Slade stared across a sleek glass desk at Roland Desmond and tried to estimate how frequently the furniture in this room had to be replaced. The big man's fists clenched. His lips curled back in a snarl. In short he was not taking Slade's report well.
"What do you mean, you don't have the vial?" Desmond demanded.
Slade concealed his irritation. The report wouldn't change with this third repetition, but Desmond was paying him well, so he could afford to waste time reciting what the big man already knew.
"Grayson wasn't in his apartment when I arrived." Slade kept his report to the essentials. "Neither was the vial. I presume he left after your men scared him."
There was no way Desmond's men had scared Grayson. The worst danger to Nightwing had probably been fear of giving himself a hernia while laughing at their incompetence. But Slade wasn't going to tell Desmond that.
"So you're telling me it's gone?" Desmond growled in what Slade presumed was supposed to be a threatening manner.
"I'm telling you I haven't recovered it yet. But I have a lead on who the woman in your video footage might be, and I'm following up on that."
"For what I'm paying you," Desmond said, "I expect more progress than this."
There were some assignments -- like this one -- where Slade charged more simply because he knew the target would be especially difficult. There were others where he charged less either because the target was especially soft or, sometimes, because the target especially deserved killing. But he never worked without some sort of contract.
At this moment, he was considering killing Desmond for free.
"I've identified the couple involved," Slade told him. "It's just a matter of time."
Desmond would be easy to kill, Slade thought, despite his size. A blade slipped between the second and third ribs would glide right into the man's heart. Or he could go for messy and shove a grenade down Desmond's throat. If he wanted truly dramatic, he could grab the marble bust of Lorenzo de Medici and use it to crash open Desmond's ribcage, tear out his still-beating heart, and squash it in his fist like an over-ripe tomato.
"What are you smiling at?" Desmond demanded.
"Just thinking about murder as a public service."
Before Desmond could respond, the phone on his desk rang. Slade didn't bother to listen in, though he had to move his hand away from his blade before he acted on the impulse to kill.
A moment later, Desmond slammed his phone down with such force that the receiver shattered.
"Problems?" Slade inquired mildly.
The big man was already shoving himself to his feet. He moved with remarkable speed for someone eight feet tall. "Nightwing."
"Nightwing?" Oh, this just got interesting.
"He's interfering with my operation at the mine. I want him stopped. I'll pay double your normal rate for this one, too."
It wasn't often Slade was offered quadruple his normal rate for a single kill. He wondered if Desmond would try to renege on the deal once he found out Grayson and Nightwing were the same person -- which wouldn't be until after Grayson was dead.
"I'll get my armor," Slade said.
-X-
"It's been nearly a whole day since I gave Donna the ambrosia," Diana whispered to herself. "And the world has not exploded, or burned." Still, the tension in her shoulders didn't relax. She walked alone in the Grove of Antiope, where she'd spent so many quiet moments, waiting, hoping. As always, the grove was beautiful, serene. It made Diana long for the excitement of the wider world.
Unfortunately, she no longer had a place outside her home island. Her mother still wore Diana's old costume. Philippus and others had told her that while the duty of Wonder Woman had been intended to punish Hippolyta, the queen had taken to the role with relish.
"Like mother, like daughter," Diana told a squirrel that looked down at her from a limb overhead. "But can there be two Wonder Women at the same time? And if not, how do we assign or rotate the duty?" That her mother might not be interested in such a compromise wasn't a notion Diana was willing to entertain. She'd press the issue if need be. She had to--
A commotion at the edge of the grove distracted her thoughts. She turned to see Melia and Venilia racing through the trees, with the high priestess Penelope following at an unseemly pace. Diana hurried after, her curiosity roused. Such displays were rare on Themyscira.
Their path led out of the tranquil grove, down a steep embankment toward the place where Doom's Doorway hid. Diana's stomach knotted with that realization. She once believed she'd destroyed the portal, but as a goddess she realized that such passages between the worlds can never be destroyed. Upon her return the priestesses assured her the Doorway remained well guarded. Still, she couldn't quell a sense of dread as she raced downward.
Well before they reached the Doorway, the trio stopped. The high priestess knelt. In the underbrush by the side of the narrow path, Diana saw a scrap of bright yellow that could only be a chiton. "What is going on?"
"Princess." They turned to look at her. In the gap between them, Diana saw a long leg streaked with dirt resting in the grass. A body? An Amazon body?
"Who is this? What happened?"
The force of her questions made her sisters step back, revealing the corpse. An Amazon, indeed, but old, dessicated. Only Diana's hunter's eyes and her instinct for truth enabled her to identify the fallen woman. "Timandra! What has happened to her?"
"Trouble yet again from Doom's Doorway, Princess," Venilia answered.
"The third to fall," Melia added.
"Fall? To what enemy? And why does this enemy still live?"
Penelope ordered the others to hush. She rose slowly. "It is no enemy of this Earth, Princess. We pray for deliverance from the gods."
"I saw nothing of this from Olympus," Diana said. "Else I would have acted to save our sister."
"It is to the lord of gods we must direct our questions and our prayers." Penelope eyed her suspiciously and Diana curled her fists.
"Have you told my mother of these murders? Does the queen agree to wait on the gods rather than taking action as warriors should?"
"The queen's duty is as a champion beyond these shores now," Penelope countered. Diana didn't need a godly sense of truth to know she was hiding something.
"Then it falls to me, as her eldest daughter, to investigate this matter." There would be an argument, but not here, not while their sister drew the attention of flies and lay exposed in the sun. There would be more than an argument when Diana discovered what was happening to her home.
-X-
Squeezing through the opening in the collapsed rubble was all the more exciting when Nightwing thought about the consequences of a torn hazmat suit. One careless snag and he could probably look forward to a lingering, painful death. But he slithered past the splintered wood and rough, deadly rock, twisting and turning his body as best he could. He managed to get through without damaging the suit or dislocating his shoulder again.
He'd tossed his flashlight through first so the circle of light on the floor could guide him. But, the glowing spot undulated, like heat waves over a desert. He pushed through the passage faster. He tried not to think about what might be waiting on the other side of the obstruction.
He would have liked to believe whatever caused the odd distortions had a very boring explanation. Dust moving through the air perhaps, or an odd heat or gas given off by the mine. But, he couldn't make himself buy the argument. He pulled free of the debris, landed awkwardly, and caught himself on his hands to avoid falling on his face. His respirator probably wasn't good enough to survive direct contact with the junk in here.
The surface moved beneath his hands, and an unfamiliar jolt of fear lanced through him. He looked down to see the floor shaping itself around his hands like some metallic fungus come to life. Picking up his flashlight, Nightwing scrambled to his feet and steadied his breathing.
This wouldn't be the weirdest danger he'd ever encountered. At least that's what he told himself. He turned the flashlight on the walls. The circle of illumination showed him a single passage rather than the grid-labyrinth of the old mine. He assumed he'd stumbled upon the final phase of the operation before it closed.
The walls weren't just moving. The whole room crawled as if the asbestos was alive. Nightwing pulled his attention away from that creeping mass. The light caught on the dust dancing through the air. That was normal movement, caused by air wafting down a ventilation shaft barely visible in the deep recesses of the chamber.
Nightwing crossed the space to inspect the opening, the floor of the mine sucking on his boots with each step. A network of animated asbestos had formed over the entrance to the shaft. Wishing he had a ten-foot pole instead of an escrima stick, Nightwing used one stick to knock it away. He felt a healthy flood of air from above wash over him, and instinctively inhaled deeply. It smelled fresher somehow, but that was a trick of his mind. It was still respirator-filtered air. Then he realized that no sunlight accompanied the wash of air. The long shaft above trapped it all. Still, the ventilation tunnel might provide an escape route, Nightwing thought, though it looked too wide to scale by bracing shoulders and legs against the sides, and too narrow to accurately shoot a jump line straight up and still hope to catch something above.
For now, however, this chamber was too dangerous a puzzle to leave unsolved. He ignored the swarming mineral and pressed the sensor on the portable spectrometer against the wall. Its readout convulsed. Sodium, iron, and magnesium all read off the scale and for a moment, Nightwing imagined that he was inhaling death itself.
"Overactive imagination, much?" He spoke aloud as he stepped cautiously deeper into this undeveloped side tunnel. The walls absorbed his voice instead of echoing it back to him.
The material on the walls appeared to grow darker, blacker. The light from his flashlight sank into it. Even if Desmond's men had found this passage, he expected they would not have ventured past the writhing, hungry surfaces to reach this point. It took all Nightwing's will to force one foot before the other.
"So this is what a black hole is like, no light escaping." Nightwing swallowed and pressed further on.
The thoroughness ingrained in him since he had first started working with Batman made him test the wall every few feet. The material here was no longer truly asbestos. Nor was it, despite the movement, made of organic material. It retained the sodium-iron blue asbestos base, but something else now tainted the composition. The spectrometer's readout spiked and sputtered and finally flashed a signal for "unknown substance."
"Unknown, and I'm guessing more deadly." The sense of dread Nightwing had felt earlier now licked all the way down his spine. He'd never suffered claustrophobia, but here the walls did seem to be closing around him.
He skimmed the spectrometer along the wall now, testing all the way. He'd squat, run the device up the wall as he stood slowly, then move one step and lower it. With every passing foot the readings became more bizarre, and the sense that death waited, spider-like, right behind him intensified.
He could taste the change now, even through his respirator -- a bitter, bile flavor he normally only tasted after throwing up. Beneath his hazmat suit and costume, his skin itched as though a million tiny bugs crawled over his body. He wondered if this stuff was toxic enough to eat through his suit. Fear screamed at him to leave now, and Desmond's weapon be damned. Nightwing had learned how to muzzle fear when he was a boy, but this was insidious, digging under his mental defenses like sappers undermining ancient earthworks until he had to fight to keep his feet where they were.
At the ragged edge of his determination, when he was about to conclude that fear had the right idea, the spectrometer reading shifted abruptly.
Nightwing blinked to clear his eyes and frowned at the result. Silver?
He tested another location on the wall and the machine displayed the same unrecognizable compounds he'd been gathering from this part of the mine. Then he returned to the first location and got another reading of pure silver.
With one of his escrima sticks he poked at the wall. A few clots of the not-asbestos reluctantly relinquished their grip, falling away to reveal the edges of a metal door perhaps six inches square. Its surface, mottled black like an old mirror, had been invisible in the gloom of the mine. He rubbed at it with his gloved hand, noting the slight glint that appeared as he worked. Beneath the tarnish and patina of age, the door was silver.
For a moment, Nightwing stared, amazement displacing fear. Kreder had ordered a door of pure silver cast, instead of using a steel door, or even an armor-plated one. That kind of custom order might still have a trail Barbara could track, if needed. For now, Nightwing felt around the edge, found a latch, tugged, and the door opened.
The box in the wall was silver as well. Once it had been lined with some sort of cloth, maybe silk, but that had deteriorated to threads over time. The opening seemed to sink into the wall forever. Nightwing couldn't see the back of it even with the aid of his flashlight. But, the light did reveal a flicker of untarnished metal partway back. Ever so carefully, Nightwing reached inside and caught the thing in his fingers. He drew out an arrow nearly as long as his arm.
"Funny." Nightwing turned the arrow to study it from all directions. "You don't look like a super-weapon."
It appeared to be more ornamental than practical, honestly, despite the sharpened tip. Though designed to look like the split-shaft and iron head of a real, ancient arrow, the long, blade-shaped head and the intricately carved shaft were all one casting. Even the fletching feathers were silver. The arrow was pristine, as if it had just left the craftsman's polishing wheel. Nightwing recognized the decorative symbols -- protogeometric like those on Donna's vial.
No doubt the arrow had come from Johann Kreder's personal collection, and valuable far beyond its silver content. It could have been secreted away for monetary reasons. Still, an arrow was technically a weapon, and obviously Greek in origin, which meant it fit the legend of Kreder's super-weapon. And the strange, animate malevolence of the surrounding chamber made that possibility more real.
Nightwing shook off another intense desire to flee. If this was the super-weapon, he'd found what he was looking for. If it was, as it appeared, merely a stolen artifact, it certainly didn't belong buried in a mine outside Bludhaven. Bruce's contacts could help return this arrow to the Greek government.
Carefully, he slid the arrow into the holster next to his escrima stick. It was time to get out of this mine, and that thought brought a wave of relief so intense it unsettled him. Nightwing focused on the next step of the investigation as he headed back to the collapse.
Finding the pretty arrow was something, but the likelihood it was a super-weapon seemed pretty small. Probably, there had been something else here, a true Armageddon device, that had warped the asbestos in this chamber. But, it had been removed long ago. Blockbuster couldn't have found it already. If he had, he wouldn't have had people still working down in this hole.
So, where could the thing be now? Before he could pursue that trail of thoughts further, a low thudding sound echoed through the mine. If he hadn't known he'd cleared the workers out of the mine earlier, Nightwing would've sworn the sound was a footfall.
Whether it was a suddenly freed and emboldened guard or merely -- such a deceptive word -- a shifting in the timbers supporting the pillars of the mine, Nightwing decided it was a good signal that he'd spent too much time here. He hurried to the collapse and squeezed through.
The trip back through the rubble was easier now that he knew what to expect. He stepped into the main part of the mine, grateful to be away from the feeling that the wall were crawling toward his back. Straightening, he turned, focused his flashlight forward, and stopped when the beam illuminated a human form that filled the entire tunnel.
Nightwing winced. Somehow, Blockbuster had found him.
-X-
Barbara ran through her security protocols with far more attention than she normally gave them. Normally, she basked in her security protocols. Normally, she relaxed in the knowledge that she'd never given any hacker clues to her identity. Normally, she was safe.
Tonight, that had changed. She could blame Dick for not having the encryption installed, even months after he'd moved to Bludhaven, but that would be unfair. Somehow, somewhere, she'd left a hint, a signature, something.
She stared unseeing at the progress bar as it tracked her routine, wondering what that clue might have been. She'd never used the name Oracle. Never hinted at what she did. Still, someone had found her. She'd have to make sure that never happened again.
She waited for her palms to sweat, for her neck to tickle with fear. She'd grown so accustomed to those sensations, but tonight something else was different. Tonight she felt the slightest catch in her lungs, the briefest acceleration of her heartbeat. She knew those sensations. She used to share them with Dick when they soared through Gotham. Excitement, not fear, tickled her blood.
The progress bar ticked over to 100% complete, and a siren filled the room, making her jump.
"What the hell?" Barbara's fingers flew over the keyboard, initiating diagnostics and security measures. Her skin tingled. Even as she did, the screen before her went blank.
A moment later, a single line of text appeared:
I'm the one who hacked you earlier. If you want to know why, call me.
A telephone number with a local exchange followed.
Yesterday it would have been fear urging her trace the phone number. Today, it was the thrill of the hunt. She wasn't surprised that it was one of a block of numbers registered as pre-paid phones. A somewhat deeper search revealed that the phone had been purchased several days before, and the buyer had paid cash.
Barbara frowned at the dead-end trail displayed on her screen, unconsciously tapping one finger on her keyboard, considering.
Fear would have urged her to delete the number immediately and upgrade all of her security systems. But if she did that, she might miss some information that could save a life. Dick's life.
She initiated a call, bouncing it through twelve satellites and a high-level encryption. Trace me now. She loved the challenge in her thought.
The phone was answered on the second ring. A woman's voice, hesitant, unfiltered by electronic scrambling or distortion, said, "Hello?"
"You sent me this number." Barbara's voice was scrambled, though. It almost always was, since Oracle had taken over.
"Oracle?"
"Yes. What should I call you?"
A brief hesitation, then, "My handle's Mouse."
Barbara recognized the name immediately. "You work with Giz."
"Yeah." The woman's voice cracked. "If he survives." Before Barbara could decide whether asking for details would be rude or simply prudent, Mouse continued, "He's in the hospital right now, with a shattered femur and patella."
"Broken legs usually aren't life-threatening," Barbara couldn't help pointing out.
"Not broken. Shattered. They think the surgery to remove all the fragments of bone is going to take hours. And then there's the question of an artificial bone..." Mouse's voice trailed off, and Barbara heard a sniffle.
"What could shatter the bone like that?" Barbara asked gently. She could think of a dozen answers without effort, but she was curious which one was the correct answer.
"A man -- well, he looks like a man. Roland Desmond."
Dread swelled Barbara's throat. "Blockbuster."
"I called to warn you."
She didn't need the warning, Barbara thought. She knew all too well what kind of monster Blockbuster really was. But Mouse sounded terrified, and clearly believed the warning would help, even if she was only warning a distorted voice on the phone.
Some reassuring instinct she'd forgotten she possessed made Barbara shut off the voice scrambler. "Why don't you start at the beginning?"
"Ah --" Mouse sounded surprised, probably by the change in voice, but recovered quickly. "He hired us to do some research. He was sure your database had the information he needs."
And Mouse had managed to get into her database, even if only the outermost layers. Barbara was impressed. "And?"
"And I didn't find what he really wanted. But I did get a snippet of a video feed. A man and a woman, with some fancy test tube. He seemed to like that."
"Why'd he hurt Giz?" Barbara asked quietly.
"Because he likes it. He likes causing others pain when he has an excuse." Mouse's voice conveyed a world of loathing. "The excuse this time was that we told him the truth -- that mathematically nobody's going to be able to break into your database. That socially, Oracle's never left any tracks. That you were unhackable."
"But you did," Barbara said. "And I have to say, I wonder how."
"A longshot gamble that paid off," Mouse said. "Oracle's never left any social tracks, but some years ago, there was a Delphi. Oracle, Delphi -- not the greatest connection, but it was all I had, and I had to try, or Giz would --" Mouse broke off, and Barbara could only imagine the other woman trying to collect her emotions.
Barbara sympathized. How many nights had she sat here, listening to Dick or Bruce in a fight, knowing she was powerless to help, waiting for their voices to come back over the line. And that was just the potential for one of them being seriously hurt. She didn't even want to think about what would happen when the day came that they were seriously hurt, as it inevitably would.
She brought her mind back to the present. "Why are you telling me this?"
There was a silence, and for a moment Barbara thought Mouse might've disconnected. But the call still showed as active, and after a few moments, Mouse said, "Self-preservation. I don't want us to get caught between you and him. Assuming Giz -- which I have to assume, right?"
The desperation in the other woman's voice decided her. Barbara pulled her keyboard closer. "Where are you?"
"Why do you want to know?"
"So I can send you the best orthopedic surgeon in the area."
"Why would you do that?" Mouse's voice held open astonishment, and Barbara would bet good money that she was staring at the phone she held.
"Because Blockbuster's a monster," Barbara said. It was the best explanation she was willing to give. She didn't want to try to explain the feeling of sudden kinship she had to the other hacker. "And because I don't want a quarrel with you."
"Bludhaven," Mouse said. "Rabe Memorial."
"I'll have someone there as soon as I can. What did Blockbuster have you looking for?"
-X-
"I'm surprised the elevator held you." As opening salvos went, that one wasn't one of Nightwing's best. But it was the first thing he thought when he saw Desmond crouched in the mine tunnel -- no, not standing. The man's eight-foot bulk filled the passage, providing not so much as a crevice to wiggle past.
"You." Desmond's voice boomed throughout the tunnel. The rage in that shout vibrated the shaky timbers of the mine. Desmond started toward him, a hunched-over troll lumbering through his mountain. Clouds of powdery wood rolled down his shoulders, making him look as if he were steaming. "You've interfered with me for the last time."
Nightwing's mind snapped into battle-mode, analyzing dozens of variables in the same instant Blockbuster took that first step toward him. His hazmat suit restricted his movements, but Desmond was at a greater mobility disadvantage.
Nightwing realized Desmond was counting on his bulk to block any escape. He intended to advance inexorably, a juggernaut crushing everything in its path to paste. All he had to do was get close to Nightwing, trap him against a wall, and the contest would be over before it began.
Nightwing retreated before Desmond's advance, his mind still working furiously. There was precious little space between the piles of collapsed asbestos. He could try to squeeze back through the passage into the side tunnel where he'd found the arrow, but that only delayed the inevitable. If Desmond couldn't pull him out, he'd just bring the mine down on him.
Roaring, Desmond launched a punch. Nightwing ducked to the side, but was fast running out of room to dodge. Neither of them could maneuver, but that was solely Nightwing's disadvantage. Desmond's bulk bore down on him and that was all the big man needed to win.
Nightwing desperately needed more accessible ground. The only place he could find that was outside this mine -- past Desmond and up the elevator -- precisely the place he could not reach. There was no choice but try to fight his way out.
Nightwing grabbed his escrima sticks. The arrow came into his left hand along with the stick. He had no time to put it down. If he could disable Desmond temporarily, he might open an escape route. It was a long shot, but he had to get past the mass that was Bludhaven's latest crime lord or die.
He rammed the right-hand stick toward Desmond's throat. Desmond moved unnaturally fast, catching hold of the stick in his massive fist. Nightwing had to let go or risk being caught himself. He watched as the huge hand snapped the sturdy weapon like a twig.
Time for plan B. If there was a plan B.
Nightwing dodged another blow, winced when Desmond's fist shattered a wooden support beam.
Blunt trauma hadn't worked. Maybe slicing would. Nightwing dropped his remaining escrima stick and shifted the angle of the arrow in his left hand. A slash across the knee should make Desmond stumble enough for Nightwing to vault over his bent back toward freedom. It seemed a shame to use what was likely a sacred object in such a fashion, but desecration was better than dying.
Desmond took another step, and Nightwing lunged. He aimed for Desmond's forward knee. The blow was weak due to his injured shoulder, but he felt the point connect and dig deep. Pulled more by Desmond's forward momentum than the force of the blow, the arrow was yanked from Nightwing's hand.
Desmond screamed, a sound more animal than human, and tried to kick his attacker. Nightwing had already rolled out of the way, but he still saw no way past the immensity that was Blockbuster. Instead, he found himself pinned against the side wall as he watched the giant fall.
The giant man continued falling. At first, Nightwing thought Desmond was collapsing into the floor of the mine. But, then his mind sorted out what he was really seeing. Blockbuster was deflating as if his body were filled with air rather than bone and muscle. The injured leg went flat first. Then, the hip followed. Desmond roared, but there was no wood-shaking power in his lungs now. The wail sounded more like a hiss of escaping steam.
A bluish cloud escaped his open mouth, enveloping his body, stretching through the narrow space, and Nightwing held his breath despite his respirator. He didn't want to taste that noxious mist. The vapor condensed rapidly, falling in a fine powder to the floor of the mine, and Desmond was simply gone.
-X-
Slade couldn't see much of the fight. Desmond filled too much of the available space. Still, Slade caught a flash of silver near the big man's knee. And then Desmond disintegrated.
In the alcove beyond, Slade saw a figure crouching awkwardly. Even though it wore a dark hazmat suit and its mouth was covered by a respirator, Slade recognized Nightwing's mask. Nightwing remained still, staring at the pile of dust that had been Roland Desmond.
"Impressive," Slade said. Nightwing started and looked up, telling Slade the young vigilante hadn't been aware of him until he'd spoken. "I didn't think you had it in you."
It was a taunt, a jibe, and at any other time it might have made Nightwing angry. As it was, the boy shook his head, once, as he straightened. "What are you doing here?"
"Desmond was paying me to kill you. Both yous, actually. But he won't be paying me or anyone else now, so I suppose I'll let you live."
"You're all heart." Nightwing's tone lacked its usual verve. The kid actually regretted Desmond's death. Slade felt a sudden jolt of uncharacteristic paternal compassion. It could be hard the first time, but killing got easier.
"For what it's worth, he deserved to die," he told the younger man. "I'd been thinking about doing it myself. I consider your killing him a fair trade for my letting you live."
Nightwing had started forward, apparently casually, while Slade made his last speech, but Slade had learned long ago how to read body language. Nightwing was focused on a sliver arrow barely visible in the pile of Desmond dust.
Remembering that flash of silver right before the huge man's death, Slade decided he needed to get that arrow before Nightwing. He drew a compressed-air net gun, the first weapon to fall into his hand, and fired. The net wrapped around the young vigilante's torso, trapping his arms by his side.
"What --"
"Sorry," Slade said. "But that thing is far too interesting to let slip away."
He wasn't surprised when Nightwing lashed out with a kick as he headed for the prize. Catching that foot, Slade pivoted out of the way, knocking the young man off balance in the process. Nightwing landed with a thud and Slade pinned his thigh with one knee.
"You don't need this, either," Slade said and yanked Nightwing's tool belt off. He tossed the items in the tool belt aside then fastened the belt around the young man's ankles.
Slade stood and turned back for the arrow. "You know what I always liked about you? You may banter like crazy, but you generally don't make stupid threats."
"No," Nightwing answered. "Not stupid threats. Just ones I know I'll carry out."
Slade picked up the arrow, barely spared a moment to appreciate its beauty. "Like now, you want to say that you're going to find me and take this back, right? Because you just don't want someone like me having this."
"Something like that," Nightwing agreed. He had already freed his feet from the belt. Slade wasn't surprised.
"Then I'll make you a deal," Slade backed away from the vigilante as he spoke. "Meet you Thursday, at noon, at the Jefferson Memorial."
"You're just going to give it back to me?" Nightwing sounded dubious.
"Absolutely," Slade said. "Provided you give me that vial you and Troy have been so fascinated with." He paused. "Unless you were stupid enough to bring it with you, in which case I'll take it now."
"I don't have it with me."
So it was Troy, not some other woman. Slade smiled behind his mask and surreptitiously pulled a small explosive from his weapons belt. "Then I'll see you in DC."
Slade turned and jogged back toward the elevator. He tossed the explosive over his shoulder. No sense in making it easy on the kid.
-X-
Had Deathstroke actually thrown a grenade into the mine?
He had, and Nightwing had only seconds to move before the blast hit. Eight at best, four at worst.
Four.
Nightwing scrambled to his feet, slightly off balance thanks to his arms being pinned at his side. Deathstroke probably didn't intend to kill him -- probably -- but this mine wasn't stable to start with.
Three.
He dashed around the corner to the cave-in that led to the black hole of creepiness. Getting through the small opening was even more difficult without his hands free. He winced as his injured shoulder struck a large rock.
Two.
He squirmed forward, undulating his body in a manner that reminded him of how Garth had once taught him to dolphin-swim, and caught his boot on an outcropping, used it for leverage and shoved forward.
One.
Nightwing fell into the side chamber, landing hard on his injured shoulder. The explosion ripped through the mine.
For a moment he lay there, simply glad he could still breathe, still think. Clouds of thick, toxic dust blinded him, and his lungs hurt despite his respirator. But the floor was grabbing at him again, trying to pull him into its surface. He struggled to his knees. The darkness should have been total, but flashes of light illuminated the ceiling.
What now? He'd lost his flashlight, but the wriggling forms on the ceiling glowed on their own. Was the ceiling really alive? He stretched his neck to one side, until his forehead touched his shoulder, and tapped his night-vision lenses into place.
Yes, the ceiling was alive, all right, with squirmy, wormy creatures -- centipedes, some over three inches long, spiders, and other insects. Nightwing swallowed. They all glowed a sickly yellow, like a B-movie director's vision of toxic creatures. Clearly, the insects had been affected by the mutated asbestos and could be dangerously venomous.
"Okay, Dick," he muttered, "time to call for a ride home. Now."
That was easier said than done, because first he had to loosen the net around his arms. His shoulder wasn't going to like this. The floor was clawing more slowly now, as if it was dying now that the arrow had been removed from the area, but he still felt his body easing into the noxious surface. Instead, the insects from above began to plop to the floor.
Nightwing used the clinging floor to help with the engulfing net. He inched his body backward. A slithering insect dropped from the ceiling onto his forehead. Nightwing paused and held his breath until the multi-legged creature wandered over his cheek and then away. Then, he continued his work. Slowly, the net pushed its way up his arms until finally it was above his elbows. That was all he needed. He sat up and jerked the ropes away from his body. His injured shoulder screamed in pain as he did.
By comparison, shifting his arms out of the sleeves of the hazmat suit was a cakewalk. Working blind with his arms inside the body of the suit, however clumsy, gave him access to the wristguard that concealed his radio. Slowly again -- creatures were dropping to the floor regularly now and he tried not to take it personally -- he made his way to the return air shaft. The opening, with its draft of fresh, sweet air, must have been less appealing to the creatures since they did not follow him to that corner. He crushed more of the asbestos away until the opening was big enough to allow him to crawl inside the shaft. He punched the code for Oracle and waited.
-X-
Donna drummed her fingers on the French linen overlaying what she was sure was a several-hundred-year-old table. Around her, fine china glistened from glass-fronted breakfronts and mullioned windows offered conciliatory views of lavish gardens. The Wayne butler hovered in the doorway, ready with a covered platter of who-knew-what pastry to add to the confections already littering the tabletop. Gods, she wanted to kill something.
Preferably Dick Grayson.
"Do you have any idea how much longer he'll be, Alfred?"
"I am sorry, Miss Troy, but Master Dick only informed us that he would be investigating some business in Bludhaven. He didn't leave a schedule. Would you care for raisin scones instead of the biscuits? Perhaps more tea?"
"The tea is fine. I really need to speak with Dick." She frowned. Then, a fresh idea occurred to her. "He didn't happen to leave anything with you, did he? Perhaps a vessel of ornamental glass somewhat longer than my finger?"
"No, Miss," Alfred said. "The only thing he left here is a pot of coffee. He and Master Bruce were discussing asbestos for most of his visit."
"A pot of coffee?" Donna repeated. What did that have to do with anything? Still, she had to ask, "Where is it?"
Alfred didn't answer, other than by angling his gaze downward.
"Ah." Donna understood. The Batcave.
"Yes, Miss." He frowned, then said, "Excuse me, Miss, there are some household things I must attend to."
"Of course." She forced a smile that turned to a frown when she saw the earpiece the butler wore. So, he was getting a message, possibly from Dick. He had said Bruce was at a meeting at WayneTech. As soon as Alfred was out of visual range, Donna lifted herself from the chair. She floated silently after him. The butler was well trained but, she suspected, not so used to thwarting people who could fly.
Donna hoped Dick, when she finally caught up with him, had a good explanation for vanishing with her vial. She would give him time to set things right. She wasn't unreasonable. At least that's what she told herself. Inside, she couldn't help seething.
She kept remembering Terry and the games he would play -- don't fly off to save the world, honey; I need help with my paper. And when she finally stopped giving in, he threatened to expose her identity if she fought to keep custody of their son. Oh, he'd had plenty of calm, rational explanations for that betrayal. Bobby wouldn't be safe in your world, Donna. I'll have to prove that if you fight me. How can I show them that truth and protect your identity? Surely, you understand the child comes first.
And who was Bobby with when he died, she mentally berated Terry's ghost.
Donna believed Dick would never betray her like that. He was protecting her vial. She knew that. Well, she thought that. But then she'd believed Terry, too. It was hard to be sure of anything other than her date with Kyle in New York was less than an hour away.
She followed Alfred into the library and touched down behind him before he had the concealed entrance to the cave open.
"Alfred," she said.
He jumped and turned, clearly startled. She would've been amused at his expression if the situation weren't so serious. "I'm sorry, Miss, but I do have business to attend to."
"And if it's in the Batcave, I'm going with you." She hated to be rude, but where else would Dick have left her vial?
"But, Miss, no one's home."
"That's fine. I don't need anyone to be home. I just want to look for something that belongs to me. Something I accidentally left with Dick. He knows it needs to be safe. There are few places on Earth safer than the Batcave."
"That is true, Miss." Alfred smiled gently and adjusted the time on the grandfather clock. The clock swung away from the wall and Alfred opened the door behind it. "I believe you can be trusted with anything you might see or hear downstairs."
"I have been to the cave before."
"Things have changed since your last visit, Miss." Alfred gestured for her to precede him into the elevator.
"Things" referred mostly to new equipment, Donna thought, especially the giant computer screen that dominated one wall. She'd seen movie theaters with smaller screens.
"Please look around, Miss, but if you choose to open anything, ask first." Alfred was all business, and he crossed to the bank of computers in front of that giant screen.
Donna would have started at the logical places, except she didn't know where a logical place was. Near the weapons racks? Highly unlikely. By the computers? Certainly not. She roamed closer to the display cases that held Dick's old Robin suit and other memorabilia. Staring at the costume now, it was hard to remember how Dick managed to look every bit the leader in a Christmas red vest and green underwear. But, that was Dick. He could probably lead an army in a pink tutu and not generate one giggle among the troops. The image did make Donna chuckle, however.
Alfred had seated himself at a monitor and was speaking in low, grim tones into a microphone. Donna shifted her angle so she could see over his shoulder. A stylized mask design filled the screen.
She recognized the mask from Kyle's description. Oracle. The WayneTech meeting was a lie then. It must be Justice League business for Bruce. She turned back to her search, deciding that a circular pattern was probably best. She could cover the entire cave in one trip if she was careful.
"Miss Troy."
Donna turned at the note of concern in Alfred's voice. "Yes?"
"I understand you have other business, but may we impose on you?" His expression matched his voice. Something deeply troubled him.
"What do you need?" Donna asked.
"Master Dick is in trouble."
-X-
Nightwing didn't want to think about the things crawling around mere inches from his feet. He didn't want to think about Deathstroke having escaped with that silver death arrow. He really didn't want to think about killing Desmond, however unintentional it might have been. He couldn't think about any of that now, so he forced that thoughts aside. He didn't want to worry about Donna either, but she filled his mind fully.
He clung to what Bruce said, that Donna needed time before she'd be willing to talk to him again. She wasn't injured or captured, and certainly not dead. She just hated him. It was a sad situation when that was the best he could hope for.
His cell phone had cut out part way into his conversation with Barbara. He was pretty sure she'd gotten his location. Still, he would have preferred to stay on the line with her and talk rather than just let his mind wander off into what could be, might be, and wasn't.
"Could be" would not include Donna gone. He refused to accept that. She was, he realized, his longest running female relationship. He'd known Donna longer than he had Babs. Only Bruce and Alfred shared more years of association with him. Technically, he supposed he'd met Garth, Wally, and Roy at the same time he'd met Donna, but they had never grown as close. He liked the original male Titans. He loved Donna.
Was his loving her the reason they'd never gotten together? It sounded stupid echoing through his mind, but also true. His other loves had never reached the depth he felt for Donna. He'd told himself what he felt for Donna was deeper for not being sexual, but that was a comfortable fabrication. The truth was, it was so deep, so important, that if he let himself imagine it as sexual the risk would overwhelm him. That's what Crane's nightmares had been telling him -- this is the love it would kill him to lose.
He drew in a heavy breath and the respirator hissed with the intake. He'd lost love before and it hurt like hell. When Kory chose to follow her father's hopeless plan and marry someone else, he'd thought he could never feel more rejected. When he had to accept that Barbara would always withdraw if he advanced, the truth had stung. But right now, thinking that Donna might not forgive him, he felt as if his lungs were collapsing.
And she might not. Oh, he knew they would get past the failed sex. Even if they resolved the awkwardness by pretending it was a big mistake, they would get past it. He wasn't sure she would forgive him for what he needed to ask, however. If he was going to catch Slade, he needed her to trust him with that vial the gods had sent to her. And, if he lost it, he wouldn't deserve to be forgiven.
He tried to focus on the ways he could explain the necessity to her, but he kept coming back to the expression she wore when she felt she'd been betrayed. Her brows drooped a little and she'd blink a lot. She never frowned, but her lower lip would suck in under her teeth and her chin would quiver. He'd seen that look on her face when Terry filed for divorce, and when she first broke up with Kyle. In those cases he could be angry for her and promise to comfort her, defend her. He could be her knight. But, what would he do when he was the cause of that look?
Nightwing steadied his breathing and prayed that Bruce would get him out of here soon so he could do something other than think. Even fighting Slade and losing would be better. He looked up the air shaft at the miniscule square of gray Bludhaven sky above. Only a tiny portion of that pale light ever made it all the way down the shaft.
He stared at that sky and allowed himself to ponder why, if he loved Donna this much, he'd never told her. "She never chose me," he told himself. But, he had to reply, "I never pursued either."
If he wasn't the man from his nightmares, if he was still the guy who answered 'not good enough' with 'I'll become better', then he had to change that situation. She wouldn't choose him, but he could pursue. And that thought, at last, made Nightwing smile.
He didn't know how much time passed before a rope dropped down the shaft and hit him in the head. He stood, happy to bid a farewell to his crawling, slithering companions, and wrapped his good arm around the rope and tugged twice. Then he was rising through the shaft, swiftly, smoothly. He'd expected to have to help, to brace his feet along one side of the shaft or the other, and assist Bruce with the ascent. But maybe Bruce had been working out more than he'd thought.
Then he cleared the mine, blinked against the daylight after the dark of the mine, and saw his rescuer. Donna.
She hovered above the shaft, the sparkles on her costume twinkling in the daylight. Her expression was grim, but she swung the rope gently, and he dropped to the ground, landing lightly.
"You frightened Alfred," she told him.
"I frightened myself," he replied. This wasn't boding well for the conversation he knew they had to have. First, though, he had to deal with his protective gear.
Carefully, he stripped it off, making sure none of the dust particles fell into his hair or onto exposed skin. Finally, he peeled the liquid latex off his face, working his jaw just because he could. Then he took off his mask and threw it, along with everything else, into a disposal bag.
Donna didn't approach him during the process, but that might have been due to the fact he'd been coated head to toe in a fine, lethal dust. He liked that explanation better than the alternative -- she didn't want to touch him.
"You are all right, aren't you?" There it was, the glimmer of caring he'd hoped to hear in her voice.
He dropped the bag containing the protective gear down the ventilation shaft, then sent a couple explosive charges after it. Deep in the mine, he heard the bass booming that told him the mutated asbestos, and creatures, were now buried. The rocks around them rattled. He felt the pressure wave vibrate up through his boots. "Physically, I'm fine, thanks."
Her expression shifted through concern and compassion, but settled in a sort of frustration. "You need to go home and sleep, I think."
Nightwing couldn't argue that. He needed sleep. But he shook his head. "There's something we need to talk about. Something important."
"I know. And I do agree we should talk, but, do we need to do it now? I'm already late, way late."
"Late? For what?" She was in a hurry. She wanted to get away from him. That was the sense he was getting from her that he hadn't recognized.
"To meet Kyle. You remember him, I think. I saw him after I left your place, actually and--" She hesitated as if unwilling to continue. "Dick, I really need to know where the vial is."
"It's safe, I promise. Not at the cave," he added, as he affixed a spare mask in place. Donna knew his identity, but there was no telling when someone else might wander by. "I know you don't want Bruce to know about it, and I didn't tell him."
"I trust you, that's not the issue." But, she'd had brief doubts. Her face told him that. "I need it now, that's all. I told Kyle I'd meet him over an hour ago in New York and give it to him. I figured it out, Dick. He has to be the right one."
His heart shattered like crystal dropped on concrete from ten stories up. "I see." He swallowed, tried to sound normal. He couldn't even fake being happy for her.
He'd thought maybe she was paying enough attention to catch what he wasn't trying to hide. But she continued as if oblivious, "So, just tell me where it is, and I'll go get it."
"I don't actually know where it is," he said, then held up a hand to cut off what looked to be an angry tirade. If the fact she ignored his devastation didn't answer where their relationship was, nothing would, and he wasn't that stupid. "I can have it here in a couple of minutes, but before I do, I have to tell you something. I think Deathstroke is looking for you."
"He knows about the vial, doesn't he?"
"You don't sound surprised." When she shook her head, Nightwing continued, "After you left, a couple of two-bit thugs broke into my apartment. I think Blockbuster sent them to get the vial. I disabled them and got out of there with the vial."
"Bruce called to warn me." She paced the dead ground, nervously. "So, we have Blockbuster and Deathstroke after it now. That's all the more reason to get it to Kyle as quickly as possible. The sooner it's used up, the better."
"Not Blockbuster." Nightwing paused, wishing he didn't have to face what he'd done right now. "He's dead."
"Dead?" Donna turned wide eyes on him. Then, "Oh. Deathstroke?"
"Not exactly."
"Then how?" Her eyes widened as she worked it all the way through. All he could think was, please don't hug me, please not now when you're leaving me. "Oh, god, Dick." Then, she did reach for him. It was compassion, sympathy, comfort. Not love. She didn't love him that way. She wanted to share her life with a guy who hadn't cared enough to even pretend to be faithful.
"It's fine," he said, managing a stony voice and stance as she embraced his shoulders briefly. He didn't touch her in return. "That's not all."
"I don't believe you. It can't possibly be fine. Dick, talk to me."
He wanted to -- he wanted to believe she would listen and help heal that particular hurt. Right now, he couldn't. Instead, he continued with facts. "I came to this mine because I got a sample from it that was -- well, mutated. Deadlier than normal." He paused, forced the memory of the black hole of creepiness back. "What I found down there is best destroyed. But there was something--" He took a breath. "A silver arrow with a three-inch head. It was covered in the same kind of protogeometric designs as your vial."
"Fancy, but, you're trying to tell me it's more than decorative, aren't you?"
"It's what killed Blockbuster." He watched that register. "And it wasn't -- I swiped at his knee, intending to disable him so I could get away. I didn't want to kill him. But, he … disintegrated."
"Dis -- are you saying it's magic?" She shivered visibly. "Where is this arrow now?"
"Deathstroke has it." He noted her lack of surprise and continued, "But he's willing to trade it for the vial."
"You don't expect me to give it to him, do you?"
"I expect you to trust me to deal with it." He winced internally at the sharpness of his tone even as he said the words. But they were true and he wouldn't take them back.
Her brow furrowed, and for a moment he thought she'd shout at him, even strike him. But she just nodded. "Of course you do. Everyone follows your orders. And the truth is, I do trust you. But, I promised it to Kyle and I won't go back on my word. I need to take it to him. I need you to give it to me now."
He didn't like that answer, but it wasn't his decision to make. He knew he should argue with her. He could appeal to her sense of responsibility. Slade with that arrow was a dangerous combination. But, he didn't have the energy for it. Better that the vial episode be done, and he get on to healing the wound of losing her forever. He'd figure out something else with Slade.
"All right, Donna." He curled his tongue and let out a sharp, two-toned whistle. He counted to ten and repeated the whistle. Donna stared at him, clearly wondering if he'd left his wits down in the mine.
A minute passed, then two. Then he heard it, a yipping coming from the trees along the horizon. He turned and scanned the sky. He barely had time to notice the flash of red before a white, furry body slammed into his chest and he landed hard on his back. A warm, wet tongue slathered his face in happy licks.
"It's… a dog… that flies."
Nightwing laughed and scratched Krypto's ears. Then, "Good boy. Off."
Krypto stepped off him, but his tail was still wagging hard enough to stir up the dust around them.
"Sit," Nightwing ordered as he wiped his face with one arm. Krypto sat. Nightwing reached down to rub the dog's head. "I'm short on treats, but you'll get a steak as soon as I can get one."
He glanced up at Donna. "I told you the vial was safe."
"Please tell me you didn't feed my ambrosia to a dog."
Nightwing stared at her. Then he remembered she probably hadn't met Krypto before. Very few people outside the Justice League had. "No, Donna. This is Krypto. Superman's dog. From Krypton. Same powers Superman has."
Her mouth formed a small 'oh'. "And he's been guarding the vial?"
"Would you want to try to take it from him?"
She looked at the dog, bent down as if to remove the vial from his collar. Krypto curled his lip in warning, let out a low growl, and then blasted a dead tree behind her with his heat vision. Donna straightened. "Maybe you should do it."
Nightwing removed the vial from Krypto's collar, scratched his ears again. "Good boy, Krypto."
He held out the vial to Donna, willing her to change her mind, to trust him, to do anything but take it to Kyle.
Her touch lingered a second as she took it from him, and she searched his face a moment before saying, "This time you need to trust me to handle things."
Then she flew off toward New York.
He looked down at Krypto. "It would be easier to trust her if she weren't promising forever to some other guy."
-X-
Donna glanced over her shoulder as she gained altitude. Dick's Nightwing costume faded into the landscape surrounding the mine, but Krypto's white fur gleamed in the midday sun. They appeared to be playing, and Donna thought that might be Dick's method of distracting himself from what had happened in the mine.
She hated leaving him. He'd killed a man, unintentionally and in self defense, but how clearly would Dick see those factors? She should stay and make him talk to her, as she had in the past. But, he'd thrown up that wall between them when she left his apartment this morning, and again just now. She hated that barrier, didn't understand it, and was afraid to explore it too deeply.
Besides, she had to talk to Kyle. She'd promised and already made him wait. However, that situation made her a little queasy as well. She assumed that was a reaction to the new complication. Deathstroke's offer to exchange the vial for the deadly weapon he'd stolen changed the whole situation.
Letting Kyle drink the ambrosia now and replacing it with something of similar texture occurred to her first. She turned the idea over in her mind, examining it from different angles. It made sense -- until she realized that she didn't know whether Deathstroke had figured out what was in the vial. Blockbuster had seen part of her conversation with Dick from last night. She had no idea how much, so she had to assume all the important details were exposed, and that Deathstroke knew exactly what was in the vial.
In that case, if Dick took him a fake ambrosia, Dick would be in grave danger. Deathstroke wouldn't hesitate to kill him. So she discarded that idea.
Much as she disliked it, she'd have to tell Kyle he needed to wait to take the ambrosia until after Dick's confrontation with Deathstroke. But how? After Batman's call earlier, speed had seemed necessary, even beneficial. Things had changed. Surely Kyle would understand that.
Realization slammed into her. She'd forgotten to call him to tell him she'd be late. Getting Dick out of the mine took priority. Kyle would understand, but she should call. She reached into the bag slung diagonally across her body and pulled out her cell phone to call him.
The call didn't go through and she frowned when she read the display. Out of area.
She tried calling twice more before she arrived in New York, with the same result. A knot of concern grew in her stomach. Had he been called out on some emergency? What if he were gone for weeks, as could happen with some missions? She supposed she'd have to go ahead with her plan to trust the vial to Dick long enough to bring down Deathstroke. But, not discussing important choices hardly seemed the right way to start a fresh chapter in her relationship with Kyle.
Donna reached the city and found a fire escape in a not too dingy alley to change to her street clothes. It was getting harder and harder to find out of the way places these days. Her dress was looking worse for wear after being stuffed in her bag so often, but she didn't want to make herself even later by going to her apartment for something new.
She hurried into the museum, frustrated by the additional security measures, and all too aware of well-dressed docents and patrons eyeing her dress. It did look as rumpled as she'd feared. She could only hope none of her fashion photography clients saw her like this.
The Temple of Dendur stood in the Sackler Wing of the Met, impressive even in the large space. The deities to whom it was dedicated were not her own, but still Donna paused a moment in silent acknowledgment of their power before glancing around for Kyle.
She didn't see him after a survey of the room, but to be certain she hadn't missed him, she climbed the steps into the small temple and looked for him there. Had he gotten disgusted and left? She was more than an hour late, so she could hardly blame him if he had. Still, immortality was worth waiting around for, wasn't it?
And he should've called. Of course, she should have as well.
Disappointment seeped through her, and she turned to leave. Then she saw him striding into the Sackler Wing. He looked almost as out of place in his T-shirt and jeans as she did in her rumpled dress, but it didn't seem to bother him as much as it bothered her.
Of course not, she thought. He's a guy.
Donna crossed the gallery to meet him, stretched up to kiss him lightly. He caught her shoulders, and turned the kiss into a mutual bussing of cheeks. Before she could speak, he said, "I don't want it."
Her throat constricted and for a moment she felt an overwhelming urge to run. If he hadn't been holding her, she might have tried. Perhaps her mind did run because she felt as if she were observing herself from a greater and greater distance. Interesting, she thought, how mortification moved through one's body -- first ringing the ears, then flushing the cheeks, tightening the muscles in the shoulders, and finally making one's stomach feel like it was boiling. Anger and sorrow felt very different. This was acute embarrassment.
At last, she blurted out, "Why?"
"Don't think I'm not honored that you asked." Kyle guided her to a corner of the room, away from the patrons examining the temple. "And I did think about it a lot. Heck, I even went all the way to the moon so I could be completely alone and think."
Her legs moved smoothly, she noted, no wooden sensation. She sat gracefully. That was something, she supposed.
"I thought about all the gosh-wow possibilities," Kyle continued. "And those are pretty amazing. But that only lasted a little while. Then I started looking at the downsides. And for me, those outweighed the cool stuff."
Was I ever part of the cool stuff, she wondered. But, she didn't ask aloud. She could read the answer on his face. His thoughts weren't focused on her at all.
Kyle sighed. "Explaining it by example is probably best." He looked away for a moment, toward the temple, then back to her. "When my girlfriend, Alex, died, I was lost. There's no other word for it. I lost a part of myself. I've never hurt so much before and I hope never to hurt that way again. Accepting your gift means opening myself to that hurt, again and again, willingly. I'm not strong enough to do that, Donna."
"It's good you thought about it beforehand," she told him. And she meant that. "I wonder if I would have chosen immortality if I'd had another option. Losing everyone I care about over and over is going to be hard."
"Maybe you should give it to the person you can't bear to live without."
"Now you sound like Nightwing." She made herself smile. His expression told her he would have chosen his first love, Alex. He always would. Donna realized he'd never truly loved her, never could. It wasn't his fault. She was coming to believe it wasn't her fault, either. It just was.
Then why had the gods designed their gifts for Kyle? Why choose for her a man for whom she could never make immortality less lonely? She wasn't such a bad person. Why did they want to hurt her?
Kyle grinned back. "I'm not sure that's supposed to be a compliment or not, but I'll take it as one."
"In context, it is." Her calmness surprised her. Shouldn't she be angry, hurt, frustrated? Shouldn't she feel more? The initial embarrassment had passed, leaving her strangely confused, but not in pain. Not numb, either, she realized.
Some part of her had known Kyle didn't love her. And, really, she didn't love him either. He'd been a desperate grab for happiness after Terry. She liked him, as he liked her. They could be friends. But, there was nothing more.
"You're okay with this?" he asked, uncertain. "We're okay?"
"We are," she could tell him honestly. "Probably more okay than we would have been a hundred years from now."
That made him laugh out loud and draw stares from patrons wishing to experience the temple in contemplative quiet, though most of them, Donna thought, had no idea which goddess the temple was dedicated to.
"Do you think Egyptians didn't laugh?" Kyle asked one elderly woman who glared at them with a distinctly disapproving air. Donna bit her cheek to keep from laughing harder. If they could laugh together, they'd be okay.
Donna linked her arm through his. "Come on. I'll let you buy me lunch."
-X-
"Lord Night Robin!" The Court Jester rolls in, a giant green armadillo wearing a tabard and carrying a longsword. "A messenger."
"I'm Dick," I say firmly. The dome encircling the castle reveals a vast starfield decorated by too-near-for-comfort gas giants and a spiraling black hole. A part of my mind reasons, "This cannot be real." But, mostly I know this is my life a thousand years in the future, when I've finally been rejected by everyone.
"Sir, the messenger. We haven't had one in ages."
"Just Dick." No one but Gar for company and he refuses to be familiar.
"Shall I plan a wedding? I did a marvelous wedding once. Do you remember?"
"A wedding for a messenger? I don't think so."
The armadillo transforms into a sulking frog. Nothing can frown quite like frog. "Sir, we never have parties anymore."
"Send the messenger in," I order. Get that over with, and then maybe Gar will leave me alone. Maybe that will be a good thing.
"Yes, Sir!" The frog becomes a kangaroo and bounds out the door. A moment later, he returns as a fox being chased by a white dog in a red cape. Gar should be grateful Krypto can tell the difference between him and a real fox.
I scratch Krypto's ears when he gets close enough and the super-dog licks my face. At least I won't have to shave today. I remove the message from the dog's collar.
Dear Dick,
I hate to have to send this, but Krypto won't be able to visit anymore. I have need of him on New Krypton, and it's likely to be a long time before either of us can break away for a visit.
Kal-El
Of course. Who else but Clark would send his dog to say goodbye in his place?
At least he says goodbye. No one else bothered. They all left without a word, without a look. I idly reach out to scratch the dog again only to find Krypto has vanished. "Why couldn't I have super speed, too?"
"Because you weren't supposed to have the magic potion to start with," Gar explains happily. "It was for a real prince, not a fake one."
"Takes a fake prince to have a fake jester," I snap back, but my heart really isn't in it. I turn to look out the massive windows over my asbestos farm. The toxic material is the only thing that grows here, and it grows with a vengeance. The fibrous stuff crawls over land and up walls, and it's a massive chore keeping the windows uncovered so I can look outside.
"At least fake jesters never ruin princesses' lives," Gar replies. With that, he turns into a green bat and flies away. And I really am alone.
Alone forever with nothing but mutant asbestos and the knowledge I ruined Donna's one chance for happiness. My wrist communicator buzzes.
"Donna?" I still love her, and some days I delude myself into thinking she loves me, too.
"Hey." Her voice is a balm to my soul, the ease to my aching loneliness. "I need you. Can you come over?"
"You need me?" The thought makes me happier than I have any right to be.
"Yes. My apartment was broken into."
Dick snapped to full awareness. Trust a dream to incorporate reality somehow. "Broken into?"
"Right. I'm not sure who did it, but it makes sense that it was either Deathstroke or some of Blockbuster's men." She paused. "Before I clean it up, I thought you might want to come over and do that detective thing you do so well."
"I'll be there as soon as I can."