Chapter One

In retrospect, he really should have been the first person to see it. He had plenty of excuses why he hadn't, of course. But it was still galling that it was Harvey, with his typical cocky smirk, who'd found the clue before him. It wasn't even his case.

"You're sure you're not just seeing things? What's the word, Pareidolia?" Ray had asked vainly, easing his aching body into his chair. He was getting older he knew, and he'd not exactly been taking care of himself lately. He picked up his coffee, noting the gold ribbon around it. Cheap bastard was rubbing it in further, getting him the coffee he actually wanted. Like a consolation prize.

"Hell no. I even took the liberty of e-mailing a scientist over it. He said there's little to no chance it's just random. Here, look for yourself." The fat detective gleefully shoved a stack of photos on to Ray's already crowded desk, papers fluttering as he did so.

There was no mistaking it. The Oil slick from the Prospero Rig, stretching out several miles, was forming into a perfect Question mark, with the Rig as the dot. Someone must have spent months studying tides, liquid distribution patterns, and god knows what else to make that shape happen. No doubt the scientists could explain it better, but for Ray, it meant only one thing.

It meant the Lunatics were back.

"What's Prospero saying about all this?" Ray said, breathing calmly, ignoring the rising certainty in his gut for a moment.

Harvey leaned over, his fingers drumming on the divider between their two desks. "Oh the usual bullshit. Honestly, most people think it's just a weird coincidence, like you. But we know better don't we?" Bullock tapped the side of his nose conspiratorially.

Ray struggled to find a rational explanation that was satisfactory. It –could- still be just an Industrial Accident. It was just a question mark, after all, hardly anything that sinister. But for someone who'd cut their teeth in the Major Crimes Unit, who'd been there for the rise of the Dark Knight, who'd seen the crazy shit that had begun to start happening, criminals no longer satisfied with just stealing or wrecking things, but leaving calling cards and signatures...

No, there could be no mistake. Even if no one else recognised it, he couldn't doubt it himself. The last year had been hard, harder than he'd ever admit to himself, but at least they'd not had to deal with the Lunatics. He'd honestly hoped that with the Caped Crusader's death, maybe all the costume-wearing bullshit was over. One good thing to come of that whole mess, at least.

"Have you shown this to Montoya?" Ray asked. If anyone would understand the mindset behind the crazies, it would be Renee Montoya. She'd always seemed to have a knack for this kind of stuff.

"Not yet. It is your case after all, and she's not even in MCU anymore. So you think it is a sign?" Harvey grinned. "What's the betting that we'll start seeing more question marks all over the place?"

Ray glared at his partner sternly. "I'm not taking that bet. And don't you have your own god-damn work to do?" He grumbled sourly. It was bad enough that he'd been stuck working fringe cases like this, it was almost too much that his partner was still ahead of him.

Bullock slumped back down into his chair with a loud creak, his heavy frame straining the suspension. "Yeah, but its all bullshit. Cop Killings. Maybe linked, but honestly, the way things have been going, it could all be random. This fucking city is the pits." He sighed. "I want these bastards as much as anyone, but...I miss the old days."

"No, you really don't." Ray said, disgusted with his partner. "You saw what came of all that...that, republic serial bullshit."

Bullock nodded reluctantly. "Eh, but whilst it was going on...didn't you feel like a real detective for once? Piecing together clues, trying to stay one step ahead? I hated the vigilantism as much as anyone, you know that Ray, but when you brought down some loon with a mask, it felt...more of a victory, you know? I could arrest ten gang-bangers tomorrow and fifty street kids will take their place. There's no cleaning the fucking corners."

Ray conceded the point. "We're not in it for the glory though, Harv. We can't win this war, but we can sure as hell keep it contained. It sucks that the street kids keep returning to the corners, but I rather it was just the corners, than every god-damn neighbourhood."

"And what a swell job of containment we've been doing." Harv said sourly. "You know the latest killing I got to work? Someone managed to drop a fucking police chopper. And not with anything easy like an RPG or whatever, they snagged the fucking rotors with a tow cable. These criminals are getting nasty, Ray. I dunno, if the Lunatics are coming back, at least...at least you knew who to hate, you know?"

Ray shook his head sympathetically, and tried to focus on writing up his report again. There wasn't anything he could really say to that. The thing Harv was trying not to say, the thing they were all trying not to even think. When the Lunatics had run the asylum, at least one of them had been on their side. And somehow, that had made all the difference.

He sipped his coffee, and smiled. At least this stuff didn't taste like ass. He started to type, and the words flowed more readily. He didn't know what the future held, but he could still be a cop. Nothing would get in the way of that.

Barbara looked at herself in the mirror, ignoring the dent in the wall that Wills had left yesterday. For months she'd been unable to face herself, to really see the person she now was. But there was no mistake. She wasn't imagining things. The death's-head grin she'd been avoiding for so long was gone. She gently felt the sides of her mouth. Rough, scarred, like old leather. But...normal. She tentatively opened her mouth, examining her tongue and her yellowing teeth, before closing again. She didn't dare try to smile, afraid that if she moved it would go back to the way it was.

But it was hard not to feel like smiling- really smiling- on the inside. She could talk somewhat normally again. In certain lights, she could almost pass for a normal person. She ran her hands over her face again, really feeling it. It felt like she was always wearing a mask, and that if she just scratched hard enough, maybe it would peel off. But she knew that wasn't true. That compulsion was dangerous, and more than one victim of the Smilex gas had nearly died trying to remove that "mask".

She looked at the tubs of makeup and facial unguents that crowded her bath-room. If she really wanted to, really made an effort, she could make her face look close to normal. For a few hours at any rate. Pretend for a few moments that she was still the Barbara Gordon she had been. The bright, rising policeman's daughter, both queen of the prom and valedictorian.

But that wasn't who she was now. With the smile gone, her face reflected how she truly felt inside, now. Dead. Unyielding. Empty. Her eyes were still hollow and ringed, and her hair was still thin and scraggly. She'd have to wear a wig if she ever wanted to really look like something other than a Raggedy Ann doll.

There was a gentle knock at the door. Patricia?

"I'll be out soon." She responded woodenly. Patricia wasn't a bad person. But she was a carer. She saw her as a victim. They all did. Or had. Ray's outburst...She found herself dwelling on his words. Maybe it was the lack of anything or anyone else in her life. Maybe it was simply the first time in a long time anyone had really gotten angry at her, had treated her with anything but kid gloves.

She'd felt something then. Something other than shame, other than hate and sorrow. She wanted to feel that way again. Was it anger? Rage? She tried to recapture some of that spark, but found it so hard to care about anything. What was even the point of trying?

She felt the memories intruding again, and she squeezed her eyes shut, and put her hands down around the wash basin. The reason she so often needed to grip something, to hold on to something...it was so hard to stop herself from laughing, from laughing and laughing till her lungs burst and her eyes wept and her hands clawed away every scrap of that mask she called a face.

But this time she wasn't smiling. Knowing that made it...easier, somehow. She practiced the breathing exercises she'd been taught, forcing herself to calmness, to find a place where the memories couldn't touch her. It was so hard not to feel...fear, disgust, and revulsion. When she wasn't laughing she felt like puking. The image that stayed strongest in her mind, was seeing herself, seeing that...transformation...

She ran to the toilet, and retched violently, emptying the little she'd eaten for breakfast. Patricia came in, holding her steady, helping hold her hair back.

"Again?" She said with sad sympathy. Barbara hated herself all over again. Not just because of what that memory meant, what it made her feel. But because how the memory made others treat her. Patricia's patience, kindness and support were always there, and would never diminish. It sickened her to know people saw her as someone so weak.

"Just...leave me alone..."She panted for breath, her whole body shaking violently. "I...I don't need your help." It was feeble resistance, she knew. She'd said the same things over and over, but even she couldn't really believe it. So long as she reacted like this, she wasn't fooling anyone.

Patricia simply nodded, as if what Barbara said was the most reasonable thing in the world. "Of course. Do you want me to make you some more breakfast later?" She asked. "How about some oatmeal? You really enjoy your oatmeal."

Barbara glared at Patricia. Oatmeal was about the only thing she could stomach sometimes. Anything with too much flavour, too much texture or life...it reminded her of that...that damn banquet. Tea party would be a better word. She remembered sitting around a table, a dozen other grinning moppets just like her, while he...he stood there and talked, and laughed. And she'd just sat there, while he'd continued his work, while other girls had served them all cakes and cups of punch...

It was all so surreal, sometimes. Like a childhood nightmare she couldn't wake up from, or ever forget. Oatmeal was safe, secure, and bland.

She wanted to just...fade away. To cut herself off from all the sensations, all the triggers. Maybe she could forget if people stopped reminding her how weak she was. If they all just...left her alone, and forgot, she could sleep in darkness, and never wake up.

She got to her feet, swaying unsteadily, her mouth and throat burning. "Water." She croaked, and Patricia handed her a plastic cup filled with tap water, and probably some more pills dissolved in it as well.

She drank the mixture greedily, and felt the calm wash over her. It was different from the emptiness, from the anhedonia. It was like wrapping herself in a warm blanket, feeling something, something that didn't remind her of that Night, of that monster.

It also let her choose what to remember, what to focus on. And so she relived that moment with Ray's rage, and it helped her feel...something. She wanted more like this. She wanted...she wasn't sure what she wanted. But getting angry, she knew, was something she could do.

As much as she yearned to surrender to the void, swallowed by darkness and for everyone to just go away, she knew that as long as anyone cared, she couldn't have that. So if she really wanted to escape, to get rid of all these well-meaning people, to stop just being a victim, she'd have to find another way out.

She made a fist, clenching her fingers tightly. She remembered her self-defence lessons, a spark from something that seemed a lifetime ago. Useless when it had come down to it, of course, but she still remembered.

"Are you ok, Barbara?" Patricia asked concerned.

She blinked, and looked at the woman. She'd been going into a fighting pose, and it must have looked odd. She looked at the woman, her face still. That, that was still a triumph. Her face was her own again.

"I'm fine." She said, and this time she almost felt like she meant it.

Raymond Wills adjusted his tie, finding the tuxedo uncomfortable. The anniversary was meant as a commemoration, a celebration of the living as well as a memorial to the fallen. It was also an opportunity for the great and good of Gotham City to shmooze with one another, and to be seen by the public to be caring about what had happened. The fact that the Anniversary was happening at the James Gordon Community Centre, built with public money, was representative of this fact. The survivors and their saviours were almost an after-thought, really. Necessary tokens of a public ceremony to assuage collective guilt, to make those who'd done nothing feel like the grief that still plagued many was a shared grief. He could have refused to attend the ceremony, he supposed, but for his resolve to face his demons, and not keep running away.

He would be damned if he was going to attend this ball in full dress uniform, though. As uncomfortable as a tuxedo was, he was a detective at heart. A uniform made him stand out, and projected an image of himself that he didn't really believe. He preferred to blend in. The last thing he wanted was someone to recognise him and make a fuss of him. He was no Hero. All the Heroes of that Night were dead.

He fiddled with the cuff links, and wondered again about what he'd said to Barbara. He'd talked with Patricia on the phone for an hour, and they'd both been ambivalent about taking her to the ceremony. She still found walking and standing for long periods difficult. But Barbara had been making...progress, of a sort. Apparently, to his suprise, she was no longer smiling. The rictus grin was gone. The doctors had given some sort of explanation, about how it had been mostly psychosomatic or something, but it still felt odd.

He wondered if it was simply the time that had elapsed, or whether his words, rashly spoken, had more of an effect than he realised.

He picked up the invitation, and looked briefly at his holster and side-arm, dangling from its hook by the door. Time was, he'd never have gone anywhere without it, even to an event like this. Time was that would have been simple prudence. But he was getting sick of his paranoia, and he knew his comrades would look sadly at him if he brought a gun to this Anniversary. It would have felt...dishonourable somehow, to the memory of those who had fallen.

A gun would also have been a sign that he was afraid. If Barbara could stop smiling, could make progress of her own, maybe he could beat his own ghosts, too.

So he put on his best aftershave, and managed to look like a human being again. He stepped out into the cold night air. He'd hired a cab for the night. There was no way he was going to end this night sober. He was making an effort he knew, but he wasn't that strong. Not yet.

"Take me out to Belle Drive. I know it's a long way but...we have to pick someone up first." He knew it would be expensive, hiring a cab for this long haul, but he'd made a promise. If she wanted to go, if she felt ready, he would stand side by side with her, and they were going to make it through this Night together.

The cab driver shrugged indifferently. "It's your money, pal."

They sped off into the night. His knuckles whitened, and he forced himself to think about the gala, about the Entrées, about trivial things.

When they pulled up outside the Gordon Residence, he saw with suprise that Barbara was already standing outside, waiting for him. Patricia looked anxious, but Barbara was obviously determined.

Her face took his breath away. She really had stopped smiling. Her grim visage was still nothing normal, but it reminded him painfully of her deceased father. It was the same face Jim had worn, time after time, when the going had really gotten rough. It was a face that said they weren't going to take any prisoners.

She wore no makeup. Her only concession to normality was a wig, a full head of bright henna-coloured hair in a styled bun, like a 1940s movie star. She looked oddly like Katherine Hepburn, though Wills doubted Barbara had any idea who that was.

"You look..." He fumbled for words.

"Pretty?" She said dully, sardonic humour. A deadpan joke, but a joke nonetheless. That alone almost floored him.

"You look strong." He said, and meaning it. For all that her body was still skeletal and her face cadaverous; there was a dignity in her bearing.

The dress she wore was a deep black evening gown, conservative and formal. It was the sort of dress her mother used to wear. Barbara had even found some elbow-length white gloves to cover her arms. It was hard for him not to be astounded at how different she looked from the sickly teenager he had come to know over the last year.

But for all her grace and dignity, it was clear she was still frail, and her timid steps across the lawn towards him reminded him she was still weak.

He wanted to reach out, to help steady her, but he resisted that urge. Instead, he simply waited, and let her make the walk alone.

She gave him a look, and he wasn't sure how to interpret it.

"Are you ready to go schmooze with the mayor?" He joked. "It'll be a dull evening. Let me know if you feel like you're dropping off." His tone was light, but it hid what he really wanted to say, what his instincts still told him to say and do. But he felt now that fussing over her, trying to support her, would be a mistake. He'd step in if she really needed it, of course, but he suspected that being allowed to feel somewhat in control was what had really helped Barbara, even if his expression of it to her had been less than ideal.

She gripped his arm tightly as she slid into the cab. "Let's go. To...the community centre." She said, with barely any hesitation. Her face was like death warmed up. The cab driver looked at her uneasily. By comparison to a normal person, she looked like she'd crawled out of her death-bed, and had a face that seemed to suggest she might keel over anytime soon.

"Are you sure she's ok to travel?" The cab driver asked him, ignoring her. She frowned.

"Just do it. I'm paying aren't I?" He snapped.

The cabbie shrugged, and pulled away. Patricia waved, her face torn between deep anxiety and a quite pride.

Barbara stared fixedly ahead, trying not to think about the people who should have been there to wave her off. She should have cried, perhaps, or felt sorrow for her mother's absence. Instead she focused hard on staying angry. She tried to conjure up every negative thought she could, to fuel that weak feeling. She remembered her self-defence training, the droning of her tutor. For a year now she'd been stuck in a Flight response.

It was time to Fight.