For a moment the children's shouting faded to just background noise. Bruce knew the obstacle before him. He didn't need to analyze every sound the kids were making, it would only distract him. He needed to figure out what to do. He needed things to slow down. He had to get into the mental state he had once lived in... In the dark of the tunnel, beyond the mass of vicious children, Bruce could see a shadow darker than the rest. It was the shape of Alfred...

"I'm not about to kill a bunch of kids." Jones was looking to Batman for some sort of advice. The man's temperament again caught Bruce off guard, but it did manage to break the ghostly distraction.

Bruce knew what they had to do. "They come at you. Take them down. Minimal damage." His demands summoned a nod from Waylon.

The children, growing more and more anxious with the passing seconds, were now bouncing up and down, weapons flailing aimlessly. Bruce's eyes were still beyond them, looking for a way out. Something wasn't adding up. Kids didn't just turn like this. Unfortunately, he could find no answers before one of the children ran at him, aluminum bat raised.

Bruce caught the bat with one hand, bringing everyone's attention to the encounter. He slammed the edge of his hand and wrist down upon the child's neck. The kid slumped down. He hadn't felt it, but he would be unconscious for the next few minutes. As if enraged, the rest of the pack rushed at Batman and his accomplice.

The men took turns blocking and dodging the incoming attacks, doing their best to avoid getting injured by the more dangerous weapons. One by one the kids were tossed aside, most of them being knocked out by single blows. But even though their numbers were steadily decreasing they still took a toll on the investigators.

Bruce hadn't been involved in such demanding action for some time. He had forgotten what it meant to thoroughly analyze each and every attack. He needed to know exactly how much pressure to apply, where to apply it, how to shift the child's weight after attacking – he was building up a sweat, in the least. Waylon on the other hand had been spending the last several years building a wall to separate him from his old reputation. With every punch thrown, he could feel his noble image breaking down.

As the crowd began wearing down, Bruce and Waylon were finally able to look over the faces of the children. The remaining ones were either too nervous to attack or they were smart enough to know they were already losing. One of the faces, though, was special. As soon as Waylon caught sight of the boy, he stopped fighting, leaving two children to continue battering his legs with a spatula and a broom handle.

"You're okay." His voice had become gentle, still thick with his deformed accent but obviously meant to calm. He pushed through the two attacking children without effort, coming closer to the boy that he had lost.

There was a cut on the child's neck. Dark spots dressed every inch of exposed skin. He looked better than the other kids that inhabited the tunnels but in no way did he look okay. His face was emotionless, caught in a sort of forced frown - the result of medical treatment after being attacked by the Joker. He made no movement towards Jones, nor did he try to speak. He simply looked at his old protector, tears threatening to fall.

One of the remaining kids, who must have been in his early teens, noticed that something was shared between Jones and the boy. He stepped towards Waylon's child, wrapping an arm around the kid's shoulders and bringing a knife to his stomach. The older youth smiled a bit, obviously lost in the madness. "You know this freak?" He looked at Waylon's boy almost playfully. "You care about him?" He poked the boy with the tip of the knife. Jones sneered. "You not gonna fight? You plan on defyin' the Captain?" The knife was pressed harder against the boy's stomach.

Waylon let out a fierce growl, reminding Bruce of the man's old temper. Batman too had stopped fighting the children, but only because those remaining were now fixated on the situation between Waylon's child and the teen. Bruce's glare locked onto Jones. "He's just a kid." He knew he couldn't stop Waylon from protecting what he rightfully felt was his own child, but he couldn't just let him maul the older boy.

"I know. I won't kill him." In a flash Waylon's old speed kicked in, his thick legs jumping and propelling him towards the two children. His thick fingers were locked around the wrist of the teenager in a blink. "I might just have to take his hand."

Waylon's words made the older boy tremble. Despite Waylon's grip, he dropped the knife. Releasing the weapon allowed Waylon to let go, and just when he did the child bolted away. The other kids, watching one of their bravest members flee, lost all of their remaining courage. They followed the teen away and into the dark, absent their brave shouts.

Bruce, Waylon, and the kidnapped child they had been searching for were left alone. Waylon dropped to his knees, trying to encourage the kid's safety by bringing his own towering form to the child's level. After a brief pause the kid fell foreword, arms coiling around Waylon's abdomen and squeezing tightly. Waylon draped his arms over the child's shoulders, holding the boy close. The child began to cry audibly, sobs escaping him after every breath. Waylon, too, let a few tears fall.

It was only then that Bruce realized just how human Waylon really was... Over all those years, he had been considered one of the most threatening monsters in Gotham's underbelly. Yet, here he was, crying after being reunited with a boy completely unrelated to him. After all that time being ridiculed, taunted, judged and criticized for the mutation he had been born with, Waylon had let the city believe he really was a beast. In reality, he had only grown vulnerable...

The heartfelt moment was interrupted by the high-pitched groan of old wood and the defeaning roar of a gunshot. Bruce, who had been watching Waylon and the boy, could only look on as a bullet slammed into the back of the child's head. Blood sprayed out from the entry wound, more fluids and masses of brain splashing against Waylon's chest. Jones looked down slowly after feeling the bullet crash against his thick skin... And when he saw the child he had been searching for laying limp in his arms, head lolled foreword with a gaping hole staring back... Waylon froze.

Bruce immediately looked to the source of the gunshot. The sound may have echoed, but he still knew where it had come from. The maintenance door was standing ajar, a man standing in the entrance. His face was dark, hidden by tangles of ratty dark hair, with a black wide-brimmed hat on his head. A faded green trench coat hung over the rest of his tattered clothes. He wore tall black boots, laced up to his calves and over his ripped jeans. The handgun he had used to shoot the child was still held up, pointing towards Waylon and the kid's corpse. Without thinking, Batman rushed towards him.

The man turned heel and rushed back behind the door, slamming it behind him. Batman flung the door open with ease, driven by an adrenaline that he had long forgotten. He passed through the door just in time to see the culprit duck around a corner. He kept up the chase, realizing that the passage he was entering had been carved out of the original maintenance hallway. He was now within a tunnel dug through the wall and into the earth itself. They must have been using tunnels to get into the buildings...

He spotted the corner of the man's coat flinging around another corner. Bruce tried to push himself as hard as he could. He tried to make himself faster. His legs pumped as quickly as they ever had. But he couldn't keep up the pace. And while it seemed his target was only speeding up in the labyrinth-like tunnels, Bruce was slowing down. When he turned another corner and saw nothing he stopped in his tracks, throwing his hand against the dirt wall to support himself. He was out of breath. His chest was on fire. He really had lost it...

Meanwhile, Waylon was alone with his loss. He was standing now, the boy's body spread out before him, arms at his side. The child's eyes had been slid shut. There were small scratches on the boy's eyelids where Waylon's claw-like nails had pulled them down. The man was shaking, beside himself with anger. This wasn't the rage born from Killer Croc's frustration... Waylon was experiencing something far worse. The pain of a man having lost his child.

He looked to the door that Bruce had disappeared behind. "I'm sorry." His voice shook, weak with devastation. Despite the sorrow, his words still ended with a growl.

Batman pressed a trigger on the side of his mask, searching for the faintest trail of body heat. And he found it. He began navigating the tunnels once more, now at a more suitable pace. He had to keep moving. Even if he was immeasurably far behind, he had to try. Before long, he stumbled across something unexpected.

A small cave, dug into the side of the tunnel, expanding just large enough for a single room. Bruce entered. The room was already lit with a series of electric lanterns, and accordingly it was easy for him to make out even the small details. There was a desk. A chair. And a bookshelf. He looked over the titles slowly. "Blackbeard," "The Fountain of Youth," "Immortality and Philosophy," "Peter Pan." The books ranged from stories of pirates to social sciences. The Detective's eyes then dropped to the desk. There was a single, rolled out paper in front of him. A map of Gotham City. X's crossed out familiar locations – the buildings that had been attacked throughout the week. One X was larger than the others, representing something different... It marked the Gotham City Orphanage.

Bruce knew what was going on. And he knew the identity of the man he had been chasing. It was a man he long thought dead... Someone forgotten long before the decline costumed crime. Tossed aside while even the Batman was still relevant...

Karl Courtney.

Captain Stingaree.

# # # # #

AUTHOR'S NOTE: About half the size of the last chapter, I know. And I also know some of the transitions were bland. I've been trying to simplify my word use and sentence structure as of late, and while the practice is good for me, unfortunately some of my writing's flow suffers as a result. This of course would be no excuse for bad story-telling, and I hope that any faults weren't severe enough to take away from this tale. If you have any constructive criticism, tips, etc., please share. My ears and eyes are always open, looking for ways to make progress. Also, if you're reading this, I would like to make a quick thank you. Knowing that there are readers out there makes the work I put into this all the more worthwhile.

Also, just as a note, I have finished the final chapter in this story. It may take me longer to edit and publish it (the first two chapters didn't have much time between them), because I am working on preparing the absolute best ending. Again, all comments are welcome!