ACT TWO:

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

"Tributes to the missing police officer, Renee Montoya, continue to pour in as the City Council met today to finalise the creation of a Joint Crime-fighting Task Force, headed up by Congresswoman Amanda Waller. District Attorney Harvey Dent spoke on behalf of the Task Force today when he called for the passage of the Dent Bill, making it compulsory for all members of the Gotham City Police Force to wear a camera and a tracking device, ensuring that their safety and whereabouts when on duty is known and kept track of at all times..."

The noise of the television was a low buzz, white noise to fill the void. She wanted to turn it off, to shove a pillow over her face and scream and forget all about it. No sooner had she met her family again after a year, to find that bridge burning, and now her new family was being torn apart as well.

She wanted time. Time to fix her broken mind, time to heal, time to deal with betrayal, with secrets, with mysteries past and present. But events showed that Time had run out. She had to act now, or she might as well go right back to Arkham. She'd made private, internal resolutions about the kind of person she wanted to be, the things she wanted, the distant stars she had to reach for to escape her personal abyss.

Her fingers danced madly on the keys of Ray's laptop. No doubt she'd be in big trouble if he found out she'd cracked his work laptop, and was now running five or six simultaneous highly dubious "hacker" programmes, ICE, tracers...not exactly a professional's toolkit but close enough.

If she wanted time, if she wanted to prove herself worthy of those stars she hoped to reach for, she had to act now. All thought was suspended. As if she was channelling the spirit of Ray himself, all there was now, was the Work.

Oracle: You got the files I asked for yet?
JeepersCreepers: Its been only six hours quit askin
Oracle: I don't have time for more games Creeps
JeepersCreepers: Godamnit fine ill get on it again u pushy bitch
Oracle: Where's Spoiler?
JeepersCreepers: Fuck if i know, you know how it is
JeepersCreepers: People come and go, some disappear for a year
JeepersCreepers: Smoe disappear for ever, its the internet
JeepersCreepers: Some*
Oracle: I'm getting worried. She hasn't responded yet.
JeepersCreepers: I could find her, for a price
Oracle: I'm not sending you nude pics.
JeepersCreepers: Jeeze no, fuck what do you take me for
JeepersCreepers: Anyway like just BuyBuddy one of my accoutns some money
JeepersCreepers: But if you change your mind, I guess we could talk pictures...
Oracle: I'll see what cash I can spare.
Oracle: Keep working on those files.

Barbara had to admit, there was something almost exhilarating about being her online alter-ego again. She'd never really given much thought back then, only wanting to be something as different from a daddy's little girl, a perfect cheerleader with good grades as possible. She'd almost gone goth too, ugh. But this involved less make-up and more actual use of her brain.

But she couldn't afford to stop and think now. Thinking too much would derail her. Still, her muscles were getting stiff and cramped. She stood up. Five minutes, exercise, get fresh air, return.

As Barbara stretched her aching body wearily, she watched the first hints of snow drifting past her window. It was going to be a very cold winter, she knew.

Patricia had been loathe to leave her alone even for this much time, but Barbara had spun a cock and bull story about keeping in touch with Ray via his laptop. Lying to her carer was becoming easier and easier, and she knew she was going to hate herself for it later. But now she didn't have the time.

Five days. Five days since Thanksgiving. Five days since things began to spiral out of control. Why couldn't anything ever go right in her life? Why couldn't she just...get better, and feel happy again?

She stirred as her watch beeped the time, scattering her thoughts. Five fifteen. Time to make dinner. She checked her download speeds and connections. Her efforts to hack the GCHQ and put together her own case-file on the "Riddler", as the media had begun calling the presumed mastermind behind the Museum attack, were proceeding smoothly.
She could afford to eat. She kept her mood neutral as she walked slowly through the house, ignoring how dim and grey everything now seemed. It had been bleak before, but without Patricia the place seemed...ever so much more lifeless. She barely acknowledged Fang, her dog, as she carried out the next part of her new daily routine without deviation. Like clock-work, unspeaking, she poured some dog-food out into Fang's bowl, which he gratefully began to devour.

She went over to the stove, her eyes barely seeing anything, her mind in a fog. A flash of thought broke through her clouds, and she once again thought about putting her head inside of that stove. She smiled at the thought. It was electric. No point.

The clock in the kitchen ticked steadily, a new noise that replaced the buzzing in her ears. She turned the oven on, and went to the fridge to get the rest of the casserole from yesterday. She'd barely eaten any of it, so reheating it should be fine. Maybe she would have casserole every day. Another part of her routine.

She sat at the kitchen table, barely breathing or blinking, waiting for this next part of the routine to finish. In her mind, she saw it all, over and over, blending together. The argument with her family. The punch delivered to her brother. The Joker's needle sliding into her arm. Renee's face, cut and bloody. Wills hugging her. The argument with Dr Thompkins. Her fingers racing across a keyboard. Her father's face. Many Faces. Blood. Needles. Violence. Shouting.

It was all blurring together, an endless carousel. She countered it by going over the raw data in her head.

It wasn't just machine code or white noise or text. She had to see it all, try to see it as points on a grid, or scattered pieces of a puzzle. Perhaps many puzzles.

Either way, she had to be selective in how she used her memory, how she organised what she remembered. Sort facts from dross. Sort the useless from the useful.
A computer could only do so much, without the insight to see it.

That was why she had chosen the name Oracle, she supposed. Back when she'd been a stupid kid, she'd wanted a name that was cool, but also spoke about her. Calling herself something like PrincessMoonRaven had seemed...off. But when she had read a book on Greek Mythology- a gift from her god-father, which she now dimly suspected might actually be Thomas Wayne- the idea of the Oracle had struck her powerfully.

But she couldn't see the future. She could barely see her own past. If only this...if only that... She finished her meal, and checked her watch again. Nearly five forty. Time enough for one last slow walk around her house, a silent and pointless patrol, before returning to the laptop.

She might have been fine on the second day, but Patricia had needed some time off to go Christmas shopping. Plus, Her own family troubles were flaring up. Apparently Barbara wasn't the only one who had experienced some drama at thanksgiving, and her carer seemed grimly prepared for more of it, shopping for gifts as if preparing for war. So she'd wiped her eyes, and lied. And Lied again. And kept lying. She adopted the routine as a way of sustaining the lie. She thought of the strength in her veins, the punishing exercise routine she'd previously adopted, now cut back to a routine minimum.

Where had that strength gone? She'd been so angry. Now it was all gone. Snuffed out by events.

It was the fifth day, soon to be the sixth. All of Gotham was facing its bleakest winter on record, and the news buzzed constantly, rolling reports. SWAT Raids on the Narrows. The Warehouse District in flames. Gun-battles as ATF descended on the docks, rolling up a significant part of the Black Mask's drugs and arms shipping operations. The FBI seizing his property, and appealing to the embassy of the Canary Islands to freeze his funds. Interpol alerted, a warrant out for Roman Sionis, wanted for an assortment of charges, including the presumed Murder of Renee Montoya.

It was all too much. Everything was moving so fast. And above it all, the haunting reality of the question mark. The defacement of the Art Museum. Prospero. Why. Why? None of it made sense. It was an artificial drama, someone's design, perhaps. Someone had been inspired by the Joker, she guessed, and now sort to play their own sick game on the city of Gotham.

The mystery eluded her. Consumed her. She needed more information. Yet something she didn't contemplate was what she would do with it all, once she figured it out. What could Ray do? Run in and get killed, like...she refused to acknowledge the name, the face. She wanted to be strong again. Why couldn't she be the Dark Knight?

Had Wayne planned all this? the thought wormed its way through her defences. It was wild, paranoid, and instantly dismissed.

But it would return again.

She would have to see if she could get her hands on Asylum records. She forced her mind back to this. See how Zasz had escaped. Insider help, most likely. As long as she had this mystery to work out, as long as she could be Oracle, she could avoid being Barbara Gordon.

Avoid having to look at what Thomas and Bruce Wayne had done to her family. At what they might be doing to her even now.

Harv Bullock massaged his tired, aching eyes as the Committee droned on. All of Gotham had been shook up, and everything over the last five days had been a blur, hammer-blow after hammer-blow. He'd been leading the investigation into the vigilante, and suddenly what had been slowly becoming a 3 person operation was now a 30 person operation, mostly liaisons with the FBI. The attack on the Art Museum was being treated as an act of terrorism, possibly connected to the recent exposure of the Black Mask's cartel, which ATF, the DEA and other elements of the FBI were all fighting the mother of all turf wars to get credit for tearing apart.

Meanwhile, at City Hall, and in Washington, the politicians and bureaucrats were scrambling to deliver their finely worded speeches, their calls of action, for justice. The wheels of government turn slowly, but a lot of good people, Harv knew, where now adding plenty of grease, to get those wheels turning a little faster.

Budgets that had been slashed repeatedly for years were now swelling with aid money. The government was promising to ramp up its surplus programme, to outfit the GCPD with left-over military gear, to fund the training and expansion of its SWAT teams. For a year the criminals had slowly reclaimed the night after the fall of the Dark Knight, but now there was real impetus, a sense that they could reclaim things, that the legacy Jim Gordon had wanted to leave was finally, maybe, being picked up.

So why did Harv feel like shit? He crushed a cheap Styrofoam cup in his meaty hands, trying to keep awake. Something about expanding the demand and need for street teams, informers, detectives, getting feelers and eyes out in the street. He didn't much care. He had so much else on his mind.

Detective Kovaleski- that transfer who had joined the department before all hell broke loose- sat next to him, and nudged him back into wakefulness. He must look like shit. He grunted, and tried to pay attention more. His gum-shoe instincts kicked back in. What were the details?

Kovaleski looked nervous, her green eyes betraying her youth and uncertainty. He knew what she was thinking. What everyone must really be thinking. Thoughts he tried to drown out. He glared at the screen, power-point slides clicking over. He reached for a pen, and pretend to take notes, writing out random thoughts and doodles instead.

What the hell -was- going on in Gotham anyway? Who the fuck was this "Wrath" guy? How had he known to be at the Museum? Who was this Riddler fellow? Wills had been burning himself hard before Black Friday trying to chase down this Prospero lead, he knew. Ray probably knew better than anyone what this Riddler deal was, which wasn't much. The graffiti left in the Art Museum implied there'd be at least one more attack, assuming the Oil Rig was definitely his work.

And the timing. The timing with...he swallowed. Everything else. He ruffled his greasy black hair, sighing to himself. Kovaleski shot him a look. She seemed a good kid, he knew. Young. Keen. A bit boyish for his tastes, he preferred his women to be stacked. But as a detective, she seemed to have the right stuff. Maybe it was time he considered early retirement. Streets had taken so much lately.

No, No sleep yet. He suppressed a yawn. He still had work to do. He was supposed to head up the Major Crimes Unit and the Task-force investigating the Art Museum Attack. Though really, the FBI seemed to have that one pretty tightly sewn up, and they weren't too interested in sharing their thoughts or findings with the local rookies. Apparently despite MCU's public shine the FBI privately thought they and everyone else in the GCPD were bumbling amateurs who couldn't find their ass with a map.

Given the way things had been going up till now, he grudgingly had to admit they weren't entirely wrong. Though he'd be damned before he'd admit he and the MCU were anything less than the best.

He blinked, looking down at the mess of notes he'd written. He stiffened, alarmed to see he'd written a name over and over. He swallowed. The stress and lack of sleep must be getting to him. He'd need to cut back on the caffeine pills maybe. Yeah that was it.

Kovaleski seemed to be glancing over at him, concern on her young, tomboyish face. He quickly covered his notepad, like a schoolboy caught writing naughty letters. But what he'd written was far more personal than that.

Renee. Renee Montoya.

His best friend was dead.

The meeting adjourned, and they all got up, taking their coats and notebooks with them. Harv hadn't heard a god-damned word that had been said. He didn't care. He knew what he needed to do.

"Captain Bullock? Sir?" Kovaleski stopped him as they were leaving the door. He turned, scowling at her. Who did this wet behind the ears rookie think she was?

"Detective. Call me Bullock. I'm...the rank isn't me." he said, his voice gravelly and strained. He'd lost two people in a year he felt worthy of calling a Captain. It didn't feel right to be filling their shoes.

"Sir. Respectively, but you look like shit. You need some rest." She spoke boldly. Her tone and confidence only drove the knife deeper. She reminded him too much of her.

"I can cover for you the rest of today and tomorrow. Go home, sleep it off."

Bullock stiffened. Any other department, any other situation, any other time, he and a thousand other grumpy bosses would have chewed her out for insubordination, thrown the book at her for her over-familiarity. And nine hundred and ninety nine times out of a thousand, they'd have been absolutely right.

But he didn't do that. He nodded instead. Christ, he really was losing his edge.

"I want a full report on the new informers on my desk, double-spaced, tomorrow morning. I'm going to...check some other leads." he grunted, not holding her gaze. She simply nodded. "Of course sir."

He pushed past her, his eyes feeling like heavy weights. The whole day seemed a blur. He couldn't remember much of the rest of it, but he managed to get all the way to his car before passing out on the back-seat. He wasn't the first detective to take such an on-shift nap, but mercifully no-one noticed, or at least took steps not to notice.

Kovaleski, for her part, returned to the office-space, and sat herself down in Harv's empty desk-space. She looked through his papers and opened up his laptop, shaking her head at his laxity, but figuring he'd appreciate her putting together things for him. There was a hot cup of Booster Gold Blend waiting next to the laptop. She was puzzled at who would buy such expensive coffee for the chief, who usually drank from the office pot like everyone else. The writing scribbled on it didn't seem familiar either. She shrugged, and pushed the cup away. She had a report to write. She slicked back her pale-blonde hair with fingers, and got to work typing. An e-mail arrived after an hour or so. Wills wanted to meet Harvey later tonight. She sent back a curt reply, saying that the Captain was indisposed right now, but she would be happy to meet him in his office.

He cancelled the appointment fifteen minutes later, and she thought no more of the matter. Let the old dogs nurse their wounds, she thought. Gotham was full of the corrupt and the tired. It needed new blood, go-getters with ambition and ruthless efficiency. She was determined to be one of them.

She worked late into the night, and left with a thin smile. If she didn't find this Wrath before the New Year, she'd eat her badge out of shame.

Thomas Wayne sighed, doffing his gloves, washing his hands in a bowl of water. Blood, so much blood. He looked at the cracked mirror, seeing an old, old man staring back. Grey-hairs consumed his thinning hairline, a few strands of white here and there also. He'd given up trying to look distinguished and merely "50" a long time ago. He scrubbed his hands vigorously, using plenty of anti-septic gel.

Old habits died hard, he supposed. He fetched paper-towels, and dried his liver-spotted, wrinkled hands off meticulously. Throwing the paper-towels into the bathroom bin, he went back outside, to darkened room, the shutters and blinds drawn, and the acrid, coppery stench of blood.

"Alright. I'm done." he said curtly to the woman waiting anxiously, sitting on an 18th century chair like it was a recliner. "I did what was asked. God knows this isn't the first time I've done things like this. Now I want to know why you came here, to me. Don't give me a bullshit story neither. There's plenty of crooked doctors in the Narrows, and there's far closer."

He pulled his sleeves back, and reached for the ivory-handled cane he'd left aside. He didn't really need the cane to walk, but at his age it was always good to have an extra weapon close to hand. He looked over at Alfred, whose composure was total, despite wearing a blood-stained apron and gloves, much as Thomas himself had been a few moments earlier.

"You can wash up in the bathroom yourself Alfred. I don't think they mean us harm." he smiled cynically.

Katherine Kane glared at him, almost forgetting for a moment the gun she had been holding, her fingers and knuckles white. Had she been holding it all this time? She blinked. It seemed the lack of sleep was getting to her again.

"You know why we- I- came to you. There's no-one else we can trust with...with this." She said, shaking, her vision blurring. She was a former marine, damn it. She could take a little sleep deprivation. Then again, four or five days was -alot- of sleep deprivation. She blinked, reaching into her jacket-pocket for another pill, but finding they were all gone. She was sure she had had more!

Thomas shook his head, sighing. "And where do you think this goes from here, mm? How do you explain everything after what happened? As far as the world outside is concerned, she's dead. And if she turns up alive, what then? You can't vanish off the face of the earth without leaving a body. Believe me, others have tried."

She yawned heavily, the gun thudding to the ground from her hand. "I...I don't really care what the world thinks. What matters is that she's alive now. Right?" she asked, still a little uncertain.

"She'll live. For now. But one wonders if she'll thank you for what you've done." Thomas gritted his teeth. "That one has a Death Wish as bad as any I've seen."

"And that's something else you know about, right? Ray...Ray told me. He said that you-"

"Hush, now. That's over. Long over. Though it seems your...friend here didn't get the memo. But, if what's going on right now is any indication...maybe it shouldn't have." He sighed, rubbing his eyes. Tired, but also old. So much had been lost, and now this.

Katherine got to her feet, unsteadily. "I'm...I'm going somewhere, to sleep. Don't...don't try anything, you hear? I guess we...we have to trust you, now." she sighed deeply herself, a sigh that became another yawn. "Dammit...what happened to my...pills..." She collapsed onto the floor, completely fatigued, though Thomas got there quickly, helping her up.

"Damn fool women. Even when this was a man's game it was foolish." he grumbled. "Alfred! Help Miss Kane here back to the guest bed-room." he sighed, turning back to his patient.

Renee Montoya lay in bed, pale as death, wires and tubes running into her. Her chest was heavily bandaged, and a series of jury-rigged, scavenged HRE monitors and other medical equipment were rigged up on the night-stand. This really wasn't the first time he'd had to fix up gun-shot wounds on the sly.

But it had never been this close. He breathed easy. Every-time he was afraid his hands would slip, his heart would seize. Every-time he swore it would be the last time. All those lives saved, all those impossible operations preformed flawlessly. Years of patching up Jim Gordon and himself, even his son. Every time it was someone else he remembered. The one life he couldn't save. The only life that had ever mattered a damn to him.

He coughed wearily, sitting close by Renee's bedside. "I don't know if you can hear me, but let an old man ramble for a bit, will you?" he chuckled sardonically to himself. Renee lay, practically motionless, a weak, but steady beep monitoring her heart. She'd lost almost all her blood, and he'd had to pull a lot of favours to get enough of her type rushed in a freezer, no records, no questions asked to deal with it. He'd tided her over with donations from Alfred, but as willing as the butler had been Thomas couldn't afford to make him woozy or sick. He needed the old boy's steady hands to help him with the surgery.

It had been touch and go for a few days, but he finally felt certain that she was going to pull through. But what happens now? When she awoke, how would she deal with the consequences of her actions? He didn't know. He thought again of the life he had led, and the fool-hardy experiment he'd reluctantly condoned. He'd been angry when he'd realised Bruce was giving Barbara that damn Miraclo drug. Jim had never used it. Never needed it. He grimaced. But it was hard not to see Bruce's point.

He shook his head. "My son...my son has wanted for the longest time to be this city's hero. He can't do it the way you did. He needed...wanted...to be a symbol. I sometimes wonder if he'd have ended up as a Detective, like you, if...things had been different. He's always had a keen mind. But what you did...I'm afraid what example you've set, Miss Montoya. Gotham wasn't ready for another vigilante so soon. At least you had the sense to keep it quiet..." he sighed.

"But I suppose Gotham doesn't wait for anyone." He got up, rubbing his aching back and joints. How had he gotten so old so fast? It seemed like only yesterday he'd been swinging around on a grappling hook, running the rooftops, a cowl swept out behind him.

There was nothing but the quiet wheezing of machines. She wouldn't wake for a long time yet. If ever.

"You're welcome." he said, sighing. Ultimately this changed nothing. He rubbed his arm. There really was only one possible choice. One possible course of action.

He limped down the corridor, making sure to close the door fast behind him. The servants knew better than to enter this place. Martha's place, he knew. The only quiet part of Wayne Manor, and the only place he could safely treat Montoya in secrecy.

No, time was running out. And the ghost that haunted him demanded new blood. Gotham needed a protector, and it didn't care for an old man's sentimentality. He located a servant, a maid woman waiting nervously at the foot of the stairs.

"Get me a telephone. I need to ring the Gordon Residence."