The ringing of the lunch bell called a temporary ceasing—a truce, in a way—of the vicious sleuthing that had been going on all that morning. Barbara sat down at a table in a corner with Weylon and Eddie, feeling a sensation that she could only describe as her brain in revolt, desperate not to do any more of that blasted thinking.

"So," Barbara groaned, rubbing her temples as she stared down at her wholly unappetizing meal. Lumpy mashed potatoes, but most certainly not the good kind of lumpy, with a heaping helping of what, in the past, might have been creamed corn. They were situated in a corner of the lunchroom, nowhere near any of the other groups. They weren't too keen on sharing any of the precious information they'd gathered.

That wasn't to say they'd found much. But what little they had was theirs, damn it, and they'd fight to protect it.

"What exactly do we have to work with?" she asked.

Weylon shrugged, looking even wearier than her. She felt almost a little sorry for the poor guy. A man whose life and ambitions resolved around slamming his body against the bodies of other men, whether that be in football or porn, was not cut out for detective work. He'd had his moments, but he was in deeper water than he was ready for.

Eddie, on the other hand, looked as cocky as he had all day. He dug into his meal, happy for any sustenance as he waited, trying to be some kind of gentlemen by letting her and Weylon get their own deductions out of the way first.

"Well," the football player began, scratching his chin thoughtfully as he went over the clues in his mind. "if I had to guess I'd say we have… two suspects."

Each of the teachers on the ground floor, they had quickly discovered, was no longer themselves. They were dressed up and acting the parts of various characters. As best as they had determined, the "deceased" Professor Doll was now Mr. Burken, a local banker. No family of his own, and a very timid man who didn't seem to be the sort to make enemies. Yet, he had been hacked to death by a weapon that seemed very blunt, yet still edged enough to leave gashes. They'd found two hairs on his shirt that clearly were not his own. As it happened, they did happen to match Mrs. Jefferson, or Mrs. Strong as she was known today. A homemaker, and wife of their biology teacher-turned "Mr. Strong", a fireman. A little digging had discovered some very scandalous info.

A letter that Weylon had "acquired" from Ozzy's group, addressed from Mrs. Strong to Mr. Burken indicated an adulterous relationship between the two. It had apparently been a very tumultuous one; Burken had decided to come clean to her husband. Within the letter, she was quite literally begging him to reconsider, warning that she was afraid things would get "violent" if Mr. Strong found out.

But that wasn't the only thing dear Mr. Burken had been up to. As a banker, he had access to a lot of funds coming and going. A quick chat with Ms. Fenderson, or rather, his superior at the bank, Ms. Johnson, had revealed he was seen rather often at lunch with a man who wasn't exactly subtle in his operations as a member of the local mob. Eight-Fingers Duke, as they were to call him in this little exercise, had been surprisingly open to their interrogations, suspiciously quick to clear his name. He had been attempting to convince Burken to kick some funds—funds which were already being embezzled towards someone else—his way. Duke insisted that he was close to getting him to agree, too. But then, someone killed him. That was his story, and he stuck to it.

Mr. Strong, and Eight-Fingers Duke. Two individuals.

"I mean, they've both got motives." Weylon said, gesturing with his hand. "Duke might've been lying 'bout getting him close to agreeing. Might've just killed him when he said no."

"True, true…" Barbara said. "But that doesn't explain the weapon." She took her spork between her fingers and shook it, going down the train of thought she was developing. "See, those marks on the body, it doesn't make sense why they'd be so brutal. If it was a mobster, they'd have just shot or shanked the guy—I know it for a fact. I've read some of my dad's case files. It's nothing like knife wounds or bullet wounds… but a hatchet could have done it."

Weylon's eyes widened, and he nodded enthusiastically as he saw where she was going with it. "Yeah!" he agreed, pointing at her and grinning. "I think you might be onto something! I mean, you're probably gonna kill a man with what you've got on hand, right? And what would a fireman have on hand but an axe?"

"Sounds like we've got ourselves a killer." Barbara mused. "When our victim confessed to Mr. Strong, he flew into a rage, grabbed the hatchet, and cut him up. Open and shut case if you ask me."

A derisive snort drew the pair's attentions to Eddie, who had been watching them, amused, this entire time. She scowled at him and asked, "Something to add, Mr. Genius?"

"Really?" he asked, in that overconfident tone he'd acquired as of late. "You're both being extremely short-sighted if you ask me—blind, even."

The tiny boy leaned forward and tried to illustrate his point using his hands. "Allow me to take you on a route of hypotheses for a moment: consider the wording in the letter of our dear Mrs. Strong. All she warned of was violence, should Mr. Strong be alerted of their relationship. She never said from who."

Barbara and Weylon's eyebrows both shot up. They hadn't thought of that; but Eddie wasn't done.

"Now think back to when we talked with Mr. Strong. Did he once suggest he was aware of Burken's relationship with his wife until after the police gave him the whole story?"

"…No," Weylon admitted. "he didn't. But—"

"But nothing!" Eddie hissed, cutting him off. "I mean, think about it. Who would stand to lose the most from being informed of the adultery? Not Mr. Strong, but his wife. It was one thing to lose a consort, but getting her marriage destroyed in the process would ruin her credibility, even her life! She had to stop Burken any way she could. So, taking her husband's hatchet, she cut him to bits, knowing the blame would fall on him. He'd be taken off to jail, and she'd be out of a marriage she hated, while simultaneously keeping all the things she'd have lost in a standard divorce!"

Barbara sat there trying to find a way to dispute his logic, but was falling flat. That really seemed to be the obvious answer, now that he'd pointed it out. She sat her chin down into a palm, staring off into the crowd around the lunchroom; specifically, at Bruce's table. She watched his trio's interactions carefully, wishing against all hope that she'd be gifted with superhearing at that precise moment.

They didn't even look like they were talking about their assignment; the three of them were shoveling food into their mouths, guffawing at some joke Barbara wasn't privy to. She gave the group a jealous leer, before lazily looking back at her own. She sighed in defeat, and grabbed her plate, ready to toss it away.

"I guess that's as good of a guess as we're gonna get. Come on," she said as she stood. "let's go find our teacher."

"—therefore, we posit that Mrs. Strong, and ONLY Mrs. Strong could be the killer!" cried Eddie, jabbing a finger into the air to punctuate his sentence.

Barbara and Weylon lounged in desks behind him, arms crossed and waiting for the little man to finish his overly-long justification for their choice of killer. Mr. Murdock looked at him with a curious, analytical gaze. After deliberating it a moment, his lips flapped apart to say something. He was cut off by the sound of a slamming door as Bruce Wayne led his group into the room, panting and bending over to clutch at their knees as if they'd sprinted the whole way.

"W—phyoo—wait, Mr. Murdock!" Bruce exclaimed, holding out a hand. He stumbled closer, still gasping as he continued. "We know—haahh—we know who the killer is! Are we too late?"

Eddie gave a sadistic little smirk as he watched Wayne beg in vain. Barbara almost giggled at the look. In a way, it was kind of fun to see Bruce taken down a peg—

"Actually, Bruce, I think you're right on time." Mr. Murdock replied. "As it happens, Eddie's guess was incorrect."

Three jaws dropped, though Eddie's went the furthest by far. Barbara wondered if it was dislocated, by the sheer distance it fell. Something akin to a mortified squeak escaped the tinier boy's throat, staring at Mr. Murdock in disbelief. "W-what?" he asked.

"You were incorrect." Murdock repeated. "Your guess was wrong. Now, let's see what Wayne's team has to say."

He turned his attention to Bruce, who cleared his throat and folded his arms behind his back. He almost looked like a businessman in spite of his casual dress as he spoke in an authoritative voice.

"My team has come to the conclusion that the killer… was you, Officer Murdock."

The man in question raised a curious eyebrow, a far more subdued expression that the baffled faces on Barbara's team. Eddie was practically sputtering as he tried to cry out denials of such a possibility. "No way, he wasn't even one of the participants! He's just the judge!"

Bruce ignored him, and was steel-faced as he explained.

"The initial impression was, of course, that the killer was Mr. Strong, since he was in possession of the most likely murder weapon. But Mrs. Strong was even more likely a candidate, since she had a superior motive. But, our chat with Ms. Johnson revealed that Duke wasn't the only individual our victim was lunching with. He also met with you fairly regularly, Officer. And since we were alerted by the dear Duke that funds were already being kicked somewhere, well, you were the only candidate. Seems fairly cut and dry to me. A crooked cop, using a little arm twisting for a little extra stipend to his paycheck. But with the mob cracking down on your supplier, it was only a matter of time before he went turncoat. And the last thing the police need is a gangster with blackmail material. So you killed him, and framed a couple that could take the blame for you."

Silence hung in the room for a moment. Then, Murdock's gaze relented, and a smile curled on his lips.

"Very good, Group Four. Very good, indeed! That is the correct answer!"

Barbara could very well see Bruce cheering with his team in celebration, but she couldn't hear them. She tuned them out, just as she tuned out the incoherent muttering of Eddie, stumbling into a seat as he struggled to understand what in the world just happened. She was angry, all right; partially for trusting Eddie, but mostly it was just anger that Bruce had managed to outthink them all.

But she couldn't bring herself to be surprised. That was what that crazy boy did. He beat the criminals up and, apparently, he was the one who found out who the criminals were in the first place. She narrowed her eyes as she looked at him high-fiving Eric, and laughing with Nora at something. She couldn't match his skill yet. But someday soon…

"So, I suppose I should get to telling you about that reward." Mr. Murdock announced, pulling out three coupons from his desk. He handed them to the team with a smile.

"In addition to extra credit on your next quiz, this is good for as much ice cream you can eat down at the shop on Archer Avenue." He told them. "Since the winners of today's competition are dismissed as soon as they receive their prize, you can go ahead and redeem those as soon as you make the walk."

"Oh, that is complete—" Weylon began, finishing with a string of expletives he only muffled by burying his face in his hands. Barbara's judgment was silent, but far more severe as she shot daggers from her eyes at her would-be sleuth's shriveling countenance. Eddie shrugged, as if to say "How was I supposed to figure that out?!" while wincing away from her glare.

Bruce flapped his coupon in the air, grinning in excitement as he exchanged looks with his team. Eric was practically doing a victory dance, beatboxing some sort of tune to himself.

"Man, this is so wicked!" the kid yelled, punching the air. "Early dismissal, and ice cream! It's like, the rapture or something!"

Nora held a hand up to her mouth as she giggled. "Calm down, man; I think you're supposed to save the sugar high for after the ice cream."

"Aw, let him have his fun." Bruce retorted, watching him with amusement. "It's like watching a dog running in its sleep; you don't interrupt that stuff, it's too funny."

The cheerleader sighed, in mock defeat. "But I thought ruining people's fun was what I did best?"

"It is," Bruce affirmed. "and you're a thoroughly awful person. Ozzy left himself wide open for that joke, and you know it. So, you want to get that ice cream now?"

Nora shook her head. "I think I'm going to wait for Victor; you two go enjoy yourselves…"

Barbara turned away. She didn't even know why she was listening to their conversation anyway. She buried her head in her arms, wondering if she should go get a book from the library to pass the time, when a hand tapped her on the shoulder. She looked up to see Bruce looming over her with a cocky smile.

"Care to see me off to my victory feast?"

"I'd care to jam my foot up your rear more." Barbara groaned. She stood regardless, and followed him and Eric out the door and to their lockers. Bruce refused to wipe off that infuriating grin from his face, and Gordon decided to do something about it as he fished his backpack off its hook.

"Any particular reason you dragged me out here?" she asked bitterly. "To gloat, or what?"

"I imagined you had some form of lecture for me." Bruce admitted. She resonated with Barbara. He wanted a speech? He'd get one. She jammed a finger into his chest as he turned to face her.

"You can start by backing off of that Tess girl. Even if she wasn't a cheerleader, and the scum of the earth, she's seeing someone, you freaking flirt. Don't think I didn't see you chatting her up. Second, you can cut it out with that smug grin—some kind of world-class detective outsmarting a couple of high school kids is not that impressive. Oh, and if you so much as think about going on patrol before the circus tonight, I will break your legs, so…"

She trailed off mid-rant as her eyes focused on the coupon Bruce held in his hands, along with what was very definitely a second coupon. Feeling a bead of sweat on her brow, she nervously glanced up at his face. The smug grin was most definitely not cut out, but his eyes were earnest.

"Is that…?" she half-asked.

"I thought if Nora wasn't going to be using hers, I could give it to somebody who could use it."

Barbara, now squarely settled into the conversational role of "jackass", meekly asked "Really?" as she felt her face blushing.

"Well, I was kind of having second thoughts in the middle of that long string of insults…" Bruce teased. "But yes. Really."

Wayne reached out and grabbed one of Barbara's hands, placing the palm face-up and setting one of the coupons down upon it. "Oh," he added. "and for the record: Nora was the one who figured out it was Murdock. Not me."

"Yo!" came a cry from the front door. Bruce and Barbara looked that way to see Eric waving at them impatiently, bag already packed and slung over his shoulder. "You lovebirds comin' or what! Freakin' ice cream!"

Bruce laughed for a moment before walking on, tugging Barbara's hand to pull her along. She stopped him for just a moment, making sure to grab her own bags—suit case included—before following him out of the school. Maybe this day was going to go a little better than she'd thought.

Several miles away, Gotham U's campus buzzed with activity. Students flitted from class to class, while others lounged around the quad and engaged in whatever struck their fancy. Not all were enjoying what bit of warmth could be enjoyed in a Gotham October, however—one in particular was cooped up in one of the many laboratories that the university boasted of. The greatest minds on this side of the Mississippi could tout this place as a true bastion of scientific learning.

One student in particular could attest to this. Only sixteen, and already studying with the brightest minds in his chosen field. He was a skinny child, with messy, dark hair and sunken brown eyes clad in a labcoat that hung loosely over his wiry frame. Blue jeans and a ratty t-shirt were all he cared to wear otherwise. Anything else was just a distraction from his masterpiece.

This student went by the name of Crane. Jonathan Crane, psychology major and certifiable genius. His spindly frame was set atop a ludicrously high stool, leaning over a table and studying a sample beneath a microscope.

From early childhood, Jonathan had taken a deep interest in the human mind. He wanted to learn why anyone did anything. Why did a good Samaritan help a stranger? Why did a police officer support the law, and why did a criminal choose to subvert it? Why did his parents leave?

Crane was an orphan, but he'd found his way into Gotham U by way of scholarships. His genius was too great to ignore, so they'd found a small cut of the budget to allow him his studies. And he'd paid them back tenfold. A hundred-fold, as far as he was concerned.

It had taken him the better part of a year, but he'd done it. He'd developed the ultimate psychological tool. Therapists had resorted, for decades, to methods as quasi-scientific as hypnosis and various "feel-good" methods to reach into a subject's mind, and discover their basest desires, their fears, and what motivated their traumas.

But no more. A brilliant chemist, as well as an expert of the human mind, Crane was at this very moment steps from finalizing his magnum opus: The Fear Toxin. He had found the exact chemical formula to agitate the part of the brain associated with fear, allowing a subject's mind to be overwhelmed by their greatest fears. This was a tool with limitless potential, he knew it. No longer would guessing games have a place in psychology. A true man of science could learn precisely what brought fear to a patient's heart, and thus would be able to help them overcome it.

There were… a few bugs, admittedly. At the moment, the formula's reaction was far too great, and if not properly restrained test subjects engaged in potentially self-destructive methods to escape their hallucinated fears. But he could work that out, he knew it. He just needed a bit more time, and it would be ready.

But time was something he was low on. The door to the lab opened, and in stepped a regal-looking, bearded old man. Jonathan heard him enter and hopped off his stool, ecstatic to see him. "Professor Bramowitz!" he exclaimed. "It's great that you're here, you wouldn't believe how much progress I've made today."

Bramowitz stepped up to Crane, coughing nervously into his fist; a gesture the student neglected to notice. "Jonathan," he stuttered. "I'm afraid there's been a—"

"I mean, where do I begin?!" Crane started, oblivious to his professor's words. "I've managed to duplicate the Toxin on a significant scale, in both liquid and gaseous forms. There's enough to test on hundreds of human subjects; thousands of mice, if we go that route. And all the biggest kinks have been worked out as well! No more deterioration, no more cell degeneration; just a few more batches and I think we'll have it!"

The professor looked at him with such sad eyes it seemed like tears were just behind them. Jonathan finally caught this, and was stopped in the tracks of his ranting. The wind out of his sails, he was only able to stammer, "P-professor? You look sad. Why do you look sad? We're so close—"

"Jonathan." Bramowitz interrupted, holding up a hand to stop him. "I've come with… terrible news."

"What is it?"

The professor looked down towards the floor, examining his shoes rather than daring to look him in the eye as he said, "With the hard economic times our nation has been enduring… they've cut our department's funding."

Crane's jaw dropped. He couldn't be saying..?

"We've had no choice but to cut your scholarships to keep ourselves afloat."

For a moment, all Jonathan could do was stand there, stuttering on words that refused to come out of his throat. He could feel sweat on his palms. After a ragged breath, he managed to say "B-but Professor! My work is so important, it could change our entire field of study! You can't just—"

"We can." Bramowitz said as coldly as he could, the expression on his face illustrating the pain it caused him to say it. "We can, and we did. Pack up your things, Jonathan. Unless you can find a new way to pay your tuition, we can no longer support your research."

Crane lunged forward, grabbing the shirt of his mentor, frantically crying "You know I'll never have that kind of money! You can't do this to me, I've poured my life into this!"

The professor averted his eyes, unable to bear the sight of the tears and mucous pouring down his pupil's shattered face. A long pause, only filled with the sound of his student's blubbering was capped with the barely audible whisper of "I'm sorry."

Professor Bramowitz turned and walked away, leaving Jonathan standing alone in the laboratory. Crane stumbled over to his table, throwing all his weight on it and letting his sobbing go unrestrained. This wasn't right, this wasn't fair. This was his entire life, and they'd just throw him out on the streets?!

"I-I never asked to be poor!" he cried to nobody, hardly even understanding his own words in their garbled state. He collapsed to his knees, desperately trying to think of a way to come up with the money he needed. Thousands of dollars—tens of thousands. There was no way he could make that.

But, he looked up to the table. There, packed in dozens of vials and aerosol cans, was the Fear Toxin. All that he'd managed to create in his time at the University. As he stared at it, the first embers of an idea began to burn in his mind. He couldn't make the money. But if he could prove how effective his creation was, maybe they'd fund it? Yes.

He stood grabbing a vial off a little rack, twirling it between his fingers as he stared at the amber liquid within. Yes, that was it. A public experiment. To prove that the Toxin worked. But where?

Then it hit him. That night, if he recalled, there was a circus playing in Gotham. Haly's Circus. A cloud of hundreds, dozens of animals and humans alike to demonstrate on. Yes.

Yes, that was it. His sobs began to change, into a choked chuckle. Then, louder. Louder, still, until it was out and out laughter. He could do it! He could save his career! He'd show them!

He began to stuff the cans and the vials into his coat, cackling with glee as his grin split his face from ear to ear.

He'd show them all!