A/N I saw The Prestige yesterday! Christian Bale was marvelous (and displayed yet another splendid accent), as were Jackman and Caine. It was quite a dark movie, but if you like puzzles (it reminded me in some ways of an Agatha Christie novel), I highly recommend it.

Tune in after the chapter for two important announcements! This is a long one, and I didn't want them to be forgotten by the end :)

This chapter contains a new and improved version of the movie quotes game: Multiple movie quotes are present, and to level the playing field, they are ALL from Batman Begins. Reviewer who finds the most wins a prize! (I hope this makes up for the impossible ones I foisted on you guys last time!)

Y'all owe IcyWaters a huge thank you for salvaging this chapter – It was a mess, I was a mess, but she did her wonder-woman beta thing, and I think it's going to be ok!

Disclaimer Richard, Gordon, and Bruce all belong to D.C. Comics. But Somerville is exclusively mine, and, doggone it, I like her.

Chapter 42

If I do vow a friendship, I'll perform it to the last article.

-Othello

The picture inside Cecilia's head was suddenly, blazingly clear. She had been convinced it was all about Richard: his security in jeopardy, his home threatened, his guardian a criminal and his mysterious past the key to everything. But if you turned the board and looked at things from the other side, the same moves added up to a different strategy. Wayne's company accused of fraud, Wayne's custody rights challenged, Wayne himself framed for murder, Wayne distracted by the wrong mystery… The threads of a web long in the weaving had suddenly pulled tight.

Gatsby had lied, though, when he had said, This isn't about the Graysons. Richard Grayson was terribly important, and she herself had played directly into the enemy's hands. She had scuttled about like an obedient busybody – cracking codes, unearthing secrets, and effectively pinning the Batman's attention in the wrong place. Richard wasn't just the son of Charles Grayson; he also belonged to Bruce Wayne. Capture this pawn and you can predict the king's next move.

"Miss Somerville?"

Vaguely aware that she'd been babbling about chess, Cecilia returned her attention to the snowy rooftop and the concerned gazes of Gordon and Richard. She couldn't allow Richard to guess what was probably going on below them. I see the games have begun...

"Richard, go and pick up your things," she ordered, pointing to his discarded backpack.

"But…"

"Now, Richard."

Looking puzzled, he went over and knelt in the snow to pick up the things that had spilled out of the bag.

Cecilia looked Gordon in the eye and said in a low voice, "You have to get him out of here. This is a trap, and he's the bait."

"Trap for who?" Gordon asked, also keeping his voice low.

"The Batman. He's been keeping tabs on the boy since the kidnapping."

Gordon frowned. "You think he knows where we are?"

"I think he's already here, and I think he's in trouble."

"All those explosions," Gordon muttered.

"I'm going back in to see if…anything can be done. You get the boy out and send help."

"If there's anyone to send. Most of the force is tied up with the hostage situation."

"Convenient," she murmured. "Listen, don't tell Richard…" She broke off as the boy approached, his pack again on his back. "All right," she said briskly, "what's the best way for us to get down from here?"

Gordon cast her a puzzled glance, but answered, "Sometimes there's a series of ladders to service the outside of the building. Let's check over by the chimneys." He tucked the still unconscious guard's handgun into his belt, and handed the flashlight to Somerville. "You might want this."

She nodded her thanks and also claimed the rifle, slinging it across her back with casual ease.

Richard was the first one to spot the long gray ladder, the metal rungs of which were actually set into the building.

"I'll go first. It's probably slippery." Gordon eased himself over the edge of the roof onto the first rungs.

Somerville waited until Richard had followed the police lieutenant, before quietly turning and walking back toward the door. A startled cry, "Miss Somerville!" followed her, but she ignored it, trusting Gordon to intervene. Inside the stairwell it was pitch black. She flipped on the flashlight and began to go down.

- - - - - -

The League of Shadows. He should have known.Falcone had been killed and replaced with hardly a tremor in the underworld. There was only one source for that kind of power. He could remember word for word what Ra's had said as they stood in the halls of Wayne Manor. You are defending a city so corrupt, we have infiltrated every level of its infrastructure. But he had been so sure that with the demon's head severed the body too would die, or at least that the League's operations in Gotham had been wiped out.

"Take off your mask," Gatsby ordered again.

"I'd rather not."

Gatsby's mouth tightened and his nostrils flared, but he said only, "As you wish."

"It appears we are at an impasse."

"Not quite. You are going to die, but when and how remains your choice. You can attack me now, causing me to pull this switch to send you, me, Lieutenant Gordon, and Richard Graysoninto the life to come. Or you can surrender and accept death when and how I shall choose to grant it."

"Saving my life so that you can hang me properly?"

"Something like that. I do hope you see things my way – blowing up that brilliant young mind would be a waste, although I can't tell you how delighted I was when I learned that you had become involved with him. He was such an obvious weakness."

Your compassion is a weakness your enemies will not share.

"He's an innocent child. Let him go. Your quarrel is with me." He was seized with a horrible sense of déjà vu, as if at any moment Ra's would walk into the room.

"Individual innocence and guilt are relative and irrelevant in the cosmic scale. They matter only to the selfish."

"Justice isn't gained by exploiting children."

"Richard Grayson was not exploited. He played the part he was meant to play."

"The part you wrote for him."

"No. He is here because of who he is – the brilliant son of a brilliant father. If Charles Grayson had never written his formula and left a son, a son whom you are remarkably reluctant to relinquish – well, we wouldn't be here, would we? The universe seeks harmony, and despite all of our puny efforts to change its course, its movement is unstoppable. We are gathered together, Bruce Wayne, not by choice but by design."

"I don't believe in destiny."

"Of course you don't. But then you must admit the child is involved by your choice, not mine, and now you have to choose again. Surrender, letting him live and me escape, or kill us all."

It's a choice you may one day have to face…Between the life that you can't see…and the one that you can. Ra's hadn't said that. Alfred had.

But he would not make that choice until there were no other options left. Slowly, he reached up and removed his cowl.

"The weak are always predictable." Gatsby's tone was full of cold satisfaction, but there was something else – a note of almost personal malice.

Another memory was swimming to the surface – not one of Ra's, but of the man who played the part.

You cannot lead these men unless you are prepared to do what is necessary to defeat evil.

And where would I be leading these men?

Gotham...

Bruce casually dropped the cowl onto one of the chairs in front of the desk. "Now what?"

Gatsby's right hand appeared, holding a gun. I could simply shoot you, but somehow, it doesn't seem fitting to execute you like a common criminal. Especially after all the trouble I went through to have you killed as the Batman. And then there's the question of the police. Their questions wouldn't be nearly so intrusive if they'd found you dead by the Joker's distinctive hand."

"I see your difficulty. The police are always a problem."

"An opinion we hold in common."

Bruce thoughtfully folded his arms. "Among other things."

"Oh?" Gatsby asked politely.

"I couldn't help noticing your Monet." Bruce pointed over his shoulder at the water lilies. "I have one from the same period in my study. And I wish," he continued, focusing on the painting that hung behind Gatsby's chair, "that I could find a Degas the equal of that one."

Gatsby's expression grew sardonic. "Fortunately, I know the picture you're talking about, and I have no need to turn around and look at it."

Bruce smiled slightly. "It's a pity to shut it up behind glass."

"It is safer that way. I cannot always control the climate conditions."

"Of course."

"And what else do we share, Mr. Wayne, aside from an appreciation for the Impressionists?"

"And aside from the obvious?"

Gatsby's voice was full of tolerant patience. "Enlighten me. I am afraid it is not as obvious to me."

Bruce shifted his stance slightly so that the reflection on the glass displayed Gatsby's hand resting quietly against the underside of the desk. "We were both picked to lead an attack on Gotham. Is the room out there the remains of your control center for…" Over the ages our weapons have grown more sophisticated. With Gotham we tried a new one... "Economics, wasn't it?" He smiled, tauntingly. "Ra's said that you underestimated certain of Gotham's citizens. And then he chose me, the son of the people who caused your failure, to replace you. Destiny is a tricky thing."

Gatsby flinched, and his left hand flickered out from beneath the desk.

Bruce dove forward, clearing the desk as a shot exploded past his ear, and the two men crashed to the floor. Gatsby's slender form proved deceptively strong, and for a moment they wrestled desperately for the gun, before Bruce wrenched it up and around, cracking the other man's fingers like matchsticks.

He pulled out the thin wire from the utility belt and lashed Gatsby's wrists and ankles together, then leaned down and grabbed the former master of Gotham by the hair and forced his face upward. "Where is my son?"

Gatsby smiled faintly. "You cannot reach him."

Bruce grabbed the broken hand and wrenched it. "Where is he?"

Gatsby was gasping as large beads of sweat trickled down his pale forehead, but he was still smiling. "Dead. Will you condescend to kill me now?"

Cold and heavy, despair slid through him, leaching meaning from action. "I am no executioner," he said, but the words were hollow. And then, because he had to know, he asked, "How did he die?"

"It was left to Cecilia Somerville," Gatsby said, then slumped as Bruce, blind with fury, struck him savagely across the temple.

- - - - - -

Gordon grabbed the kid's ankle as he tried to climb back up the ladder. "Hey, you're coming with me."

"But Miss Somerville…"

"She's going to help the Batman inside, while we go for…" Dick's sneaker slammed into Gordon's nose. The shock caused the policeman's feet to slip on the icy ladder, and he had to let go of the kid to keep both from falling. When he had regained his balance, Dick was already out of sight across the roof.

Gordon followed him into the stairwell, trying to stem the tide of blood from his nose on his sleeve. It was completely dark inside the building, and he tentatively felt his way down the first few steps. "Richard Grayson!" he called as loudly as he dared, but although he could hear faint scrabbling sounds below him, there was no response.

Obviously, there was no way he could catch the kid in the dark, and he would probably break his own neck if he tried. Gordon ran back across the roof and started down the ladder.

- - - - - -

The dust still hung in the air like a heavy smog. Cecilia held her shirt cuff over her mouth and breathed through the fabric as she stood at the edge of the demolished factory floor. She listened carefully, but no sound came out of the darkness. If Batman was here, she would never be able to find him. She turned away and continued descending the stairs, shielding her light with her fingers and forced to go slowly because of the partially collapsed ceiling.

At last she caught a glimpse of a level hallway only a few feet below the rail, and found that she could flip off her light because, miraculously, a light bulb was still working. As she slowed to peer down at it, she heard footsteps above her on the stairs. She took a final look at the floor, then turned off her light, climbed over the rail, and dropped.

Cecilia remained crouched by the stairs, her attention trained on the noise above her as she reached for the rifle. The first she knew of the presence behind her was the gauntleted hands that closed around her neck, crushing her windpipe. Streaks of white light blazed across her eyeballs, and her head swam with pain as she fought for air. Then the pressure was suddenly gone, and she was somehow flat on her floor with a sharp pain in her back and her arms pinned forcefully down. There was a strange rasping in her ear, but it took a moment before the sounds translated themselves into words.

"What have you done with him?"

She managed a wheezing breath, and blinked up. The dim blur a few inches from her own became a face that filled her with terror. She closed her eyes and tried to pull in another breath. A burning line seared down her breastbone, and she choked, bereft of enough breath to scream.

"What have you…"

- - - - - -

In the project graveyard, a vent sailed out of the wall near the ceiling, and a bedraggled figure emerged from a shaft. The Joker dropped to the floor and brushed uselessly at the plaster dust that coated his suit. He cautiously moved across the deserted area toward the partly open door of the office. Crouching low, he poked his head around the door and saw that the room appeared empty. He slipped in and crossed to the section of the wall behind the desk where he lifted a painting and pressed a spot on the wall. A panel slid back to reveal a passageway.

The Joker cast a final glance around the room, and his gaze landed on the Monet that hung on the far wall. Moving quickly, he grabbed the painting and headed back around the far edge of the desk, where he almost tripped over the prostrate and bound figure.

"This," said the Joker, "is far beyond what I had ever hoped for. And to think that I was lamenting the irony of having caved in my own escape route." He bent down and put his ear in front of Gatsby's mouth. The man was unconscious but still breathing, although his face was ashen. The Joker carefully set the painting on the desk and picked up a silver letter opener that lay on the carpet among a litter of paper. With the eye of an artist, he gently placed the sharp edge against the corner of Gatsby's mouth, then flicked his wrist. A repeat of the procedure on the opposite side converted the mouth into a lurid, dripping grin.

"Of course, this would be more satisfactory if you were awake," the Joker said softly, "but I'll always remember it as the year Christmas came early." He carefully folded back the cuff of his right sleeve, then buried the letter opener in Gatsby's chest. "I'll have to send the Batman a thank you note."

Flipping his cuff back down, he stood and looked down at the corpse. "I wonder," he murmured, "just how much you really did know about me. And what have you left for inquisitive bat-claws to pick through?" Pushing the fallen chair out of the way, he knelt in front of the desk and examined its underside. "Aha. Right where I thought it would be. So unimaginative."

- - - - - -

If anyone ever deserved to die...

Somerville was staring up at him, and Bruce knew she knew she was about to die. She was terrified, literally trembling with fear. With a supreme effort, she pleaded, "Don't. Batman."

Damn her.

It can't be personal, or you're just a vigilante.

He couldn't kill her.

A small voice exclaimed joyfully, "Bruce!"

His head snapped up and he stared in disbelief at Dick who stood, glowing with life on the stairs. Then he hauled himself over the rail and snatched up his ward into a crushing hug. "Are you ok?" he demanded, not quite able to believe in the reality of the situation.

"Yeah." Dick frowned and put a hand on Bruce's cheek. "Where's your mask? Are you hurt?"

"I…" Where is my mask? "I'm fine. How did you get here?"

"I was looking for Miss Somerville. But before that we were kidnapped by Mr. Judas. He had a gun and he made Miss Somerville drive us here."

Dear God.

Bruce's gaze was instinctively drawn to floor over the side of the stairs. Somerville had managed to pull herself up against the far wall, and she sat in a huddled ball with her face buried in her knees. Her shoulders shook with repressed sobs.

"Miss Somerville!" Dick called anxiously, leaning forward in Bruce's arms. "Are you all right?"

She looked up, and Bruce realized that she wasn't crying, but laughing. She looked up and met his eyes. "Blessed are they," she managed, "which are persecuted for righteousness' sake, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven." Leaning heavily against the wall, she slowly rose to her feet. "Richard, why aren't you with Lieutenant Gordon?"

Dick stared down defiantly. "You shouldn't have gone by yourself."

Somerville stared back, then looked up at the ceiling. "I have never been more grateful for the fact that I have no children." She bent and picked up her fallen rifle.

A dull red light suddenly suffused the hallway, and a metallic voice announced, "T minus ten minutes."

Somerville swung startled, questioning eyes to Bruce.

"We need to get out of here," he affirmed.

"Lovely. Richard, did Lieutenant Gordon follow you inside?"

The boy shook his head. "I don't know."

Somerville scowled. "There must be a way to disarm it."

"The trigger was in Gatsby's desk," Bruce began, "I'll…"

"What part of the desk?" Somerville interrupted. "You get Richard out, I'll take care of the bomb."

Bruce opened his mouth to protest, and she threw back the rifle bolt. "Don't make me point this gun at you. I would take distinct pleasure in putting a bullet in your shoulder."

"T minus nine minutes."

"Wayne…"

"Left hand underside," he said, and ran up the stairs.

- - - - - -

Cecilia waited until they were out of sight before hurrying down the corridor. It ended in a door that came out in the project graveyard, not far from the tunnel entrance she had first come in by. Even as she identified it, the door swung open, and Carlos Morales stepped into view.

"Buenas noches, Señor."

He spun and stared down the bore of her rifle.

"T minus eight minutes."

He was afraid, but still too proud to beg. "Our fortunes are reversed yet again, Señorita. Go ahead. Kill me."

Her finger tensed on the trigger, but she shook her head. "You're going back to Colombia to stand trial. American justice is too good for you."

A trace of bravado returned to his face. "You hide behind your pitiful claim of justice because you are afraid. You can kill children, but you cannot shoot a man."

"I didn't kill Samara," she said coldly, dropping her aim. "You did."

His mocking smile evaporated into a scream as the bullet exploded his knee.

"Apparently we're on the verge of being blown to bits. I wouldn't want to die without you, Don Carlos."

"T minus seven minutes."

Cecilia ran toward the office.

- - - - - -

Sleeves pulled over his palms so that his hands wouldn't freeze to the metal of the ladder, Gordon carefully climbed down the last few rungs and gratefully set his feet on asphalt. Keeping close to the wall, he began to work his way around the building. After a hundred feet or so, he rounded a corner and saw a car parked in front of a door. This must be where they took me in. He had barely begun to creep forward when the door burst open and two men in silver wigs, probably the same ones who had brought him here, ran toward the car. They jumped in and took off, almost before the car doors.

Gordon stared at their retreating taillights, then moved more quickly toward the door into the building. The clowns had left it wide open and he peered cautiously inside. It looked likea barely functional waiting room with a desk and a few straight backed chairs. The only alarming aspect of the scene was the odd red lighting that suffused the room, but Gordon was more interested in the phone that rested on the desk. Moving quietly forward, he picked up the receiver and held it to his ear, but there was no dial tone.

"T minus six minutes." Gordon jerked in surprise at the metallic voice that came quietly from the ceiling. This can't be good.

He turned back toward the door just as the Joker, in full costume and carrying a picture frame, appeared in it. They stared at each other, both shocked into immobility, before Gordon came to his senses and lifted his gun. The Joker hurled the picture, throwing off the shot, and whirled and ran back outside, with Gordon in hot pursuit.

- - - - - -

Cecilia nearly tripped over Gatsby's body as she ran around the desk in what had once been a room of beauty and order. Taking in the corpse's mutilated face, she permitted herself a small grimace before dropping to her knees and peering underneath the desk. A slender wooden cover was already slid back, revealing two identical buttons and a flat dial with minutes marked on it.

"T minus five minutes."

She needed to reach the wire connected to the timer, but the buttons and dial were set in a metal plate screwed into the wood of the desk. You can never find a nail file when you need one. Gritting her teeth, she crawled over to Gatsby's body and jerked the letter opener out of his chest. Think about it later, she ordered herself, wiping the blade on her pant leg before inserting the tip into the first screw. Her impromptu screwdriver was slippery with blood and the screws were tight; the time was down to less than two minutes before the plate dropped into her hand.

It remained connected to the desk by three strands of fine wire – one for each button and the dial. Balancing the plate on one hand so as not to put tension on the wires, she maneuvered the blade so that its sharp edge pulled slightly against a loop in the dial wire.

I promised to go to Terry's for Christmas this year, she remembered, a small smile tugging at her lips. That was one ordeal she wouldn't regret missing if things went wrong.

"T minus thirty seconds."

With a quick flick of her wrist, she cut the wire.

- - - - - -

With Dick slung over his shoulder, Bruce took the stairs in twos and threes. Five landings up, they finally came to a tiny corridor identical to the one they had just left with three doors leading off it. Bruce kicked open the first of them and plunged through before realizing it led only to the demolished factory floor. He turned around to explore the other doors just as one of them opened and a man dressed in black came through. His eyes fell on Bruce, and his slender frame immediately dropped into a battle crouch. Bruce lost a precious second as he desperately half lowered, half tossed Dick safely behind him, and he was just barely in time to block the attacker's vicious blow toward his neck.

Their movements as they fought were silent, efficient, and brutal. This is not a dance. Bruce fought desperately, aware of the voice that was saying, "T minus three minutes," but his opponent seemed to be equally desperate, and his lack of armored protection also gave him the edge of agility to stay a fraction ahead of the vicious blows that could have ended the fight.

They swung around, and Bruce suddenly had a clear view of Dick standing behind the enemy. The boy dropped into a low crouch, and Bruce had only a moment to guess his intent before he sprang, knocking into their adversary.

Richard Grayson, you are in so much trouble, a small voice in the back of Bruce's mind snapped, even as he automatically exploited the flicker of distraction, and knocked his antagonist into unconsciousness. "T minus fifty seconds."

He grabbed Dick's hand and they ran back into the hallway and through another door. The room beyond it was empty, and the exit to the outdoors stood wide. He picked the boy up and sprinted out the door and through the empty parking lot, his long strides eating up distance while he mentally continued the countdown.

"…ten, nine, eight, seven, six..." They came to a short, but solid, concrete barrier, intended to separate parking lanes. He dropped to the far side of it and huddled protectively over Dick.

"two, one..."

Nothing.

Bruce slumped in relief. "I guess she found it."

"She's smart."

Bruce nodded absently, his mind already on the next move as he cautiously raised his head above the barrier and scanned the area. The sparse security lighting had gone completely out, and it took him a moment to spot the man on the far edge of the lot, a welcome and familiar silhouette. Gordon.

Bruce pulled the key to the Tumbler out of his belt and gave it to Dick. "Tell Gordon the car is parked under the overpass two blocks south of here. You go with him."

"But…"

"Don't argue, Richard."

The boy stared up at him, shocked by the harsh tone, and understanding that it wasn't Bruce Wayne who had rescued him. He took the key and ran across the parking lot.

To Be Continued

A construction commonly found in the most inconvenient parking lots, placed so as to encourage persons with no depth perception to run into it.

A/N So…two, or at the most three, more chapters, an epilogue, and Toward a Dark Horizon will be officially concluded!!!

As I said, two important announcements:

1. If you're looking for a good story, check out Fall to Grace by E Kelly (listed under my Favorite Stories). It's probably best piece of Batman fanfiction that I've read. Her portrayal of Bruce is absolutely compelling, and she's got a magnificent OC. (Note of warning: It does earn its rating, but it never becomes gratuitously graphic.)

2. Sakura 123 has posted a list of challenges for bat-fics in the Batman Begins forum called "Batman Begins Fanfic Faves." So, I am hereby challenging all of you to sign up for one of them and produce a one-shot by U.S. Thanksgiving. Then we can all read and review each other. Doesn't that sound like fun? Of course it does! And be warned, if no one volunteers, I will hound you individually! (If you've never discovered the forums, their link can be found in the top right-hand corner of the Batman Begins stories page.)

Responses to reviews for the last chapter can be found on my homepage.