Lucius Fox had known this would happen.

Not this specific circumstance, of course, but he'd been prepared for worse. Lucius Fox was more than a little assured of his own intelligence and ability to keep a cool head. It would take more than this to rattle him. A lot more.

There were more than a few details about the new suit he'd supplied for Bruce Wayne that Fox neglected to share with the young crime-fighting enthusiast. Last year he had outfitted it with a tracking signal. At any time of the day Fox had access to the suit's whereabouts—a practice that left him feeling a tad guilty at first, but had proved itself as useful as Fox had hoped. Not only that, but Lucius had installed a chip deep inside the Kevlar, so that the instant the Kevlar was pierced Fox's personal cell would blare a warning. Within seconds the suit had the technology to assess its own physical damage and give a practical estimate of the damage done to whoever was wearing it.

So Lucius had been more than ready for disaster, and he had been for months. It was all a matter of when it would strike. The instant his cell phone rang—the distinctive emergency ring, clipped and monotonous—Fox had snapped up like a livewire, scrambling to his feet as if the building were in flames.

He hadn't arrived as soon as he'd hoped. Whenever he went over this drill in his head he imagined that he would find Bruce alone and sweep him up out of the night before anyone had seen. But Gordon, of all people, had beaten him to it. Not only that, but he'd called the authorities. This was becoming harder to keep under wraps, but Fox knew he could still handle it.

Besides, he couldn't be angry with Gordon. The man was out of his league, trying to deal with this on his own. No matter how good his intentions were, Batman's identity would have inevitably been leaked and Gotham would have reduced itself to a state of complete and utter chaos.

Damage control, was what this was. He needed to stop anything further from getting out of hand.

Without turning his eyes on the road he asked the Commissioner, who had, inconveniently enough, decided to hitch a ride, Fox addressed him, "Is he still breathing?"

After a moment's hesitation the shell-shocked man answered, "Yes."

Lucius punched familiar numbers into the speaker phone by the dashboard and listened to its subdued ringing. A moment later a frazzled voice answered, "Lucius?"

"Carol. I have an emergency."

His sister sighed in aggravation. "What sort of emergency, Lucius? I'm a bit tied up at the hospital right now—"

"That's what I was hoping. I'm on my way there."

"What for?" she demanded. Unlike Lucius she was easy to anger, easy to upset. What Lucius had to take into account was that although she was sudden to leap to conclusions, she was just as capable of being calm and collected as he was. "Are you hurt? Where are you, anyway?"

"I'm fine. It's a . . . friend of mine who's been hurt."

"Well?" she asked, sounding ornery and impatient.

"A while back I discussed with you a special circumstance."

"Oh, Jesus Christ," she moaned. "Right now? This place is a zoo, Lucius!"

"I understand that you're busy. But you're the only one I can trust."

"Trust to do what? I don't even know what or who the hell this is. And and I really don't have time—"

"Carol, please." His voice had an edge to it that he rarely used with anyone, let alone his older sister. "This is a man's life."

After a moment she asked tersely, "What exactly am I dealing with? Who exactly am I—" There was a significant pause. Realization dawning. Lucius bit the inside of his cheek, taking another tight turn. "Are you telling me that you're bringing him to my hospital?"

Lucius didn't reply for a moment. "You know I would never ask you to do this unless it were absolutely necessary." He took her silence as an assent. "You can't handle this alone. I need you to assemble anyone you can trust. Keeping his identity contained is of the highest priority."

"Higher than keeping him alive?"

"In this case, perhaps," Lucius said carefully, hoping he didn't sound callous.

"Well, what's happened to him?"

"Multiple gunshot wounds to the chest and stomach."

"Anything else you can tell me?"

"It was enough to blow through Kevlar," Lucius said, almost conversationally.

Carol's grimace was almost audible over the phone. "You're not giving me a lot to go on. Where am I even going to meet you?"

"Second entrance to the northern wing."

"How far—"

"Less than five minutes."

She hung up. Lucius whipped a cell phone out of his pocket, hit speed dial number four and handed the device to Gordon. Without looking over at the other man he said softly, "You're calling Alfred Pennyworth. If someone else picks up tell them you've dialed the incorrect number. If you get him on the line tell him that you and Lucius Fox are taking Bruce Wayne to Gotham Memorial Hospital and that he should come as soon as he's able."

"I—what . . ." Gordon fumbled for a moment but the phone was ringing, so he gave Lucius a skeptical sideglance and put the phone to his ear. "Alfred Pennyworth?"

The words were playing like a broken movie reel in Alfred's head. Commissioner Gordon here, calling about Bruce Wayne—there's been an incident . . . Alfred swallowed, keeping his eyes peeled on the road. I'm not sure if you're aware, but he's been dressing up like the masked vigilante Batman. A red light. Alfred muttered under his breath, agitatedly stopping the car. No, I'm afraid you don't understand. He's been . . . well, he's been shot.

Those were the words that chilled him to the bone. Those fateful, blatant, uncaring words—how hauntingly familiar they were.

Green light. Alfred hit the gas.

This meant that people knew now. The secret of Batman was out. James Gordon could dance on the edges of the truth but he knew that Bruce Wayne was not a man who would "dress up" like Batman. Whatever it was Bruce was trying to accomplish was now being undermined in a matter of hours.

But that, of course, wasn't why Alfred was this upset. He just didn't want to think of . . . what had happened to Bruce. If he thought about it then he wouldn't be able to drive, wouldn't be able to think. Wouldn't be able to forgive himself.

Years ago Thomas Wayne had entrusted Alfred with what was most dear to him in his whole world: his son. And Alfred had felt the magnitude of that promise. More than that, he'd devoted his entire life to that promise. Without ever meaning to, Bruce had become the son that Alfred had never been fortunate enough to have himself. Alfred had cared for him, watched him grow up, become the man he was today. So it was, in a way, more than a promise he had fulfilled for the hero Thomas Wayne. It was the reason Alfred wasn't living alone in a dreary apartment in God-only-knew-where. It was the reason Alfred had spent his older days feeling like he had a purpose, instead of wandering aimlessly as he once had.

He'd broken the promise. All these years he'd spent looking after Bruce and now he'd failed.

Alfred tried to be hopeful. There was a chance that Bruce would make it through this, but Gordon had sounded so grave on the phone that he really wasn't certain anymore. The last time Gordon had called . . .

Well, it was about twenty years now, wasn't it? If Bruce was twenty-eight years old now . . . God. It felt like the call had come yesterday. No matter how many years passed it seemed that he couldn't distance himself from the anguish of that night—the night the city's heroes had been murdered, leaving Bruce an orphan and Alfred numb and uncomprehending.

There were monsters in Gotham. That much Alfred understood. He remembered realizing this as he took another frantic late night drive, not all too different from the one he was making now. Except at the end of that drive had been a terrified little boy. And Alfred didn't even want to consider where that boy was going to be at the end of this drive.

It had been storming then, too. As if the sky was so dark it would swallow them whole, and then suddenly the whole world would be struck with a brilliant light, shocking them all back into reality. All but Bruce. He'd seemed oblivious, as if walking through a dream. Alfred remembered leading him out of the police station toward the car, how he looked so pale and small. He remembered thinking that he had to be stoic and contain himself for Bruce, but that he'd been terrified seeing that little boy in the backseat and realizing that he was now solely in charge of his life.

There were no aunts and uncles, no grandparents, no distant relations. Alfred was glad, at least, that he didn't have to worry about shipping Bruce off to a stranger—whether or not Thomas had named him as guardian in his will, Alfred would always have cared about the boy.

That first year they had been so numb, but they'd eased into their new routine so thoughtlessly that it seemed for a long time that maybe the Waynes had never existed. Every morning Bruce left for school. Every free moment he spent engrossed so wholly in reading and lessons and sports that he barely paused a moment to speak. They were, in a way, like a family. They ate meals together and knew each other better than most fathers and sons would. Life was quiet, but at least it left the two of them alone after that, for the most part.

Something was ringing—Bruce's cell phone. That's right. He hadn't taken it with him when he'd gone sleuthing around, and Alfred had pocketed it just in case. Now he looked at the number and saw that Lucius was calling.

"Lucius," Alfred greeted somberly. He was three blocks away from the hospital now and grateful for someone to speak with.

"Alfred. I thought I might reach you here." It occurred to Alfred that he'd left his own cell phone at home.

"You've made it to the hospital?"

"He's on the fifth floor."

"How did you . . . ?"

"The fifth floor's the top floor—most of it's still torn up from the reconstruction, so no one else is up there. Bruce is in an operating room. It was all very discreet."

"How can it be?" Alfred asked darkly.

He could almost hear the faint twinkle in Lucius's words. "My sister's a surgeon."

Clearly Lucius had anticipated—and dreaded—this occasion every bit as much as Alfred had. "How is he?"

There was a pause. "It's too early to say."

Alfred parked the car, but he didn't move. He needed a moment to collect himself. Once he entered the too bright halls of the hospital, there'd be no turning back.

"But honestly, Alfred, I'm trying not to worry. It will take much more than this to take down Bruce Wayne."

And damn it all if Alfred didn't know that.



Rachel had no idea how the hell it was Alfred was pulling eighty miles an hour. In the rain. In Gotham. Before she could even so much as follow his headlights with her eyes, he'd screeched around the corner and completely torn out of view. Cursing under her breath she fumbled blindly in the dark entrance of Wayne manor, trying to find her keys.

Her limbs were all too shaky and wobbling. It seemed like they weren't attached to their proper place, dangling and disembodied. How was she supposed to drive if she couldn't even get this god damn zipper open and find her keys?

Breathe. She had to remind herself to breathe. Freaking out was going to get her absolutely nowhere. Rachel was not the type to crack under pressure—

"Fuck!" she spat, finally succeeding in unwedging her zipper. She was shocked that she'd let herself erupt like that, but she was too frantic to care anymore. In fact, it felt good. Maybe she'd say it again. Maybe she'd scream it. Ha! That would just feel great.

For two milliseconds. Ugh. She peeled off her high-heeled shoes and bolted for her car, hoping that Alfred had not had the foresight to close the gates. Fortunately they were still wide open, and she clambered into the frontseat and jammed the keys into the ignition. Which way was the hospital from here? She should know this. With all the hysteria about the Joker blowing it to bits last year, surely every other common person in Gotham knew where to find the hospital. But it wasn't like she could just ask someone on the streets right now—it was, like, four in the morning, and anyone who was out at this hour was probably out of their head.

She took a right out of the Manor and hit a main road. For a moment she relaxed, knowing the next intersection was a mile away, so she wouldn't be pressed with any major decisions until then.

Funny how yesterday a major decision was whether or not she should remain hidden, and now she was torn between straight, a left, or a slight right.

She could remain calm about this. After all, Bruce was tougher than most—okay, admittedly tougher than anyone she knew. If anyone could survive something, it was him. So Rachel wasn't all that worried about whether or not Bruce would make it so much as she worried about what happened to him in the first place. Rachel had never been so angry at Alfred in her life. Had she ever been angry at the older man before now? But how dare he just walk away like that and leave her with absolutely nothing to go on? Surely he knew her well enough by now to know that she was going to follow him, no matter what he said or did to prevent her from doing so.

It was raining. Of all the days, of all the instances, it had to be raining now? It felt like in the past twelve hours the universe had ganged up on her and was having a ball, watching her struggle and torture herself with all the secrets she kept and the moments she passed up and the words she'd meant to say. And now the ultimate—she would finally realize her mistake and find Bruce again, she finally had some glimmer of hope at returning to the life she once had, and then it would be taken away from her? Just like that?

If anything happened to Bruce, she decided she could never be Rachel Dawes again. There would be nothing left for her. Whereas Fisher Jameson might have a shred of normalcy in her life, Rachel would be lost and without an anchor.

The intersection. She went straight, still completely unsure of what she was doing. She scanned the road for signs leading to the hospital and found none.

The radio was on and she hadn't even given it a second thought until she had felt a chill at how merry and happy the tune was. Some old song with a chipper beat and sound, a woman singing. It sounded so light and carefree. She didn't have the heart to turn it off now, even though it was downright unnerving to hear along with the rain pounding incessantly on her windshield.

A sign—a giant "H" in white and blue. That meant hospital, didn't it? For all her practical knowledge Rachel honestly couldn't quite remember. But it had to be. It was pointing to the right, so Rachel swerved the car over.

What were they going to do? Who was "they," anyway? It all depended on who Bruce had gone to for help. Someone other than Alfred, which was what puzzled her the most . . . unless Bruce hadn't been able to call for help. And someone else had found him.

They could only pray that whoever it was had the heart to leave Bruce alone. He didn't deserve the hell Gotham would bring upon him. They would tear him apart until there was nothing left of him, and Bruce—stupid, stubborn, willful Bruce—would just sit there and take it all. She knew from experience that he would just let them shred him.

The logistics of this seemed impossible. Taking Batman into a hospital full of citizens who all were very much aware of the price on his head. And even if by some chance "they," whoever they were, had managed to pull it off so that it was Bruce Wayne who had been hurt, there would be months of trying to explain why a billionaire would be traipsing around the filthy streets of Gotham at night.

This is not my problem, she thought to put herself at ease. Bruce knew full well the risks that came with being Batman. If he hadn't anticipated something happening to him then it was his own damn fault and his alone.

So why the hell did she feel so responsible? Why did she feel like she, too, was to blame?

She passed the hospital parking lot and pulled a U-turn in the street without even thinking about how illegal it was. Circling around the hospital, she found Alfred's distinctive car in a back corner and parked nearby it. For a moment she let herself feel the shallow, pointless relief of making it to the hospital—but how on earth was she supposed to get inside? She couldn't very well go in there and ask to see Batman . . .

A knock came at her window and she leaped in her seat, giving a little shriek. Alfred. Oh, thank god. She opened the door.

"Sorry to startle you, Miss Dawes." He raised an appraising eyebrow at her. "I see you found your way here despite my instructions."

"Oh, Alfred. You know me better than that."

They were silent a moment. Afraid to speak. "Where can we find him?" Rachel asked, her throat suddenly dry.

"Fifth floor. Follow me."