a/n: Righto, speeding along with the action. Comments very much appreciated (: . Also yay! Because I've managed over 50k words on this fic, which was kind of the goal I set for myself as a side when I started on this. Alright. Onward.

Chapter 23:

"Turn it off, turn it off!" Flash said as he swung out of the way of the three laser beams slicing through the room towards him. The Omnid, meanwhile, sat placidly near the entrance, a bulb on it blinking contentedly, as insentient objects were wont to do, very much oblivious to the damage it was causing. He cut off Superman's annoyed look with, "How was I supposed to know that the bot's projectile would land smack in the centre of the switch?"

"You could've calculated…" Superman shook his head even as he punched through one of the aerial drones that had been deployed through the building, ears still ringing from the feedback that had doubled in on the comlink when the switch was turned on. He grasped the wiring at the heart of the robot and flung it at another incoming one, firing it with heat vision, allowing it to land a molten whiplash followed by further help in the form of further beams from his eyes.

"Look, I forgot about the last sensor, okay? The spare bot threw me off my game for half a tick." Which was apparently, all the time it needed for all hell to break loose.

"You've got the ability to memorise things in an instant and you forgot?"

"My son is the one with the long term photographic memory, not me, thanks," Flash retorted as he zoomed past Superman along the wall panelling of the dome shaped room they were in, three stories underground at the north west corner of the Ai-lat R&D facility, 137.5 security drones and three Kryptonite laser guns (honestly, what? As far as the Flash knew, only Superman was susceptible. Was it honestly worth it to proof an entire building for one person. Did they honestly suspect that Superman would one day break into the premises? Did they honestly have to be right?), and a foul up later. Flash took a breath and dived for the Omnid, clicking the switch off as he did so. Estimated 58 seconds between the brain bonking feedback and the magic security of the off button.

"About a minute," he heard Superman say, as another bot flew into view. These things were insane, inane, and just very annoying, doubly so now that they were somehow able to keep up with super speed and the agility of Metas. Future wasn't all it was hacked out to be, and all that.

"58 seconds." Flash shrugged again as they began making their way out of the complex to throw off the look of annoyance that Superman had shot him. "I'm accurate."

"Let's just hope everything else is safe," Superman muttered as they burst through the last door. The streets in the distance were roaring with the sound of cars speeding by, the occasional honk floated over the highway to them, but otherwise the city did not seem struck by chaos. Superman brought a cautious finger to his ear, and switched on the comlink.

"Next time I think it's a good idea to let you two off alone on a mission, stop me." The gravelly, irate tones of Bruce Wayne filtered through loud and clear. Clark almost laughed. Wally had turned on his controls too, and paused to scratch at his chin while giving Superman a look of mock hurt intended for the absent Bruce.

"Aww c'mon, Bats, no harm done, right?"

"Unless you think unexplained and painful feedback is somehow 'no harm done'." That and giving Guan Gong and his men notice that someone was trying to infiltrate their servers. Though Bruce supposed he himself had given the challenge not an hour before.

"It's a miracle there were only two traffic accidents," Diana said over the communicator, "not anything worse."

"I don't quite think they're related Wonds…think they've filtered out the frequencies the traffic use on this machine for now," Wally said, puzzling over the numbers on one panel of the device. "Which is pretty good, right?"

"No," Bruce. Authority incarnate. Well. A man could dream. "It's because Gotham's still got a back up of timed sequence control if anything else happens. However, you could have caused the needless death of a patient being rushed by paramedics through the city, having to stop at an intersection for longer than necessary." His voice was even, just barely, the kind Wally knew was an indication of the man's heavy attempt to suppress his tenaciously held rage.

The safest course of action, he decided, apart from avoiding dangers such as dogged security drones and explosives and acid and the like, was generally not to get in the way of Batman, even if Batman was bordering on eighty and looking it. Bruce's voice came up on the speaker again, all the more sudden from the unexpected lull in vitriol that caused Flash's eye to twitch in surprise. "Nothing on the immediate news feed either about mobile users sudden collapsing in pain," Bruce said. "It seems the doubling back to produce that amplified drone only happened in areas which had additional cloaking security already around them."

Flash heaved a sigh of relief, then choked on it as Bruce's voice blasted through the communicator again.

"You blithering idiots! Anything could've happened. Cave. Stat." A jolt and a heartbeat, and the rush of air flowing past Wally followed. They were there in an instant. Almost. Bruce and Diana arrived short of ten minutes later.

He alighted past the last step, cane in his hand thumping rapidly across the floor as he made his way to the computer.

"We've got the Omnid," Superman said.

Bruce shot him a look. "Well thank you." Pause. Glower. Dismiss. "I do believe I realised that." Clark felt the back hairs of his neck rankle along with his ego. He advanced on Bruce, feet floating off the ground, and stopped just behind the chair, arms folded forbiddingly.

"Lose the act, Kent," Bruce said, back still facing him. Clark sighed and ran his fingers past the sides of his head, back still tense and erect.

"You know, Bruce, people make mistak-"

"You know, very well, Superman, you don't get that right."

Off to the side Wally whispered to Diana that they were getting too old for this. Hearing that, Clark repressed a slight huff in favour of stopping the migraine that would threaten to build behind his eyes. "Yes," Clark said while pinching the bridge of his nose, "I believe you've said on more than one occasion." He took his hand away again and stared at the unmovable frame that was Bruce Wayne, and continued. "Because Batman never makes mistakes." The fingers across the keyboard gave an uncontrolled twitch, halting for an imperceptible moment, suspended midair before beginning to traverse the console once again, slower, more deliberate. Inwardly, Bruce cursed the fact that if his aborted action hadn't escaped the Kryptonian's notice, his breath coming out in shallower streams was no doubt as obvious as an oncoming freight train, or the endless barrel of a gun pointed between the eyes.

2019:

He reached the skylight on silent feet, the sky roiling angry behind him a mere foretaste to the anger he had let churn and melt within him, solidifying into iron, stronger than the flaked rusts his hand gripped as he pushed the window further open. He shook off the metal flakes, also red, he noted, like blood, he noted, but only insofar as the absent thought creeped in the fringes of his mind. At the forefront, where it was vital, necessary, he was scanning the area. Five hostiles, armed, calm. One unconscious outside. One hostage, heartbeat quick, raced breathing, no doubt pupils dilated by fear and exhaustion. Head bowed. Helpless. Hopeless. He would not stand for it, he promised with narrowed eyes.

The gun appeared, and he felt hate. It coursed through him, filling him as he dropped down with deadly precision, delivering a routine uppercut to the would be killer's jaw. It was routine, it was all routine, simple, easy. The men were dispatched in an instant, and he heard the crash of flesh and bone and metal and the light flurry of bank notes spilling onto the ground from beyond the plane that sat shining, unaware of the violence that took place around it, in blissful ignorance of those who would use it for evil. He stole a breath, then choked, as pain filled his lungs and wound in tight coils around his heart, unable to stop the spasm that shook him as he had done the thugs not half a minute before.

The girl. He had to rescue the girl.

He didn't even have time to register the crowbar before it ploughed into the back of his head. Only saw red, a grinning, manic face, a voice, greased with ill humour and curdled aggression, and the floor, constantly the floor coming up again to meet him, the rough concrete clinging to his suit to hold him down, again, and again, and again. He tried to stand up, thought he did, gravity pulling him down again as he swung blindly. Like a Bat, he thought, as he lay cheek pressed against cold hardness, vision swimming in and out before focusing on dim salvation.

And he could not stand.

It was so easy, even as his heart pounded from more than adrenaline, pounded from his weakness and pounded his weakness back to him, like a neverending folding of metal sheets under the mastery of a ruthless blacksmith. His mind blanked, and retreated to the realm of instinct, of muscle memory and desperation and… the grip in his hand was familiar; the position, prone on the floor doubly so. He saw it smoke before his eyes even as he pointed it at the thug, he saw his gloved hand holding it, and the heap ten metres away that was the forever still body of Devil Ray, flesh still emitting charred death and the acrid sting of burnt copper and silicon. Still he held the gun, paralysed there as he had been in the many nights where the scene appeared, in his sleep; those twisted dreams, where he felt the gun again, in an imagined reenactment, of how it slipped into his hand, his hand, his finger pulling the trigger, the backslash of the trigger as a single, death giving, life taking bullet sped forth from its commander to fulfil its purpose.

The grunt, the grip of this farcical set turned and ran, lights, camera and all. His own grip kept its death vice as slack, shaking limbs propelled him out of the warehouse, forgetting the girl, forgetting everything, until he lifted his hand to his face and found the alien structure of metal still growing from his hand, his finger curled in painful stiffness, like rigor mortis, like death. He heard the gun clatter to the floor, and he heard the curtain fall on his last act, the final fall, the point of no return culminated in that pinnacle of failure. It was a mistake, it was all a mistake. Batman was a mistake, and he an aberration, a survivor turned victimiser who did not deserve the gasps that were restoring the wasted heart within him to normal, because he wasn't normal. Far from it. He was a mistake. His vengeance had redounded on his own head. This was the true anagnorisis, but leading to a point past return without catharsis. Without purging, because what was foulest; darkest; vilest within him, could never be washed away. Once upon a time, he hadn't counted on being happy. But neither had he counted on being quite so damned.

Never again.

2041:

"Sophie, get me those numbers and locations like I asked you to. In print. Move it, now," Barbara hollered past the doorway into the outer office. The young officer came in a moment later, sheaf of papers in hand, fringe falling over in her eyes, having dislodged themselves from the usually tight bun the currently frazzled girl preferred. Barbara considered her with no small amount of sympathy, but she gave her a look, that while appreciative, had the unspoken volumes of a battle hardened veteran looking on and saying 'You ain't seen nothing yet, kiddo'. She looked at the list of numbers, all 258 lines of them, with the corresponding street address. Coffee. She would need the coffee, tonight. Lots of it. Grabbing her tumbler from the top of her desk, she hit the signal calling all precinct heads to meet in the main headquarters, checked her holster, and walked out, studying the list further.

Ten minutes later a school of lounging males were seen passing coffee and doughnuts in the large conference room. Well, and two females. Barbara tried not to bewail the state of the police force. Now was not the time. Gotham's Finest would have to be just that.

"I need half the force out a distributed along the areas allocated in the envelopes given to you. At least two to the main coordinate, I strongly suggest one of you personally, with a pool of ten surrounding them, and a further ten moving up, reaching the main level of Gotham."

"You're wanting us all to head to lower Gotham, what is this, flushing out a triad? Free Mason sabotage?" a voice asked from among the crowd. Barbara stared resolutely at the city map pinned on the wall in front of her, angling her chin towards the question.

"This is crowd control," she said, then waited for the pandemonium that was sure to come. It did. She held up a hand till the murmurings died down, unwillingly, grudgingly, disparaging comments about female superiors creeping in as they tended to do. She'd been dealing with this for years, she realised now. She'd been dealing with it for years and she wasn't quite sure if dealing with Bruce for years prior had been a form of training or not for the infuriating people with whom she shared the same breathing space regularly.

"With any luck, we will also be taking down the Tongs in a cleaner sweep than we could've hoped."

"Who's been doing the investigation?" "Our branches have not been briefed, or updated." "Don't tell me you've sent another mole, didn't the last one come almost dead?"

Barbara bowed her head, and squeezed her eyes shut and sucked in a breath before she could get out her next reply. This was going to hurt. "The information comes from Batman." The responding chorus of disbelief was enough to make her turn around. The loudest of them she narrowed her eyes at till he noticed, and with an appreciating audience around him, lifted his hands theatrically and gave a cynical, lopsided grin.

"Oh sure, Batman! SURE," he said, sugar and crumbs spraying from his mouth after a vengeful bite of doughnut.

"We are in jeopardy, Henry. There is no alternative. Unless of course you wish to have an out of control city on your head?" The room fell silent, before the previous sceptic asked again, muted this time, "But what's going on?" Barbara wished she could give a sound, solid answer, but she could not. Bruce so owed her. She felt now what her father must have whenever he called off men, or sent them to places on standby for reasons even he didn't know, all because of his fabled trust in a fabled myth which the force alternatively revered, feared, or condemned.

"I don't know. But I'm trusting Batman here. And you have to trust me." Being Commissioner had its advantages. They were silent now.

"What are on these coordinates anyway?" doughnut boy spoke again. Barbara levelled a look at him.

"Pay phones." She wondered if the feeling that bubbled in her as he choked on his food was one of disgust or gratified amusement. She suspected both.

"What? I ain't gonna go out and just wait at a pay phone-"

"You all have ten minutes to get your men prepped, half an hour to get into position, and I suggest you do it as soon as possible. And don't forget torches, maybe a morse code refresher manual for those of you that need it. All on the job must be competent in morse. I cannot emphasise this enough. Incognito, all. We don't need attention drawn any more than necessary. Go. Wait for my signal." A shuffle of papers and feet and the officers began streaming out.

She packed her own comlinks into her pocket and headed for the door. Not five minutes later, her handphone buzzed, and she routed it to the comlink.

"Sorry. We need to speed things. Ten minutes." Bruce. Barbara swore, then fired her communicator.

"All briefed, you have ten minutes to get to where you need to. Move. NOW." She stalked off, swinging her trench coat over her shoulders like a cape (hah, she had to laugh at the irony of that) as it billowed about before settling like armour around her. Past the corner, her own soon to be deputy was standing, looking for the life of him like the slob he liked to give the impression of. It was Henry, and Henry was still protesting.

"Do we even have pay phones anymore? Aren't those things outdated? Oi, the Commish, no really, she wants me to head the worst part of Old Gotham just to wait by a cruddy phone? What does she think-"

"Bullock," Barbara said. He raised open palms, whirling round to face her.

"What, Commish? C'mon, be honest with me here."

"Don't argue with me, Henry Bullock," Barbara cut in, ire increasing with each syllable.

"But-"

"Go wait at the damn phone. I'm friends with your Dad. He was good to me. Doesn't mean I'm not your boss. You take orders from me, you follow those orders. When I tell you to think, you think. I'm not telling you think right now. You DO know what a pay phone looks like, don't you, Bullock?" She stared at him, then a sly look crossed her face, and she said, "Don't forget that I also helped to babysit you-"

"Okay, okay! I got it, I got it. Done. Gone. Men on standby. Got it." He ran off. Barbara deflated and slumped against the back of a chair. So far she'd got through the evening aiding a vigilante, and blackmail. Oh yes, the life of a cop.

From the top of Huang Holdings, a brutal business mogul in a red mask leered down at the invisible inhabitants of the city, then leered down at the crumpled youth at his feet. Terry McGinnis stirred, groaned, and instinctively tried to sit up. Guan Gong smiled an invisible smile, held behind the mask, and turned fully round to face this battered, bruised child, who thought he could be some sort of saviour.

"They'll get you," Terry said, stiff jawed, one side swelling up: beautifully, the masked man thought to himself. Brutality was an art form not many would appreciate, and one which he had in his life and his travels. The boy had backed up to lean against the full length windows that ran round the perimeter of the room, panting, sweat beading past his brow and eyelids struggling to keep themselves open.

"How very trite," he responded. "Though I don't suppose your mentor was good for training in the 'quips' department." He considered the boy. "No," he thought out loud, lowering his chin to better examine the boy. "There was another much more inclined for that. I almost humbled him, once," he mused, flexing his hands at the memory. "And in another time, another life, I killed him." Indifferent nonchalance hung in the last syllable like a muted wind chime. A pitiless glance at Terry McGinnis showed the boy's face frozen in bloodless shock. The young, always wearing their hearts on their sleeves. Now the boy's eyes hardened. His next words seemed the standard refrain for those who found themselves under his heel, no doubt the boy's own, having repeated approximations of it through his stay on the hard surface of his marbled floor.

"He'll get you."

How very trite.