Thanks to Kathy and Debbie for the beta!
"This Can't Be Good" written by Timothy DeArmitt and Blake Shelton. Recorded by Blake Shelton on his Pure B.S. album (Warner Nashville, 2007).
Think I see the blue lights comin' through the woods
It's the sheriff and his posse, this can't be good
Everybody is runnin' like the end of the world is comin'
With a Buffard T kinda law man closin' in
—Timothy DeArmitt, Blake Shelton, "This Can't Be Good"
Chapter 41—Blue Lights
For one instant, M'Gann M'Orzz stared at the flame on the end of the long wooden match in Scarecrow's hand, frozen in terror. Then training took over and she leaped into the air. Her body elongated, her legs fused together and her arms melted into her torso, while her head grew longer and thinner, tapering to a point. The green javelin that she had become shot smoothly through the slot in the cell door into the corridor and soared upwards, flattening like a pancake against the high ceiling overhead.
"Douse the match, Scarecrow," she hissed.
The spindly-limbed villain laughed. "Or what, my dear?" he asked. "It seems to me that you have a small problem with open flame. And while I might not be able to reach you at that height, I don't think you feel particularly safe meeting me at my level. Stalemate."
Silence greeted him. Then a single droplet fell from the ceiling passing within a scant half-inch of the match.
"I don't have to," she called down. "Not when I'm dripping gasoline. And not when you're holding fire that close to the straws in your costume. You're right about one thing, though," she said. "I do have a problem with open flame. That means I won't be able to get close enough to save you once that match hits dry tinder..."
Scarecrow stared in horrified fascination at the wooden match, now barely one third of its original length. With a cry, he flung it to the ground. It hit a gasoline droplet and a spike of flame shot up several inches.
"Right," Miss Martian said. "Now..."
A current of hot air blasted from a vent in the ceiling and the green-skinned teen plummeted from the ceiling with an agonized scream, as a woman's voice sounded over the loudspeakers.
"Dr. Crane! We're about to have company. Meet me in the catacombs!"
Scarecrow hesitated. He took a step toward the stunned Titan. The voice sounded again. "There's no time for that! Besides, do you want to be nearby when she recovers? Move it! Her team just arrived and they're heading your way!"
That was more than enough for Jonathan Crane. He raced down the corridor, rounding the bend just as the rest of the Teen Titans came storming from the direction he'd just come. Ravager chased after him in hot pursuit but returned a few moments later with a disgusted look on her face. "Lost him," she muttered. "He went down a level and by the time I got there, he was gone." She bent down to where the rest of the team was clustered around M'Gann. "How is she?"
Miss Martian wasn't seriously hurt. The heat blast was painful but hadn't done any real damage and the fall had only knocked the wind out of her. Within a moment of coming to, she was already kicking herself for letting her quarry get away.
"We'll get him," Harrier reassured her as he set about jimmying the lock on the torture chamber door. "But first, let's see about the prisoners."
"He has an accomplice," M'Gann said. "A woman. In the... the catacombs."
"From what you've told us about Gotham's underground, it's got to be a maze down there," Wonder Girl exclaimed.
Harrier sighed. "Probably." He jiggled the lock-pick in his hand and muttered something under his breath when the door didn't respond.
"You report to Batman with that mouth?" Ravager demanded.
"Would you like to try this?"
Wonder Girl took a deep breath. "Kid Devil, we need a map of the catacombs. Find out if Oracle has one." She looked at Miss Martian. "Any clue if they're on foot or in a car?"
The green-skinned girl shook her head.
"Probably on foot for now," Harrier said absently, as he focused on the lock. "After the Quake, the city cleared the subway tunnels, but most of the other passages are still littered with debris. I mean, they're stable," he explained. "It's not like the ceilings are likely to collapse. But there are a lot of rocks and stuff on the ground. I don't see anything short of an ATV getting through that mess. Of course, if they make it to the surface..."
Miss Martian smiled. "Even if they do," she said, "I tagged Scarecrow with a tracer before his accomplice turned on the heat."
Harrier grinned back. "Well, all right!" he said.
"Then on foot or on the road, they won't get far," Static snapped. "Let's get these geezers out of ye olde house of horrors and get moving."
A half-hour's stumbling while running with flashlights brought the Scarecrow and his accomplice to a getaway car, parked several feet away from a tunnel to the outside. "It's gassed and ready," the blonde woman gasped. "Get in."
"Splendid, Doctor Friitawa," Crane puffed. "I'll drive. You direct our thralls to discourage pursuit."
Friitawa jumped into the passenger seat as Crane slammed the driver-side door shut. "That won't occupy the Titans for long," she said, typing on her mobile as she spoke. "We only kept the two zombies."
"Two zombies, one injured teammate, and two hostages—one of whom is likely to be as irritating to those brats as he was to me?" Scarecrow chortled. "It'll be long enough."
He gunned the motor and headed down the dirt track that led to the expressway.
"Can't you make this thing go any faster?" Dodge demanded as the Redbird sped down the Aparo Expressway. "Man, we could've been out of there a lot sooner if that old guy had just shut up."
"Dodge," Kid Devil warned.
"You could at least have let me leave him on the astral plane!"
"It was tempting," Harrier admitted. "But no. At least that teleportation trick worked on the zombies."
"Seriously," Static said, "they're accelerating. Can't we put a little more pedal to the metal?"
Harrier kept his eyes on the road. "We're not the only drivers on this road," he pointed out. "Unless Dodge can teleport us—car and all—directly behind Scarecrow, making sure we don't land on another car and don't plow into him, this is fast as we get."
Kid Devil sighed. "Well, maybe the girls can catch up." His eyes tracked the night sky, where Miss Martian's white sailor blouse and the gold accents on Wonder Girl's costume shimmered in the moonlight, guiding them onward.
"You think he knows they're up there?" Static asked.
As if in answer, the getaway car peeled off the asphalt and onto a dirt track. Harrier expelled a soft breath. "I don't believe it." He hit the hands-free comm-link button on the Redbird's dashboard.
"Wonder Girl. Miss Martian. Break off from pursuit."
"What?" From the back seat, Ravager echoed Wonder Girl's incredulous response.
"Break off. Meet us at the picnic area about five hundred yards ahead and I'll explain." He closed the channel with a chuckle. "I almost feel sorry for them. Almost."
"Excuse me?" Static breathed.
Harrier looked away from the road for an instant to flash a smile at the passenger seat. "I know where that track leads. Do you remember when you said that Scarecrow was figuratively hiding out in Bruce's backyard?" he asked, fighting not to laugh. "Well, things just got literal..."
An intermittent beeping was the first indicator Bruce received that someone had breached the estate perimeter. He was out of bed and running for the cave in seconds. He was just settling in at the security array when every screen went blank. An instant later, Oracle's glowing electronic visage appeared on each one. Bruce bit back a growl. "This is not a good time."
"Oh, it's about to be," Oracle sounded amused. "Got any pent-up frustrations you need to vent? Purely in self-defense, of course?"
"Get. To. The. Point." Bruce gritted, even as his fingers began keying the commands that would override her access.
"I had a call from Harrier. Scarecrow just drove through access point A-4 and seems to be tearing up your Chardonnay vineyard. The estate paths aren't well-lit and he's pretty much driving cross-country. Probably be within sight of the outbuildings in about five minutes."
Bruce blinked. A-4 was one of several emergency exits he had for those times when the signal went up but accessing the cave would prove difficult. To the best of his recollection, he'd last used it when he'd needed to slip away during a society party to respond to the signal. Upon opening the door to his study, he'd discovered the vice president of Scheele Industries locked in a passionate embrace with the estranged wife of Alderman Pettigrew. Neither one had noticed him, but from the look of it, they probably wouldn't have noticed if the draperies had caught fire, either. Judging that a confrontation would only delay him longer (and make it that much easier to pinpoint when he'd disappeared, should anyone miss him), Bruce had quietly closed the study door, gone to the garage, taken one of the four sedans that could convert to a Batmobile at the push of a button, and left via the access point in question. He'd had to get to one of his safe-houses en route to change into costume, but he suspected that it had still been faster than it would have been had he tried shooing the interlopers out of the study.
He hadn't thought about that access point in a long time. How could Scarecrow have found it? He remembered now. In warmer weather, an ivy curtain would have completely concealed the opening, but at this time of year, the tunnel would be more visible. Likely, Scarecrow didn't know where he was going. At this hour, all he would have registered was the dirt track connecting the estate with the main road. Bruce began to smile.
"I suppose I could get an early morning workout in," he mused aloud. "What would the estimated police response time be to a 911 call made from this address?"
"You're going to let them handle it?" Barbara sounded surprised.
"Only if they arrive very quickly," Bruce deadpanned.
"Looks like about eight minutes," Barbara replied.
"Ah." He sighed. "No, I don't think they'll arrive anywhere near fast enough, but I suppose I ought to call them."
"As any law-abiding citizen should do," Barbara said primly.
"Of course."
"Where are we?" Friitawa asked nervously. There were no lights and from the bumps and jolts, she couldn't even be sure if they were on a road. She thought she could make out trees, their branches barely distinguishable from the night sky, and they seemed to be driving past a hedge or low wall of some kind, but that was all she knew.
"Hopefully where those costumed brats can't track us!" Scarecrow shot back. "I don't know where we are, but we have to come out somewh—" The words died on his lips as they both heard the loud bang of metal on metal. It wasn't until Scarecrow discovered that they were flying backwards that he realized that the car they were driving had been a major component of that bang. The vehicle turned two complete circles in the air, before landing on its side and rolling upside-down.
Behind his mask, Scarecrow groaned and turned to his companion. Seatbelts had probably saved the both of them, but what had caused them to spin out of control in the first place? "Dr. Friitawa?"
His companion turned blearily toward him. "Jonathan?" Then, face flushing, she corrected herself. "Doctor Crane! What happened?"
He struggled to free himself. "We hit something," he muttered. "I don't know what."
"Well, weren't you paying attention to the road?"
"Of course I was!" Crane snapped, finally releasing the seatbelt. He fell several inches, knocking his head on the roof of the car. "Something just... came up out of nowhere." He managed to get the door open and ungracefully rolled out. Lurching to his feet, he took a few shaky steps.
"Aren't you going to help me?" Dr. Friitawa called to him.
Ignoring her, Scarecrow kept walking. She sighed with annoyance and set about getting her own door open.
Watching the security array from the cave, Bruce allowed himself a brief smile. He'd often wondered when he'd have occasion to use the retractable steel bollards, particularly those situated at the farther reaches of the estate. He nodded with satisfaction when he saw a second figure emerge from the overturned vehicle and hurry after Scarecrow. He didn't need to deal with the sorts of questions that would have arisen had his security systems caused permanent injury. While the circumstances would likely have exonerated him—Scarecrow and his accomplice were trespassing, after all—and Bruce did have reason to believe that they posed a danger to him—he knew full well that there would still have been questions until that verdict came down. It was just as well he wouldn't have to deal with them.
His eyes narrowed as he watched the two intruders heading in the direction of the old pasture. Now, what surprises did he have there...?
He glanced at one of the security screens and noted the two police cruisers, now less than a mile from the main gate. No time for anything fancy, then, Bruce decided. He simply needed to incapacitate them and let the law take it from there. At least, until such time as he embodied the law himself, he mused. Surprisingly, he found that prospect less irritating than he might have only a short time earlier.
He was almost whistling as he activated the alarm klaxon.
By now, the two trespassers had lost all sense of direction. They were blundering through a wooded area, the alarm wailing in their ears, and hindered at every step by thorny shrubs that snagged at their clothing and by heavy roots underfoot. Friitawa trailed several steps behind Scarecrow and tried not to cry out as the branches of the trees her companion shouldered through sprang back and lashed at her face.
Then, the ground gave way beneath Scarecrow's feet and he shrieked as he plunged into darkness.
"Professor Crane!" Friitawa screamed.
"Down here. I can't move..." he called. "Some kind of net."
"Stay there. I'll... I'll get help," she said.
"Help? From who?" Scarecrow demanded.
His only answer was a loud snap, followed by rustling leaves, and almost immediately by a loud scream. "Doctor Friitawa?"
"Help me!" she cried. "I'm caught!"
Ten minutes later, four police officers and one academy cadet arrived at their position to discover two immobilized criminals: Professor Jonathan Crane entangled in a net stretched several feet below the opening of an old dry well and Dr. Linda Friitawa dangling upside down from a tree branch, one foot caught in a snare trap.
"You know, Mr. Wayne," one of the officers said, "I think I'm beginning to understand why you've been able to keep living here unmolested, despite your past activities being a matter of record."
Bruce shrugged diffidently. "I've always valued my privacy," he remarked. "Enough to invest in strong security systems, at any rate."
Standing now with his hands cuffed behind his back and restrained by two other officers, Scarecrow gave a start. "This is your house?"
Bruce smiled his blandest socialite smile. "Well, my land, anyway," He fought not to laugh at Friitawa's look of pure horror.
"Mr. Wayne? Did you want to press charges?" one of the officers asked. "Trespassing, property damage... possible criminal mischief..."
Bruce regarded the prisoners for a long moment. "No," he sighed. "No, I believe that if you check in with your dispatch, you'll discover that they're already facing quite enough charges already, pertaining to the recent zombie outbreak and their abduction and forcible confinement of two PMWE executives. Frankly, officer, I think they're in more than enough legal hot water without my contribution. Particularly since I'm almost positive that the damage they've caused here was less malicious and more a case of their being in the wrong place at the wrong time." For an instant, he dropped the smile. His eyes went flat and he deliberately lowered his voice an octave. "The most wrong place possible, in fact."
Scarecrow gulped.
One of the officers stifled a laugh. "Sorry these folks disturbed you. I was in the Academy class before yours. Based on that experience, I know you probably need all the sleep you can get."
"I'll manage," Bruce said, affable once more.
"I'm sure. Well... have a good rest of the night, Mr. Wayne. We'll take care of these two."
As the officers moved off with their prisoners in tow, Bruce could hear Scarecrow bemoaning his ill fortune in taking a shortcut past Batman's kitchen window. He smiled. He was going to have a wonderful rest of the night.
"Heard you had some excitement last night," Captain Alanguilan remarked when Bruce and Brenner reported to the stables after their classes were done.
"Huh?" Brenner glanced at Bruce.
Bruce stifled a sigh and kept his face expressionless. "Yes, sir."
"At ease, Cadet," the captain smiled. "My niece was over at your place to collect your trespassers. We talked after she came off duty."
"Ah," Bruce nodded. There had only been one woman among the officers, as he recalled—the one who had recently graduated the Academy. "Yes, Scarecrow and his accomplice did pay me an unauthorized visit last night, Sir."
"Interesting security measures you take," Alanguilan remarked.
"Yes, sir."
"I hope you also intend to turn them loose on your fellow cadets this weekend."
Bruce's eyebrows shot up at that. Clearly, the Academy had a very good grapevine. "Sir?"
"Statistically speaking, I'd think they're at least as likely to encounter security systems and booby-traps as they are meta-crims, wouldn't you say? Now, I'm not going to pretend you didn't do good work in the past and you've got people out there who are still. The fact remains, when your duty is to serve and to protect, you can't help but feel you aren't carrying it out when you're spending too much time waiting for someone else to step in, when if you knew how to go about it, you could probably handle things yourself." He smiled. "Let 'em fight teen heroes who are going to be pulling their punches all you like... but show 'em how to pick locks and avoid surveillance cameras too. Extra unarmed combat drills and stealth tactics wouldn't go amiss either." He nodded to Bruce and then to Brenner. "Carry on, Cadets."
Bruce watched him leave. Then he turned to Brenner. "Better hurry with the tack. Time's wasting."
"Yes, Squad Leader," Brenner acknowledged smartly. Then, a breath later, "Scarecrow broke into your house last night?"
"He didn't get anywhere near that close," Bruce replied. He was still considering Alanguilan's words. "I'd intended Saturday to be more of a chance to hone our existing skills in a more relaxed environment."
"But you're thinking of stepping it up after what the Captain said?"
Bruce sighed. "Sound out some of the others. If enough people are interested, I've no objection. However, we should keep in mind that everything we do on Saturday would also be taking away time that could be spent reviewing the material that we are going to be tested on here. As much as the Captain has a point, I don't think it's a good idea to spend a full day learning more advanced tactics and techniques at the cost of failing mandatory courses."
"Me, Sir? Shouldn't it be you?"
Bruce shook his head. "This needs to be a free decision. If I make a suggestion, it's going to be seen to carry more weight, because of my experience. As well as my academy rank."
"But if it's coming from me, it's still going to be your suggestion. It'll just be... filtered."
Bruce nodded. "The captain wouldn't have made the suggestion if he didn't think it was a good thing," he clarified. "He isn't wrong. However, the captain is not going to be tested on the material we're responsible to cover. Let the others know that the suggestion was his, but make it their choice. While I'm willing to instruct, I'm not about to pressure anyone who might be having enough trouble just staying the regular course. If the message comes from you, I suspect that those who want to decline will find it easier."
Selina finally managed to get a handle on her laughter after Bruce finished relaying the events of the night before. "I just wish I could have been there!" she managed. "Just for the look on their faces when they realized where they were!"
Bruce raised an eyebrow at the video chat screen. "Only for that?" he asked.
Her smile dimmed a fraction. "No. No, not only," she said sighing. "I really was hoping we could be back by tomorrow. Helena's second birthday won't be the same without you."
Bruce nodded. "You realize that if Scarecrow couldn't get past the Manor's defenses, there's a good chance that Intergang would have similar difficulties."
Selina sighed again. "I was never worried about the Manor's defenses, but I don't think it's healthy for anybody to stay holed up there indefinitely. I took Helena to an indoor kiddy park today. She spent a couple of hours playing... well, not with, but around a bunch of other kids, I got a chance to swap parenting tips with some very nice mothers and fathers, and we stopped off at Burger Barn for supper on the way home. And yes, I know that you'd happily install an indoor park at the Manor for her and we could have ordered from some place that delivered... but a gilded cage is still a cage and I don't plan on spending an indefinite period inside one."
Bruce winced. "I understand that," he admitted. "Far more than I might have three years ago."
"Bruce..."
He forced a smile. "Dick is in Metropolis. Hopefully, this matter will be resolved sooner rather than later." He pressed his fingers to the screen.
She copied the gesture. "Hopefully. I wish you could have called earlier, before I had to put her to bed."
Bruce nodded. "Another time," he managed.
"Yeah." She closed her eyes. "I miss you," she said.
"Likewise." There was a painful lump in his throat. "I... I have material to review."
"I'll let you get to it then," she said quickly.
"Stay safe."
"Y-you too." The screen went dark.
Bruce stared at it for several long moments, before he took a deep breath and reached for his assignments.
Derek Powers took an early flight back to Gotham. He needed time to think. Too much had been changing too fast and he needed to slow down. He'd always had a particular genius for knowing who to latch onto and when to break away and connect with someone new. His stewardship under Lester Paxton had been rewarding for a time, but that time had reached its end. In a safety deposit box in the First Bank of Gotham, he had hardcopies—evidence of some of Paxton's shadier dealings, squirreled away in case his mentor had ever tried to set him up to take the fall for a failed scheme. So far, he'd never had occasion to use it, but he meant to hold onto the material indefinitely. One day, he might need a favor from the man and, should Paxton seem reluctant to help him, it was only sensible to be ready to provide an added incentive.
He considered his dinner with Cobblepot. The little man's affected mannerisms and somewhat comical appearance might make him seem inconsequential, but once he'd gotten past the pomposity and superciliousness and actually paid attention to what Cobblepot was saying, he'd realized that there was a keen, calculating mind under that boisterous joviality. The biggest mistake that he could make, Powers thought, would be to discount Cobblepot as some fool of no consequence. Come to think of it, that had been where Paxton had gone wrong, too—taking a façade at face value and worse, ignoring the mounting evidence to the contrary. No, Cobblepot was dangerous. For the moment, they were on the same side, but one day, that would likely change.
As soon as the plane landed, he sent a text to Fixx. Find out what you can about Oswald Cobblepot. I'd like to learn everything I need to about our new associate. He waited for the acknowledgement before putting his phone away.
Depending on what Fixx uncovered, Powers thought he might be visiting that safety deposit box again in the not-too-distant future.
Councilor Neal Jandt sat on the leather sofa in his basement and looked at the bottle of scotch on the coffee table before him. Carruthers' words were still ringing in his ears.
"I'm sorry, Neal. Since you've asked me to take an interest, Wayne hasn't even gone over the speed limit. There's nothing—and I do mean nothing on his record that could hurt him at that hearing and there's a hell of a lot that would help him."
He hadn't wanted to give up. "Surely, you can come up with something," he'd insisted.
There had been a long silence. When Carruthers spoke again, his voice had been measurably colder. "I'm going to assume that you've been under a lot of pressure lately, what with the troubles with your brother coupled with that new proposal to raise corporate taxes in the downtown core. You must be getting it from all sides. Or maybe I'm misunderstanding you. Because, Councilor, unless I have severely misunderstood you, you've just asked me to commit a serious ethics violation to harm the first person you couldn't intimidate into keeping your younger brother's activities hushed up."
"You ungrateful son of a—"
"Neal," Carruthers cut him off. "I know that's anger and family loyalty talking, but I'm not going to sit on this line and listen to you swear at me. Calm down. Cool off. Get some perspective on the situation. And let this go."
"Sid, you can't do this! He's got it in for me and my family. Who knows what he's capable of! He ruined Alvin and now—"
Sid cleared his throat. "I shouldn't be telling you this, Neal, but I will anyway. Wayne went to the mat for your brother. He even brought in police oversight to make sure Alvin got a fair hearing. I'm sorry that the verdict wasn't to your liking, but that was none of Wayne's doing. Alvin's out. Accept it and move on. And Neal... Try not to drown your sorrows. You always were a mean drunk."
"Don't you dare hang up the phone on me, Sid! Don't you..." He broke off when he realized that he was talking to dead air.
So. Now he sat staring at a bottle of scotch and arguing with himself about whether to drink it. He'd tried calling Alvin earlier to tell him not to give up—only to have Michelle tell him that her husband was asleep. At two in the afternoon, 'asleep' meant either 'not sober enough to come to the phone' or 'passed out and dead to the world'.
He reached for the bottle. He wasn't like Alvin, he told himself. He only drank when he was stressed and he was seldom stressed unless he was dealing with the fallout from one of Alvin's stunts. After the conversation he'd had with Sid, he needed a drink. Hell, anyone would need a drink.
He started to pour out a glass. Then he stopped himself. He was the only one in the house who drank this stuff. He didn't need a glass. He raised the bottle in a silent toast to his re-election prospects and took a swig.
"...This is a passing grade." Cass smiled to herself as she turned off the CD. She'd heard the line enough times not to demand endless repetitions as she had in the past—even though this was the first time that the machine had said it to her for a Social Studies section.
She could do this. It wasn't easy. She'd spent weeks on this section, both with the audio-book study guides and with Dr. Arkham's drills. At times, she'd felt like giving up. Then she'd told herself furiously that she'd never run from a fight before and she wasn't going to start now. She could do this. Maybe she couldn't do it as well as anyone else she knew. Maybe a 420 was only barely a passing grade for the section. But it was a passing grade. Four months ago, she knew that she would have been lucky to have achieved half of that score. She was getting this. Even if she was getting it slowly, she knew that it was sinking in.
She thought about what Dr. Arkham had explained to her about the GED scoring. In order to pass, she needed to score a minimum total of 2250 across the five sections, with no section score below 410. If she scored at least a 450 in each section—math, science, reading, writing, and social studies—she would pass. If she scored between 410 and 440 in one section, she would only pass if her scores in the remaining sections were far enough above 450 to balance the low score and bring her final combined total to 2250 or better.
Cass pressed a hand to her forehead. She was routinely scoring over 580 in math and science now, but some sections on the reading test were dragging her down. The writing section continued to plague her, despite Dr. Arkham's assurances that she was improving. A 410 in Social Studies was good for her, but she had a sinking feeling that it wasn't going to be good enough. She couldn't count on a pass, she realized, unless she brought her scores in those three sections up to 450 or better.
It wouldn't be enough to do it once, either, any more than it was enough to be able to defeat any other opponent once. Invariably, someone would seek her out demanding a rematch. And they would come at her with different moves.
Unless, by some incredible good luck, the GED exam that she would write would be comprised of the identical questions as those on the practice test that she had passed, she couldn't allow a single test score to make her complacent. She needed to keep drilling until she knew the material cold.
She squared her shoulders and reached for another practice sheet. She was nearing the end of the exercises that Dr. Arkham had made up for her. She wondered whether he'd have created more when she met with him again.
Cass closed her eyes, thinking. Dr. Arkham had really been doing so much to help her. She ought to find some way to show her appreciation. As much as she'd come to like and respect him, as much as she thought she had a good idea of the kind of person he was, it occurred to her that she had no idea whatsoever of what kind of gift would mean the most to him. She didn't know whether he enjoyed art or music or fine coffee. She didn't even know his favorite color.
She had a strong suspicion, though, that if she asked him about any of this, he'd either retreat behind the defensive shell he'd maintained in the hospital, telling her not to pry into his personal life... or he'd harrumph and tell her that no thanks were necessary. It would do no good for her to try to tell him that they were very necessary—for her. And, she suspected that if he told her no thanks were necessary, his body language would convey a different statement entirely.
That was something Cass had a hard time understanding: if it was normal to want to be thanked, to have your efforts noticed and acknowledged, then why did so many people try to act like they didn't? And why was being ungrateful considered a bad thing if so many people seemed embarrassed to be shown gratitude?
She massaged her forehead. At least, she could have gratitude that questions like this weren't going to be on the GED.
As she looked at the first question on the practice sheet, she resolved that she would try to pay closer attention to what Dr. Arkham said in their sessions. Maybe from that, she would be able to glean some hint as to what sort of gift he'd appreciate.
"So you're not coming back this weekend?" Barbara pouted, trying to hide her genuine disappointment behind an exaggerated sad puppy-dog face.
Dick smiled at the face that looked back at him from his Skrype session and shook his head reluctantly. "Not with what's just gone down here. I can't."
She understood that. Of course she did. Still... "Yeah, I guess there really isn't anybody else in Metropolis who can handle stuff like that. No cops, no capes..."
For a moment, his smile widened, acknowledging her point. Then he shook his head. "You know there's more to it than that. Intergang is making a move on Gotham. They've just managed to simultaneously tick off every major crime family in Gotham that sent a representative to that meeting. Maybe they think that'll intimidate any opposition when they try to set up shop, but if they've miscalculated, we all know what comes next."
Barbara pressed her lips together tightly and nodded. "Another mob war," she said heavily. "More guns on the street."
"More civilians in the crossfire."
"The Families will be split between forging alliances to deal with Intergang and jockeying for a bigger piece of the Underworld pie."
"If only," Dick said grimly. "More likely scenario," Dick pointed out, "has Intergang sitting back and waiting until the Families get antsy. Sure they'll be out for blood, but they'll get to a point where they won't be all that particular about whose. The alliances will start to break down as the Families turn on each other. Then, after infighting thins the herd, Intergang sweeps in and picks up the pieces." He pressed his palm to his laptop screen. "I can't let that happen, Babs. I've got to nip it in the bud here. Maybe Superman and the MPD can contain things, but I can't afford to count on that."
He looked at the clock at the bottom of his laptop screen. Superman would be flying by to pick him up soon, which meant he needed to end the call. Something in him rebelled at ending it on a down-note, though. He grinned. "Besides, Gotham was in one piece when I borrowed it from Bruce. I'd like to be able to return it to him in the same condition or better."