a/n: Many thanks to the reviews and adding to alert lists of various people! Also, following Kyer's review I've gone back and tweaked the last chapter, just to be sure of the amount of time Wally needs with the camera and running back and forth, so this is an fyi, heh. I have the strangest feeling I'll be wanting to shoot myself in the foot for introducing the next character, but we'll see.

Chapter 21:

"Small mercies, it's the weekend. At least I'll be able to be with Matt for a while," Mary said, hands clasped over the still warm mug of coffee in her hands. She looked over at the austere figure of Bruce Wayne. It had always seemed strange, this man who had only existed on television and in newspapers, appearing every now and then in the flesh. Shaking Warren's hand during one of the Christmas parties, coming into her own home to hire her son. Her now missing son. She would have imagined an aging bachelor like himself, with the history that he had, to be constantly surrounding himself with the upper echelon of society, with their gaiety and splendour that was never quite real to Mary. Living up there like the new, shining gods of their time. Bruce Wayne now sat a little way across from her, seated in an armchair, great big crags of hands clasped together in his lap, and a great hound lying across his feet. He looked like he should have been in a portrait. He was certainly still enough to seem so, sitting there with the slight incline of his head that somehow gave his gentlemanly being a sense of cautious attentiveness.

She was amazed, and perhaps a bit touched, at the lengths to which her son's employer had gone to in engaging help in his search. Sure, Wallace West, the forensics head at the famed department in Central City had happened to be in town, but Diana, Princess of Themyscira? Diplomat and all time world super-heroine? If anything, the influence that Bruce Wayne wielded among his connections was firmly established in Mary McGinnis' mind. The television had been kept on at a low volume in the background, kept at the news feed in case any new developments turned up. Mr. West had insisted on preparing coffee for them all as they had waited, and Mary was oddly grateful. The big house seemed to render everything into cardboard stands and dwarfed any attempts at warmth despite the huge lamps that glowed through the living room. The coffee just seemed to ground everything.

She looked up from her mug again to see the dog growling softly at the television screen to her left. The other three noticed as well, Mr. West quickly bringing up the volume.

"It seems that the series of unfortunate events that has befallen the McGinnis family, of which the late Warren McGinnis was its first victim, has been passed on to his son, " the blue moniker buzzed, "Viewers may recall the tragedy barely two years ago where Warren McGinnis, then employee under Wayne-Powers, had been killed in what seemed like a brutal attack from a Jokerz gang, later suspected to be a ploy by then CEO Derek Powers, an action never confirmed by the police, to silence what he knew of a deadly viral mutagen that was being developed, the same which later claimed Derek Powers himself, turning him into the currently missing villain better known as Blight."

"Oh please," Mary muttered under her breath. So the stations had decided to drag up the family's colourful history as well. Anything to milk a good story.

"Now his son, Terry McGinnis, an employee of Bruce Wayne, current CEO of the renamed Wayne Enterprises and its founder, has been captured by what seems like another Jokerz gang. It seems like the Joker related problems of Bruce Wayne, who had been a target for what seemed like the original Joker just last year, has yet to lift. No word has yet been received about the youth's whereabouts, who had become the personal aide of the aging business mogul since, as far as we know, the untimely demise of his father."

Bruce's clasped hands had disentangled themselves at this point. One unconsciously gripped the arm rest, while the other had reached for his cane, which he used to lean forward at the screen.

"You know, Janet," the male avatar said to his female counterpart, "one has to wonder if all this bad luck is not stemming from the name of Wayne itself. Seems to me that both McGinnises have been caught in the middle troubles related either to the company or to the man himself."

"Perhaps in this case, both," 'Janet' offered in bright complicity.

"Quite right, Janet. Word is, our revered business mogul has been trying to make more than a comeback, buying over shadow corporations. Perhaps this new muscling is beginning to step on some people's toes."

"Or perhaps it is Mister Wayne who has something to cover up, this time."

At this, all other words were drowned out of Bruce's ears as he stared at the box, almost willing it to melt if he could. "Vermin," he muttered vehemently. "I should sue them for slander."

"You know the press will be expecting some sort of contact with them to clear things up," Diana said, casting worried eyes between Mary and Bruce.

"The press and its employees are a pack of rats ready to disseminate a plague," Bruce said, getting up and stalking to the huge windows that overlooked the front garden slope.

"Yeah..." said Wally, running a hand over his hair, "and they'll probably be here by sun up."

Bruce turned his face, half obscured in shadow by the curtains from where he stood, looking at the television screen again. "They'll be after the McGinnis household as well." His face slackened as his glance shifted to Mary McGinnis, sitting there, suddenly looking very frail and young to him. Another generation of grief on his head, and he'd thought he was done with it. He sighed, and focused on her, eyes and voice sincere. "I'm very sorry, Mrs. McGinnis," he said. "I will do everything in my power," here he seemed to pause, a certain distaste with the word crossing his lips, "to right this." He looked out. "And I will ensure that you have all the privacy you need, away from the media, even if the police do not." Another call to Barbara, another favour asked. And knowing her, he supposed she tallied the numbers up somewhere.

"Mrs. McGinnis," he said, turning away from the windows, better composed than when he had all but run to them a few moments before, "allow me to send you home. It is getting late."

"Oh no, I couldn't possibly. I was just going to call a taxi-" she began, looking more tired and fragile in her remonstrations. The original verve with which she had boldly and rather soundly told off Bruce seemed to be dwindling by the second. Anyone could have seen that what she needed the most at that point in time was rest.

"I insist," said Bruce, in a voice gentle that brooked no argument.

On reaching the apartment, a flickering glow could be seen from the door. On switching on the light, they found the living room television on, and a shock of dark hair peeping out over the edge of the couch.

"Oh, Matt," said Mary as she rushed towards her younger son.

"Mom?" he uttered, sleep caking his speech, "I was just watching the news again. Couldn't... sleep." He paused before the last word as he came to full awareness, realising that they were not alone. Bruce stood a little distance away from the couch, just at the edge of the room, staring at him unblinkingly.

"Hullo, Mr. Wayne," he greeted, face as serious as the man he now faced.

"Hello, Matthew," Bruce replied. There was something odd in the gravity of the boy's face; something too familiar that tugged at his own throat. The fall of the hair over the eyes, though brown, seemed so much like Terry's when he had first confronted him about the truth concerning his father's murder. The itch behind them to do something, anything, to avoid the sense that the situation was hopeless; you were helpless; that anything you did was insignificant, and so were you, burned brighter in the young face. Though once again, the eyes were brown, this haunting look seemed to echo another boy whose hair fell over his eyes, decades prior, and Bruce Wayne: balding, hair white, saw himself again in that moment.

"You'll get them, right, Mr. Wayne?" Matthew said, rising from his seat to walk over to the still man, looking up at him with an almost painful earnest. "You'll find my brother?"

"I'll do everything I can."

"You'll find my brother?"

"Yes. I'll find your brother," Bruce said, not having moved from where he stood. "I promise."

"And those who did this?"

Bruce had knelt down in front of the face at once so unfamiliar and recognisable. He knew that look. Are you happy now, Waller? He thought in his head. Though perhaps the curse was his fault, ran through his blood. So was the steel in the boy's voice despite his tremulous words, a sort of hollowing which could cow a two bit thug, an armed man, in a dark alley as he ran for his life to escape the unflinching gaze of a wronged child. And those who did this? Who turned that child from innocence into brutal, suffering anger? Bruce considered this in the quiet of the room, still save the breeze that floated about them both, rustling the curtains softly as it went.

"They'll pay," said Bruce. Matt squared his shoulders, straightening his back as Bruce stood up.

"Oh yeah, they will," he muttered. An instant later he yawned and seemed transferred back to the whining little brat Terry sometimes complained fondly about, but not before that look of understanding passed between them. The boy didn't know it, or perhaps he did, that for all his short life, he had been touched by Gotham's darkness, and he was a child of the Bat. And the Bat protected his own.

Wally was waiting inside the car, his fingers tapping out a rhythm on the steering wheel. Bruce got in, and the door clicked shut behind them. "Done as you asked," Wally said, leaning further back into the seat even as he switched the ignition on. The engine whirred into life and they began cruising down the city. "A tracker on each pair of shoes, and bugs through the house, just in case."

"I know," Bruce replied evenly, his eyes remaining on the street in front of them as they passed.

"What, you could see me?" Flash's incredulity made the tenor of his voice jump as he swerved off the main road and onto the highway.

"No," Bruce said, and couldn't help the smugness that entered his next few words, "There was a breeze in the room." He looked over at Wally with an arched eyebrow. "A rather strong breeze," he added by way of explanation, "and no windows open."

"Can't get anything past you, Bats," Wally said, one hand on the wheel and the other stretched out behind him, as they rolled up the hill that led to Wayne Manor. The silence through the remainder of their journey was not a contemplative one. The sun would be rising soon, but that did not spell any form of rest before it. Diana was right. They were expecting a press release, now that it had got to the media's attention.

"Mr. Wayne, are your rival dealings the cause of this?" "Mr. Wayne, what of the safety of the rest of your company's employees?" "Have you heard any demands yet?" "Commissioner, is the Joker back in business?" "Mr. Wayne, why do you think Terrance McGinnis is being targeted?" "Reports of Wonder Woman has been sighted, has the Justice League taken an interest in the case?" "Or hey, is it just personal?" The stream of questions were unending, a verbal battering onslaught from reporters. Bright zings and camera flashes bounced off the metal exterior of Wayne Enterprises' business headquarters in the central district. Barbara had decided to show up, following them after returning the motorcycle, Batsuit within its hidden compartment. The usual assurances were given to the public. Bruce Wayne pledged his resources to the recovery of Terry, Commissioner Gordon denied to comment on any future leads, but stated all the same that the police were doing everything in their power. It was a horrific farce. Standing there, sweating, providing fodder for what was ultimately a crude form of entertainment. Pursuit of truth, indeed, Bruce thought, wishing to spit into the microphone instead of the calmness he chose to exude instead.

"One last question." Bruce had just been about to come down from the stand when the voice stopped him. He turned, squinting in the sunlight at a bespectacled man, greying at the temples, and dressed in a light blue suit not quite so modern in cut as those surrounding him. He nodded at him to continue.

"You say you will do everything in your power. What if you do not succeed?"

"Mr. Kent, you've been around long enough to know that is not an option, in my case," Bruce spoke into the microphone before stepping down from the podium, ignoring cries from others of 'Is that hubris?' and 'What makes you so sure this time?'. He got into the car, and rolled the opaque windows up. No one noticed the quick figure that slipped in beside him from the other side.

"I thought you were in deep space," Bruce said.

"No, not this time, old friend," said the man beside him. Well, yes, seeing as the 'last time' almost all of the core had been called to some mission on the outer side of the galaxy, the League having extended their attentions beyond earth even more following Darkseid's attack and disappearance. Even the Flash had been called away. Only Diana and J'onn had been on earth. And what a riot that had been, Bruce mused. Hubris, the callow twit of a reporter had said. Had that prevented him from contacting Diana so soon after hanging up on her? But no. No metas within. They had wanted- he, he had wanted it quiet. Gotham spooked easily back then. J'onn had tried, but his telepathic abilities could only go so far against Cadmus acquired shielding technology fallen into the hands of a man bent on carrying out his sick joke.

What was stopping Gotham from recoiling just as quickly now? Ripping out the underworld's secrets was a more delicate affair than simply ramming them into walls as his companion beside him was wont to do. And if they were being banded together, woven into some tight mesh, the only way was to seek the master of those strings directly, a player who till now had been silent. Bruce turned his thoughts elsewhere for the moment, and sniffed the air.

"What have you been putting in your hair, Clark?"

"Clark Kent has to age somewhat, y'know, even with all this new fangled health prolonging technology," the old boy scout replied, some of his Kansas childhood entering his voice. "And I think my cellular system's rejuvenating. Starro apparently didn't like the sun more than was necessary." He even sounded younger. This caused Bruce to shift in his seat, aware all the more that he was the most feeble among them. Even Wally, who at this moment had assigned himself to the driver's seat, looked impossibly spry for a man his age, again, modern medicine notwithstanding. It grated, also because their extended company and deference to him made him forget at times, momentarily, that he was not the man he once was.

"Aww, ain't it great that we're all together again? Now all we need is Shayera and-"

"Shut up, Wally."

"Got iiit."

"Same old, same old," said Clark, looking out the window as the scenery changed from metal and cement to trees and dirt. Bruce wondered if it was worth his energy taking offence at the unintended connotation.

They had just reached the hallway when Clark paused mid step. "Something wrong?" queried Bruce as they stepped into the hall.

"Alert in the cave." They were there in an instant, Bruce supported by Clark and Diana just in front of it. At the same time the house phone went shrilly off.

"Someone's patching themselves through," she said, the blipping on the screen fizzing into a voice which cleared its throat before beginning. The ringing in the rooms above them abruptly stopped. Bruce's fingers were already in a frenzy across the keyboard.

"Trying to trace this line, friend? I don't think so," said the voice, almost amused.

"I'm not your friend."

"No, I suppose not," drawled the person. "You wish you were though," he mocked, "After all, I have something you care rather dearly about." Scuffling could be heard behind him, the sound of a chair knocked over, something dragged over carpet.

"Let go of me, you slime," Terry's voice came up clearly over the speakers, the sound hollow, away from the microphone. He was silenced by what sounded like a well placed heel to his mouth. Bruce reared up, teeth bared at the screen.

"The boy is relatively unharmed, I'll have you know," came the voice again, a soothing parody of placation. "I can't promise that indefinitely."

"What do you want?" Bruce grit out.

"Frankly, I want you to burn, but before that, I'd like to see you humbled." The man paused for a moment, and Bruce held up his hand to the other three, to silence them just in case. "I'm taking Gotham from you. Taking this boy was just a trickle of a metaphor. A precursor, if you will."

"I don't care who think you are," Bruce began, "I will find-" his words were cut off, interrupted by the voice which snapped impatiently, before relaxing once again.

"I don't really care who you think you are either. Bruce. Or Batman. Or just an old perverted wastrel," the voice sounded out in tones of jagged granite, "I make no demands. I have no need to make demands. I'm just giving you... notice. So that when the time comes and you're stripped of everything you have ever loved, neither you nor your petty powered friends will have an excuse, and that will compound your failure even more."

"Strong words for a guy who won't show his face," countered Wally. Bruce shot him a look of annoyance, but Wally merely shrugged in reply.

"The same in kind, whoever you are," replied the voice nonchalantly, "You're all the same. When this is done, you'll hide in your hole, Bruce, a little boy driven your whole life by fear." They heard another agonised grunt of pain, a sharp exhalation from below the microphone, and a chuckle of cruel mirth. Then the communication was cut. Bruce found his hands gripping the console so hard it was shaking.

"Tracing failed," he sighed abruptly, and bowed his head.

"Any voice matching possible?" Clark asked.

"Suuurree," Wally said, looking at calculations already running by the side of the screen, "But unless our mystery dude is... Alfred Pennyworth-"

"He would nail the final insult in," growled Bruce, turning away in disgust.

"He knows who you are," Diana said, laying a hand on his arm.

"His arrogance shows."

Bruce thought of this unknown threat, hiding in his own little hole, believing himself untouchable. He thought of Matthew McGinnis, eyes drawn in his too young face, and of his mother, with her bravado, and the promise he had made to them both. He'd made a lot of promises in his time. He thought of Alfred, and felt his heart clench, of Dick, of Barbara, of Tim. He thought of what had brought them together, and what had made him push them away, and his beating heart told him. Love. Love was a terrible, arcane thing. It coated your marrow and each sinew and made it pump beyond mere human will. He had always thought it his flaw: that he could love, that he could allow himself to care too much, too deeply, since all that got beyond his impenetrable exterior was wounded, destroyed. But now it boiled in him, moulding itself, changing. Love was a weapon. Love was a shield. All his rage, and torment, held up by the love of all that was his, and all that could have been his, and all that he hoped someone else would never have to be denied. He sensed rather than felt Diana's hand on his arm, just touching the sleeve, almost like a conduit to an ancient force that ran past the cave floor, past the ocean, through space and back again. Love was terrible, painful, crushing. His love was a terrible, mighty whirlwind, and whoever this fool was, he would tremble in the face of its towering force.

"He wants to rumble," said Bruce to the darkness. "Let's rumble."