A/N: When I started writing this chapter, I didn't exactly plan it ending the way it does. I literally wrote it, then looked back and was like what!? Anyways, thanks to everyone who reviewed my last chapter, and to all you readers out there. I didn't think this story would have gotten this far this fast if it hadn't been for all of you. Just some mid-story gratefulness. And wow, I'm in a C2! Thanks RedNex :) Please R&R, I'm sure you know the drill by now ;)

I took a deep breath of the hospital air, and smiled. While some people thought that hospitals smelled odd, I found it comforting. In any hospital you visited, there was still the smell of antiseptics and sterilizing agents permeating the air. It was my element, wherever I went.

My moment of peaceful reflection helped me to collect my frazzled nerves and regain some energy. I grabbed the next chart on the table and headed towards the examination room on the far right.

Usually, my job could be a little boring and tedious since the only people I saw were either injured from fighting or so sick they were nearly comatose. The only way you got to see a nurse when you had a normal sickness and weren't running the risk of dying was if you knew the right people, or had a very convincing bribe.

Fights typically only broke out a few times per week, and the injuries could be dealt with quickly and easily. There were many repeat-offenders in jail, and they knew that fighting was only a way to blow off steam or express a dislike of someone. Serious injuries were few and far between. And while colds and the flu were common enough in the jail, most patients weren't sick enough to warrant a nurse.

All that had changed two days ago, when Bruce Wayne had come to jail. It was around dinner time yesterday when a literal drove of patients had streamed in. Seven men, all bloodied and unconscious. They had broken limbs, concussions, fractures, deep bruises, and all sorts of other injuries. I had thought they had been beaten up by a larger gang, until I heard the guards talking.

"Did you see him?" One man gushed. "He beat seven people – with his bare hands!" The guard shook his head admiringly. I had to forcefully keep my jaw clenched to keep my mouth from brushing the ground. One man had done all that damage? "Not even a scratch on him." Ok, that had to be an exaggeration. I had seen the results of fight, and nobody could engage seven men and not be injured.

A second guard interrupted his younger co-worker's raving, cutting off my stream of information. "Better watch you talk around here, boy. Batman's made a lot of enemies that wouldn't like you going around sprouting out praise." The older guard I knew to be on the payroll of a mob family, though I wasn't sure which one. He probably was one of those enemies who didn't like the young man praising Batman.

I swallowed as I thought back to the prisoners I had treated. The Batman had beaten them up. How many people had he left for the police? How many had he mangled like that? I had never liked the Batman, since my brother and about half my friends worked on the wrong side of the law, but I had never thought of him as a vicious vigilante. However unorthadox his methods, I had always considered him to just be another force working against crime. Now, having seen his handiwork first-hand, I knew he couldn't be doing anything good for the city. Nobody could beat up men so badly and still claim they did something right.

My thoughts had been proven the next day, during breakfast. (Why was it always during meals when people attacked each other?)

It was practically a parade of unconscious men being carted in by guards. Although we had ten examination rooms (usually more than enough), some men still had to wait out in the hall. Again, the prisoners looked as if they had been beaten up by a gang. I casually questioned one of the guards as he helped me cart a patient into the recently vacated examination room. He confirmed my suspicions – Batman had struck again.

The examination room I was currently in held three people – two guards and my patient. I snagged an injury report (mandatory for recording purposes but almost never used) and settled in my swivel chair without even looking at my patient. After so many years of working in the prison, I knew the routine by heart. Besides, he was probably unconscious like all of the other victims of Batman.

"Name?" I asked the guards

"Bruce Wayne." My first thought was that wasn't the voice of a guard. It was smooth and cultured, higher than that of one of the hulking security guards. Then the statement hit me.

Bruce Wayne. The Batman. I whirled around in my chair, thumping my knee against the edge of the desk. Sure enough, Wayne was sitting on the table, casually propped up against the wall. Other than a split lip and the beginning of a bruise on his face, he seemed fine.

A frown twisted my features. "He looks fine, why did you bring him to me?"

The guards, used to me berating them for not handling patients carefully enough, did a double take. They had never heard me say a patient didn't need medical attention before. The one on the right – Paul? I think that's his name – recovered first.

"Uh, he has a, uh, cut." The hand that wasn't nervously clutching his riot stick gestured to his shoulder. After stammering something that possibly was "he needs stitches," he fell silent. Ok, so some security guards weren't the brightest of the bunch. It's not like Batman would try to escape prison after turning himself in. He was supposed to be working for justice, after all.

I sent a disapproving stare at my patient before rummaging through the cabinet for a needle. He was watching Paul's antics with amusement, if the quirked lips meant anything. Normally, it wouldn't have bothered me since convicts are not a caring lot, but something about Wayne just made me want to slap him. I glared at the protective packet that held my needle before ripping it open with great force and turning back towards Wayne.

"Where were you cut?"

Wayne sat up and turned sideways on the table. "My shoulder."

Sure enough, a long gash ran across his shoulder. It started mere centimeters from the base of his neck and went across his shoulder blade diagonally, ending just under his armpit. Blood was steadily dripping down, and I mentally cursed the guards. Haven't they heard of gauze? I bit my tongue to keep from reprimanding them. This man deserved what he got, beating up all those men.

Armed with a needle and sanitized thread, I approached Wayne. The guards shifted nervously, increasing my outrage at Batman. If he was a force for good, why was everyone so scared of him?

I grabbed some small scissors and cut around the wound, dumping the loose fabric on the table. I threaded the needle and began to stitch the cut closed. I must have poked the needle in harder than I had intended, because Wayne grunted with pain before pursing his lips closed. I was too angry to care, and besides, nurses were rough with their patients all the time here. What did it matter if I started too? It was just one man, anyway.

I ignored Wayne's grimaces and continued with my work. Once done, I tied off the string and cut the rest off. I tossed the needle into the garbage and walked over to the supply cabinet. The gauze was supposed to be on the middle shelf right in front, but with so many patients it was all used up and there had been no time to restock. There should be some more gauze on the bottom cabinet, though…

After rummaging through all the excess materials stored on that shelf, I finally located the extra gauze. I knew stocking up would be a good idea some day. I swiped the tape and antiseptic cream from the counter and turned around, only to see my patient messing around.

His upper body was twisted around, and his neck was craning for a look at his wounded shoulder. Someone obviously never told him it was impossible to see your back, no matter what position you tried.

"Stop moving," I snapped at him. "You're going to irritate that shoulder." Normal people would have stopped simply because of the pain, but not the Batman. He simply pursed his lips and tried to see his injury anyway. I slathered the cut in the antiseptic lotion and secured the gauze in place, lips turned down in a frown the entire time.

As soon as the last piece of tape was secured, I strode away from Wayne with the pretense of replacing the supplies back where they belonged. One never knew what a man who beat up criminals all night would do. Fear and anger simmered togethr as I thought of him going after my brother, while he went around and collected protection fees for the mob.

Batman would attack from behind, cruelly beating him to unconsciousness before trussing him up and leaving him defenseless on the streets. Hopefully the police would arrive before someone came upon his prone body and decided to rob him senseless. Then the man he reported to would demand the money from the protection fees, which my brother would not have. He would have to pay from his own wallet, which was too thin to even afford decent clothes for his son. And if he couldn't pay, well he wouldn't miss a finger or two.

I forcefully dragged my mind away from the fearsome thoughts, and placed the supplies in their proper place. I spoke without facing Wayne."I'm done with him. Make sure he comes back in a few days." Once I had told the guards what to do with Batman, I stormed out of the room and towards the sanctuary of the break room.

I raided the fridge, wishing there was something stronger than pop in there. The brief thought of asking a security guard for some beer flitted through my head, but I dismissed it - I wouldn't know the right one to ask. I flopped on the couch, cradling a bottle of water in my hands. A headache had snuck up on me, and now it was pounding in my skull. I threw my head back with a groan, and closed my eyes. What a day.

Of course, with the Batman still in residence, it was likely to become a lot busier in the hospital. The image of my brother lying on an examination table, beaten like one of the Batman's filled my head again. I thought back to Wayne, sitting on the table with a grin on his face, and I felt a surge of anger. Next time, I vowed, Wayne would not have such a pleasant visit.

I flipped through a mental dictionary of poisons, thinking about which ones I could use to contaminate one of Wayne's injuries (He was bound to get more, fighting so often). It would have to be non-lethal, as to not draw attention. Preferably something painful, and one that didn't inflame the area where it was applied. I sat there in the staff room, plotting with a small smile on my face. Next time…