Part Two.

Breathe his faults so quaintly
That they may seem the taints of liberty
The flash and outbreak of a fiery mind,
A savageness in unreclaimed blood

Hamlet 2.1

Bruce was nowhere near finished when Alfred returned. After a few phone anonymous calls to the Gotham City Police Department to tell them the location of Croc and his accomplices, Bruce had started with the computer files. A mistake as it turned out. While the databases were important, one of only a few things that he intended to transfer and preserve, it would have been a lot easier to conceal what the running programmes were doing when Alfred came down to the cave. Although if he'd started by destroying his equipment, Alfred probably would have noticed that too. He also noticed with hindsight that the automated emails would alert others to his activities and they might try to interfere. Why wouldn't his brain work?

It was odd. Bruce had prepared for this eventuality long ago, building back-doors and hidden codes into all the systems he'd helped to create, but his hands were still shaking slightly as he entered the command code to activate the emergency protocols, and he couldn't attribute all of it to the poison. Lines of code flickered across the screen as the data drained from the hard drive. He watched his life slowly being deleted, and felt a little like drowning. He rubbed his forehead feeling beads of feverish sweat on the skin. Was he getting worse? It didn't matter. He was wearing only a light hooded sweater and jogging pants but felt as if his skin was burning up.

Alfred came down just as he'd finished smashing the computer's hard-drives, disks and backups. He'd wiped them clean already magnetically, but he wanted no possibility that future innovations would develop the technology to reinstall the lost data. If there was any chance of recovery, physical destruction was the only option. The equipment lockers and workshop had already been cleared out into piles on the cave floor, organised by how they would be destroyed. Items to be burned or melted down were already piled by the incinerator; all standard batarang styles nos. B3 through B26, all the electronic communications/audio-visual equipment, medical equipment and drugs, the museum case memorabilia, tazers, empty utility belts, rebreather, parachutes, cowls and capes, and grapple lines. The second pile of objects included those that would explode if subjected to heat; namely all compressed gas capsules, laboratory grade acids and chemicals, electronic/exploding baratangs nos. BE27 – B50, and B60-85, plastic explosives, grenades and oxy-acetylene cutting torches. They'd have to be destroyed another way; he was considering dismantling the weapons and sinking them.

Bruce nearly wept with frustration when he heard Alfred's step on the stairs. He thought he'd have more time. He wasn't finished and didn't dare stop before it was all gone. The thought of trying to explain why to Alfred made him feel dizzy with horror. It would kill Alfred to hear it. He turned away from the stairs and spotted amidst a pile of papers an old photograph. It had been taken a few years back when John Steward had given Diana a digital camera for Christmas and she's insisted on taking everyone's picture. This one had all seven founding members in it, Clark and Wally with an arm each around Diana and blindingly white smiles. Batman was skulking at the back of the group, his concession to the season was a frown that wasn't a scowl.

As he stared into each face, he heard Alfred descend the first flight of stairs, his steps slow and cautious. The sight of the destruction must have been quite alarming from up there. He heard Alfred pause on the landing and quietly call out.

"Master Bruce?"

Bruce stood up slowly but didn't turn around.

"Alfred."

Alfred continued down the stairs, speaking cautiously.

"We appear to be somewhat in disarray, sir. May I enquire as to if we've had an intruder?"

Bruce stared out across the destruction.

"Yes, Alfred. But he's finally leaving."

Bruce let go of the picture of Batman with the Justice League and it fluttered onto the pile by the incinerator.

"Perhaps I could find someone to help you...tidy up."

Alfred wanted him to call Clark. Not going to happen.

"No, thank you, Alfred. That will not be necessary."

There was silence for ten seconds.

"I've just received a phone call from Master Dick, sir. He seemed rather concerned."

Bruce didn't reply but put his hand in his pocket.

"Apparently he and Miss Barbara have come to the conclusion that you intend to do something somewhat foolish. It appears they were correct."

He snapped. "They have no..." Bruce stopped, willing himself calm. Don't give in to the anger.

"I'm doing what has to be done." He finally said, his back still to the stairs. He heard Alfred walk towards him across the cave.

"And what exactly is it that you are doing, sir?" said Alfred, and there was just a hint of steel in that tone.

Bruce didn't reply, too busy controlling his heartbeat, but Alfred was angry enough for the both of them.

"You have no right, sir! People depend on you now, on him. You have no right to take that away."

"It's my life!" He snapped, trying to control his anger.

"Not any more, it isn't!" countered the other man. "Not since people like Master Dick started following in your footsteps. Not since the Commissioner and the police picked up your first prisoner. Not since the first day you put on that cowl. Gotham, the Justice League, Superman; they all need you, sir. You've made them need you. "

In just a few words, the anger seemed to have dissipated and now Alfred just sounded tired and disappointed.

"They shouldn't," said Bruce, bluntly. "And they'll have to learn that lesson the hard way. Without Batman."

He turned to face Alfred for the first time. Alfred's eyes widened slightly at his appearance. He'd felt the bruising coming up on his face about an hour ago but hadn't realised it was that bad.

"Whatever happened, sir," said Alfred, firmly, "it wasn't your fault. You can't save them all."

Bruce didn't smile, though the situation was tragically ironic. "I know Alfred. But I'm making up for it now."

Alfred made no reply and Bruce knew he was processing just what exactly Bruce had meant by that. He brushed the sweaty hair out of his eyes with a shaky hand and looked over Alfred's shoulder at the destroyed Batcomputer. So much still to do. And he hadn't decided what to do with the car. Give it to Dick? No, it was too recognisable. Suddenly there was a cool hand on his head.

"You're burning up. Perhaps you should lie down for a bit."

"I have to finish what I've started, Alfred."

Alfred's hand dropped. "Master Bruce, you're destroying your life's work. You need take a moment to calm down and think clearly. Please come back up to the house with me and we'll wait for Master Dick to arrive-"

Bruce looked up. "He's coming here?"

"Yes, sir, and I believe he wished me to try and contact Mr Kent in the meantime. Please, sir, just stop until they arrive. Whatever's happened, we can sort it out then."

Bruce gave a soft sigh and withdrew his hand slowly from his pocket. "I'm sorry Alfred. I can't do that. I have to finish this, now."

Alfred sighed, turning away, and Bruce moved silently.

It was but the work of a moment and he had Alfred's back pinned against his chest, holding him firmly around the shoulders with his good arm as he quickly administered the hypo-syringe to Alfred's neck. He held on securely as the drug took rapid hold, ignoring the slight struggles until Alfred went limp in his grasp.

"I'm sorry, Alfred." Bruce said, laying the butler down, gently. He went back to work.

"Stay down!" Batman ordered through gritted teeth, but at that moment Croc got in a swift kick that caught Batman in his aching ribs, tossing him aside. Batman lay stunned for a moment and watched helpless as Croc easily snapped the cable wrapped around his upper body. He looked down at Batman and laughed.

Laughed. Batman saw red for a moment, a thick fury fuelled by pain and frustration and tinged with blackness hovering at the edge of his vision. Suddenly, the grapple gun was in his hand again and before he was aware of it, there was a long moment of rage and colour and his pulse thundering and suddenly Croc was screaming as the four-pronged grapple hook, an evil little projectile weapon at a range that close, ripped through the flesh, muscle and bone of his shoulder. Batman braced his feet, feeling a tug as someone, maybe it was even him, activated the recoil and Croc was dragged back across the roof by the metal hooks in his body, screaming and writhing as the cable coiled up around his arms. Batman watched his enemy lie, shrieking in agony, at his feet and it felt good. He was so angry.

He released the cable from the gun mechanism and quickly wrenched Croc's limbs behind him with the thick line, and locked it off to a nearby grating using a carabiner. The mechanism was slick under his gloves and he honestly didn't know who's blood it was, his or Killer Croc's. He breathed slowly, resisted the urge to tug the line a little tighter than absolutely necessary. He crouched low over Croc's trussed up form, and Croc turned his head, half whimpering and half growling. He thought at first it was through pain, but suddenly he realised it was laughter. Batman snarled back but it was too late.

"We've won!" Croc gave a sniggering gurgle in his throat. "Whatever you do now, you're finished. I've beaten you."

The creature's fetid breath was in his face, and he was laughing at Bruce's helplessness. The brass knuckles smashed into Croc's mouth before Batman could think to do anything else, and several of the creature's teeth snapped off in a spray of blood. Croc gave a muffled scream. Batman stood up and walked away. He felt numb. Something was wrong. Croc would heal. That wasn't the point. Croc would heal but there was something very wrong. He had had to get back, had to...

And then the access door burst open and five men ran out on to the roof top. He barely noticed them, his eyes seeming to focus only one thing. The terrified boy, barely older than eight, that the fifth man held with a gun pressed to his skull. A hostage. One of the gunmen was saying something, making demands, but he couldn't hear them; his body reacted to the moonlight glinting off the metal barrels before his mind had worked out what they meant.

Men with guns. Men bringing swift evil death, fear and terror to the innocent in the dark night. In his city.

He saw red.

"Watchtower calling Superman."

"Superman here."

"Superman, it's J'onn. I'm afraid something has happened."

"J'onn, can it wait? I'm a little busy."

"It could be serious."

A groan. "I don't think I want to know..."

Quietly. "I think you do. It's Batman."

"Transport, please. Now."

Superman flew from the transporter bay to the monitor womb instead of walking. He did not look happy.

"What's happened? Is he hurt?"

J'onn did not turn away from the computer though Wally was flitting nervously around the screens and terminals.

"We're not sure. An email just arrived; the original deleted itself just after Flash opened it, but he managed to make a copy."

J'onn turned and handed Superman a paper chocolate wrapper, marked with a few short, terse lines in Wally's super-speed scrawl.

Batman's association with the Justice League has been terminated henceforth. All records of past interactions have been deleted from public record and the Watchtower files. It is in the League's best interests to deny any joint operations took place.

Do not try to contact me.

"That's all?" Superman demanded.

"Nothing more in the email," Wally answered, with an uneasy shrug. "But Bats has somehow deleted himself from all the mission records too. Any idea what's going on?"

Superman clenched his fist, subconsciously. "None. But I intend to find out."

Just then, one of the screens lit up, and a soft beeping sounded.

"An incoming communication." J'onn said, with a frown. "I doubt it is coincidence."

He answered the call and put it on speaker. The room filled with the dull roar of an engine and whistling wind past the microphone.

"Justice League."

"Yeah, J'onn, it's Nightwing. I need to talk to Superman." Dick's voice was slightly breathless.

"I'm here, Nightwing," Superman answered. "What's going on?"

Nightwing didn't waste any time. "You need to get to Gotham; something's happened to Bruce."

Clark raised his eyebrows in worry.

"What do you mean, something's happened?"

"I don't know," answered Dick, and they heard the sound of swerving. "You know he finally caught up with Killer Croc last night?"

"Yes, I saw on the news," said Clark, grimly. "Batman put him in the hospital."

"Yeah. Well, after that Bruce went back to the cave and transferred all his databases to Oracle. And when I say all, I mean everything. When she found out this morning, I called Alfred; he said that Bruce had been hurt, and implied pretty badly. He thought Bruce was sleeping, not working. I told him the computers had been activated and asked him to go and check everything was alright. That was forty minutes ago; he didn't call back and no-one's answering the phone in the cave or the house. I'm on my way there now, but I had some bike trouble. Please, just make sure he's okay."

It was J'onn that answered him. "Superman's already gone, Nightwing, but he will."

The two thugs with automatics opened fire the moment he moved; sparks scattered across the rooftop as bullets struck metal and concrete. Two batarangs were in flight even as he threw himself forward; there was a satisfying grunt of pain, and then he was upon them, inexorable as death itself.

One guy was down already gasping and a kick broke the second gunman's wrist and then he was there, swirling darkness full of hard blows and compressed fury driving powerful kicks. He could hear nothing over the roaring in his ears but he felt the pulse of blood in his veins, the crunch of a sternum giving way under his heel, a strike up into a face that cracked the zygomatic bone followed by an elbow to dislocate the jaw...It was a thing of beauty, this dance of pain. Beauty forged through absolute rage that robbed him of everything but the raw instinct to hurt and break and inflict this retribution on those that would dare to infect his city with crime and threaten Gotham's children.

He blinked back the fog of anger as he realised no-one was attacking. Four bodies lay on the ground and their pitiful groans and whimpers curdled in the cold air. There was one gunman and one terrified child missing. In his blindness for battle, he'd lost sight of the person he was trying to protect. He strode past the injured thugs without a second glance, and glanced down in the alley below, and there they were. The last gunman, the coward that had fled back down the stairs at the very sight of him was slinking into the dark, clutching a small figure to him. Brave enough when his helpless victims were at the other end of a Beretta.

The spare grapple line pulled tight on crumbling stone and he was flying, the shadow of his cape eclipsing the fleeing man in darkness just as he reached the mouth of the alley. The man shouted something obscene and then bullets were whistling in the air; there was an explosion of sound and sharp sting in his head as a bullet skimmed the cowl's plating and he lost his grip just about four metres from the ground. Everything was a blur of swirling sodium street-light yellow and alley black shadows, and then fireworks behind his eyes as his back struck the wall and his right shoulder gave way with a sickly pop.

Through a haze of rage he saw the thug's retreating figure and knew the man could not be allowed to escape. He gave the shoulder a quick assessment; as he expected, a simple anterior dislocation. Before he had a chance to think twice, he leaned his shoulder in against the corner of the building and holding his right arm close with his left hand, slamming the joint forward into the brickwork with one violent move. The humerus slid back into place and he thought for a moment he was going to throw up, but the pain bought not only movement back to his arm, but a clarity he'd been missing on the roof and a focus for all that rage.

The man was still running but now he was alone. The child had vanished. Batman closed fast and a batarang sliced at the gunman's legs. The thug stumbled and fell onto his back and had time for a short scream before the darkness descended.

Concluded in Part Three