A/N Update! Sixteen page update! Let all true citizens of Gotham rejoice!

For some reason, it's taken me a year to figure out that Alex should be Dr. Peaceable, not Mr. Peaceable, so, he will henceforth (and backforth when I can get around to editing previous stories) be referred to as such.

Disclaimer See Chapter 1.

Chapter 8

"Will you walk a little faster?"
Said a whiting to a snail,
"There's a porpoise close behind us,
And he's treading on my tail.
See how eagerly the lobsters
And the turtles all advance!
They are waiting on the shingle -
Will you come and join the dance?"
—Alice in Wonderland

"She was faster than me," Bruce said, almost absently, staring at his computer screen.

"Who, sir?" Alfred asked, looking up from the stack of newspapers he was patiently scanning for anything noteworthy.

Bruce looked away from his screen and pointed at the page Alfred held, whose headline screamed Kat-Burglar Kaptures 150 K."The woman who robbed Bergman's last night. I was in the area when the alarms went off, and she nearly ran right into me. But I couldn't catch her. She was too fast. She obviously knows the territory."

Alfred began cutting out the article. "Do you think she's connected to the casino robbery?"

"I think she's the same one. Two big jewel thefts in two weeks, with a burglar that can't be caught … she's wearing a costume. A cat costume."

"Cat costume, cat burglar," Alfred put the pieces together. "She would seem to have a sense of humor."

"Mmm hmm." Bruce's focus was back on the computer.

Alfred wasn't fooled. "Something disturbs you. Besides the fact that she was faster."

"She seemed … familiar."

"From the casino?"

"No. I feel as though I've encountered her before, but …" He shook his head. "It was too quick. If I see her again, something might trigger the memory."

"Do you think you will?"

"I'm planning on it." Closing out his program, Bruce stood up and came over to the newspaper littered table.

"Jewel thieves aren't among the Batman's usual projects," Alfred observed, placing the new cutting on his neat stack.

"No, but we need something unusual. Something to take this off the public's, and the media's, mind." He held up an editorial which lambasted the GCPD in general and chief of police James Gordon in particular for failing to find the riddle killer.

"Forgive me, sir, but I don't see how distracting the public by pointing to another unsolved set of crimes will help the chief's predicament."

Bruce looked irritated. "I don't intend to let her keep escaping. And now that she's made two very successful hits, not to mention outrunning Batman, she'll get cocky, and then she'll get stupid. And then," he gently laid the newspaper back down, "we'll have her."

Thursday afternoon, Richard trudged wearily out of gym, Hal yammering beside him.

"I really appreciate your sitting with us at lunch."

"Uh huh," Rick replied vaguely, mentally wincing away from the memory. He was certain that even enduring the company of Zorello's bizarre posse would be preferable to another uninterrupted session of Amanda.

"I'm pretty sure April's stopped being mad at me, although I'm thinking I'd better take a peace offering when I pick her up Friday night. Do you think flowers or chocolates would be better?" Hal slapped himself on the forehead. "What am I saying? I'd better have plenty of both."

The seventy-nine eightieths of Rick's brain that were not paying attention to Hal zoomed in on David Stern a few feet ahead of them, who suddenly ducked down a hallway. Rick tried to remember the hall on the school plans since it was one of the few he hadn't actually been down yet. He thought it was mostly maintenance related, and decided to find out what business David could possibly have down there. Turning to Hal, he started to make an excuse, "I'm going to …"

"Hey, Grayson," a voice behind them interrupted.

Rick turned and found himself face to face with Trevor Wren, or rather, face to collar bone since the other guy was a full head taller and standing uncomfortably close.

"Hey, Rick, I've gotta go," Hal said much too brightly. "I'll see you tomorrow."

Some friend, Richard thought sourly, backing up a step so that he could look Trevor in the eye without craning his neck. "What's up, Tren?" Several students who had stopped a safe distance away were gawking.

Trevor's stance was casual, but his expression was cold. "I'm only going to say this once, Ricky, so get it right the first time."

Rick's temper flared. "Gee, I dunno, Trev, I'm kind of a slow learner. Are you sure you couldn't repeat it a couple of times?" Stupid, he scolded the moment the words were out of his mouth. Do you want him to beat you up? Remember you'll have to let him win.

Trevor's eyes narrowed but all he said was, "Don't annoy Barbara."

"Has she been complaining?"

The Tren ignored the question. "I wanted to make sure you understand that being her Life Skills partner doesn't give you any privileges. You do what she tells you, when she tells you, and then you leave her alone, got it?"

Their gazes locked and held for a long moment, before Rick forced himself to say, "I got it."

Trevor strode away without another word, and Richard clenched his teeth, stifling the urge to run after him and severely disfigure those chiseled features. With an effort, he remembered David Stern and hurried to the hallway intersection. But the passageway was deserted, and as Richard walked down it he found nothing but locked doors. Maybe David had come back out while he was occupied with Trevor.

A heavier, wider door stood at the very end of the hallway, and as Richard stood debating about what to do, it swung open and the figure of the janitor appeared. He looked at Rick in surprise. "Are you looking for something, young man?"

"Oh, hey Mr. Harris. Naw, I just wanted to see what was down here." He glanced at his watch and grimaced. "Aw crap, I gotta go or I'm going to miss the bus!" Rick started to jog away, but stopped when the janitor called after him.

"There's a press conference going on on the front steps."

Rick turned back and stared. "What?"

"The blonde girl who was in the magazine with you. She's talking to some reporters out there, waiting for you, I think."

He groaned. "Amanda! That girl's going to drive me crazy!"

Mr. Harris looked sympathetic. "Sweet on you already, is she?"

Rick shuddered, "I hope not."

The older man scratched his head thoughtfully. "I'm not really supposed to do this," he began slowly, "but I could show you a shortcut to the parking lot. I think you could slip on the bus without being seen, if you hurry."

"Really? That would be great!"

Mr. Harris grinned and led the way to the door he'd emerged from. "Guess I've given a woman the slip a time or two myself. See how old this lock is? It doesn't hold quite right, so if you give it a good tug up and over," he demonstrated the maneuver, "you can get right in."

The door swung open to reveal a pair of cement steps leading down. Mr. Harris led the way, down, and then through a corridor that looked surprisingly like the ones above ground. "These aren't really classrooms down here, are they?" Rick asked as they past a row of identical doors.

"Sure are. Back when they first built the school, there was a crazy law about not building things too high. Neighborhood didn't want any big buildings blocking out the sun, so they built a lot of the school under ground. Don't use most of it anymore—the psychologists decided it was bad for the students to be in those gloomy rooms, and they built everything they needed above ground. Pretty much just used for storage now."

And a few other things, Rick silently conjectured, wondering where in this labyrinth David Stern had disappeared to. He'd known, of course, that the school had extensive underground space, but for some reason, he hadn't really considered it significant before, maybe because none of the students had talked about it and the entrances were neatly out of the mainstream. But there had to be students who had figured out how to get in and used it for their own purposes.

They went down another flight, and the scenery switched from abandoned classrooms to the more expected basement accessories of unpainted pipes and lonely incandescent bulbs. The exit was a heavy metal door at the top of a short flight of steps which pushed open into a well at the edge of the teachers' parking lot. In the distance, Rick heard the bus engine rumbling, and Mr. Harris looked at him expectantly.

Obviously, he was not going to find David Stern this afternoon, but he was going to go back and investigate Bailey's underside as soon as he could. "Thanks, Mr. Harris," he said with genuine gratitude and sprang up the steps.

Slipping through the cars in the student lot toward where the bus stood waiting at the curb, he saw that there were at least two reporters still standing by the front doors, accompanied by a blonde whose head was bare despite the cold and the amount of time she had been standing there. Muttering darkly, Rick ducked down behind a Volvo and moved toward the bus as quickly as he could without breaking cover, and made it just as the driver was pulling the door closed.

Lucius Fox settled himself in a hard wooden chair in front of a matching table. I don't know why we never put padded seats down at this level, he though crankily, it's not like we can't afford it. He looked again at the sheaf of computer paper, a little dog-eared, but no worse than it had been when they first pulled it out of its plastic wrapping seven years ago. All work on the document's contents had been done from copies to preserve the original, but this was a special occasion.

Rifling through the sheets and peering at the methodical handwriting as though he could read a man's character in it, he thought about Richard Grayson. Fox had a whole lot of uncomfortable suspicions about Bruce Wayne's illicit activities, which he did his best not to think about so as to avoid ever actually knowing anything. But every so often, he couldn't' help wondering what Richard suspected or outright knew about … whatever Bruce did that required the permanent loan of all that top secret equipment.

Sometimes he thought that, bright as Richard was, he couldn't have helped but figure it out. But then he hoped that the kid was too bright, that he, like other geniuses, stayed wrapped up in his theoretical world. Although his encounters with the boy never really seemed to support this second theory, neither did he ever seem like the kind of kid who knew he lived in a house haunted by secrets. This impression was reinforced yet again as Richard came through the door, escorted by a security guard. Surely that smile was too open, that gaze too straightforward to harbor dark secrets.

"Hello, Mr. Fox," the boy said cheerfully. "The guard said we're five hundred feet underground. I didn't know Wayne Tower went this far down."

"Most people don't. We like to keep it that way." Fox motioned to the table. "Go ahead and have a seat. Sorry I can't offer you a more comfortable chair."

Richard shrugged. "That's ok, they don't cushion the desks at school either."

"Ah right, and how are you liking Bailey?"

Richard shrugged again. "It's all right."

"Ah, the perennial enthusiasm of the teenager for school."

The boy smiled at the timeworn joke, and then said directly, "Look, Mr. Fox, what's this all about? Alex has been driving me crazy about his stupid surprise."

Fox's mustache twitched as he suppressed a smile. "He does enjoy his little games. However, I think you'll find this surprise well worth the wait and not at all stupid. How much do you know about your father's work, Richard?"

For a moment, the boy looked curiously blank, and then understanding dawned. "You mean my real dad?"

"Yes, Charles Grayson, or Maddox as he was actually known as a scholar."

"Not much. He only published a couple of articles before he disappeared, and the only personal things of his I have were in that box—the knife and the marriage certificate."

"Along with your mother's locket, your birth certificate, their will, and a letter to you."

"Yeah."

"Are you aware that there was also another document in the box?"

Richard looked surprised, then frowned. "I think Bruce did once mention something about papers, but he said the other things were more important and we could talk about it later."

"Well …" Fox gently pushed the stack of paper over to him. "It's later. And while Mr. Wayne was certainly right about importance from a personal point of view, the rest of the world would argue that that is relative."

"Did my dad write this?" Richard asked, picking up the top sheet and examining it closely.

"Yes. There are some notes at the end, one of which asserts his authorship."

The boy frowned, squinting as though he needed to make the numbers clearer. "What is it?"

"It's a time theory. It attempts to describe the nature of time and, ultimately, suggests a way to manipulate it."

"Whoa," Richard breathed. "Is it any good?"

"The best of its kind I've ever seen."

"Whoa," he repeated, then gently set the sheet down and asked, "Why are you telling me about this now?"

"It was Dr. Peaceable's idea. We recruited him to the think team about a year ago, and he's been suggesting we bring you in for almost as long. You see, while your father's theory is sound, and revolutionary, as far as it goes, it's really only the first step. For the past few years we've been doing our best to pick up where he left off but … it's slow going."

"But how can I help? I don't even understand the first two lines of this," Richard protested.

"You will, and you know more than you think you do. Dr. Peaceable assures me that you're ready. So what do you think? Would you like to start coming to Wayne Tower two, perhaps three times a week to work with our team?"

"Does Bruce …?"

"He knows and approves. Are you in?"

Richard's grin threatened to split his face. "Totally."

After school the next day, Rick managed to shake off Hal after gym and headed down the corridor to the basement entrance. Certain that he wasn't being observed, he jiggled the lock like he'd been shown and the door swung open. Shutting it behind him and running lightly down the steps, he began to make his way quickly but silently through the layers of basement.

The upper sections were quite dull—old classrooms now stacked with stage scenery, outmoded student desks, and all the detritus that a hundred and thirty year old school can't quite bear to throw away. The layout of the sub levels was more confusing, with unexpected dead ends and odd ceilings that sometimes dipped nearly to his head and others soared up into dimness. He supposed that updating hundred and thirty year old piping and wiring would do that to a building as big as Bailey. Many of the doors here were locked, often marked with a "Danger High Voltage" sign.

Rick was almost ready to head for the outside exit when he became aware of a soft, repetitive thumping. Moving very cautiously, he crept along a low passage whose sides were slick with damp. Sticking his head around a sharp bend, he couldn't help a slight start of surprise. A dozen hideous masks, horned, leering, grotesquely colored hung on the cement walls. The passage was cut off by one of the unexpected walls, effectively creating a small room. Two ancient desks stood in the far corners, each loaded with colored candles. And in the center, his back to Richard, David Stern sat on an overturned crate, bouncing a fist sized rubber ball against the wall. It hit the wall, the floor, was caught and thrown again with machine like precision, creating the regular thumping that had caught Rick's notice. After a moment, he also became aware of muttering, in time with the thumping ball, continuous but too low to make out. And although he remained crouched there for several minutes, there was never a pause in the murmuring voice, or a hesitation of the bouncing ball.

At last, afraid of being spotted, Rick backed silently down the hall and headed for the parking lot. He had, of course, missed the bus, He could call home for a ride, he could call a taxi, or he could hike to the nearest train station. Electing the last option as the one that would take him away from Bailey the soonest, he struck out for the nearest station.

Safely in a peeling plastic seat in one of the rackety cars, he thought about Bailey with a surge of unaccustomed bitterness. Johnny Zorello who was possibly actually insane, Amanda and extreme obnoxiousness, and especially that moronic Trevor, Carmen Leo so shy she wouldn't look him in the eye, and now David Stern with his eerie room of masks. Weren't there any normal teenagers in this town?

He suddenly remembered an icy lot and a cheerful voice saying, If you ever wanna play soccer…

The train rumbled to a screechy halt inside one of the downtown stations. The closest stop to Wayne Manor was a still a long ways on, but Rick moved toward the door with sudden decision, hunching down in his collar to hide his face from the curious gaze of an elderly woman. At a bank of lockers inside the station, he rummaged in his bag for quarters and then stashed his bag and sleek overcoat. His Bailey blazer stood out like a beacon, but he thought he remembered a Salvation Army store around the corner.

Ten minutes later, Rick hit the streets in a bulky and shabby ski jacket, worn gloves, and a woolen hat with ear flaps and a Goofy appliqué on the front. Back in the station, he caught a train running in a direction opposite that of home and got off after a couple of spots, at a dilapidated shelter that was the most reputable part of the neighborhood it stood in.

It was a long shot, but as he approached the lot, he heard shouts and the thud of foot against ball. Rick rounded the corner just as a wild kick sent the ball flying in his direction. He jumped and caught it, then tossed it back in bounds as Niko came jogging over. "Hey, can I play?"

The other squinted, then grinned. "Hey, you're that guy who won us the playoffs game! What was your name again?"

"Rick," said Rick, not at all offended. "So can I play?"

"Sure. It's not a real game, just scrimmage. The other team's short a man, so kick toward that goal." Niko waved at a crate and dented trashcan that sat at one end of the lot.

"Got it," Rick said happily and plunged in. A week of Bailey P.E. and no nighttime excursions made him eager for the rough street rules, and in ten minutes, he had a jagged tear in one of his knees and slush plastered on the back of his coat. But the real damage didn't happen until, trying to steal the ball, he simultaneously slipped and collided with a teammate, so that he went skidding across the lot on his face.

Aware of burning and a warm wetness, Rick carefully pushed himself up and saw blood on the concrete.

"You ok?" Niko asked, running up. "Oh man, your face looks like it got nailed by the Terminator!"

Rick pulled off a glove and gingerly probed his cheek. There was a lot of grated skin, but it didn't seem to be bleeding uncontrollably. "Yeah, I'm ok."

Niko started laughing. "Yeah, because you totally look ok. You live close to here? Because if not you better come to my place and wash your face."

"I have to take the train."

"I don't think they let you ride if you're dripping blood on everything. Come on, it's time for us to go anyway. But watch out for my mama, or she'll try to drown you in hydrogen peroxide."

Niko shouted for his little brother Demetrios, and the three boys headed down the street, Rick pressing his scarf against his face to stop the blood. The brothers lived in an old, unkempt apartment building, several floors up with no elevator. Niko pushed open the door and looked in cautiously. "Good luck, mama's out," he exclaimed, pushing the door all the way open and leading the way inside. "The bathroom's right there, I'll find you a rag or something."

"Thanks." Rick stepped into the tiny bathroom that smelled slightly of mildew, despite the fact that every surface had been scrubbed within an inch of its life. Peering into the cloudy mirror, he grimaced. There was a deep cut across the corner of his eyebrow that was still welling blood and a wide scrape across his cheek so that it looked like someone had rubbed a cheese grater across his face.

He heard Niko and Demetrios banging around, and then the front door of the apartment swung open. "Oh good, Niko, you're home," a girl's voice called. "Mama is sitting with Mrs. Martinez's baby, and she wants you to go get some milk."

"In a minute," Niko called back, his voice muffled as though he had his head stuck in the cupboard. "Hey Ari, where does Mama keep the old towels?"

"In the bathroom," the girl answered. "I'll get you one."

Rick turned his head to look at the door just as a girl appeared in it. She froze, gasping.

"It's ok," he said quickly, throwing up a reassuring hand. "I look scary, but I won't hurt you."

"I can't see you, but …" She hesitated and Rick realized that her wide eyes were blind, even as he was swept with an unsettling sense of déjà vu. "I'm not afraid. I just wasn't expecting … a stranger." Her delicate nostrils flared. "Are you bleeding?"

"Yeah. I'm the one who needed the towel."

"Soccer in the lot again?" she asked, sounding exasperated as she moved forward. Rick inched aside to let her kneel in front of a wicker basket that held a stack of towels. She rummaged to the bottom of the pile and came up with a towel that was more hole than cloth. "Niko's lost so much blood there, I think the Red Cross should start collecting it," she said, handing him the rag. "The peroxide's in the brown bottle in the cabinet."

"Thanks." Rick turned on the water and began wiping his face off, uneasily aware that the girl had settled herself on the edge of the tub and was watching him. Or rather listening, or smelling. "Are you Niko's sister?" he asked.

"Yes. What's your name?"

"Rick." He winced as the water stung the deep cut over his eyebrow. "What's yours?"

"Ariadne."

Rick froze in the middle of wringing out the towel, remembering a dark night in downtown Gotham, when a little blind girl had lain quietly in his arms, the blood running freely from her neck. He cast a quick glance over, but she wore a high necked sweater and he couldn't see whether she bore a scar. Surely she couldn't be the same girl.

"Does it hurt?" she asked, sounding curious.

"Not too bad." Rick forced his attention back to the task at hand, pouring the peroxide onto a still dry corner of the towel and then dabbing on his face. "Ouch."

"It always burns," she said comfortingly. "Niko shouts louder than you do. Where do you live?"

"Uh, the north side, I just came over to play soccer. Do you play?" he asked, to keep her from asking exactly where on the north side he lived, and then realized it was a stupid question.

But she surprised him as she scowled and insisted, "I could if Niko would let me sew bells on the ball so I could hear where it was. But he thinks it would be bad for his image."

"Hey Rick, man, you ok?" the object of their conversation stuck his head in the door.

"He's fine now that I'm here to help him," Ariadne said sweetly, "since someone didn't even know where the towels were."

Niko ignored her and squeezed into the tiny room to get a close look at Rick's injuries. "It's still bleeding. You think it needs stitches?"

"I hope not. You have some gauze or something I can put on it until I get home?"

"I think so. Maybe it's in here?" Niko poked vaguely around in the medicine cabinet.

Ariadne huffed loudly. "Idiot, do you live here or not? Try the first aid kit in the kitchen." She led the way and flung open the appropriate drawer. "There."

Niko gave a longsuffering sigh and pulled out the kit. "Here, try this," he suggested, handing over a patch of gauze and some adhesive tape.

Richard went back to the bathroom to use the mirror. He caught wisps of the conversation in the kitchen as he carefully fixed the patch over the cut. Ariadne seemed to be asking questions about him, which Niko answered as briefly as possible. The tenor of the conversation suddenly switched as her brother suddenly pleaded, "No, don't do that, Ari!"

"Why not?" she demanded as Rick came back into the kitchen. "I'm going to ask him and you can't stop me. Will you come to my birthday party?" she asked in the same breath, turning her body to face Rick. "It's next Thursday at four."

Niko grabbed his curly hair in exasperation. "Ari, he doesn't want to come to your party. He doesn't even know you!"

"Well, you won't let me ask any of your friends that I do know. Please?" she added sweetly for Rick's benefit.

"Uh … Sure?" he agreed hesitantly. "I mean, if I'm not supposed be doing anything else."

"Try really hard, ok? I hardly know any boys at all. At least, none that Niko will let me talk to."

"Well, if you wouldn't insist on being nice to the worst jerks in the neighborhood …" Niko launched into what was clearly an old argument, and Rick edged toward the door.

"I'll see you guys next week!" he called, hastily letting himself out, before they could pull him any more deeply into their quarrel.

As Rick rode the train back to the station to pick up his stuff, he thought about the problem of Ariadne. Although one part of his brain still argued that there must be a dozen Ariadnes in Gotham, he was almost positive she was the same one, and it would be easy enough to check the news clippings. But if she was, then he would have to decide whether it was safe to go back.

On the one hand, encounters in and out of costume with the same people were always risky. But on the other, she was blind, they'd only exchanged a couple of sentences, and his voice had completely changed since then. Besides, Bruce met people both as the Bat and as Bruce all the time, and no one had unmasked him yet.

The thought of posing the question to Bruce crossed Rick's mind, but he quickly pushed it away. Surely this was a simple decision he could make on his own. He didn't admit to himself that he didn't want to be told no because he had already decided, no matter what he found out about Ariadne's identity, that he was going back.

"Thank you, gentlemen, for your presence and your cooperation today. I know that with your support, this new effort to beautify the streets of our great city is bound to be a success." The mayor threw a beaming glance around the table which seated a good number of the most prominent members of Gotham's business community, including its wealthiest, Bruce Wayne, and its newest, Lex Luthor.

The meeting officially over, most of those present clustered around the refreshment table. Bruce slipped his papers into his briefcase and unobtrusively headed for the exit, hoping to escape before anyone cornered him.

"Bruce!" a voice hailed him just as he was slipping out the door.

Bruce manufactured a bright smile. "Lex, how are things coming along at the new place? Hello, Selina," he added, his shifting to Luthor's companion. She smiled in return.

"Couldn't be better, we're right on schedule for both the grand opening, and the pre-opening party. I hope you're still coming."

"Wouldn't miss it," Bruce promised. "Look, I'd love to chat, but I have to make another appointment. I'll see you later." With another quick smile, he headed down the hallway toward the elevator.

City Hall was old and the elevator consequently slow. While he was waiting for the car to rise, the sharp tapping of high heels alerted him to Selina Kyle's approach. "I'm glad you're still standing here. I'd hate to think how long I'd have to wait if you were on your way down," she said dryly, punching the call button twice although it was already lit.

"Don't do that," he warned, "you might confuse it. So you weren't in the mood for Girl Scout cookies?"

"Not when they're coupled with non Fair Trade coffee," she answered righteously.

He laughed, and then the elevator doors finally slid open. "After you."

Selina hit the button for the ground floor, again using the impatient double punch. "I swear the stairs would have been faster."

"And healthier."

"Yet here we stand."

"Yep."

She smiled and was about to speak again when the elevator emitted a piercing shriek and came to a grinding, shuddering halt. Selina looked up at the ceiling. "Tell me this isn't happening."

Bruce reached over and tried various buttons. "I wish I could." He hit the emergency call button, and a buzzer immediately began to sound. Selina winced at the bursts of grating noise.

"I think I prefer the usual elevator music."

Bruce sighed and slid down to the floor, balancing his brief case on his knees. "We may as well get comfortable."

"I refuse to be so pessimistic as to believe in a need to get comfortable." She crossed her arms and glared at the ceiling, impatiently tapping her toe.

Bruce reached over and held down the tip of her shoe. "Could you please stop that? The buzzer's bad enough."

Before she could respond, a voice crackled through a speaker set in the ceiling. "Hey folks, this is Harvey Trent, the maintenance supervisor. I just wanted to let you know that we're working on the problem and should have you out of there in twenty-five or thirty minutes."

"Thirty minutes? Are you serious?" Selina demanded, but the speaker remained silent. Sighing in resignation, she sank down, gracefully tucking her knees to the side. "You were right."

"You forget I'm a native Gothamite. So," he quirked his eyebrows at her, "what do you want to do?"

She rolled her eyes. "I feel like I'm living a Cosmopolitan quiz. 'You find yourself trapped in a elevator with a billionaire bachelor. Do you a) Make out for the entertainment of the security camera b) Discuss his company's new super secret defense contract which they somehow stole from your boss c) Put him at ease by pretending you're engaged to a Dallas Cowboys linebacker?'"

"A?" Bruce asked hopefully.

Selina smirked. "Maybe next time."

"Before you decide on B, let me warn you that I know absolutely nothing about that contract."

"What a surprise," she said dryly.

"Leaving us with C. Are you engaged to a Cowboy?"

"Even for the sake of putting you at ease, I cannot tell a lie."

"So much for Cosmopolitan." Bruce slid his briefcase to the floor so that he could rest his arms on his knees. "Now what?"

"Why do I have to think of everything? Ask me an interesting question."

"Um … What's your favorite breakfast cereal?"

"Blueberry Morning, but I said interesting. Something like … If you could steal anything in the world, what would it be?"

"Your heart," Bruce answered, then grinned as she glared at him. "Sorry, sorry. Ok … um … MacGyver's leather jacket."

Selina tilted her head back and addressed the speaker again. "Six and a half billion people on the planet, and I get stuck with the one who wants nothing more than a cheap jacket from a bad eighties show."

"Hey, that show was cool! And you said anything in the world."

"So I did." There was a short pause and then she said, "You're supposed to reciprocate the question. You should say, 'Selina, now that I've revealed my completely asinine ultimate desire, what would you steal if you could steal anything in the world?'"

Bruce laughed. "Ok. What you said."

"I would," she began dreamily, "I would steal Van Gogh's Starry Night."

"Seriously?"

She stretched out her hands with her palms upward, the elegant fingers slightly curled. "Van Gogh came as close as anyone to understanding the terrifying power of the universe. Imagine possessing the cosmos in fury, hanging on your wall to terrify you whenever you liked."

"I think … I'll keep my leather jacket."

She lost her dreamy look and flashed him a smile. "Besides, MOMA's security is phenomenal. Imagine the rush of getting past it."

"You want to break into a museum. I'd just like to break out of this elevator." As if on cue, a hopeful sounding pounding began above them. "Great, looks like my wish might come true."

"How nice for you." She shifted, absently tugging her suit skirt to keep it from riding up her legs. Very shapely legs, Bruce noticed, yet again. "Did you hear about that robbery last night?"

"Robbery? Oh, the jewel store. I saw the story in the paper. That was a lot of diamonds."

"Mmmhmm. You know what I think? That it's the same woman who stole the jewels from the casino on New Years."

Bruce raised his eyebrows in surprise. "Really? But they're two completely different kinds of robberies, aren't they?"

"Not really. Different venues, yes, but the same kinds of things were taken. And both were executed with the same daring—almost in plain sight."

"That's a good point. Hey, didn't the paper say something about a costume?"

"Yes, it did. The guard at the jewelry store said it looked something like a cat. You have a problem with costumed criminals in this town, don't you?"

"It's that damn Batman. He draws them like … something."

"Magnets to the north? Bees to honey? Flies to meat?" she offered helpfully.

"Whatever it's like, it's a damn nuisance and bad for business. Every time a new nut shows up, my stock drops," he complained. "But at least this one's a woman. That's something different." Bruce looked thoughtfully up at the ceiling where the sound of pounding was getting more ferocious. "Maybe she and Batman could get together."

"I really don't see that happening. Aren't they working on opposite sides of the law?"

He waved an airy hand. "Details. Besides, it would do him good. The guy is clearly overflowing with sexual frustration."

"How do you figure that?" she asked interestedly.

"Common sense. If your sex life is good, you have better things to do with your nights than running around hitting people. Even for the sake of the law."

Before Selina could reply, there was a final burst of banging above them, followed by an agonized shriek of metal. "Hey, you two ok down there?" a voice called.

"We're fine," Bruce shouted back.

"We've got the shaft doors open, but the car is stuck a little ways down. We're looking for a ladder to get you out," their unknown rescuer explained.

"We've been in here for half an hour and they still haven't found a ladder?" Selina demanded in disbelief. "That's it. Let me stand on your shoulders, Wayne. We're breaking out of here." Slipping off her high heels, she looked at him impatiently.

"Are you sure this is a good idea? What if it shakes loose?"

"Then we get out of here by going down." She stepped onto his shoulders, holding his hands for balance as he slowly stood. "I'm trusting you to be a gentleman."

"I am always a gentleman."

"Add that to the other lies you've told today." Letting go of one of his hands, she pushed at a ceiling panel. It lifted easily and she thrust it aside, then climbed out onto the top of the car. "We're only a few feet from the top. I think I can reach the edge." Her face appeared in the hole. "Pass up my shoes." He did and heard the soft thuds as she tossed them up and out of the shaft.

"Hey!" a startled exclamation came from above. "Hey, lady, get back in the car, you want to kill yourself?"

Selina ignored him and bent back down to ask, "Coming?"

"How? I'm not exactly Michael Jordan." He waved his arms to demonstrate that he couldn't reach the edge of the hole to pull himself up.

She smiled sweetly. "I'll see you at Lex's party, then. We'll talk about that defense contract." Her face disappeared and he heard her calling up the shaft, then thumps on the ceiling as she climbed out. By the time they had found a ladder to let him escape, Selina was gone.

To Be Continued

A/N Just wanted to take a minute to thanks all reviewers (you guys are Bat-tastic!), ask you to keep reviewing (to inspire more superlong chapters!), and give a quick update on my academic progress (since it generally has a direct bearing on how much I write). The good news is, I'm no longer stressing out about whether I'll be accepted to any PhD programs, since I have been! The bad news is, I'm now stressing over which offer to take, since I've got more than one (something I wasn't at all sure would happen). However, this is a much better kind of stress than the last, and hopefully will not impede the muse!