Disclaimer: I do not own Batman Beyond or any of the referenced story lines or characters therein.

Author's Note: Same author, same story, new pen name. :) Sorry if there's any confusion.

Warp Element

Names (Part 1)

Backtracked

Dawn was fast approaching in Gotham, and the boy knew two things – one, that he couldn't go around during the day dressed like whatever the hell he was, and two, that he still didn't know anything other than the fact that part of his life was consumed by this costume. Without the outfit, he was still nothing. Not that he was anything with the costume at the moment, but still… He stealthily crossed another rooftop, landing silently in an alley down below, behind a Goodwill store. He almost felt bad taking from them, but then he realized that he was just about as needy as anyone roaming the streets homeless and penniless.

With sudden shock, he confirmed that's exactly what he was. He was homeless, penniless and nameless, and he didn't know anyone who could help him. The four last night, he presumed, were the protectors of the city, but they hadn't given him enough of a chance to hear him out. And so, he'd have to fend for himself along these dark streets, since all he had to his nonexistent name was a skintight Halloween costume and his undies. He didn't think the black and red disguise was appropriate day wear, though, and walking around in just his boxers was absolutely out of the question, so here he was.

He really felt like a hobo – reduced to digging in the 'drop off' donation dumpster behind the Goodwill store. After the rain had stopped last night, he'd left off his mask to let the cut on his head dry out and begin to heal, and he could already feel the bruise creeping down the right side of his face. So in just his skin-tight costume, he leaned forward over the edge of the banister, searching for a pair of jeans. That was easier said than done, though, as the first one he found was about three sizes too big, and he remembered the fact that these clothes actually had to fit him. Sighing, he threw the pair of jeans back, and went looking for another, with smaller sizes written on the tag. Once he found them, he stripped down to his boxers, still beyond disappointed that he hadn't hidden an ID or money anywhere on himself. When he got his memory back, if he ever got his memory back, he'd have to remember to at least keep credits close at hand, since the ID would be dangerous to revealing his secret identity. Yeah, his identity that was so secret not even he knew it. Talk about idiotic.

The pair of jeans he had settled on fit well, and slimmed around the ankles. Still bare-chested, he hung the costume and the mask over the side of the dumpster, wiggling his bare toes in the wet mud. Yeah, he'd need shoes to. He hefted himself up over the edge of the dumpster again, digging around for a fitting shirt and some shoes. He was able to come across the left shoe from a pair of navy blue converse, as well as a slim, worn, white tank top. That would do. Wiping off his foot as best as possible, he put on the one shoe, the other still as bare as ever. Slipping the tank top over his head and covering his muscular upper body, he performed another session of dumpster diving, managing to sift through the other articles and find his right shoe, as well as a light jacket which zipper the shoe's laces were tangled up in. Wasn't that just convenient? Once he managed to separate shoe from zipper, he covered his right foot along with the left, and slipped into the jacket. It really was a nice coat, he had to admit, for though it was extremely worn from too many bouts with a washing machine, it was soft on the inside, and warm. White stripes fading into gray lined the outside of each sleeve, breaking through the otherwise plain black outerwear.

There. Now the only question was, what the heck was he supposed to do with his costume?

He took it off of the side of the dumpster, staring at the mask momentarily, those white, frosted lenses staring back at him blankly. His brow furrowed into a contemplative gaze. He didn't know anything about his costume, or why he wore it. Maybe he should just leave it here…

The thought crossed his mind, but something in the back of his head screamed at him to keep it close at hand. He pursed his lips, moving to abandon it, but he couldn't bring himself to leave it behind. Finally, he sighed, relenting to whatever strange instinct told him to keep it around. He looked back to the dumpster. Another dive seemed to be in his future. Grumbling at himself, he leaned back over the outer rails, digging through the old, discarded items and clothing for a bag of some sort that he could stash the suit in for now, until he needed it again. Though he doubted he'd ever be able to figure it out completely enough to use it efficiently in any manner. Didn't it suck that if he had to lose his memory, his life would be so freaking complicated? Why couldn't he have been someone simple and easy to figure out? But no – he lost his memory, and woke up with no knowledge of why he was wearing dancing tights. For all he knew, he was a runaway ballerina from a Russian dance company!

After a few minutes of sifting through junk, he managed to find a beige shoulder bag that was made out of a denim-like material similar to his jeans. That would work. He slung the thing over his head to rest the strap against the left side of his neck, the bag itself dropping its weight on his right thigh. Slipping the suit inside, he secured the strap, glancing out to the city streets beyond the alley. With tentative steps, more silent than a cat, he came to the edge of the sidewalk, where numerous people of all status, shape and size were already beginning to trickle into the world. The first rays of sun struggled to break into the forever dark and unreachable crevices of Gotham city as the stranger with no name slipped in among the quickly growing crowds, inconspicuous and unnoticed.

Bruce rubbed his jaw, yawning slightly as he tapped the keyboard lightly with one finger. He still wore the Batman suit, but the cowl was removed, resting back against his cape. "Scan again." He said, a shaky nervousness creeping into his usually smooth, dark voice. It had to be the fiftieth time he'd ordered the computer to perform that particular function, but he just couldn't believe the results. He refused.

Barbara had long since left for her apartment, as had Dick for his loft, and Tim had gone to savor the last few remaining hours of the night in sleep. Bruce, on the other hand, had begun to run tests on the blood sample he'd been able to retrieve from the scene. So far, the others didn't know about the results, and he wasn't sure he wanted them too. In fact, he really didn't want to know the results either, and yet here he was, staring them in the face. They'd only had a slight run-in with the young man, and that by itself had left inconclusive evidence as to his identity, but this… The computer hummed, a small download bar stretching across the screen for a number of seconds before flashing the same thing it had told him the past fifty or so times. PARTIAL DNA MATCH CONFIRMED.

"Dammit." Bruce swore bitterly, perplexed as the same picture flashed up on the screen. That was impossible! No, he corrected himself; it wasn't impossible, just like it wasn't impossible to break into a bank vault without opening it. It was highly improbable perhaps, but not entirely impossible. He glanced at the sample again, wondering if he had accidentally contaminated it upon return to the cave. Now that was impossible. He was Batman. He didn't make mistakes.

He sat back in his chair, staring up at the computer screen, his piercing blue eyes absolutely vexed. He summoned to mind the vague picture he'd been able to catch of the teenager's face for the slim moments he'd taken off his mask. It was true, there were some similarities, he supposed, but then, Dick shared quite a few as well, and he wasn't…

The computer screen was still flashing at him, and so he scowled, angrily closing out of the application. The large plasma screen went blank; waiting for him to perform another action in the shorthand he'd developed to operate the computer. But he didn't do anything else, simply leaning forward to rest his elbows on the console, knitting his eyebrows together as he contemplated the situation. As impossible as it seemed, apparently, it had happened. The only other answer to the situation – other than the nonexistent chance that Bruce had contaminated the evidence – was that the boy was his son. It was almost impossible to believe, considering the fact that Bruce hadn't had relationships intimate enough to produce a child until into his late twenties, and he was in his early thirties as of now. But the imposter had been too old for that, at least sixteen or seventeen by Bruce's judgment. So how…?

This led into even more disturbing theories. It was highly unlikely that the advanced technology held in this other vigilante's possession was from the past or present… So he must've been from the future. The thought seemed pretty far-fetched, but the amazingly advanced technologies coupled with the results the computer had continuously repeated to him for the past three hours…

Bruce shook his head in disbelief. Was he really going to go with the theory that his son from the future was now in the past… er… present? He rubbed his temples. This could get messy.

As much as he didn't want to believe them, he couldn't doubt the results. The DNA match had been confirmed. That teen in black and red had shared exactly fifty percent of Bruce's own genetic structure. What worried him, though, was the other half – the mother's portion of the deoxyribonucleic acid – could not be confirmed a match to any of the women he had on file. He'd held his breath through each and every one of the tests he'd run, hoping to uncover the mother of his future son, but was left without answers. He was deeply relieved every time a picture flashed by with the great red NEGATIVE stamped over it. Though with Selina Kyle's 'negative', he'd felt a tinge of regret mixed in with the relief. She was a villainess, yes, but man, was she hot.

He sighed, abhorred by his severely unprofessional thoughts of these women, but when faced with the son you were never expecting to have, these questions were raised. Even so, the current Batman had almost no doubt in his mind that he'd only a few hours ago had a run-in with his future son – the future Batman.

The billionaire's brow furrowed again as he considered the possibility of cloning, as well, but those thoughts brought up an entirely new cornucopia of issues, such as why they didn't clone him directly, and mixed his DNA with another, or why the boy seemed to have no memory, and was running around in technology far beyond what even his own company was in the realm of developing.

"Master Bruce?" The sharply British accent startled the costumed Wayne out of his reverie, and he turned to his friend and Butler, standing.

"Yes, Alfred?" He asked, his voice easily masking his discomfort of the situation with its usual deep tone.

"It's seven o'clock in the morning, sir. You have a breakfast appointment with a Miss Delilah Rogers in an hour and a half."

Bruce nodded, moving to strip of the armored shirt he wore, as well as the rest of his costume. "Thank you Alfred."

"You didn't sleep, sir?"

"No, Alfred, other things on my mind. I couldn't sleep."

Alfred raised an inquisitive eyebrow, but at Bruce's silence, let the matter go, simply nodding his farewell, and leaving. If it were important, the man would tell him in time. "Very good, sir."

Suddenly, Bruce's date with Delilah seemed irrelevant. She was simply another woman in the long line of so-called girlfriends that Bruce Wayne had the habit of acquiring and disposing as easily as tissues. But now…

Did it matter any more? He already had a son. At some point, he was getting very deeply involved. But with whom? The boy's mother hadn't come up at all. He'd searched all files of age appropriate women, and nothing had come up. So who…? Bruce shook his head, dismissing the questions. A thrill of anticipation shivered up and down his spine. He was messing with his future, having that boy in the past. He would need to be secured. Somehow, Bruce doubted that the boy had completely made it through the warp with his mind intact. If he had been whole, he most likely would've recognized his… father… immediately. Unfortunately, it was morning, and Batman needed to be put to rest until the darker hours, so for now, he reluctantly stripped of his costume and began to prepare for breakfast, dismissing muddled thoughts of the mysterious boy to the darker recesses of his mind.

He strolled as nonchalantly as possible down the street, his stomach growling in protest as he passed up yet another quaint bakery. Oh gosh that smelled good. If he had opened his mouth, he would've been drooling all over himself like a stray dog over a sirloin steak. He closed his eyes, almost whimpering. What a horrible analogy. That sounded so good right now. Unfortunately, he still had no money, and it wasn't as if a meal was just going to appear for him out of thin air.

His stomach grumbled, arguing against his pursuit of whatever memory he knew was out there somewhere, begging him to stop and eat. But how was he going to get food if he didn't pay for it? Stealing crossed his mind, but then he remembered how loathe he had been to even take the clothes from the Goodwill dumpster… he didn't want to steal food too. And besides, he really didn't know where he was going, and maybe he'd find some sort of free sustenance along the way, like those little samples in Wal Mart. He supposed he was in the downtown district of some city or another, judging by the tall, glass plated buildings that rose to insanely towering heights above him. It was a dark city, though, where refuse lingered around every corner, the homeless finding refuge in the crevices of even the ritziest areas. One of which, he supposed he was in now.

Despite the dark alleyways hiding behind every gallant hotel, casino and restaurant, everything seemed golden and perfect where he walked now, including the people.

Oh, no.

His stomach screamed at him to stop, and without consciously relenting, he did so.

Oh, no…

He turned, the glorious smell of gourmet breakfast food invading his senses, the sizzle of frying breakfast meats, and the crumbling of practically homemade biscuits. The smell of glazed pastries and exotic, fruit-filled drinks tainted the air. Omelet was in there somewhere too, spicy scents of garlic, oregano, and paprika, coating the luxurious hint of cheese and a mix of tangy strawberries, raspberries, and another he couldn't identify. Pancakes wafted out on the breeze as a man and his breakfast date opened the front door, sauntering in lazily. The boy plastered himself up against the window, mindless of the strange stares he was receiving, possessed by his hunger. Pancakes. With maple syrup and blueberries. His mom still made them from scratch, despite all the instant breakfasts you could get now, and they had always been the best pancakes in town.

His eyes widened for a moment. His mom! He grabbed at the memory of her flipping the fluffy, crumbling breakfast bread, but it slipped away, leaving nothing but the lingering smells of delicious sustenance hovering around his person. He groaned, resting his head against the window. Well that was a useful tidbit of information. His mom made pancakes from scratch. How was that supposed to help him find her? And the thought had only succeeded in making him hungrier. He sighed, looking up and through the window again, scanning the happy faces of the people inside the restaurant, eyes pleading for a hand out. Life was so unfair.

"Here you are, Delilah." Bruce smiled charmingly, helping the slim brunette into her seat. She smiled broadly back at him, flashing a gloriously white smile as she brushed her hair back out of her face. Every time she moved it was in a very controlled manner, knowing exactly how to flaunt her figure to capture a man's attention. Unfortunately, Bruce knew that was really all she had going for her. She was not an especially bright young woman, and her body was where most of her admiration came from. She was the model for some magazine or another, one of which the name escaped Bruce at the moment. Even so, the bachelor plastered on his best hungry smile, making sure his eyes followed each of her movements dutifully.

Bruce Wayne had always been more of a mask than Batman. The act was almost shameful: the egocentric young bachelor that barely managed to keep hold of his father's company, constantly flirting and gallivanting around with numerous women of high status, but never settling down. It had almost become a game with most girls, trying to see who could get the most number of dates with the famous man. Who could keep the famed Bruce Wayne entertained the longest before he simply stopped calling? That was something he almost enjoyed, the secretive triumphs and downfalls of women that he was able to manipulate. The game was an interesting one, though he tried not to hurt the more earnest of the flirtatious young girls. His current date was a first timer, and obviously gunning for a second. Bruce, on the other hand, was pretty sure they wouldn't make it that far.

Despite the fact that he was well aware that the woman he breakfasted with now was a bit of an airhead, as her gaze became distant, he started to wonder slightly at her health. His buoyant facade fell slightly as he watched her, picking up a menu very slowly. "...Delilah?" He asked, quite serious.

"That boy…" She mused, tilting her head to one side. "He looks… lost. And… what's wrong with his face?"

At that, Bruce turned around, following her gaze to the black haired teenager that stood, longingly searching over the customers, practically salivating on the window. His eyes were a familiar blue, and there was a rather extensive, dark bruise covering part of the right side of his face around his ear and forehead. Quite a few of the restaurants other patrons were whispering irritably to their waiters, and Bruce saw that a floor manager was coming out of the back, nodding as he was accosted by about four frantic servers with threats from customers to leave if the barnacle wasn't removed from the glass.

Bruce stood. It couldn't possibly… but it was.

"Bruce?" Delilah questioned in an innocent, sultry tone, attempting to regain the man's attention while subsequently wondering at the sudden change in his demeanor as he set eyes upon the boy. "What's wrong?"

"I'm sorry…" Bruce quietly excused himself, moving out the front door and towards the kid, despite the indignant words of the floor manager following him. The boy's ear perked suddenly, and he backed up from the window as he laid eyes on the tall, suave billionaire approaching him. Delilah watched as the boy's azure eyes widened, and then he turned tail and bolted, Bruce following, leaving Delilah alone and baffled in the restaurant. She sighed, looking back down at the menu, and wondering if things like this happened often on dates with the eccentric bachelor. If so, she wasn't going to stand for sticking around. Delilah Rogers was not a woman to be stood up.

The beautiful young woman turned to one of the waiters and smiled. "I'm on Bruce Wayne's check, and I'll take mine to go, please."