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

"Move Toward the Darkness" written by Andrew Lippa. Performed by the original Broadway cast on the Addams Family soundtrack album (Decca, 2010).

GED question taken from Test-Guide, GED Language Arts (site accessed December 4, 2014).

Move toward the darkness
Welcome the unknown
Face your blackest demons
Find your weakest bone
Lose your inhibitions
Love what once was vile
Move toward the darkness and smile

—Andrew Lippa, "Move Toward the Darkness"

Chapter 39—Blackest Demons, Weakest Bone

Sal Fiorini was no fighter. He was a middle-aged executive who got the bulk of his exercise by getting off the elevator ten floors below his office and taking the stairs the rest of the way up. He ate healthy foods in unhealthy quantities and blamed the extra forty pounds he'd put on since college on lousy metabolism. He often joked that he would throw his back out sooner than he would throw a punch. But he was also the head of building security at a company that was a frequent target of criminals and terrorists and, despite his unassuming appearance, he had a few tricks up his sleeve.

He shoved a hand into his jacket pocket and closed it around the canister of pepper spray, even while he strained to break free of the zombie's iron grip on his right shoulder. When it became clear that his struggles were useless, Sal gave a mental shrug, brought out the canister, switched it to his left hand, and angled it upward, away from his own face and toward the zombie's.

All at once, the grip on his shoulder loosened and Sal jerked free. The zombie was holding its hand to its eyes, a puzzled look on its face. Sal aimed the spray again. Then, without waiting to assess the effect, he spun on his heel and started running.

Two gunshots exploded in his ears in quick succession. For a moment, Sal thought that someone was firing at him. Then he registered the black-and-white police car and the officer, partly shielded by the open door, lowering his gun. Someone else took his arm from behind and he began struggling anew, until an authoritative voice said, "Sir, Police. It's okay. It's over."

Sal slowly stopped fighting the hand on his arm and tried not to hyperventilate. He was dimly aware of the other officer calling for an ambulance. Over his shoulder, he could see that his attacker was moving feebly on the ground, as the officer holding his arm continued, "Sir, you're safe. We got him."

His knees buckled and he would have fallen were it not for that grip on his arm. The first officer walked around the front of the vehicle to stand in front of him.

"Mr. Fiorini?"

Sal nodded.

"Sergeant Barnard. Do you feel up to answering some questions?"

Sal nodded again. "Can I just... have a few minutes?"

Bruce fired the final shotgun shell at the target and lowered his weapon with a mental sigh of relief. He wasn't sure if he was gratified or appalled to realize that his pulse wasn't racing nearly as quickly as it had in his earlier sessions.

Brenner readied a new target. Bruce watched him, trying to use his fellow cadet's body language to gauge his score. Brenner had already told him that he wasn't going to say anything until they were done shooting.

"It's just that, right when you're starting to improve, it's as if you suddenly remember that you don't want to do this and you score lower on the next few targets," Brenner had pointed out.

Much as it galled him, Bruce had to admit that Brenner had a point. It was probably why, at home in the cave, he usually put the gun away once he achieved a respectable score on one target. He was setting his sights a good deal lower than he would for any other class, seeking a simple pass when, had it been any other discipline, he would have been striving to excel. And yes, there was a part of him that didn't even care to pass this course. It was just that he also cared very much about never failing at anything.

He knew that he'd erected a mental block in this area and if Brenner thought that holding off on letting him know the range results would break that block, Bruce was willing to consider the possibility.

"I think shifting your center was the right move, Sir," Brenner said when he returned. "We have time for one more, if you're up for it."

Bruce wasn't about to state that he wasn't. He'd practiced loading and reloading so many times that by now, the process was virtually automatic. He wasn't sure how he felt about that. Steeling himself for what was to come, he loaded the shells, rose to his feet and, as Brenner had suggested, leaned forward and tried to anticipate the recoil without tensing up.

This time, when Brenner returned, it was with Bruce's targets under his arm and a broad smile on his face. "Sir, your lowest score was an 82. That last target was a 98." His smile fell away. "I... I know you're probably not over the moon about it, but at least it proves that you can do this... even if you don't want to."

Bruce sighed. "A pep talk isn't really necessary," he pointed out.

Brenner shook his head. "Maybe not, sir. But then... I guess it shouldn't be necessary in the corral, either." He looked away. "And sometimes it's okay if not everything you get is strictly necessary. Sir."

Bruce picked up his shotgun and unused shells and started walking toward the firing range kiosk to sign them back in. "We're going to be late for class," he said.

Cass listened again to the short passage on Greek mythology. She understood the meaning of each word and the information that the paragraph conveyed. However, when faced with a question like, "According to the author's description, which of the following is most likely to be a message from Greek mythology?" her mind went blank. The answer wasn't in the text. It was something that she had to come up with on her own. But the test wasn't asking for her opinion, the way the essays did. There was a right answer, but she wouldn't find it in the paragraph text.

"Repeat," she said finally.

Again, the recording repeated the passage and the question. She concentrated on the choices.

"A. Love is difficult, but it will last if the lovers are meant to be together." Cass frowned. Love was difficult, no matter what. She didn't need Greek mythology to tell her that. She had only to look at Bruce and Selina or Dick and Barbara. Or her own... she didn't know if she could call it a 'love life' even.

"B. Resisting temptation and immediate gratification will ultimately lead to success." Not necessarily, but that message sat better with her than the first one. Her frown deepened. The question wasn't about which answer sounded most real to her... it was which one sounded like something the person who wrote the short text would think.

"Repeat."

Obediently, the audio test guide recited the paragraph once more:

Greek mythology is a vehicle that uses mythological characters and creatures to teach people about the dangers, beauties and possible outcomes of life. In many myths, characters face moral dilemmas involving honor and practicality. The protagonists of epics face creatures that represent values and challenges such as respect, temptation and redemption. How has Greek mythology inevitably evolved with time and new story tellers? Scholars who have interpreted Greek mythology seek to maintain the universal values conveyed in these stories, while ensuring the validity of adapting these stories to their own distinct cultures. It is up to each reader to seek their own truths and learn from epic Greek mythology as best they can.

Cass took a breath. "Pause."

"This test is paused," the recorded voice confirmed. "When you wish to resume, say: Resume."

Cass considered. Answer A still sounded wrong and answer B still made sense. "Resume."

The test guide moved on to the multiple choice answers.

"C. It is important to keep track of your personal history." It was. Very important. Cass's eyebrows drew together. Was there anything like that in the paragraph, though. Well, there was that part about adapting stories to your own culture. Was 'culture' another way of saying 'personal history'? Her frown deepened. No... culture was... was... Well, she didn't really know another word for it, but it wasn't 'personal'. It was something for a group. Coll... collective—THAT was the word she wanted. Cass listened to the other two choices, but B still sounded like the best one. She hoped. "B," she said.

The audio went on to the next question.

"Which word best describes the author's account of Greek mythology? A. Idealistic; B. Pessimistic; C..."

It took every bit of self control Cass had not to yank off the headphones and take out her frustrations on the Muy Thai boxing bag in the corner.

Sal Fiorini was late getting into the office. The police had needed his information for their report, but they were also compiling records on all suspected and confirmed zombie attacks, hoping for a common thread. They'd asked him to come down to the precinct to talk with one of the detectives assigned to the matter. Sal had been only too willing, but it was a typical night in Gotham City and there were higher-priority cases to attend to.

Sal hadn't really minded having to wait until the detective got around to talking to him. He'd left another message on Lucius's cell to let him know that he was all right and down at the station, and that he would give him the full details later the next day.

Then, he'd tried to make himself as comfortable as he could on the hard wooden bench, closed his eyes, and done his best to take a quick catnap. He'd tried to tune out the heated voices punctuated by sharp profanities, the squeaking of wheeled supply carts, the reek of cigarette smoke—smoking was, of course, banned on the premises, but the odor clung to hair and clothing—slamming doors, and other sounds he hadn't been able to place.

It seemed he'd only just managed to doze off when he heard someone calling his name. The detective—a kid who barely looked twenty-five, but who was already sporting a world-weary expression and fingernails yellowed from nicotine—was finally ready to talk to him.

Sal had been as forthcoming as he could, but the encounter had been over so quickly that he'd barely had time to absorb what had transpired.

By the time he'd finally got out of the station, the night sky had been starting to lighten and Sal decided to go home, shower, and get a bit more sleep. He didn't arrive at PMWE until shortly after ten.

As soon as he got there, even before going to his own office or taking off his coat, he was on his way to Lucius Fox. He knocked on the outer office door and entered unbidden.

A worried-looking administrative assistant half-rose from her chair. "He hasn't come in today, Mr. Fiorini."

Sal stopped in his tracks. "Is he ill, Fiona?" Lucius had insisted publicly that he'd fully recovered from a stroke he'd suffered some years earlier, but Sal had seen the stress that the CEO had been under, especially since Wayne's arrest. He hoped that the man hadn't experienced a relapse.

"I don't know," Fiona replied. "He just... never called in. I phoned his house and his wife said that she went to bed before he did last night and when she woke up this morning, he was gone. She assumed he'd gone in to the office early."

A cold dread settled over Sal, as he realized that he might not have been the only PMWE executive targeted last night. Oh, Lester, he thought to himself, what have you gotten yourself involved with? Or maybe, the better question would be 'Who?' Aloud, he said, "I'm calling the police."

Derek Powers opened up the bar fridge in his suite at the Metropolis Halldorf. He was whistling to himself, as he poured two and a half ounces of gin over the ice cubes in the cocktail shaker and added a quarter ounce of dry vermouth. He strained the cocktail into a martini glass and dropped in a green olive. He carried the drink to an upholstered ottoman chair, leaned back in contentment, and sipped the drink slowly. Intergang certainly knew how to treat their prospects, he thought to himself.

After he finished his martini, he remained seated, his finger absently tracing the rim of the glass for several moments before he set the glass down on an end table and reached for his phone. He supposed that he'd put off matters long enough.

With a sigh, he punched in Lester's number and felt his annoyance at performing the unpleasant duty drain away when his call went through to voicemail. "Hello, Lester," he said, trying—and failing—to coax some of the old deference back into his voice. "I'm currently out of town. I had a family emergency come up and I'm in Metropolis until further notice. So sorry I missed our meeting the other night, but the thing cropped up so suddenly. Anyway, I'll call you when I get back to Gotham. Have a good evening."

He ended the call, only mildly interested in why Paxton hadn't picked up. He'd been fairly sure that the man was laying low and trying to keep out of the public eye as much as possible. He couldn't help wondering what had finally coaxed the old fool out of hiding. With a mental shrug, he reached for the television remote and flipped to the sports channel. The baseball season had just started and, if he wasn't mistaken, the Metropolis Meteors were playing their home opener this evening against the Gotham Knights. Right now, though, the station was showing some kind of spring training highlights special. While it wasn't the main event, Derek reflected that it was a good way to kill a couple of hours before his meeting started.

Lucius Fox couldn't remember the last time he'd woken up with a headache this bad. He suspected that it might have been the celebration after earning his MBA, but perhaps, not even then. He groaned and tried to clasp his hand to his forehead, but it refused to move. That was wrong. He tried to turn over, but, to his horror, he couldn't move. His heart began to pound. He'd been semi-paralyzed some years ago, when he'd suffered that stroke, but it hadn't been like this. And it had only been on one side.

"T-Tanya?" he called his wife's name with some trepidation. "Tanya... Call the doctor. I can't move."

Instead of his wife's voice, he heard a heavy clanking and then another familiar voice said tiredly, "She can't hear you, Lucius."

His eyes flew open on a stone ceiling and he turned his head on reflex in the direction of the voice. "Lester?" He tried to get up once more. This time, he became aware of the restraints holding him in the padded dentist chair. Paxton was seated on the floor, his hands in his lap. Long chains attached to manacles at his wrists and connected to rings set high in the wall above. "What's going on?"

Paxton sighed. "Save yourself some pain, Lucius. When Scarecrow comes back—and he will come back, probably any minute now that you're awake—just... tell him what he wants to know. You will anyway. In the end."

There was no hint of Lester's customary bluster. Lucius found himself wondering what had been done to the man to wipe away his overbearing arrogance so completely. At the same time, he realized, he wasn't sure he wanted his curiosity satisfied. "What have you told him?" Lucius asked.

"I don't remember," Paxton said miserably. "He wanted to know about PMWE personnel... the new security systems," he laughed bitterly. "I couldn't help him with those. They must have been implemented after my leave of absence took effect."

Lucius was unable to suppress the fury he was feeling. "That explains what I'm doing here, then."

Whatever response Paxton might have made was swallowed by his whimper, in response to footsteps heading toward them.

Lucius did his best to square his shoulders and steel himself for the ordeal ahead.

"If I'd known you were coming, Circus," Lois greeted Dick with the tail end of the smile she'd given her husband, "I'd have bought a cake."

Dick's grin broadened as he thrust a string-tied, white cardboard box at her. "Strudel do?" he asked.

Lois accepted the offering. "You got it from Kupperberg's!" she exclaimed in mock-despair. "Maybe I should just get this over with quickly and apply it directly to my hips..." She paused to give her husband a quick peck on the lips, before turning back to Dick.

"Smallville did mention you'd be popping by at some point," she admitted. "I just hadn't realized it'd be this soon. And going by the quality of the bribe," she tapped the strudel box meaningfully, "you need a favor."

Dick raised his eyebrows. "I'd better tell Bruce to watch his back or he's liable to lose that 'World's Greatest Detective' title," he deadpanned. Lois giggled and stepped aside to allow him into the apartment.

"Have a seat," Lois motioned him to the living room. "I'm just going to put this in the kitchen."

Dick went in the direction that she had pointed, Clark close on his heels. It was barely a moment later when Lois rejoined them. "So, this isn't entirely a social call," she stated.

Dick's expression turned serious. "Afraid not. I need to know what you've learned about Intergang recently. They've been... making our lives interesting for the last few weeks."

When Harrier and Batgirl landed on the roof of GCPD that night, they were surprised to find Commissioner Sawyer waiting for them. Although things had improved considerably since the Akins administration, the current commissioner rarely communicated with them directly, preferring to let Montoya handle most contacts.

Yet, here she was, in a jacket that was slightly too light for the climate, her arms folded to conserve body heat, rather than to convey disapproval. "Batgirl," she said flatly. "Harrier."

Harrier took a step forward and inclined his head a fraction. "Commissioner."

"If the two of you are here," she frowned, "I take it Batman isn't out tonight?"

Harrier showed no surprise at her deduction. "He's away. We're handling things. What's the trouble?"

Sawyer hesitated. "I suppose that if he were here, he'd already know. Last night, there was an attempted abduction of a PMWE executive. He escaped. A second executive is now missing and we're treating his disappearance as a second one; a successful one. However, as there have been no ransom demands," she continued in a voice devoid of emotional inflection, "we haven't ruled out foul play either." She took a deep breath. "The missing executive is Lucius Fox."

Batgirl spoke up tentatively. "And... other?"

"Sal Fiorini."

Harrier nodded. "How long has Fox been missing?" He asked, all business. "And what time was the attack on Fiorini?"

"Both happened last night some time. I should tell you that there's been another missing persons report filed concerning a third PMWE officer, although that one could be unrelated. Lester Paxton has been missing for... probably about seventy-two hours at this point. His wife reported it a day ago; apparently, she was away at the time. The last person to see him was probably his butler, Sinclair Thackeray. We've questioned him, but at this point we don't believe that he or Mrs. Paxton are involved."

Harrier nodded again. "Even if Paxton's currently on leave of absence," he pointed out, "if someone is going after PMWE execs for information, he could still be a source. Thanks for the tip. We'll check it out."

Batgirl took a step forward. "Let Batman help," she said.

Sawyer frowned. "We're not stopping him. If he'd answered the signal, I'd have given him the same—" Understanding dawned on her. "Oh."

"Yes. Lucius Fox is his... friend. You let him help before. Now, too. Please?"

The commissioner shook her head. "The circumstances were different that time. Are you telling me that you're out of your depth? Because I have no objection to your bringing in the Teen Titans or one of the other teams, if you are. My people are already investigating, as well."

Batgirl shook her head. "Not... same."

"Batgirl!" Harrier shook his head. "Thanks again, Commissioner. We'll be in touch."

Sawyer nodded. She took a step forward. "Batgirl," she extended her hand. "For what it's worth, I agree with you. Batman—the original Batman—would be an asset on this case. But you were at his hearing. You know the terms of his release. I can't countermand those without a very good reason—for example, if he were the only person capable of dealing with the situation. Are you prepared to go on record and tell me that's the case here?"

Batgirl's shoulders slumped in defeat. "No."

"I'm sorry," the commissioner said. She would have withdrawn her hand, but Batgirl took it in her black leather glove and held it for a moment.

"Me, too."

"Good luck."

The opulence of the corporate boardroom was at complete odds with both the Suicide Slum address and the decrepit façade of the building. A rich damask carpet in black and red covered the floor. A crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling, the light sending rainbows onto the cherry-finished table.

Seated in a leather executive chair, Derek Powers looked about him, feeling decidedly uncomfortable. He recognized many of the others at the table from his visits to the Iceberg and from various news stories: scions of Gotham's crime families, corporate executives, others who were known to have money and power, even if they rarely flaunted it. Many of the people around the table were ordinary in appearance, but there were some standouts, like the mummy in the trench coat a few seats away. He wondered what Intergang would say to them all when they got here.

Next to him, Mr. Fix rose from his seat. "I'll be back in a moment," he grunted.

Powers nodded absently. He'd been a bit surprised to be directed to this address when the message had come to his hotel room. He didn't have a lot of experience in dealing with this sort of crowd and he had no idea what to expect. Everyone seemed to be acting as though they were calm and in control, but here someone was drumming their fingers on the table and there someone was polishing their glasses for the fifth time in ten minutes.

The owner of the Iceberg Lounge, who had taken a seat by the door, squawked into his cell phone and left the room in a hurry. Powers wondered what that had been about. A vibration in his own pocket had him checking his own phone. The text read only "Get out now!"

For the briefest moment, he wondered whether it was someone trying to spook him. Then he realized that most of the real movers and shakers either hadn't shown up or were suddenly nowhere to be found. Trying to appear casual, he tried the boardroom door, half-expecting it to be locked or guarded and wholly relieved when it wasn't.

Once out in the hall, he looked about and saw a hand beckoning to him from a partly-opened stairwell door. He headed toward it, recognizing Fix's sleeve. "What?"

"The room is soundproof," Fix said tersely. "And a carpet that color can hide bloodstains very well."

Powers blinked at him in dawning comprehension. "This is a trap."

"Oh, no, my good man," a new voice spoke up from a flight below. "This is a test. A way to winnow the wheat from the chaff, hmm?"

Powers was about to reply when they heard the gunshots. The stairwell door opened and someone burst through and then slumped to the ground. Blood pooled around him. He groaned, but did not rise.

"Save it!" Fix snapped. "Let's get out of here!"

The owner of the Iceberg had already descended another flight or more. Fix and Powers hurried as quickly as they dared, taking care not to slip on the creaking wooden stairs as they ran.

As soon as the two men entered the boardroom, False Face knew that his suspicions had been correct. While most of the people already seated were killers, whether they'd given the orders or pulled the triggers themselves, the newcomers were a bit too cool, a bit too detached. They weren't looking for trouble, they were trouble.

They stood facing the closed doors, as a voice emanated from a speaker—a convex circle of wire mesh set in the middle of the conference table. "Welcome to you all. I am pleased that so many of you chose to accept our invitation. In this meeting, I intend to lay out the roles that I see each of you playing in Intergang's Gotham operations." There was a pause. "Certainly, our initial overtures are likely to be met with hostility in some quarters. We need to ensure that such hostility fades quickly. We need to warn those quarters not to interfere. YOU will all serve as that warning."

As the voice finished speaking, the two men in front of the doors pulled assault rifles out from under their trench coats and commenced firing.

False Face approximated a pained cry and fell to the ground, clutching at his side. He took care to knock his head against the table leg as he dropped, at an angle that would rupture the small sac of red liquid that he'd secreted on his temple between the layers of bandages. At the same time, he removed a pin from the lining of his suit jacket pocket and used it to puncture a larger bag that he'd positioned over one kidney. For several long moments, he lay on the carpet with the others, eyes closed, barely daring to breathe, until the doors opened and closed once more, and footsteps receded down the hallway. Then he got up and brushed himself off.

"Amateurs," he sniffed.

"Gardeners," the same voice announced from the middle of the conference table. False Face froze, startled. There was a slow chuckle. "Winning and losing is all part of the game," it continued. "Sometimes, the other players are just a little bit better. Things happen, even to the best players." The voice paused. "Intergang has considerably less patience with those who let greed override good sense and blunder stupidly into peril. Sorry about this little subterfuge, but we do need to weed out some old growth before we can set down new roots in Gotham."

"I... I quite understand," False Face said, feeling somewhat dazed.

"Yes," the voice replied. "Yes, I'm sure you do. Have a safe trip back to Gotham, sir. And tell Dr. Elliot that we applaud his choice in lieutenants, will you?" There was another chuckle and the connection cut off.

False Face waited until his pulse had returned to some semblance of normality before he left the conference room, still trying to let the events he'd just experienced sink in.

In a private booth at the back of Chez Joey's, three Gotham visitors dug appreciatively into 16-ounce filet mignon steaks, taking care that their hands never touched the metal dishes—Chez Joey's signature repast was presented to clients on plates that had been heated to 500 degrees.

"I miss not watching them prepare it," Powers admitted. "The last time I ate here, it was in the main dining hall, in full view of the open kitchen."

"And full hearing of the other patrons," Cobblepot pointed out.

"I didn't say I was complaining," Derek replied, raising a glass of Cabernet to his lips. "Only comparing."

Mr. Fixx lifted another morsel to his lips. "I'd say we got out of that just in time," he rumbled. The other two men nodded.

"I appreciated the warning," Powers returned. He glanced at Cobblepot, then back to Fixx. "So," he said, "what happens now?"

Cobblepot cut a largish piece of the meat and crammed it into his mouth. "Well," he said, between chews, "I'm coming to appreciate your companion's judgment. If he thought you were worth getting out of that room, perhaps we can come to a mutual agreement."

Powers did his best not to show disgust at Cobblepot's dining habits. "I'm listening."

"Intergang has just delivered a major blow to most of Gotham's prominent... families," the portly businessman said slowly. "Oh, he hasn't destroyed them. The heads—the true heads, at any rate—didn't come to this meeting, but many of their trusted seconds did. Mark my words, sir, they will be hurting. I'm sure that some will consider allying against a common threat, but such coalitions are swift and fleeting. It's only a matter of time before bad blood tears them asunder. They'll be left weaker than before. Then..." he smiled, "then, my organization can sweep in and collect the pieces."

"And Intergang?" Fixx asked delicately. At Penguin's hesitation, the younger man shook his head. "I admit I've been working with them until now, but you see, I'm allergic to double-crosses. When I experience them, I react by developing new friends."

Penguin chuckled. "Most wise, my good sir. To answer your question, I'm more than happy to work under Intergang. I'm sure they'll need some local talent. It's merely good PR. And it might be in their best interest to have," he straightened and cleared his throat self-importantly, "the scion of one of Gotham's own aristocracy firmly in their corner."

"With you taking a cut of operations wherever possible," Fixx stated.

"I've said nothing of the sort," Penguin retorted, his eyes narrowing. He looked at the other two men meaningfully. "Well?"

Fixx nodded. "I'm in."

"As am I," Powers nodded. "What now?"

"Now?" Penguin asked. "We wait and watch for the right opportunity."

There was silence when Harrier finished talking. His eyes flicked from left to right, pausing briefly on each teammate. "Well?" he asked finally, "Who's in?"

"You're sure he doesn't want us to go easy on them?" Ravager demanded. "Because if that's what he wants, he can damned well forget it."

"I'm sure," Harrier said. "Joker's not going to handle them with kid gloves, just because they're new. Well," he frowned, "actually, Joker sometimes likes to pull something like that because it's random and out of character and unpredictability is part of his charm. But the statement holds for most of the other costumes. The real world isn't going to go easy on rookie cops. Neither should we. Apart from making sure that, at the end of the exercise, they're all still alive and free from serious—or permanent—injury. Nothing that would require a medical absence."

Ravager nodded. "Got it. We can't kill 'em, but we can sure make 'em live through a lot."

"Just remember," Wonder Girl pointed out, "Batman's going to be there watching. The original Batman. The scary one. You do not want to be on his bad side."

Dodge gulped theatrically. Kid Devil winced.

"Is he really that bad?" Static wondered aloud.

Miss Martian nodded. "Ohhhh, yes."

"Remember," Wonder Girl said, "we'll probably be facing about thirty opponents, give or take. They've got the numbers. We've got the training and, in some cases, the meta powers. But. They'll also have Batman as their strategist. On the other hand," she grinned, "we've got Harrier as ours."

Kid Devil cleared his throat. "Is it too late to change teams?"

Ravager giggled. Harrier glowered. "I repeat," he said, pointedly ignoring the question, "who's in? As a Titan?"

Wonder Girl's hand shot up, followed almost immediately by Dodge's. Miss Martian and Static followed suit. After a moment's hesitation, Ravager joined them. Kid Devil sighed. "Yeah, sure," he said. "Anyone wants me I'll be in my room. Updating my will."

"Very funny," Miss Martian laughed.

"Who's kidding?"

"Right," Harrier sighed. "Strategy brainstorming session tonight at eight. Think about what might work and we'll discuss it then. By the time the weekend rolls around, I want to know that we've got a real plan of action. Questions?"

There were none.

"Meeting adjourned."

Most of the team trooped out. Wonder Girl remained. "Are you okay?" she asked, seeing him slowly sink into his chair and press a hand to his forehead.

Tim nodded. "I suppose. I just don't know how any team I lead is going to stand a chance against Batman." He squared his shoulders. "But I guess that's something we're going to find out."

He walked over to a computer console and began typing. "Meanwhile," he sighed, "I've got something else to worry about. If I were Scarecrow, where would I want to hide a couple of kidnapped executives and a zombie production factory?"

When Bruce returned home, there was a message waiting for him. Before he played it back, he scrolled through the phone memory to see whether he recognized the number. His eyebrows shot up. The call was from a WE line, though not one he knew by heart. Curious, he played it back.

"Um... Mr. Wayne... Bruce, it's Sal Fiorini. I'm not sure if I should be telling you this," the head of building security sounded tense, "but it's occurred to me that you might have some insights that the police won't. Bruce, I was nearly abducted last night. It looks like Lucius might have been taken by whoever made the attempt on me. I thought you might know some people you could call in to investigate..."

Bruce was scribbling notes as he listened to the rest of Sal's message. Mentally, he was swearing a blue streak. As soon as the call ended, he pressed the disconnect button. A moment later, he was dialing another number from memory.

"Commissioner Sawyer," he said, trying not to snarl in her voice mail, "I need to speak with you urgently..."