a/n: thanks to all who've been reading and reviewing!

Chapter 14

January, 2040:

When the phone rang, Amanda Waller had been brewing some of her favourite green tea. In later years while working with the department of Metahuman Affairs (honestly, Cadmus rolled off the tongue so much easier, they should have just stuck to that, press be damned), she had found the simple pleasure of a cup of tea very calming. Eventually it had become a daily ritual, particularly when she decided that reading the old family Bible was a good way to provide some insight into the knotted world that had become her life. Now retired, in a way, one was never truly retired in this line of work, it was time to engage her mind, and soul, she reminded herself, in other things. The phone ringing was a distraction. It was also one of the most secure lines. The caller's number was not revealed on the screen. Amanda smiled to herself. That phone was designed to reveal the most untraceable of numbers. It could only be one person on the other end. A voice spoke as soon as she had placed the receiver to her ear.

"Waller."

"And a Happy New Year to you too."

"What have you done, Waller."

"I've done many things, you might want to be a more specific here."

"You know what I'm talking about. The boy."

For a moment Waller brightened, "Do you like him?"

There was a moment's pause as the speaker was thrown off by her sudden cheeriness, before it came back in full force, ten times darker than before. "What kind of game are you playing at, Waller?"

"This wasn't a game, Batman. Or do you not go by that name any longer?" Silence on the other end. The man seemed to be trying not to explode, from what Waller could discern by the muffled sound of molars grinding together coming from the other end of the line.

"Why." It wasn't so much a question as a growl. Amanda considered this as she poured the tea into the cup, watching as some of the leaves swirled to the bottom of the china up, almost as if she could somehow divine the best answer from them. The steam from the cup swirled upwards lazily. She wondered if telling Bruce Wayne that tea was truly rather soothing would help in this instance. At her age it was no longer possible to enjoy a warm shower. Too taxing. And there were no deviously intelligent vigilantes to shock one by passing her a towel through the curtain. Amanda Waller had lived an exciting life, she concluded... which brought her back to the current conversation.

"I saw it fit."

"You saw it fit," the voice repeated, taut with sneering. "You, saw it fit. Your penchant for playing God with your ilk is not unknown to me, Waller. What was this supposed to be, very tasteful blackmail? A strategeic pawn? Insurance?"

Insurance, now there was a word Waller had not thought about.

"In a way." Before the man could answer she quickly went on, "You should thank me. The world has a Batman again."

"You're insane."

"Don't tell me you don't like the fact that you have a successor."

"I bet you orchestrated that. Subliminals through his life..."

"Oh please, don't tell me you didn't willingly let him don the suit yourself. Eventually."

"For his own good, or he would have got himself killed. He's too stubborn to-"

"Mm, just like you really. Admit it, you wanted this. You can't live without operating in some capacity. McGinnis provides that. You've been enjoying the past year."

"He didn't deserve to be pulled into your machinations. What was he meant to be, one of your Brazilboyz? His father was killed!"

"And that, hard as it might be for you to believe, had nothing to do with me." Apart of course from the fact that Warren McGinnis' psychological profile had hinted that he, like Thomas Wayne, would not stand by and let injustice be carried out, even if against a much more sinister force, something they seemed to pass on to their children. She'd heard the whole nature versus nurture debate before. Of course she had, or she wouldn't had planned it that way. "I could have had his parents killed. I didn't." Not exactly true, but perhaps fate had decided that the one assassin she was to hire was to be the one with a distinct conscience when it came to Bruce Wayne's history. Bruce Wayne in this instance, did not need to know that. "Call it destiny."

"I call it a curse."

"A curse?" she huffed, "Children are sent from the Lord above. Try not to look a gift horse in the mouth." She allowed a small pause, then said, "And his brother is yours too, by the way." A click of the phone being put down was all that answered her. Amanda reached over, brought her cup of tea up to her withered lips, and sipped at it, her hand giving off small tremors as she held the cup steady.

2012:

Batman scowled when he was sure he was alone again, a bemused smile twisting further across his face. Like a rictus, though that was perhaps too morbid. But he knew Clark, knew how to deal with him. It was easier to humour the man, make it seem like it was business as usual, alleviate his worries, if only so he wouldn't come back with his vaunted boy scout concern when he should be out saving the world ten times over instead. Because it was easy for Superman to remain in the sun, while Batman could only slink further into the shadows and the urban myth that he had erected through his city. So he didn't tell Clark that since the retirement of James Gordon he had limited his interactions with the police, that due to his routing of the entire Gotham Central Police's frequencies into the computer there was no need to, really. He didn't tell Clark that he had taken to sleeping in the suit, only accepting calls from Lucius Fox and his son even as he implemented a tighter control over his company's assests. Most of all, he didn't tell Clark that he was slowly burying Bruce into the hazy backwaters of memory, that at this point in time, for all intents and purposes, there would only be the philanthropist and business mogul Bruce Wayne, and an unrelenting Batman that stalked the night. An alert filled the screen and his head shot up from the worktable to look at it, neck already tense from the visit his well meaning ex colleague had paid him.

A sensor gone off at a construction site, one of the many in New Gotham. Easy hideouts of drug dealers, and there were too many drugs on the streets of Gotham as was. It wasn't that, however. It was a sabotage operation. Throw the current developers off the land by spooking them, along with obliterating their project. Move in. Any number of contractors, dealers, estate developers and companies shelling out cheap money to hired goons for an easy arson attack, or something more spectacular if one wished. Untraceable. A sickly sweet word that clung to the back of one's throat in an attempt to swallow it. Cough syrup mixed with slime. They picked a lousy night for it.

The man in front of him was not yielding, right now, after his accomplices had tailed like the smart vermin that they were. Batman grabbed him by the collar and hauled him over the side of the construction pit. The man stank of sweat and fear and alcohol, his eyes wide, lips trembling, but still, not yielding. Not telling him the information he needed to clean off the harder to reach stains of Gotham City. It was also the site of a future orphanage, funded by the Wayne Foundation. That anyone would want the land for a more lucrative enterprise was... unsurprising. Disgustingly so. Batman channelled his anger at the thought into a glare directed at the grunt in his grip.

"You- you can't do anything to me!" he was stuttering. Batman had to give him a miniscule amount of credit for trying to hold his ground. For being asinine enough to. The man was rambling on. "They say you're no-kill. Strictly. So you can pretend to drop me off the side of this all you wa-want, I'm no-not saying nuthin!" Whoever had hired them held more fear in their puerile minds than he did.

"Is that right?" Batman asked in soft growl next to the man's left ear. The man gulped. Batman then proceeded to tell him all the ways in which he could make him wish for death. He was, as he said, not a killer. But he knew pain. He shared pain. Barely audible, he related how many nerves there were in the hand, how many joints, and how many bones existed within the hand. He told him how the muscles attached wound their way around bone to allow it to move, but how neither would be able to function fully without the other. He then told the man how much force had to be applied to each joint before they snapped, and just how much it would hurt as each of them were broken one at a time. Then Batman smiled.

By the time the man had rattled off every (useless) contact that he had and the street corner his pals had struck the last deal at, he was a blubbering mess kneeling and choking back gasps under the looming shadow of the holy vengeance of the night. Batman gave this a grim acknowledgement. He remembered the older man he had met years back, the older him. Receding hair, face lined, features more hardened than he would ever have expected himself to be, with a cocky smug little look tipped at the corner of his mouth. He had been right, he had been much too green. It was much easier this way, to instil terror through words in ways that didn't wear his arm out. He knew now.

Force was so much more satisfying though, he thought to himself as he slung a fist into the side of the man's head, watching as he slumped into the dirt, unconscious.

2039:

The boy had taken the suit. That stupid, reckless, child, had taken his suit for a joyride. He seethed. Not on his watch. The voice that came back mocking in his head however, could not to quashed. His watch? Who was he trying to kid. Infirm coward. Had he even bothered to keep a sliver of control over the company that was once his in more than just part of a name. When Lucius Fox Junior had called three times within the day, had sent couriers with reports, emails, what had he done? The man had even driven up to the manor, railing in desperation that the shares were being toppled by one Derek Powers, that the board needed to see Bruce Wayne, that he could not hold off their demands much longer, and that if he didn't show up, there would be nothing, absolutely nothing he could do.

Batman had looked at him through the dulled blue eyes of Bruce Wayne, and offered nothing. Because, as Batman whispered to himself in his mind, there was nothing he deserved except to rot within the crumbling mausoleum that had been passed down to him too early in his life. Lucius Fox Junior went away that day in bitter confusion at the man that he had built almost his entire career around. Batman had scoffed at the miserable, lined faced man that sat in his chair looking at the portraits of the people he had failed. Now that same Batman was laughing again, echoing throughout the cave as he sat there crunched over the controls, demanding that the boy bring the suit in. Always having to let children do your work for you. Because you're too much of a weakling to solve the problems that you create. Children who only thought the whole thing was some sort of game before that veil was ripped away before their eyes.

Not a good time to bring back the Batsuit, eh? Insolent. He killed the suit, a clinical press of the button, faintly noting the boy's protests as he did so. Let him suffer a bit. The suit in that frozen state would protect him from the average street thug he no doubt was fooling around with, perhaps while trashing one of the Wayne-Powers warehouses in some misbegotten notion of revenge. Derek Powers, indeed. The man was like Luthor, only with hair. And not quite so smart. But it didn't take intelligence to kill, to maim, to wound. Any animal could do that. Any coward could pick up a gun. Fingers steepled in front of his face, he felt the cool press of steel fitting into the palm of his hand, smelled the slight oiliness that came with it, a smell he could never seem to wash away. Any coward. Any weak, frail, coward. It would be better to let things end, here and now, and finally put the Batman to rest. He heard the barrel click, hammer sliding into place, imagined his finger pressing into the trigger. It was a wet, hollow sound. It happened again. No, that was real.

"...They're going to kill me."

No.

Instinct slammed his finger back on the safety, and he slumped back in the chair for the few seconds it took to get his heart under control again. He fired up the suit's beacon on the screen. Not your average warehouse. Near one of the main loading bays within the conglomerate. A sixteen year old out to stop a covert black market deal. Madness. He would get the boy to safety, then he would return. He would inform Barbara, send a rather obvious anonymous tip off. Her team would be able to get to them in time, perhaps. But the boy was refusing. A click of the button – but, what was that? His parents. The boy knew about his parents, the gunning, the cold homicide in Park Row. A punk with a gun. Again the twitch in his hand as he remembered the trigger, remembered the adrenaline that coursed through him as he stared the monster that he had become in the eye, saw the pitiful creature he was just like even as it ran off and out of the warehouse twenty years ago. Who was he to stop one McGinnis, who still knew about justice, could still fight for it? No one.

"Wish me luck," the boy said, with all the smile of Dick Grayson in his voice, bouncing through the speakers of the computer's console.

"Good luck."