This being human is a guest house.
Every morning a new arrival.

A joy, a depression, a meanness,
some momentary awareness comes
as an unexpected visitor.

Welcome them all in

-from The Guest House by Rumi

Supergirl sipped an empty juice box, fingertips drumming in boredom. He was late again. The cafeteria was emptier than usual, allowing her to see the absence of her tall cousin (even without x-ray vision).

"You know, this is the first time you've taken me out to lunch in forever." Black Canary walked by with Green Arrow, taking a seat across the room from the Kryptonian girl.

The green-figured man cocked an eyebrow. "What about last week? Best lobster joint in Star City."

"The crab cakes were nice. Right before Merlyn attempted to assassinate the president."

"Hmmm. The Chinese place?"

"Technically, that was a stakeout on Roulette."

"Yeah, but the chow mein was amazing."

"And before that Club Verdant…"

"That's right, drug bust next door. What about the sushi bar?"

"Saved the world from an alien invasion."

"Was that after Deadshot's birthday party?"

"Before."

"Although, I did almost make it back in time for cake."

The blonde woman winked. "Emphasis on almost."

Arrow barked a laugh. "I swear the villains are out to get my love life."

The woman cocked her head, smiling ever so slightly. "Did you say love?"

The man almost choked mid-bite. "I mean, romantic life…Wow, this is delicious cordon bleu."

"Right." The blonde tried not to smile. "Gotta admit Ollie, this is a romantic spot. Floating millions of miles above the earth."

Arrow's course battle-scarred hand reached for her slight gloved hand under the table. "And what a great location, Dinah. No villains—hopefully—to interrupt dessert this time."

Supergirl covered her ears. Times like this, she wished she did not have superhearing. Kisses sounded so gross.

A young man in gold armor and olive-skinned woman walked by, followed closely by a blue-clad man whistling a little too innocently.

Fire shook her head. "…Can't believe you took J-onn's oreos, Booster."

"Hey, Ted did it. I just ate them."

A red blur halted the Brazilian babe. "Fire, you heard about the carnival this weekend? Volunteer here."

"Ooh, sign me up. My country is all about carnival."

Booster looked nonplussed. "Pass."

"Still need volunteers for the kissing booth."

Blue Beetle looked up. "In that case, where do I sign?"

Flash zoomed across the room to the now-interrupted couple.

"Ollie, we still need someone to run the darts game. Seeing as you're the best marksman around. Besides that Hawk guy."

"That guy isn't even real. The Avengers is just a movie."

"Right. Now you're probably gonna try and convince me comics aren't real, either."

Ollie wanted to object, but felt like arguing with the Flash would be like arguing with an ADHD diagnosed twelve year-old. Gotta pick your battles. "Darts sound fun."

"Sign me up, too."

"Actually Canary, what about the kissing booth?"

Canary met Arrow's worried look. "Sorry Flash, I'm taken." She winked.

Flash shrugged. "Too bad."

Arrow grinned. "Not really."

Across the room, a familiar red cape and S insignia swooshed. Kara's face brightened. "Kal! About time."

"Sorry Kara, business first."

"Oh. Okay."

Superman flipped through a clipboard, stopping in front of the Flash. "Good news from the office. My editor agreed to run advertisements all this week. Lois got some camera crew friends in Central, Star, and Gotham City to come down on Saturday."

"You rock Big Guy." Flash scratched his chin. "Who's Lois?"

"Uh…she's just a friend." You didn't have to be Superman to catch Booster's dry remark under his breath "That's not what the history books say."

"Anyway…" Blushing, Superman hefted a stack of flyers.

"No way! These look legit."

"Fresh off the press, courtesy of the Daily Planet."

"Dude, there's enough for like every citizen of the Tri-State area."

"All we need is someone to pass 'em out."

Flash scoffed. "Done and done. Hey Booster, you up for some paper deliveries later?"

"Depends. Me and Ted might be busy."

"I'll bring a bag of oreos."

Some offers can't be refused. "Deal."

"O que as crianças," Fire muttered to herself.

Finishing with shift times and general logistics, Superman took his leave, sitting down next to his young cousin. "Thanks for waiting."

"Long day?" Supergirl asked.

"It will be. Orion requested J-onn and I for a mission. Looking forward to Apokolips again." Supergirl recognized the sarcasm in his tone. Sarcasm being one of the first concepts of earth culture the Kryptonian girl learned.

"Amazing you have a minute to spare."

"For you? And pudding? There's always extra time."

The girl's bright smile returned. "Good thing I saved the last one."

"You always were my favorite cousin."

"I'm your only cousin."

He patted her head in affection. "Same thing."

The girl thought a moment. "Kal?"

"Mph," her older cousin responded, mouth filled with chocolate.

"What's a 'carnival'?"

The big man thought of the old days in Smallville. His eyes glistened with nostalgia. "It's a place to play games and win prizes. I mostly went to eat candy and have fun. Lots of families go together."

"Oooh, like the Kryptonian tri-annual festivals in Kandor!"

A beep sounded. Both knew the League earpiece signal well. The girl sighed. "If anyone can save the world, you can."

"Sorry to cut lunch short."

"Wait—this festival, are you going?"

"Of course. Superman promised four cities he would." He stood up, using that authoritative tone for the earpiece comlink. "Roger that, J-onn, see you in the hangar."

"Kal, maybe we could go together."

"Sure. Gotta go, Kara." With a blur he was gone, leaving his cousin alone.

"Together," the girl repeated to no one.

"…Like a family."

Supergirl stirred the now-cold soup. The days on Krypton were long gone. Maybe she hoped for too much.

Fog. Strange for so late in the summer, thought Alfred. Clip. The foggy tendrils advanced slow and deliberate, hovering ghostlike over the grounds of Wayne Manor, inching like cat's feet up the cobbled stones of the walkway. Clip. Alfred, in his usual calm demeanor, placed the newly clipped marble-white roses in the worn basket. After checking the Batcave every hour and cleaning the mansion spotless (twice), the garden and its lonesome blossoms provided him company.

Still. His steady exterior reflected the professionalism of one in the domestic service, yet the creased furrow betrayed his worry. Two weeks and nothing. Even when besieged in the terrorist nation of Bialya with the JLI, the trusted butler had less worries for his charge. "At least there were news reports," he muttered. Clip. Not like recently. No voicemails. Not even a cough on the comlink. Sigh. Master Bruce never did consider the courtesy call a mark of good manners.

Wiping his forehead, Alfred looked over the gray veranda. A lifetime of memories in so small a place. He could clearly see Mr. Thomas sitting just there, reading his great poetry volumes aloud, lovely Martha listening to the soft baritone. Clip. She walked the grounds every morning, sometimes pausing to pray. Clip. Master Bruce read adventure books among the thorny castles. Clip. The young, happy family catching fireflies. Clip.

The butler knelt down, reaching for the lowest buds. Stopped. Hesitated a long moment, touching the jagged cuts across the stems. Feeling the wet spatterings. Blood. Recent. He thought quickly, making sure. Of course. Throwing the gardening apron to the ground, Alfred hurried down the manor lawn, out of sight. Feet swallowed in the billowing veil as he hurried, praying he wasn't too late. Behind lay the roses: Someone else had recently cut them. And that someone could only be one person.

He knew exactly where that person would be.

"Ollie!" Green Arrow looked up at the hopeful grin of the Flash. "I need some help."

"I already signed up for the darts game, remember?" said Arrow.

"Not about that. It's, um…" he lowered his voice. "See, there's this girl I kinda want to impress."

Canary thought to herself This I gotta hear.

"Fire and Ice say you're the smoothest cat around. A regular playboy billionaire."

"Billionaire, yes. Playboy, not so much."

"Don't be modest, man. Lots of leaguer chicks dig you."

Canary's eyes narrowed. "Chicks? As in plural?"

"Don't know what he's talking about."

Bam. Ow! Flash flinched. A gig green boot kicked him under the table. Arrow shrugged, trying to give his fellow male a pointed look. Flash continued, oblivious. "Anyway, Fire totally worships the ground you walk on." From the next table Fire sent a little wave their way. "Quite the achievement, seeing as she's Brazilian."

Arrow's voice had an edge of desperation. "Can we talk about this later?"

"No, please." Canary tossed her hair. And not in a flirtatious way. "Continue."

"And you don't even have super powers! Like a boss. Come on, what's your secret? Ice said she had a great time last weekend."

Canary shoved her tray onto the ground. "Think I'll skip dessert."

"Okay—I may have gone out with other leaguers—in the past—"

Canary was already making her way across the room.

"Dinah—wait—"

"Let GO!" Canary's sonic scream pushed Arrow to the ground, winding him. The ear-splitting shrieks followed Canary out the double doors, leaving the cafeteria and its occupants. Booster broke the silence, nudging Fire. "As your century says in the common vernacular—Awkward."

"So—you two are—together?" blurted Flash, finally getting it.

"Not anymore."

"Never would've guessed with that hat," Blue Beetle muttered.

"Um, Ollie?"

The League as a whole did not condone killing. But the way Green Arrow was glaring, Flash knew he'd better make like lightning. Just in case.

The lone figure continued to stare. The long Burbury coat and expensive suit exuded rich billionaire socialite the city believed him to be. But look closely, and you'll see something intimidating. Indescribably sad. Hands in pocket, Bruce watched the fog swirl around the ancestral crypt, name plates of relatives from centuries ago. Sorrows buried alive.

Thomas Wayne. Martha Wayne. Beloved parents. Death, be not proud.

He laid the ghostly roses across the epitaphs. Those paltry words were not worthy enough of the people they described, not loud enough to tune out the gunshots, the pearl necklace. More than twenty years ago, and he could still see his mother's necklace breaking. Pearls splashing into the dank sewage of the alleys.

Bruce knelt by the final placard, placing the smallest rosebud by the most recent inscription.

Jason Todd. Do not go gentle into that good night.

The pearls splashed into flames. Flames roaring with triumph, finishing their last supper. Blinded and running and praying and searching and, at last, seeing the crumpled figure. Illuminated by the frenzied light, he lifted the bruised, bloody body.

"Master Bruce?"

Opening his eyes, the foggy visage extinguished the fire. He heard the old man's exhale of relief, straightening his suit coat, steadily approaching into the clearing of the gravesite. The hallowed ground preserved in a misty chokehold.

The master and butler stood next to each other in customary silence. The former in unreadable meditation. The latter in good manners. Alfred waited a good thirty seconds, cleared his throat, tried to sound nonchalant.

"Quite the weather we're having." Pause. "Nice coat, sir. Looks very sharp." Pause. "The nighted color makes one look slimmer, I hear."

Alfred made the tiniest cough, giving a pointed look. Clark once joked small talk was the bane of Bruce's existence. (It wasn't—Bane was another story altogether.) Though right now he knew Alfred would keep coughing and raising his eyebrow until he had a response.

"Didn't know you'd be up this early, Alfred."

"Any English butler worth his salt is always on duty. Like the U.S. postal service, only substantially more efficient."

The foggy silence returned.

"I wasn't going to bring this up sir, but knowing you dislike a full voicemail, there are several messages I must relate. One of my boring butler duties, I'm afraid. Three from Master Clark, two from Wayne Enterprises about the upcoming gala, one from Master Dick, and five from a young man who addressed me as 'dude.' "

"Do me a favor and delete the messages, will you Alfred." He could guess what they were about. Just like Clark to check up on me, he thought. The man had power beyond human imagination, but not the slightest intuition into his best friend.

"None from Diana?"

"None, sir. Though the young lady stayed all day yesterday, awaiting your return."

The tiniest of acknowledgements from Bruce. Alfred was trying to decide if the young man was disappointed or relieved to have missed her. He cleared his throat again, this time business-like.

"Now, shall I make chamomile tea sir, or something a bit more breakfast-like? Perhaps pancakes?"

"Not hungry."

"Hmmm. Ham and cheese omelet it is."

Bruce stood unmoving, that faraway fog in his eyes.

"Master Bruce? Are you all right?" The butler started. "Good heavens, your hand—it's bleeding."

"A skirmish at the docks."

"Come, we'll get you cleaned up—"

"It's nothing."

"—A nice rest and cup of tea—"

"Leave me alone." The word echoed in the stillness. Alfred backed away, a tinge of hurt in his aging eyes. Bruce felt the familiar pain from somewhere deep inside his chest. Great. Something else to feel guilty for.

"I'm on a case, Alfred. Can't stay."

"Beg your pardon, you've just arrived."

"To pay respects. Nothing more."

"For goodness sake, you haven't shaved in days. When was the last time you've slept? Eaten?"

"I can take care of myself."

"That is exactly what Master Jason used to say—"

"Jason is dead." The fog swallowed the gravelly reply. The flames seemed to advance from the shadows. "Have you forgotten that?"

Though soft, Alfred's next words seemed to shake Bruce's core. "No sir, I have not."

Alfred's old frame stood regarding his ward, one aged in years, the other in heartache. "Not a day goes by I do not think of his smile. Of your parents. But you. I get on my knees and thank God every day you are still here."

Bruce rubbed the temples near his eyes, refocusing his thoughts, rubbing out the flames clouding his mind. Alfred placed his hand on Bruce's broad shoulder in a paternal gesture.

"Sir, please consider Master Richard, Ms. Barbara. Have you forgotten them?"

"Batman couldn't stop the Joker from Jason. But maybe, just maybe he can stop this arsonist before he strikes again."

"At what cost?"

For the dark knight the answer was simple. "Whatever it takes."

Alfred gave a look that sent a chill of fear up Bruce's spine: a look of absolute pity.

"It wasn't your fault sir. That Joker maniac killed Jason. Not you."

"No." Bruce shook off the hand, an indecipherable mask devoid of emotion slipping over his face. "But I didn't save him, either."

A morning lark's call sounded, shrill and sharp. Its lost offspring called, in all hopes to be found in the foggy twilight. Alfred's attention was distracted for only a moment, but it was enough. The lone figure disappeared into the fog. Alfred was left alone beside the grave site.

Obscured by the smoky mist, a marble angel was seen stop the crypt steeple, cherubic face wet with the moisture. As if it were crying.

Linda Park didn't notice at first. Stepping through the newsroom door, she scanned the interview questions for the police chief, glancing through the stack of papers in her hand. She didn't notice the perpetually noisy newsroom quieting down, watching her every move.

A tap on her shoulder. "Excuse me, Miss Park?" The zit-faced intern asked in a nasal query. "You're needed in the front office."

"Can't, Timmy. I'm on in five."

"Mrs. Brown assigned Bob the story." Before Linda had time to whirl around in disbelief, Timmy whispered "Mrs. Brown wants to see you. Right now."

"Did she say what about?"

"Nope. But…It's urgent."

Terry Brown was Channel Four's respected boss. For all her time working with the station, Linda had never heard Mrs. Brown call a matter "urgent" except to either A) chew them out B) fire them or C) all of the above. The interns said her eyes glowed with omega beams. Whatever that meant.

Linda was more than worried, but cleared her throat to prove otherwise. "All right. Lead the way."

The march to the front office took forever for only twenty yards. Timmy left her at the threshold, mouthing "Good luck!" before closing the heavy door. Mrs. Brown was facing the far wall, back turned to the reporter waiting in heart-beating apprehension.

"Enjoying the weather, Miss Park?"

"Of course."

"No telling how long clear skies will last."

Linda tried not to linger on the metaphorical significance of that statement as she began, "Mrs. Brown though I respect Bob as a colleague, I've been on this story since last week—"

Terry held up a hand. Linda kept silent. The unreadable chief leaned back in her creaking chair. "Remember what I said to you? After the Flash museum?"

Linda's heart was beating so fast she had to search in her memory. "You wanted me to take a break."

"And you came into work anyway, refusing to quit. I didn't think you were ready to keep going. It's not every day you're threatened by homicidal maniacs on the job-though Vicki Vale tells me Gotham is a whole 'nother ballpark. See, anyone can be a reporter. But a good one, hmm, they gotta make choices. Of what news to follow, and what to let go. . ."

Mrs. Brown extracted a manila folder from the desk drawer. Red letters stamped TERMINATION CONTRACT glared from the folder's face. Here comes the severance package, thought Linda. Her short journalistic career flashed before her eyes.

Terry continued. ". . . I'm a little baffled, to be honest. You've always done good work. Consistent, keep on your toes. Still, this came as a surprise." She hefted the manila folder, reaching for a stack of papers underneath. "Darn desk needs some serious re-organization," she muttered. "Aha!"

The old boss slid a flyer across the table top, waiting for a response. Linda stared in disbelief, not understanding the significance of the brightly colored paper. Linda gripped the flyer, scanning the exclamation points and elementary-school style scribbles.

"The 'super friends?' "

"Your next assignment."

Linda was at a loss for words, still smitten with shock.

"Miss Park, while you were out investigating the fire downtown, a certain spandex-clad Central City citizen personally requested Channel Four's coverage at this charity event. Out of all the seasoned reporters I named, he only wanted one. Can you guess who that could be?"

"So—you're not firing me?"

The hint of a smile crossed the chief's lips. "Not now, at least. I expect you and Marla to be on-location at the carnival all night. Interviews with attendees, rich donors, and our sister city's golden boy. Biggest story of the year, no mistakes. Any questions?"

Linda managed a reply. "Nope, none whatsoever."

"Good." The still-in-shock reporter was dismissed, walking airily to the door.

"Oh, and one more thing."

"Yes, Mrs. Brown?"

The boss known as tough rolled up her sleeve, revealing a wrinkly tattoo: the lightning emblem of the Flash. Linda just stared. For some things, there are no words.

The chief's intimidating eyes twinkled. "Bring me an autograph, Miss Park? I'm a big fan."

Park Row Theater. The tarnished sign hung limp against the building's entrance. The old Spaniard's walking cane tap, tapped against the sidewalk slick with fog. The darn leg was acting up, and was this an appointment he couldn't be late for. He rounded the corner, all the while scanning the deserted street for any signs of scum. Always gotta be on your guard in this town.

His calloused hands shook unlocking the heavy gilt-framed doors, the handle creaking in rusty protest. The door's great jaws swung open. Dust and stagnant air invaded his lungs as he looked around, soaking in the darkness. A noise from the doorway. "Who's there?"

"Just me," came the voice.

Mr. Bazulto relaxed. "Beg your pardon, Mr. Wayne."

The prince of Gotham stepped into the corridor, the swish of his long, dark coat stirred dusty air, angry for having been disturbed. He offered a handshake to the old man.

On the surface the billionaire nodded courteously in the manner his good breeding encouraged, though underneath the pleasantry he took it all in a detective's glance: Arturo Bazulto Herrera, former theater owner; Surname, olive skin and European-styled mustache allude to ancestry in Spain, Asturias by the crest on the mahogany walking cane; impeccable English from a high-class education and years in the states; chronic limp, an old war wound from the 70's, putting him in his late sixties or early seventies; ironed suit, starched collar and polished manners retained an air of professionalism; yet the faded suit edges denoted hard financial times due to unemployment. Also: the last living man to have known Mark McFly.

Ergo: the latest lead to the Batman's case.

"Thank you for agreeing to the appointment, Mr. Bazulto."

"In truth sir, I should be thanking you." The old man said it courteously enough, and yet with wistful punctuation. Fumbling behind the ticket booth counters in semi-darkness, he located a small counter around the corner. "Sorry about the dark, won't be a moment." Sounds of clinking glass, the pouring of oil. "She's a unique theater, last of her kind. Built before electricity." The striking of matches. "Gotta do everything by lamplight."

"That's why I love this theater. Antique. Unique. A treasure worth preserving. As you know, Wayne Enterprises tries to preserve the city's classic architecture." A match burned out, a Spanish swear word from behind the counter. "Need a hand with that light?"

"Oh, I'll be fine. I may be the owner, by I'm a stage hand at heart. Been so most of my life." At last, the lamp ignited. "Besides, I've been burned before. We all have, in a way."

The lamplight set the room aglow, while at the same time deepening the shadows. Mr. Wayne continued. "Very kind of you to meet me in person for the exchange. A chance to see the theater one last time before I buy it, perhaps."

"Perhaps." The old man was gazing at the walls, shadows haunting the background. "So many memories here I can't forget."

Gunshots sounded. Pearls crashing. A child sobbing. One too many, Mr. Wayne thought to himself.

The old man tap, tapped into the lobby, facing his guest. Took a deep breath. "Sir, how noble an endeavor to restore this theater. Truly. Dios knows she has seen better, brighter days. But…" He paused. The old Spaniard turned, the oil lamp illuminating his tired face. Reminiscent of a ghost king.

Tightening his grip on the cane, the old man stood his ground. "There is something you must understand, something your secretary and lawyers over the phone did not."

Mr. Wayne tensed. At last.

"Tell me."

The old Spaniard raised the lamp, limping ahead into the darkness. "It will be better if I show you."

Keystone Theater: destroyed in explosion.

Central City Theater: destroyed in explosion.

Metropolis lab: robbery site.

Pyrotechnics: theatrical style.

Ergo: arsonist seeking revenge.

. . .So who benefits?

Slim: (former) Fence. Recently killed in explosion. News reported a gas leak. Most likely false.

Mark McFly: last employer of Slim. Most likely his murderer.

Mark McFly: reported as "missing person" since last year.

Mark McFly: last employed at Park Row Theater.

The closest matches to the profile led to this spot. A news article about a fire brought up a lead at least worth looking into. Odd in the way that the theater was not much changed from his eight year-old memory. To think, he walked these tiles with his parents that final night, so long ago.

Despite vowing to never return, he forced himself on. With every step closer Bruce Wayne took, he sensed Batman was one step closer to the truth they were both seeking.

His reverie segued back into Mr. Bazulto's voice.

". . .Park Row Theater is no stranger to tragedy. My first year as stage manager way back in '75, a girl fell into the orchestra pit, broke her leg. A few years after that, two murders after the Zorro film festival." Here Mr. Bazulto half-turned with a pointed look, head shaking in regret. "They were Gotham's finest patrons."

A grim smile. "Gotham's finest people."

"I was in the projector room when I heard the gunshots. Damn shame." The old man paused in front of the double doors, the cane tapping to a halt. "Here we are sir, the main stage."

For a gal about a hundred years old, the theater didn't look her age. A thin film of dust covered the velvet upholstered seats, rows in all directions, curtained balconies above. Still, the vastness held a classic air. Of better days frozen in place.

Mr. Wayne drew closer to the stage, gazing at the white cylinders circling the stage lip. "I remember these. Quite unique nowadays, if I'm not mistaken."

"Those are the stage limes. By igniting the calcium oxide (normally called quicklime) fueled by oxygen and hydrogen gas from the pipes below, the light lit the limes edging the stage—hence the term 'limelight.' "

"Hmmm. Imagine that."

The old owner stood still, as if in reverence.

"Beautiful, eh? With the place lit just right," he mused motioning to the smooth-curved fixtures lining the stage. "There is something mesmerizing about the. Make you think time stands still. Whatever mistakes you made, whatever fears you may face, none of it matters in the illusion of light. That's why we kept the classic lamps. You'll never forget those little limes of fire, like flies in a dream. That's what I wanted all my theater patrons to feel. To remember."

He blew a puff of dust away from the nearest seat, wiping an eye.

"After that the area became Crime Alley with all the elite afraid to come back. Sales plummeted. But we managed, show by show, for years. Until about ten years ago. Our head light technician died of heart failure mid-show. Macbeth, of all things. Almost closed the old girl down. If you'll follow me downstairs, sir."

"Then came Mark McFly. An amateur light tech from Central City. He understood the lights, fires, the spectacle. Really made the shows shine, brought in the theatrical, you know? So we got more patrons, sales started climbing, highest since the 70's. Couldn't believe it. A godsend, I thought…until last year…"

The trembling Spaniard paused in front of a tall metal cabinet.

"Mr. Bazulto, are you all right?"

"Quite well, sir.

The old Spaniard leaned against the metal cabinet, pushing with all his frail might. The guest added his weight, pushing the dead metal weight across the floor. From behind the unassuming tower was: a door. Normal, except for the faint blackened edges. Mr. Bazulto produced a short golden key from his breast pocket, proffering it to his bewildered guest. He nodded, encouraging his guest to open the ominous entrance.

He did.

He tried to speak, but could make no words for what he saw. The barest semblance of a room lay in shadows. Charred chunks of blackened, rotting ash clouded the air. Whatever furniture or objects – or person—was in here left only scarred dust.

Mr. Wayne looked up from the ashes. "I don't understand."

"Do you know why these doors closed down?"

A dismissive shrug. "Something about an accident with the pipes frightening the patrons. None dead, though several major injuries sustained by crew members."

"None dead…that we reported."

Mr. Wayne looked puzzled.

"It was closing night of La Dama del Alba, exactly one year ago today. I was up on the catwalk working the storm effects before la Peregrina makes the big reveal in the last act. Then the limes start flickering. The flames shrinking, growing much too high. Then nothing. The audience is cheering, thinking it's all part of the show, but I could hear what they couldn't. The screaming from down below. Could see the stage hands fleeing the basement, running like they were chased by a bat out of hell. I jump down, tripping, falling on my bad leg, limping as fast as I could. But by the time I reach the corridor. Well."

"What did you see?"

"A sound and a fury if ever there was. The walls rocked. Shook the stage above. By now the audience knows something is wrong. The blast knocks me clear of my feet. All smoke and confusion pouring like unbridled purgatory.

"Then. . . Thought my eyes were playing tricks on me, but there it was, glowing. Out of the smoke I saw a glow. Faint, coming closer. It was him. Mark. Covered in ash, stumbling, with a dying flashlight in one hand. Mumbling, with an odd glint in his eye. Repeating over and over."

"What?" The captivated listener barely dared to breathe.

" 'I couldn't save him.' "

The captivated listener shuddered. Mr. Bazulto raised a clanking key into the cabinet's rusted door lock, the heavy door creaking open. Inside the box's lifeless air hung an ashen-colored mass: Heavy material topped by a thick mask, eyes obscured by insect-like red lenses.

"Mark's old suit. Made it himself to handle the quicklime ignition. Makes you fireproof up to nearly 5,000 degrees Fahrenheit. So you wouldn't get burned, you see."

He reached his hand inside the folds of the suit, searching, pulling back a framed photograph. The old man nodded. Mr. Wayne peered closer for further inspection: A middle-aged man in the heavy suit, holding a smoldering torch. Next to him stood a younger version of the owner. Off to the right a teenage boy. Dark hair framed a cocky grin, street-wise by the look of his eyes. Almost like Ja-

"Gary." The old man's voice echoed from the doorway into the black hole. "An orphan kid."

The kid jumped off the car hood, using the momentum to down the running mugger, pinning him immobile into the gutter. Just like the old bat taught him. The masked boy crowed triumphantly.

"Not bad for a boy wonder, huh slimeball?"

"Mark found him sleeping in the theater green room one night."

The mugger rolled like lightning, reaching for the gun —

"We gave him a job as a techie, got him out of the gutters. The kid had a lot of fire, learned fast."

— But Jason saw it coming. Without flinching he knocked the gun away, finishing the guy off with a roundhouse kick to the face. The mugger sagged, out cold.

"He taught him all he knew, gave him a home. The kid never said it, but Gary looked up to Mark."

A cloaked figure landed in the shadows of the alley, glaring at the boy.

"What is it now, Bats?"

"He had a gun."

"Big deal. So does like 90% of Gotham."

"See, Gary was passed on from foster home to home, what with his parents killed in an accident."

"You should have waited for me."

"Puh-lease, I can take care of myself."

"So we took care of him, like a family."

The silent glare let the boy know his mentor was serious.

"Okay, okay. I'll be more careful."

"Mark was the closest thing he had to a father. He lived for his approval."

"Still." Jason's masked eye looked up. "How'd I do?"

A small smile. "Not bad."

"Gary was working the gas room. The gas line, the quicklime, the sparks. Kid never had a chance. Mr. Wayne?"

The guest handed back the photo. "So nobody reported his disappearance."

"Most policemen in this town aren't picky when it comes to bribes. So when they asked if there were any losses-"

"-You covered it up. Wouldn't want a death deterring business. Not that it worked."

"No. Mike was blacklisted from every theater, couldn't even get a gig as a janitor on vaudeville in Suicide Slum. Once your name's burned, it's as good as dead in this business."

"How ironic," Mr. Wayne quipped, with a tinge of disgust.

"Look, I'm not proud of what we did, but that's why I'm telling you this. I have to make it right. With you, the police, everyone. That's why you can't buy this theater. I can recommend a hundred more but please, let the dead bury the dead. Leave Gary's ashes be."

"Then why tell me? I'm just interested in the theater, not retribution."

"Voices cry from the dust."

"I'll think about it." Mr. Wayne casually slipped on leather gloves, indicating the meeting was over. "Oh, and this Mark McFly. What happened to him?"

Mr. Bazulto sighed, looking older by the minute. "I helped him out when I could. Paid for a bag of groceries, let him sleep on the sofa. But he always vanished into the night. Until he was admitted to the asylum. Attempted arson/suicide."

Bingo. "And you haven't seen him lately?"

"Visited him about three weeks ago. He was talking about Gary. Poor guy. Guilt like that burns you alive."

"It wasn't your fault, sir. That Joker maniac killed Jason. Not you."

"No. But I didn't save him, either."

"Haven't seen him for a while. They say he-well-"

"Vanished?" The old man nodded. They were at the main stage already. "I'm truly sorry." Mr. Wayne offered a parting handshake. "I wish you the best."

The old man managed a smile, though his eyes looked weary. "Think about it, Mr. Wayne. Que le vaya bien."

Creak.

"Hmmm. Must be the bats."

Creak.

"Sometimes they come through the attic."

But Mr. Wayne was not listening. At least, not to Mr. Bazulto. He paused, grabbed the old man by the shoulders, yanking him sideways to the ground.

Just as the stage exploded.

At first he thought he was blind. And he was, for a moment. Yet slowly the formless masses before him registered not as oblivion, but as a world on fire. Rimming the stage lip, the flames formed their own phosphorescent curtains, cloaking the darkness in eerie yellowish-green. He could feel the heat even thrown yards away into rows of seats, where the cushioning was no help whatsoever. He rolled over, ignoring the ubiquitous already-forming bruises to search for any other sign of life. There-a crumpled shape laying in the corner, just underneath the balcony.

"Mr. Bazulto? Can you hear me?"

The old man was breathing, but not moving. "Can't feel…my legs..."

Moving someone with a back injury is not advisable by any medical professional, especially not knowing the extent of the damage. Then again, the alternative could return any moment. So weighing the opportunity cost was worth the risk. "Stay calm, it will be all right."

The flames danced. Onstage the inferno flickered, glimmered, shimmered. The unearthly silhouette hissed from the depths. The gray-green presence was glowing, blood red inhuman eyes with their insect-like dead stare looming ever closer to Mr. Bazulto, the old man's eyes wide with fright.

"What do you w-want?"

It was frightening, looking into the soulless insect eyes.

"My suit, of course."

The old man's frightened eyes glinted in recognition. "M-Mark?"

The being shifted, but did not respond at first. With seasoned ease, the glowing hand sparked a luminescent orb.

"Every man's work shall be made manifest: for the day shall declare it…"

...The fireball ignited.

"Because it shall be revealed by fire…"

…And flew with deadly aim.

Time seemed to freeze as Bruce Wayne considered his position. The old Spaniard was struggling under rubble, outmatched, out of the game with a bum leg, and well-advanced in years. From his vantage point ten yards away, he was out of sight. The danger of the situation was no question. Trying to save the old man was a foolish choice compared to simply sprinting for the exit. These options ran his mind in milliseconds.

Of course, for the Batman, there was only one option. Besides-he was never truly unprepared.

The scene sped back into real-time. The fireball released. The old man couldn't see much, but his Spanish intuition sensed the end. So when he heard the slice metal slicing the air and the simultaneous clang and boom upon boom of explosions, he had to blink a few times to confirm his surroundings were not the afterlife. Indeed, contrary to his prior belief, they were not, though he couldn't make sense of the scene: Mr. Wayne leaping seats and tumbling from aisle to aisle, throwing what looked like little metal boomerangs.

Flaming pieces of ceiling rained on the sparring figures, a suitable ambience correlation for the ensuing action as that infernal thing threw fireball upon fireball, drenching the place in hell.

"This doesn't concern you!"

"Too late for that."

The insect head tilted in derision. "Your funeral."

If not for the gravity of the situation, the Batman would have added the sardonic cliché to his running tally. How many times had he heard that line? From the utility belt previously hid by his trench coat, he let fly three tiny canisters. The gases cloaked the room-at least, what was left if it-sending the assailant into a blinded huff, unable to see through the impenetrable smoke screen. Mr. Bazulto could see nothing from his corner under the balcony. Strong hands grabbed his shoulder, covered his mouth, blocking any air—no. It was Mr. Wayne. Not cutting off his air, but motioning not to make any noise. The angry thing in the far corner stomped, emitting sparks for illumination, but to no avail. The more he tried, the harder it was to see. Mr. Wayne hefted the older man in a fireman carry as quickly as he could moving forward with the stealth of ninjas, stifling the urge to groan or pant under the strain. The old man navigated by silent motions. He knew the theater well enough to navigate blindfolded, though with a bitter acknowledgment of irony, never actually thought he'd have to do so.

"Where are you?!" thundered the fiery insect. To the left, a tuft of air eeked through the cracks of the double doors. The exit was close.

Wait.

The lack of noise from the far side brought not respite, but an eerie silence.

All at once angry fireballs let loose in all directions in an arc, slamming the wall, the balcony-

"Look out-!"

Rubble of wall and chair flew in all directions, concussing the already-injured men into the wall. At the last second Mr. Wayne turned his body, taking the brunt of the impact. The old man moved with care, pushing himself off the broken floor. His shaking hands felt an arm, then a shoulder. Mr. Wayne lay face down, his shredded shirt smoking and bloody. He was vaguely aware of the blood running over his eyes, the room dimming in the beginnings of a concussion, of the approaching heat and dreaded glow of the insect head inspecting his prey. "Just had to get involved, huh? Too bad."

Flames roaring with triumph, finishing their last supper. Blinded and running and praying and searching and, at last, seeing the crumpled figure.

The insect head was terribly close.

Illuminated by the frenzied light, he lifted the bruised, bloody body. Jason.

The fading man was vaguely aware of a pressure on his shoulder. The old man's hand. A gesture of thanks for his valiant effort and farewell combined.

So close. Couldn't…

The insect glowed in the background of the haze.

Couldn't save him.

No.

Out of the smoke and memories and semi-conscious state, with a Herculean effort Batman used his arm that wasn't dislocated to fire the grappling hook at the insect's cackling figure, wrapping him in a cocoon. Bruce fell to his knees, fighting the returning dizziness. But the line smoldered, giving way with the forming fireballs, melting into hideous black pools.

"Just had to be the hero, eh. Should have left when you had the chance."

The defiant man didn't say anything with his mouth, but his eyes dared him to do his worst.

The fireball ignited. The Batman braced for the inevitable, impending shadow of death.

The inevitable, as it were, never came.

Scraping metal, bombarding bricks, cracking glass and wood. The sounds of the theater roof crashing in were deafening, and the sight was even more unbelievable. Mr. Bazulto lost consciousness at this point, later waking up in Gotham General Hospital. He would later try to piece together the impossible event of what the theater termed deus ex machina.

Or, in this case, an unassuming English butler piloting the batplane.

Alfred held a handkerchief to his nose, breathing through the smoke and ash, searching. He did not see the glowing man. He did not see anyone at all. Panic tinged his voice. "Sir?"

The coughing voice in the billows of ash somehow managed sarcasm. "You came too early, Alfred. I had him on the ropes." This of course translated into the subtext of "I'll never admit it, but you may have saved my life."

Alfred could have explained the tracker he'd tagged under Bruce's shirt collar after meeting in the graveyard. How he'd taken great care to fly the plane under the radar while maintaining a suitable distance without being noticed. How when the infrared indicated trouble, he'd calculated his entrance to slam into the building without hitting the balcony or the two men beneath. How he couldn't believe these duties were never covered in his domestic service training. Seeing as there was no time, instead he said "Apologies for the intrusion, sir." Knowing this reply would be translated into the subtext of "I am not sorry whatsoever for saving your arse, sir."

"Alfred, this man needs medical attention."

"As do you-" But his response was met with empty space. The Batman was on the case again. Alfred hoisted the unconscious old man into the plane, praying for his charge's safe return.

Mr. Bazulto was right about Park Row: up until his parents' deaths, it was a nice place. He'd memorized the winding streets as a boy, mesmerized by the map posts and ivy encrusted brick buildings. But ironically enough, he'd visited the miscreant-ridden block now nicknamed Crime Alley more times as an avenging adult than as a decent child. Though the place was darker and foggier now than ever before. He ran for all he was worth, sprinting despite the aching limbs and pushing through the dirty puddles despite the trail of blood spattering behind. The glowing man was ahead, he could hear the splashing of the heavy boots through the echoing gloom, up the slick fire escapes and across the labyrinth of dilapidated townhouses. Could see the faint glow beyond the foggy corners.

There. A glowing orb in the alley below.

He jumped on the man, tackling him to the ground. Only…it wasn't a man at all. His arms held emptiness. The glowing ghost of a figure evaporated with the wind, leaving nothing but a glowing cigarette. Turning into the main street, the churning bustle of pedestrian hordes noticed nothing unusual as a man ran through their midst, searching for that phantom glow. A woman screamed as she accidentally bumped his bleeding shoulder. A man asked if he was okay. Before the random pedestrian could recognize the billionaire from the recent issue of GQ magazine, the lone Batman had already retreated into the alley for cover.

He pounded his good fist against the brick alley wall in frustrated fury. Crumpling the taunting paper, he watched as the glow flickered in choked delight.

"Ready?"

Eyes crackled with atomic energy, framed by a metallic, concentrating face. "Roger that," responded Nathaniel Adam.

Jefferson Pierce didn't reply, instead allowing the electricity to indicate the affirmative.

"In three. . .two. . .one. . .let er rip! Git 'er done! Rock and roll! COWABUNGA!"

The two men were not on the Justice League roster for nothing. The air sizzled, zapped, burst with spectacular energy and electricity, spinning the generator turbines faster and faster. The smell of ozone drifted into the twilight haze.

"Wow." Captain Atom shook his head in a sardonic salute. "I see Beetle's been teaching Kilawog earth vernacular again."

"As in Blue Beetle?"

"Yep."

"The one who hangs out with that Booster guy?"

"Yep."

"They really steal J-onn's oreos?"

"Yep."

"And I thought my high school class was a handful."

"I'll trade anytime."

"No way, man. Granted, Bobby's Hamlet essay was all about a pig and a spider…"

"I see teenagers are perceptive as ever."

"…But hey, if you give them a chance, kids can teach you a lot."

The green lantern known as Kilawog watched with his tough-looking exterior, fingers tightening wiring. "Just making a few adjustments," he informed over the comlink. "Continue for approximately one Earth-minute."

So far so good. The power turning the turbines was being stored into underground cells. Just a little more power. But where was-?

A red blur arrived. "What'd I miss?"

"Watch the crumbs, poozer."

The Flash continued chewing his carne asada burrito unoffended. "Come on 1) I have a metabolism issue 2) Bet I was back before you even realized I was gone and 3) I'm missing the newest Arrow episode for you, so count yourself grateful for this selfless sacrifice."

"Ugh. What is that awful smell?"

"Oh, this? Taco Bell. Good ole American cuisine. Want some?"

"In approximately half an Earth-minute. Be ready."

"Relax. I'm the moral support previewing the ingenious clean power system you've got set up for the carnival, piece of cake. Booster said you're professional."

"That was 'freaking awesome' of Booster to say about me." As an afterthought, Kilawog added, "However, you're here for insurance. In case the system explodes."

"We have got to work on your usage of Earth-slang." A glob of gooey meat sauce hit the ground as the fastest man alive froze speechless. "Wait. In case it what?!"

"I debriefed you this afternoon on the procedure."

"Yeah, but I may or may not have the world's shortest attention span."

Jefferson looked up from below. "Cap, should we alarmed?"

"Unfortunately for my Paris team, this is pretty usual."

Kilawog continued explaining in his infuriating calm tone. "You're fast enough to react and get us all to safety if the system malfunctions."

"Exactly how safe is safe?"

"Outside the 3.8 Earth-mile blast radius. Though really, the 37% of that occurring is mostly improbable. Superman merely advised precautions should be taken since this system is a prototype."

"For serious?"

"Now quit whining, poozer. Atom, Lightning! Full power in ten Earth-seconds. Ten...nine..."

Kilawog thought he heard Flash whisper under his breath "Last time I trust Booster."

"Six…five…four…"

The scarlet speedster swallowed what could have been his last meal. "Cowabunga baby."

"Two…one…POWER UP!"

Whatever spectacle went on before dwarfed in comparison to the raw power being displayed. The energy filtering into the whirring turbines spun too fast for the naked eye to observe-except for the Flash, that is. He could see the spokes spinning as if in slow motion, channeling into the grounded system. Could see the individual bulb on each string of lights bursting into life. Could see the carousel horses yawning into motion. For everyone else present, this happened in two blinks.

From a motion by Kilawog, the two men cut the power beams, admiring their work. Flash was crowing in triumph. "Congrats, Kilawog. We beat the 37%."

The big lantern took the praise in stride. "And you gentlemen, nice work. Legit. Spiffy. Tubular. Shway. Cool beans."

Everyone looked at the green lantern with something like horror.

"What? Is that not the correct context for such positive exclamations?"

"No, it is. Still. It's…disturbing somehow."

The big lantern sulked. "Last time I trust Beetle. Fine, fine. Give me ten more minutes, and the 'ferris wheel' contraption will be fully operational."

A bulb flickered and died, followed by every little light fizzling into the twilight. "Uh, make that thirty minutes. Hehe."

"No big deal, bud." The Flash had seen the lights coming to life, and in them saw a twinkle of the vision of tomorrow. "Holy moley, we're so close. This is so cool! Come on, aren't you looking forward to this, Cap'n?"

"Carnival. Hurray" quipped Atom (with totally fake enthusiasm).

The Flash didn't notice. "Oh man, I can hardly wait. Here—take a photo for me? My Facebook followers would love to see a sneak peek before opening night-Man, all this celebrating makes me hungry. Hey Cap Attack, Grease Lightning, I'm going to Philly for some cheese steaks. Want anything?"

"Wally, remember how I don't eat?"

"That's right. Totally explains why you're so grumpy all the time."

"Then bring back double for me, kid." Pierce cracked his knuckles, stretching. "I'm going to need the energy grading the Julius Caesar essays."

Flash shuddered. "Four words, man: Cruel and unusual punishment."

Moments when they could let their guards down and be themselves were rare, and they didn't hasten them away premature. The men joked in the shade of the setting sun, basking in the time they could forget the world kept on spinning.

The man watched them patiently, calmly extinguishing the last of his smoldering cigarette under his heavy boot. Tomorrow indeed.