After a few minutes of observation, the girls made it clear that they were getting annoyed.

"You know," said Techie, "if we just stand here staring at them, we might be just a tiny bit conspicuous."

"Haven't you ever stalked anyone before?" Al added. Jonathan didn't answer. Edward, however, didn't seem to be thinking clearly enough to hold back.

"Not like this."

"Well, pretend you're casing the place before a robbery. Do you just stand there, staring and looking all obvious about it? Or do you exercise a little subtlety and misdirection?" (The fact that she had to scream to be heard over the music was just a wee bit ironic.)

"What do you suggest?" Jonathan snapped (really trying not to take her head off, because he did know better than to cause a scene. And, while screaming at each other wouldn't be a problem, a fistfight would.)

"Hide in plain sight," said Techie. She turned to Edward with a frightening grin. "On the dance floor."

He took a step back.

"I—uh—"

"What's the matter? Can't dance?" she teased. Edward flushed. "Oh, Eddums. I'll teach you." She caught his hand and dragged him out toward the dance floor. He shot a despairing glance at Jonathan, who made no move to help him.

Al laughed.

"Well?"

He glared at her.

"Well, what?"

"Well, are we going to join them?"

"Can you dance?" Privately, he doubted it. When she was sitting around the lair, she reminded him of nothing more than a big lump, a bump on a log, or a lazy housecat whose favorite pastime was napping. He had seen her fight, so he knew that she could move when she wanted to, but she wasn't exactly the graceful type. There was a big difference between floating across the dance floor, and bashing someone's face in with a pipe. Maybe not so much in this crowd, but still.

"I did tap when I was a kid," Al said carelessly.

"That's not the same thing."

"Then you'll just have to teach me, won't you?" She looked up at him with a smile so earnest he had to give in—or risk drawing attention by disappointing his lady friend.

"Come on, then," he sighed as he took her hand.

He knew better than to expect Al to be gracious about this, but the look she gave him when he touched her was positively…feral.

He led her out into the crowded dance floor, dodging the bodies of the half-dressed teenaged idiots who seemed intent on throwing themselves in his way. How the hell had she managed to talk him into this?

And why was she so happy to be there? He knew she was no more comfortable being seen publicly in her underwear than he was. So what was different about this? It wasn't just the chance to spy on the Captain, or the perverse pleasure of having dragged him into a situation he couldn't gracefully escape. She was enjoying herself, and so was Techie. Even Edward was as comfortable as a man could be in a corset and heels.

What was the draw? The movie had been entertaining enough, but not something he would care to sit through again. Maybe the novelty of dressing up in a costume was lost on someone like him, but even if he had never worn a mask in his life, he wouldn't have been interested in going out in anything so…skimpy.

And this trendy little dance club? Not at all his idea of a good time. He didn't know if it was a sign of old age or good taste, but he couldn't think of this "music" as anything but too-loud, overly synthesized noise.

It had been years since Jonathan had danced freely, and his first halfhearted attempts at movement marked him as an obvious outsider. He didn't belong anywhere near this dance floor. In fact, he was about thirty seconds away from making up his mind to blow the place up along with everyone inside.

Then Al laughed at him.

"Hey, come on, I thought you were supposed to be good at this!"

He wouldn't say his pride was stung, because that would be ridiculous. But he did pull her roughly closer to him to mutter in her ear, "You should learn to watch that mouth of yours. It's going to get you into trouble one of these days."

She smirked.

And he let go.

Forget the inhibitions. Who needed them? He was the Scarecrow, Master of Fear. He had the power. He was the dance.

Al gasped in surprise when she first realized he was dragging her along for the ride. Then they found their rhythm together, and it truly began.

She must have been saving all her grace for a moment such as this. He had never known her to move so freely, so beautifully, a perfect extension of the pounding beat, somehow transforming the annoying club music into something he could not only stand, but enjoy.

He had never danced with a woman before. He had learned to dance as a boy, and he had loved it, but he had always been alone. There had never even been music, other than what he made, himself, in his own mind.

This was different, and yet, in many ways, the same. He had to match himself to the music and to the movements of his partner, and there were two hundred pairs of eyes ready to turn on him if he made the slightest mistake. But somehow, that didn't matter. There was only the exhilaration of free, wild movement and the perfection of Al's joyous matching of his every move, while the other dancers swirled around them, a turbulent river free of any identity or responsibility in the world outside the beat and the flashing lights.

A pocket formed around them, flailing children making way for the masters. He spun her out and pulled her back to him. She looked up at him, flushed and laughing, temporarily cradled in his arms.

"Now there's the man I fell in love with!"

He stared at her.

Joking. Either she was joking, or she'd had something a lot stronger than ginger ale when he wasn't looking.

She had to be joking.

And since the music was loud and she wasn't following the statement up with any more absurdities, he was fully prepared to keep dancing and ignore the new development in her psychosis as a simple miscommunication.

And even if he had heard right, the dance was more important than the obvious bad joke.

Because this was their cover.

Oh, Lord, this was why he didn't let them drag him out more often. Infuriating woman, with her constant mockery and her flawless sense of rhythm.

He was actually—horror of horrors—beginning to enjoy himself when someone tapped him on the shoulder and a deep voice spoke in his ear.

"May I cut in?"

He turned around to stare bemusedly at the sight of Bruce Wayne in...a corset and heels. Apparently, he and Edward had dressed up as the same character.

Al started to move toward him. Crane tightened his grip on her arm.

"I can't imagine a man like you coming here without a date of your own," he said, contempt for the playboy and all his kind bleeding through the words.

"Oh, I have a date. She's around here somewhere," Wayne said with a wave of his hand and an inane grin. He brushed past Crane to take Al's hand, and made her giggle by brushing a light kiss across the knuckles. "I just couldn't let the night go by without introducing myself to the prettiest Janet Weiss I've ever seen."

Al blushed. Crane glared at her. She wasn't actually buying this nonsense, was she? He'd always thought of her as more intelligent than that. She should have known better than to let herself be sweet talked by Bruce Wayne.

She wasn't going to go off with him, was she?

She was. She did. Without a backward glance, she flounced off in Bruce Wayne's arms

She just walked off and left him. How dared she? She was the one who had dragged him out there in the first place!

It took some sincere effort for him to stop staring after them like some kind of lovesick young fool bereft of his date at a school dance. Al had every right to be charmed by an extremely wealthy, devastatingly handsome fop who could probably be talked into buying her the entire contents of the jewelry store of her choice without ever realizing that he was being played. And Wayne had every right to take her. God knew she was attractive enough, if not strictly beautiful in the traditional sense. And she managed not to come off as trampy, unlike so many of the other women there—and, in his opinion, that was an incredibly rare talent to be found in a woman wearing nothing but a bra and a torn half-slip.

He shoved his way through the crowd, sat down at the bar, and ordered a gin and tonic. The bartender, unable to understand a word he said, delivered a light beer.

Crane made a mental note to release a controlled burst of toxin over this crowd in the near future. He could do the same at one of Wayne's society soirees, and make a detailed comparison of the results. That might require multiple repetitions of the experiment. Maybe he could instill in the playboy a phobia of parties. That would be interesting…how would he favored son of Gotham's elite hold onto his image if he couldn't abide the crowds and merriment long enough to drag some unsuspecting girl off to the nearest broom closet—

They were leaving the dance floor—heading to a more private area.

Crane started making notes on a napkin. 6'2", he estimated. Athletic, and correspondingly heavy. He would require a stronger dose than usual. He might have to dip into the Batman reserve. That much might kill a few of the more fragile bystanders.

Well, so be it. As long as he got the results he wanted.

"Whatcha doing, handsome?" asked a voice in his ear. He felt something female drape itself over his back.

Too focused on his work to panic at this intrusion, he squirmed out of her clingy embrace and looked up just long enough to identify her as Bruce Wayne's date. The original.

"Math," he shouted over the music. "You wouldn't understand."

Pouting, she displayed her cleavage. The unspoken message was clear: "I am too blonde to be ignored."

He ignored her.

Eventually, she went away.

Only to be replaced by the redhead, Gordon's brat.

"What?" he snapped at her when she moved into his light. She leaned in close to be heard.

"You shouldn't drink alone."

"You shouldn't annoy a supervillain when he's working," he muttered.

"What?"

"I said, I'm not alone. My 'date' is just busy with your friend, Bruce. And don't you have someone you should be drinking with?" The Gordon girl made a face.

"I did, but Dick ran off with some woman who broke her knee. How do you break your knee dancing, that's what I'd like to know."

He stared at her. Had the socialites gotten to Techie, too? If so, then all hope of completing their mission of espionage was probably lost.