peaked cap and short jacket. Sal approached him, relieved. "You got here faster than I was expecting," he smiled. "I..." His words died in his throat. He wasn't wearing a GCPD cap. There was no badge on his jacket. And his gray skin and blank merciless stare, like his slow deliberate movements, marked him as something far more dangerous than a police officer.

The zombie seized his shoulder with one iron hand, while it clamped the other over Sal's mouth. "Come..."