Part Three.

Thus conscience does make cowards of us all ...
In your orisons,
Be all my sins remembered

Hamlet 2. 1

Bruce muted the proximity alarm and turned back to the incinerator with a scowl. He'd miscalculated somewhere. He'd been relying on Wally's short attention span to miss the ghost programme rewriting the Watchtower archives, but the message he'd sent might have been noticed sooner than he'd expected. Either that or Dick had managed to deactivate the device Bruce had installed on the transmission on Nightwing's bike that remotely stalled the engine in case of emergencies. It certainly seemed he'd underestimated someone.

He closed the incinerator door and heard the roar of the flue gases as the last of the Batsuits crumbled in the extreme heat. Although Nomex was fire-resistant, the Kevlar base weave would start to break down at about 900 Fahrenheit and the combined fabric would quickly decompose. He couldn't see it, but his imagination was enough. He felt a little faint. That would be the lingering tachycardia.

Cautious footsteps echoed around the cave as someone entered under the waterfall, and he could tell by their sound that it was Superman and not Nightwing. The intruder paused just at the edge of the river by the haphazardly parked car.

There was silence for ten seconds, then Clark said;

"No-one's going to hurt you, you know." His voice sounded tense but tired.

Bruce turned back to the piles of scrap. The incinerator would be done in eighty-two seconds. "I know."

"You don't need that," Clark added, without moving.

Bruce didn't reply, but his eyes were drawn for a moment to the kryptonite ring resting against the skin of his hand. The green glow it gave off cast a sickly pall across his tendons and bones. He wondered if Clark would have flown over and dragged him up to the house if the ring wasn't there.

"Where's Alfred?"

Bruce turned but kept his back to the incinerator, as if defending it. "In the med bay. He'll be fine in a few hours."

It hurt when Clark went over to check. Did he really think he'd do anything to injure Alfred?

"His pulse is a little slow," announced Clark from the med bay as he bent over Alfred's still form. "What did you give him?"

"Twenty mg of Quazepam."

"That's a very high dosage, Bruce." Clark sounded angry now.

"I know what I'm doing," he replied calmly. "He'll be fine."

Clark left the med bay but didn't come any closer. He leaned against the wall, crossing his arms.

"I read your email. That was some goodbye."

Damn it.

"It was necess-," He started to say but Clark cut him off.

"Necessary? You can't treat people like this, Bruce! People who care about you. If you have a problem, you don't have to push us away. Was force really the only way you could think of to deal with this?" Clark didn't have to gesture to the unconscious Alfred or the glowing kryptonite to make his point.

"Apparently." Bruce answered bluntly, though his heart was racing.

Clark pushed a hand through his hair, frustrated. "Lord, Bruce, just talk to me. Please."

The gas jets in the incinerator powered down as it finished its load. He should start with the next items. He didn't move.

"There's nothing to talk about."

Clark exploded. "Nothing to talk about! Bruce, you're incinerating your life, or the only part of your life you care about! And you really can't even give me an explanation?"

Bruce picked up several folds of parachute Terylene and walked over to the incinerator. He'd only just reached it when he heard Clark had followed him, his voice much closer, a little more strained and quieter now.

"Dick thinks you're dying."

The words came as a shock and for a moment he couldn't reply.

"He didn't say it, but I could tell that's what he was thinking. He thinks you're cutting ties before you-"

"I'm not," Bruce couldn't help but clarify. "He's wrong."

He opened the incinerator and stuffed the parachutes inside. When he turned back, Clark was suddenly very close.

"Don't-" He warned, but Clark ignored him. He could see the beads of sweat on Clark's face, made sallowy by the glow of the kryptonite.

"Then there's only two other options that are coming to mind right now, Bruce. Either you're being mind-controlled into doing this, which seems not only unlikely but remarkably inefficient. Or someone died last night and you've decided to take all the blame on yourself."

"Back off, Clark." He didn't specify physically or metaphorically but took a few steps away from Clark himself, closing his fist about the ring as if that would make any difference.

"So you do care?" Clark's tone sounded a little cold. "I was beginning to wonder."

"I don't want to hurt you."

Clark folded his arms again. He looked pale. "Too late, Bruce. Stop shutting me out, and let me help."

"You can help me by keeping out of my way. I have a job to finish."

"You can't save them all, Bruce."

Bruce heard himself laughing, but there was no joy in it. "I know. That's why I have to end it. End him."

"Who?" asked Clark, though he must have known.

"The Batman."

Clark was silent for a moment and Bruce marched away, putting more distance between them. He still needed about another eighty-five minutes to finish here. And then...

"Who died?"

"Watch the news," he snarled.

"I did," said Clark. "And I don't remember a mention of anything for you to beat yourself up over. You caught Killer Croc. Well done."

Bruce clenched his hands so tightly he felt his knuckles crack, and shook his head. "Then they just haven't found out about him yet."

Clark sighed. "Bruce. Even if you couldn't save someone, this isn't the first time someone's died on your watch. It happens. It's heartbreaking and tragic but it's not your fault!"

Bruce spun around, his pulse thudding and anger boiling over.

"It is when it was me that killed them!"

He could tell he'd caught Clark off guard and took a savage pleasure in the look of disconcertment on that open, honest face.

"What? Of course you didn't-"

"I killed a man," Bruce confirmed, and suddenly the anger drained out, leaving him feeling numb and empty. "I killed him," he repeated. "I'm a m-"

He stopped, throat closing up. It seemed he could commit murder, but not say it.

"Croc's not dead, Bruce," Clark sounded as shaky as he felt. Probably the kryptonite. "You did quite a number on him and they sent him for surgery in some high security prison medical facility but he's not dead."

"Not Croc," said Bruce, and suddenly he had to sit down on the floor. "He had five thugs with him, Thorne's men. They had a hostage, a boy. Four of them rushed me on the roof top. They had guns and I was so angry. I lost control. I incapacitated four and one took the kid and made a run for it. He tried to shoot me and then I caught him and I strangled him to death with my bare hands because he threatened a child and I was angry."

"Bruce..." Clark whispered, and slid down to the floor too, with his back against an empty cabinet. He stared blindly across the cave and they sat in silence.

Then Clark was shaking his head. "No Bruce, you couldn't. I don't believe that."

"Believe it. It happened. I became a murderer and Batman became a fallacy."

Clark swallowed. "And all this?" He gestured at the destroyed cave. "What are you going to do?"

Bruce felt incredibly heavy, as if the weight of his crime was dragging him down. "I forfeited the right to freedom when I took a man's life," He gazed past Clark at the distant waterfall. "As soon as Batman is destroyed, I'm going to turn myself in."

Suddenly Clark was on his feet again. "No, Bruce. This is all wrong. Can't you see? You wouldn't do this. You have too much control and too much compassion. You were saving a child's life! You must have made a mistake about what happened."

Bruce stared at Clark. "I felt that man's larynx crushing under my fingers, Clark. It's quite distinctive."

He made a move to stand up and his balanced failed him. The cave swum nauseatingly in front of his eyes and he fell back against something warm and solid that appeared at his side.

"Take it easy..." said Clark, carefully holding him up. As soon as he had his balance back, Bruce pulled away. Clark's hands were trembling too now from the proximity to the kryptonite, and he looked nearly as bad as Bruce felt.

"For God's sake, Clark," Bruce snapped and snatched the ring off his hand. Striding over to the desk, he threw the kryptonite inside its lead box and slammed the lid closed. Then he marched back over to Clark and pushed the box into his hands. There was a couple of seconds of silence, before Clark took in a sudden, sharp breath. Bruce thought it was a vocalisation of relief until Clark spoke again.

"Bruce...you're hurt pretty badly. I can see...a head injury, and serious abdominal lacerations... your shoulder cartilage is torn..."

Clark squinted at his shoulder and reached out to touch the swollen joint. Bruce pulled away with a scowl, but Clark caught his right wrist at super-speed and held it firmly.

"Let go," Bruce warned low. "Don't make me have to take that kryptonite back."

Clark didn't seem to be listening, but was staring at his arm intensely. After seven seconds he looked up, alarmed.

"There's something in your blood, too. Something I haven't seen before. I can't quite focus on it yet..."

Bruce sighed. "It's Crane's fear toxin, but modified."

"What does it do? Apart from increasing your temperature and putting your heart-rate through the roof, that is. Isn't the antidote working?"

Bruce shook his head and pulled his arm free. "It's helping block the effects, but it's not perfect." He looked at Clark, heavily. "The drug induces anger. Blind rage."

"Enough to make you kill?" Clark stood back and stared at him. "I don't believe that, Bruce. I won't."

And Clark's continuing refusal to accept the horrible truth that was tearing his reality apart turned out to be the last betrayal he could face. Clark's thoughtless faith battered down his defences and all that burning rage building up inside exploded from him. He leapt forwards; blinded by fury, frustration and despair and punched Clark as hard as he could.

Bruce opened his eyes slowly, and the first thing he noticed was the peace. That roaring of angry voices in his ears had quieted at last, and his pulse no longer thundered sickeningly along in his chest. He felt odd, dull and muggy like the first few moments of awakening after drinking yourself into unconsciousness the night before, when you're still not sure if your skull is still attached to your body or not.

He risked moving, rolling slowly onto his side and feeling parts of his body ring in with complaints. The stitches in his abdomen were burning, his head ached like fury and his stomach more nauseous than it had been in a long time. But it wasn't all bad; his shoulder was coolly numb and he no longer felt feverish.

He eased himself up into sitting and concentrated on the room around him. He was in his own bed in the manor and the angle of the light through the curtain indicated early evening. There were voices downstairs and footsteps, and after a few moments, Clark appeared in the open doorway. He knocked on the doorframe.

"Hey. Mind if I come in?"

Bruce ignored him, knowing he would anyway. Clark did, turning the lights up low and moving over to the long curtains. Bruce poured a glass of water from the jug at the bedside and swallowed it in small sips.

"You're an idiot, you know?" Clark announced suddenly.

Bruce finished his water without a word.

"Would it really kill you to let someone else help you? You don't have to do everything on your own."

"You're angry," Bruce noted, putting the glass down.

"How perspicacious," Clark snapped. "But if you think this is angry, you should see Dick."

"How's Alfred?" Bruce asked low, feeling a twinge of shame.

"Asleep," came the terse answer. "Dick's with him. He'll be fine."

"I only meant to give you the kryptonite," Bruce said. That twinge had turned into a full ache of guilt and suddenly, trying to explain himself seemed terribly important. "I didn't mean to hurt you, but I knew you wouldn't let me explain. You'll have to find someone else to keep it; Diana would be my recommendation, as her previous history suggests she is usually more resistant to mind control than J'onn-"

Clark was shaking his head. "I gave it to you for a reason, Bruce, and that reason still stands. I trust you."

Bruce blinked. "You can't. Not anymore. Last night-"

Clark hooked a heavy wing-backed chair with one ankle and pulled it over easily, sitting down. "Yes, Bruce. Last night. Tell me what happened."

He sounded like a cheap psychiatrist. Bruce scowled, and Clark added; "Just humour me."

"An informant. He told me Killer Croc was working for Thorne. Just hired muscle, but he meant to work his way up the pecking order," Bruce started recount slowly, but soon memories flickered back into life in his mind like fireflies as the fog lifted. "I heard rumour of a move going down last night to take out the Biedrzycki Brothers; they've been operating out of Robbinsville for a few months. It didn't take much intimidation to find out Croc was among the group picked out for the hit. I started out by -"

He stopped as his mind began to move faster than he could speak. It didn't make sense; nothing about the situation did. Croc's behaviour was atypical, Thorne's action against minor players like the Biedrzyckis ill-timed and careless. If he could just...

"Crane," He finally spat out. "It was Crane and Thorne, all along."

In the corner of his eye he could see Clark nodded but he didn't look at him.

"It should have been so obvious. They were in it together from the start. The break out, the hit...They were all staged. Just to get to me." Bruce felt sick with disgust, and curled round his bent knees. It hurt a little but he relished it.

"They engineered the new toxin especially for you," Clark said softly. "Fear doesn't work on you, Bruce. You are too strong to ever let fear control you completely. So Crane tried his hand at anger instead, and had Croc deliver it straight to you."

"Croc's claws..." Bruce remembered, hazily. "He had some sort of prosthetic titanium tips fused to his claws. That's how he cut through the suit. Last time Croc bit me, I was only infected with fear toxin because Crane had been pumping Croc full of it in Arkham and it was transferred from his saliva into my blood. But Crane's now behind the bars instead of in front of them. There's someone on the Arkham staff on Thorne's pay roll. They must have acted as the go between for Crane to develop the new toxin..." He was getting ahead of himself.

"There were micro- voids in Croc's synthetic claws," Clark confirmed. "Gordon told me this afternoon. And they pulled samples of the toxin off too. Relax," he added as Bruce tensed, "I destroyed all the traces of your blood they'd got, and no-one saw."

It shouldn't have worked, Bruce knew. Crane's plan was a ridiculous one, so convoluted in its conception, so riddled with flaws in its execution. It should never have worked. Crane had done well choosing Croc as the stooge, one of the few of Batman's only big time villains that he shouldn't have needed to use his brain to defeat. He'd been lured in and trapped like an amateur. He didn't realise he'd spoken out loud until Clark answered.

"It wasn't your fault Bruce. You were exhausted after that off-world mission, we all were. After the last three weeks the League has had...it's amazing you were still functioning at all, let alone able to pick up on a plan as bizarre as this."

Bruce wasn't listening. Croc had been right last night. He and Crane had won. He, Batman, had been completely deceived and a man had paid for Bruce's arrogance with his life. Now Bruce would repay that crime with his freedom. Not that he was under any illusions about how long he'd survive inside after turning himself in. He gave himself seven days at best, and that was if he even made it as far as sentencing.

He rolled over onto his side and pushed up off the bed with his good arm. Clark frowned at him.

"Do I even want to know where you're going?"

Bruce pulled on a dressing gown over his pyjamas and turned towards the door. "As far as I recall, I still have most of the weaponry, everything in the hangar, and all the lab and workshop materials to destroy. I've wasted too much time already."

"Bruce."

He should have ignored Clark. He should have brushed off the warm hand on his shoulder and walked away, gone back to the cave, finished his work and brought his last criminal to justice. He meant to.

Clark turned Bruce to face him, but Bruce kept his eyes down. "Listen to me very carefully, Bruce," said Clark, slow and calm, and there was no way on Earth he could have denied that voice then.

"You did not kill anybody. Do you understand me? There was no body-"

"Probably went into the river..." he muttered, but Clark's voice cut over, firmly.

"There was no blood other than yours and Crocs. No injured thugs by the stair door. No bullet holes in the alley wall, no shell casings anywhere. Not even a stray hair."

"Forensics could have missed them."

"I went over the whole crime-scene myself, Bruce. I checked every stairwell, window ledge and alley in the street. There was no-one on that roof except for you and Croc."

"The boy. The hostage." He managed, feeling more dazed than if Clark had just struck him.

Clark was shaking his head. "There never was a boy, Bruce."

He shook his head mutely.

"Why is it so hard for you to accept that you're not a killer?" said Clark, but his tone was sad, not confrontational. "You know the fear toxin causes hallucinations of things you fear, panic based on deep established phobias. The rage toxin causes hallucinations of things you hate. For you, that was men with guns threatening terrified children. Thugs preying on the helpless."

Bruce twisted out from under Clark's hand and turned away to the window. He pulled the drapes aside, pushed the door open with his left hand and stepped out onto the balcony in the fading evening light. The stone was cold under his feet and there was a slight tang in the air that he knew meant there'd be rain before midnight. He closed his eyes and watched the terrified hallucinated hostage vanish into the shadows.

"How long have you known?" He asked, quietly, looking out over the low light and long shadows of the garden. Clark came over beside him, but not touching him, and leaned his elbows on the stone balustrade.

"I guessed from the start," Clark answered. "It's not in you to kill."

"I'm glad you think so," Bruce snarled. He saw Clark turn to look at him and closed his eyes. "So the man I attacked was an hallucination," he continued. "But my intent, that was real. If he'd been a real thug, I would have strangled him. Croc was real, and I shot him with a grapple gun, Clark."

Clark winced a little. "Croc will recover."

"You know that's not the point," He retorted. Then, with a sigh, said; "This can never happen again."

"Manufacture a better antidote then."

"Don't be flippant," Bruce snapped, and Clark instantly looked contrite. "I just...need you to believe in me."

"Bruce!" Clark almost spluttered. "That was all I ever did! I believed in you, more than you did! You have so little faith in yourself that you just gave up, surrendered. I knew you didn't kill that man, not in your right mind, not without some external force or mind control. Even before I saw the evidence, or lack of it, for myself in that alley. What more faith do you need?"

"The faith that I know myself better than you do!" Bruce shook his head. "I need you to know that I am fallible, Clark, and that I have a darkness in me. Don't disagree, turning a blind eye to it won't make it untrue. I need you to know that one day, what I thought happened last night could happen." He caught Clark's eye, and held it firmly. "And I need to know that when it does, you'll do what is necessary to take me down."

They stayed frozen in tableau for ten long seconds before Clark slowly sighed. "Fine. But there are provisos. I won't do anything to hurt you. I will always choose to do what I think is right and only once I've seen the evidence for myself with my own eyes. I won't follow blind orders, Bruce, but you know you only have to ask for help and I'll be there. You know that. You don't have to do everything on your own any more. That's the agreement. Take it or leave it."

Bruce was silent for a moment, then nodded, curtly. He was looking out over the garden when a small, lead-lined box appeared in front of his eyes.

"That promise?" Clark said, holding out the box. "It goes both ways."

Bruce hesitated for a bare second. Then he took the lead-wrapped kryptonite and tucked it away into his dressing gown pocket. They watched the fading light and growing shadows across the evening garden for a while. Bruce broke the silence, voice low.

"I don't suppose I hallucinated incinerating all the Batsuits..."

Clark gave a sudden laugh. "No, sorry. You did a thorough job. But you must have the designs down to pat now after so many rebuilds. Shouldn't take you and Lucius Fox long to whip a few more up."

"Yes," said Bruce, "Except the design specs were all on the computer I smashed."

"Then it's a good job you transferred everything to Oracle, isn't it?"

Clark straightened slightly, and gazed back through the wall. "I see Alfred's awake and Dick is making tea. Come on, I think you have some apologies to make." He started back into the house, but paused on the threshold as Bruce called his name.

"Clark."

Clark turned and looked back. Bruce shifted his weight slightly.

"Thank you."

Clark smiled.

The end.