BANG

The crowd was hushed, watching in terror for that brief moment. A bullet shot through the air. Its aim was precise, and did not deviate from its course. Even so, it failed to strike the Flying Graysons. It punched a jagged rip through a billowing black cape.

No one could believe their eyes as the cloaked figure scooped up the couple in his arms, yanking them out of the shot's path. But believe or not, he was there. The Dark Knight had returned.

Still dropping with his cargo, Batman retrieved a grapnel gun from his belt, firing a cord to the walkways above, swinging down to the ground.

Dick stood from his seat, watching the shadow guarding his parents with an enthralled expression. "Who's that?!" he cried.

The voices in the crowd, between the screaming and cheers answered his question. Confused voices asked, "Is that Batman?!" "I thought he was dead!" "Go Bats!"

People all around were scrambling for the exits, their excitement not dulling their senses that much. Bat or no Bat, they had no desire to be in an enclosed space with a shooter. Barbara grabbed onto Dick's arm, pulling him back before he could leap over the side and run to his folks. "Stay here, you wanna get shot?!"

"I wanna help!" he insisted, trying to yank himself out of her grip. "Let go!"

Biting down to suppress a yowl of frustration, she placed a hand on each of his shoulders and shoved him down, crouching beneath the wall that separated them from the show floor with him and shoving a finger up to his face. "Batman has it handled. Your parents are safe, you'll just be making yourself a target! You think they want to deal with that right now?"

Dick scowled at her, hoping his rage would be all the reason needed. But after a moment he relented, looking no less angry as he averted his gaze. "…Fine. But I'm not leaving."

"That's fine, too." She agreed, taking the briefcase in her hand as she prepared to move. "Wait here, I'll be back."

"And where are you going?!" he hissed indignantly.

Barbara frowned, trying not to look to embarrassed as she admitted, "I need to find Bruce."

Dick nodded, instantly understanding. "Don't ever say I've stood between a pair of lovebirds."

In all the confusion, there simply wasn't time to slap Grayson for that comment, but he redeemed himself by pointing over the side of the wall. "Don't follow the crowds, though. Take the tunnels beneath us here, they head back to some dressing rooms hidden beneath the grandstands; there's a back door."

"Wow, uh, thanks." She said, unsure of what to say. Dick just patted her arm and motioned for her to stand.

"Don't mention it, just go!"

Nodding back to him, Barbara hopped over the side, dropping several meters to the floor below. Instinct taking over, she tried to tumble and roll with the impact. She failed, and felt her ankles sting with pain as she smacked into the dirt. The adrenaline pumping through her was too potent to ignore, though. She scrambled back into the tunnel, seeing there was a bend up ahead, presumably heading to the dressing rooms Dick had mentioned. But she didn't go, this far in was enough. She clicked open the briefcase as soon as she was able to put in the lock combination, and was met by her eared helmet staring back at her.

She nodded. "OK. Showtime, Batgirl."

She tossed off her shirt and nearly tripped removing her jeans, mumbling curses as she kicked her shoes off and stepped into the undersuit. Next came the arms and legs, clicking the ceramic protection with fumbling fingers. The torso was next, and even in the darkness of the tunnel she was able to clearly see the prominent yellow bat outline. She couldn't help but smile as she clicked on the belt and clasped the cape to her shoulders. Last came the helmet, or cowl. Her hair was bunched up beneath the undersuit as it was, and it occurred to her how uncomfortable this was as she jostled the last piece of the ensemble on. A loathsome thought, but her locks might need to go if this becomes a permanent thing.

She clicked on the last few locks, securing the helmet in place. She wished she had a mirror, but she certainly felt… something. Powerful? Maybe that was it. Whatever it was, she liked it. Now all she needed to do was find a way to get up to that shooter unseen…

"Miss Barbara, is that you?"

The voice of the old Mr. Pennyworth buzzed in her ear, and she answered instantly.

"Alfred? What's going on out there, how's Bruce?"

"I don't know," the butler admitted, a tinge of worry in his voice. "He hasn't turned on his comm-link yet. I can't communicate with him."

"I guess you're my mission control then." She replied. The corners of her lips turned up as an idea began to form.

"Hey Alfred, what'd be the best way to get to a really high place, really fast?"

John Grayson's heart was pounding like a jackhammer, and he gripped at his chest as his wife wrapped her arms around him, nearly hyperventilating. He shushed her, patting her head as he looked up at the sentinel standing over them. He'd heard the rumors when the tour drew close to Gotham, but he'd never believed them. Now the Gargoyle of Gotham was standing in front of him, having just saved he and his wife both from certain death.

"Th-thank you, Batman." He whispered. The man in the mask cast his eyes down at him and did not visibly improve in mood.

"You're sitting ducks out here!" he growled. "You have to—" he stopped to duck down, his forearm catching a bullet intended for Mary. She shrieked, but it seemed to have ricocheted off the armor harmlessly. "You have to go NOW!"

"We're not leaving without Dick!" John insisted, his wife nodding furiously in agreement. The Bat snarled and retrieved a pellet from his belt, throwing it to the ground and releasing a quickly-expanding cloud of smoke. They were enveloped, and they could barely make out the stranger's silhouette pointing to the nearest exit.

"Get out of sight, and circle back for him! I'll distract the gunman!" Batman ordered. They voiced their understanding and agreement. As fast as their feet could take them the Graysons sprinted for the nearest tunnel, while the Dark Knight emerged from the smoke, staring up at the movement in the shadows.

Far above, Floyd Lawton was reloading and glaring at the speck below him. He spat before taking aim with his wrist again. "That son of a bitch made me miss. I never miss."

His scope fed images into his right eye, of the scowling face and blank eyes of the Bat. So this was the legend that they'd whispered of. He scoffed; didn't look like much to Floyd. "Bring it on, Dark Knight. I missed the Graysons, but I won't miss you."

Batman whipped the grapnel gun out once more, the cable whizzing through the air and strapping itself to the bottom of the very platform Floyd stood on. The assassin had expected the projectile to be aimed for him, and grunted in surprise. The cloaked man far below him was pulled up and ahead by the force of his little gadget, moving like a passing shadow through the empty circus tent. Lawton gritted his teeth and aimed dead-on at his chest.

BANG

The shot hit the little bat on Bruce's chest head-on… and beyond a deep ache in his muscles, nothing occurred. Wayne grinned, imperceptibly from such a distance.

Stupid. Thinks I'd put a bull's-eye on my chest without bulletproofing it?

Batman continued closing the gap, and Lawton faltered for a second. Then, an idea struck him. He aimed at the cord, and with a shot split it.

Batman blanched.

He continued moving forward by nothing but momentum, already losing height as another shot was lined up. This time, it'd go for the head. Exposed skin. Easy kill.

Don't panic, MOVE. Instinct, training, use it!

His hand clicked into auto-pilot, and grabbed the first device it could. The Batline. Fueled by nothing but adrenaline and reflex now, Batman took aim above him and fired the device. The zipline spat out went both up and down, hooking itself to the floor and to the walkway some fifty feet above. It pulled taut, leaving him suspended in mid-air, gripping the rope by the hand-held launcher.

That wasn't good enough. The shot was coming any second. With all his might, Batman thrust himself up the rope, pulling his body along just far enough to avoid a fatal blow. The shot ripped along the cape resting on his shoulder, a glancing blow sparing him any spilled blood. The crisis of the moment was gone, but he knew all too well that he was still in danger.

His arms worked like machines, dragging him up one pull at a time. He felt his teeth grinding against one another; it wouldn't be enough. No grapnel, no Batline. Either he made it up this line without letting the gunner get another shot off, or he was finished.

And he had no idea how he'd do that.

Floyd chuckled to himself as he watched the Bat flounder in the air. He'd gotten lucky, he admitted. Luckier than any victim he'd ever taken a contract on. But his luck was fresh out. He slipped another bullet into his weapon, and savored the moment as he lined up the killshot. He'd put it right under his chin, up through the roof of his mouth.

"Say goodnight, Batman…"

ZWIP

Floyd howled in pain as metal claws dug into the right side of his face, crushing his eye-mounted scope and drawing blood as it tore a massive chunk of his cowl away.

"Uh, excuse me?"

The blood seeped from his wounds, stinging his right eye shut as he spun on his heels, crouching and taking aim with both wrists. He glowered at the figure in the darkness, a vague silhouette visible. Two glowing, blank eyes stared him down, and the outline of a yellow bat bared itself in the cold air.

"I think the behind-the-scenes tours start after the show."

"Fire!"

The dark warehouse lit up like the Fourth of July as the finest men of the GPD leveled their weapons on the WorkerBeez. The featureless things advanced rigidly, like twitching corpses. All Wilson—Slade, had to do was snap his fingers. Luckily enough, these were prototypes. And worker droids had no reason to be walking around with bulletproof armor.

Jim fired a trio of rounds the moment they moved, capping a droid and putting an extra two in the kneecaps just to be sure. It fell like a domino; now for the rest to go with it. Three more shots directly in the chest of the next to step up. Jim felt like experimenting. Sparks flew, and it stuttered with each round, but it never stopped. Right then.

He put two more shots in its head, knocking it down for good, and reloaded.

Three came for Detective Blake, already overwhelmed as one picked up its pace and slammed into his side. He struck it on the back repeatedly with the butt of his gun, desperate for some kind of reaction. A grim reminder that these opponents were not human.

The trio had almost reached him when a blur snapped across their legs, knocking them to the ground in a neat row. Detective Sage rose to his feet once more, placing a bullet in their metal skulls. Jim smirked; Victor had always claimed to be a master of hand to hand combat. Now was as good a time as any to prove himself.

The mad redhead turned his rampage towards another bot in his path, tucking the gun in his pocket and going in fists swinging. A one-two combo rocked the bot, and an overhead swing crushed its skull entirely. Vic shoved the smoking husk to the floor and popped his neck, turning to face the next in his path.

The bot extended its arms and pushed its palms up against Vic's stomach, and a flash of yellow light flared up in the room. Before anyone knew what was happening, Sage was flying across the room clutching his stomach. The detective smashed back-first into the shelves on the edge of the warehouse, curling on the floor in pain. Several of the WorkerBeez turned his way, and advanced on him. Jim, still processing what in the hell had just happened, turned his pistol on them and squeezed off a pair of rounds. Two droids fell, but three more were still going strong.

A drone swept behind the Commissioner, grabbing him by both arms and restricting them as a second advanced from the front. Its open palm flashed yellow, and a powerful force blasted Jim in the stomach. Gordon lurched forward, unable to form words. It felt like he'd just been slammed by a truck.

A rage built in his chest, the howl of a cornered animal. He slammed his head back, smacking away the drone that had grabbed him. Not faltering for a second he did the same to the one in front of him. His head pulsed with blood, pain and rage, and every sense begged him to stop. He could never stop. Jim kicked the droid in the chest and knocked it away long enough to lean forward, flipping himself to the ground and atop Star Labs' abomination. His shoulder smashed its inhuman face, wresting the last buzz of life from its cold body. No time to slow down. He rolled back to his feet and swayed, throwing himself at the drone in his way. His palms smacked either side of its head and frayed its mechanical mind. A haymaker. A backfist. A flurry of a dozen raging, screaming punches disassembled its skull part by part until nothing was left. Its sizzling corpse dropped to the floor, leaving Jim panting above it.

His eyes scanned the room. They'd barely killed more than ten. Dozens were left.

He despaired. He shook his head, backing away from his self-inflicted carnage. A drone saw him and shot another yellow flash. He ducked, and the wall behind him was dented.

"What the hell?!" he yelled. "What is this?"

"Oh, that?" asked Slade. Gordon snapped his attention to the shadows where Wilson still resided, calmly watching the struggle. "The WorkerBeez were intended for a wide range of tasks, such as mining. Those are concussive lasers, for clearing rubble. Of course, I suppose they'd also cause some nasty bruises."

Jim shut out Slade's words. He'd enjoy smashing that mask. There was nothing else to do; he dove back into the fray.

Two of the drones jumped, tackling him to the floor. They lined up their palms with his head, but the sound of two bullets fired interrupted the execution. They fell away with no resistance, and Jim saw Detective Blake throw him a salute. He barely had time to return the gesture before John was smacked from the side by a droid's kick, his face scrunching in pain as he swung around to return the favor.

In the midst of it all, Harvey Bullock was tossing his meaty fists around like cinderblocks, smashing any skull that came close. He took a concussive blast to the shoulder, hopping back no less than three steps before the momentum relented, and he charged back. A swipe from the closest droid snapped his head to the side, and he stepped away to wipe off the flowing blood.

Bullock took a breather as he looked around. Blake was surrounded, firing off every round he could before the next, inevitable strike knocked him to the floor again. Gordon was flailing like a beast possessed, rapidly losing steam as the sheer numbers of the untiring WorkerBeez took their toll. He could barely stand to look Victor's way. The trio that Gordon failed to finish was all around him, cornering him into the wall and firing away with their concussive shots. Harvey could hear his cries of pain from where he stood. The giant shut his eyes, shaking his head in fury.

"Oh, screw this!"

Harvey turned and ran out the way they'd entered, disappearing in the growing mist.

"HARVEY!" Gordon yelled, his fury reaching a new peak. He should've known. Should've known never to trust that fat scoundrel. Never to trust anyone. The whole city could burn for all he cared. But tonight, he was bringing in Slade Wilson.

He drew his handgun again and fired into the crowd of drones. One, two, three, four fell. He reloaded. "JOHN, DUCK!"

Detective Blake fell to the floor, and Gordon opened fire again. One, two, three went down this time. He reloaded. In the corner, Victor's cries of agony reached his ears. Clean and efficient, one, two, and three. The WorkerBeez fell like a house of cards, leaving Sage to catch his breath.

He reloaded. Last clip. He'd aim careful. One, two, three, four, five, six. He threw the gun, and charged the seventh. Two more punches and it was down.

For a moment, just one blessed second, the WorkerBeez halted. A reprieve from the chaos. They began to converge in a semi-circle around them as John and Jim went back-to-back with one another. Vic limped over, blood running down his body and staining his white shirt crimson as he joined the others. His face was coated in bruises, and a swell of purple flesh covered where his left eye used to be.

Sage took a few breaths, and balanced himself on Gordon's shoulder.

"Commissioner."

Jim took a hacking gasp of his own and spluttered "Speak, Detective."

"After… after careful consideration… I'd have preferred being wrong, about the robots."

"Me too, Detective. Me too."

"With all due respect," John said, keeping his gun steady on the WorkerBeez arrayed against them. "can banter wait until they're all smashed?"

"Dunno about you, but I'm out." Jim admitted. He lamented not bringing more guns.

"They stomped on mine." Victor announced, lazily dragging up his fists and readying for the next round. "Guess I'll stomp them. Eye for an eye."

"Very brave words." Slade called from the other side of the warehouse. "But I think you may have miscalculated your odds."

"So we took some lumps smashing thirty of these junkers." Jim retorted. "What's another dozen?"

A nauseating sound like an amused laugh came from behind Slade's mask. "Dozen? Jim, you never show your hand. For example…"

He snapped his fingers, and the Commissioner felt his heart stop as the sound of clanking metal echoed off the walls. From the shadows marched dozens more of the WorkerBeez, fresh for combat and joining with their battered brothers. A vast, unbelievable weight tugged at Jim's arms, and they fell limply at his sides. This couldn't be happening. There was no way.

Slade called from behind his army, "This is what I meant, Jim, the very first time I spoke with you. When I asked you who would be doing the chasing. You've never been on my tail; I've led you precisely where I want you to be."

"Hey, you in the orange. Shaddup."

The crack of a discharged weapon filled the air, and a droid at the front of the collective went down with a gaping hole in its chest. The three men turned back towards the door, and saw Harvey Bullock with a shotgun in hand, two more strapped to his back. He marched up to join them, handing his spares to Blake and John, with a pistol for Gordon.

"Thought you'd left us, Bullock." John said. Harvey just chuckled and said,

"What, and miss out on the fun? I just thought we could use a little artillery on our side."

"Artillery: excellent. Shotguns: slightly less so." Victor wheezed, nonetheless loading his weapon. Harvey shrugged.

"Well, if you ain't liking the guns, I brought a backup present."

Two pistols unloaded, knocking down over half a dozen of the WorkerBeez. Renee Montoya stepped into line with the others.

"I found our reinforcements scurrying 'round the Wharves trying to find us!"

Victor mixed together a pained laugh and a cough. John seemed too shocked for words, and turned to Gordon to see his answer. Jim took one look at Montoya, and exchanged nods with her. Nothing needed to be said.

Welcome back, soldier.

"Are things as bad as they look?" the returned detective asked. All present nodded. She nodded back. "Simple enough. Commissioner?"

Jim couldn't see himself, but he felt pretty wrecked. He couldn't imagine not looking to be in a similar state. "I'm fine, Detective. But this plan isn't working out so well."

"New plan, then." Victor suggested. "We kill the robots. Gordon, take Slade."

The Commissioner, hunched over, straightened himself up and clicked the safety off of his weapon. "As good a plan as any. Will you all be OK?"

"Just nab Wilson." John requested, handing his spare pistol ammo to Montoya.

"Right."

The members of the GPD shared a final glance before kicking off their feet, charging the ranks of the WorkerBeez. Their shots smashed their way through the line, their bodies hitting the mass of bodies with just enough for to let one man through. Gordon broke the rear of the line, and stretched out his arm, pistol gripped tight.

"SLADE!"

The shadow slipped away in the darkness, ducking out the back door. Jim didn't hesitate, barreling after him with every ounce of energy his crumbling body had left. He wouldn't get away. Not this time. Never again. Never. Never. Never.

Barbara's heart was aflutter with excitement. She'd nearly fainted with the sheer rush of shooting up from the stands by way of grapnel gun. A second use of the weapon and practically maimed the shooter, who was now glaring at her with all the hatred she believed a human could produce.

And she'd gotten off a quip, on top of it! This was going better than she could've hoped, but the very real dilemma of a gun aimed her way had presented itself. Her mind froze, and her body followed, unsure of what in the world to do after what she'd accomplished.

A refined voice in her head answered that question.

"Miss Gordon, third pouch from the left, the metal rod! Press the middle button twice!"

No time to argue with the magical mind fairy; she grabbed the object in the appropriate pouch, which was indeed a metal rod about as thick as the kind of post used on a bunk bed. Her thumb twitched more than moved, slamming the button down twice. First, the rod extended into a staff nearly the length of her body. Then, it expanded into a fully-covering tower shield.

Oh my god this is perfect!

She crouched down, Lawton's return fire squeezed off just in time to smack uselessly into the shield. Barbara resisted the urge to shriek when the metal on the bottom left of her shield crinkled inwards. She was Batgirl, now. No more scared girl under the stairs. Fight.

Letting out a roar to psyche herself up, she charged with the shield. Lawton fired two more shots, and nearly punctured the shield with the latter. But Barbara's assault closed the gap, and with all the strength she could muster she swung up and to the left.

The metal barrier smacked head-on into the sniper, and knocked him onto his back. He rolled backwards and onto his feet again, and Barbara's attempt at a second swing ended when a snap-shot hit the shield out of her hands.

"Alfred, are you still there?!"

"Yes, Miss Barbara."

"Any thoughts?"

"Batarang?"

She knew those well enough; first pouch to the right, she fished out one of the projectiles and tossed it.

It missed entirely.

Barbara was thankful her mask hid most of the mortified blush.

"Oh, just kick him!"

Not a bad idea, Barbara agreed, and got up close, knocking him in the side with her leg. Floyd nearly went toppling off the walkway, but he balanced himself long enough to aim another shot at Batgirl and squeeze it off. She tensed up, leaning to her right and bringing her shoulder to bear the shot. The bullet slammed into her upper arm.

Barbara huffed a sharp breath of air. She'd read on the pain she should be feeling, and this wasn't it. The armor had held, then. Her racing mind picked up on something in the middle of the moment: he was squeezing his fingers against his palm every time he fired. That must be where the trigger is. She couldn't speak much for her throwing ability, but a blade was a blade. She grabbed another Batarang and balled her fist around it, swinging a punch straight for the palm of Floyd's hand.

The bodysuit was cut wide open, blood flowing as the trigger was split apart. The man yelped in agony and lashed out, slugging Batgirl in the face. She slumped over the railing of the platform, rolling back over as the bigger man lunged and wrapped a bleeding hand around her throat. Her hands grabbed at it, helplessly trying to yank it away as he moved the barrel of his remaining cannon to line up with her eye.

Fear fueled her as Barbara fought back, grabbing his good hand and pushing it away; a delaying action at best. He had the height and weight advantage.

"Any ideas, Alfred?" she whispered.

"Your gloves can dispense a significant shock on contact; it should incapacitate him."

"Great!" she hissed, feeling her strength slipping as he continued to seek an angle to choke her out.

"Who the hell are you talking to?" Floyd growled, sincerely suspecting he was fighting a bona fide nutcase.

Barbara ignored him and asked, "How do I use it?"

"Erm… oh dear."

'Oh dear'? Barbara didn't like the sound of that. The butler clarified, in his usually calm tone, "It seems that it's voice activated. Only Bruce could use it with the suit as it is."

"Well, fix it!" she screeched back, the anger giving her just enough power to shove the encroaching hands back an inch or two. The infuriating humming of Alfred, deep in thought, buzzed through her communications channel before he told her, "It seems I can activate it remotely."

"DO IT!"

It was a gamble, but she had to try something. Batgirl released her grip on his hands and slammed them both onto his face. The left right up against his mouth and the right on the exposed flesh where the grapnel's claws had cut him. Her yellow palms flared blue as 50,000 unstoppable watts flash-fried the man.

OK, maybe that was an exaggeration on her part. But it looked like it hurt. The man was howling like a banshee as he backed away from her, smoke rising up from his flesh. Not even looking anymore, he aimed in her general direction and started firing. He was wide, but his aim was improving. It didn't improve enough to stop the shadow descending on him.

Batman fell on him like a vengeful phantom, throwing punches with the power of a steamroller in every blow. Barbara could hear bones crack and meat being tenderized. Two hands reached behind Floyd's skull and brought it down to meet the Bat's rising knee. It wasn't a pleasant meeting.

The assassin hit the floor like a sack of potatoes. Barbara looked at the man, at all the blood leaking from his wounds—and not a moment after she'd cauterized them, too—and then at Batman. He was scowling down at the would-be killer, but his fearsome gaze turned to her in short order. His voice was low, harsh. Harsher than she'd ever heard him.

"WHAT do you think you're DOING?" he snarled, leaning in to her face. He didn't have to question who was under the cowl.

"Helping!" she insisted, lowering her voice an octave almost without thinking. Nothing Bruce could say would scare her out of this, she assured her own quavering self. She might as well settle into the role.

"You think this is helping?!" Bruce questioned, gesturing at the man behind her. "You nearly roasted that man's brains out of his own skull! And that's after he almost killed you! Do you understand that, Bar—Batgirl? You could have died!"

"So could you!" she shouted back, leaning into his face and shoving her palm against his chest. She had no power to move him, but he did so regardless. "Br—Batman, you could be dead just as easily as me! You would have been dead if I hadn't shown up! Stop treating this whole damned crusade of yours like it's a private party!"

"Party?" Batman asked, flabbergasted at the very mention of the word. "Is that what you think this is? I wouldn't wish this on anyone! There's no chance in hell that I'd let you do this to yourself!"

Barbara threw her arms in the air, beyond mere frustration now. "To myself?! Do you see what you're doing every night? Dressing up like a bat and getting the crap beaten out of you by every freak you can find in some back alley? It's bad enough you do that, but if I'm supposed to be your friend, then I can't let you do it alone!"

She leaned closer, dripping every ounce of vitriol and accusation into her speech to ask, "What are you so afraid of?"

Batman faltered, turning away. Hardly above a whisper, she could hear him say, "…If anything happened to you, I…"

Whatever Bruce said next, Barbara didn't hear it. Her eyes homed in like targeting computers on the shooter, reaching into his pouch. Face bloodied and broken, only a few teeth remained in his crooked smile as he fished an unpinned grenade out, holding it up to show her.

"I… never… miss."

Panic seized her, and with no other options presenting themselves, she wrapped her arms around Bruce. She bent her legs and heaved, throwing all her might into tossing Batman over the railing and to safety. It worked, and Bruce went tumbling to safety, only catching a glimpse of the grenade, realization dawning on him in the coldest terror.

"BARBARA!"

The voice echoed in her ears as she turned away, wrapping her cape around her in a futile attempt to absorb the blast.

'Batgirl', huh? It was fun while it lasted…

Jim Gordon felt his entire body trembling as he charged through the night air. The mist was coalescing on his body, freezing him down to his marrow. But he couldn't stop, not with Wilson so close.

Slade was just beyond him now, slipping around each corner with only the barest lead, and he was closing the gap. Gordon had spent his entire career on the force. He'd outrun faster punks than this. Slade was a sprinter. Jim? Jim could run this marathon all day.

He knew his way around the wharves, and nearly clicked his heels in joy when Slade turned the next corner. It was a dead-end. Sure enough, as soon as Gordon himself made his way around, he was pointing his gun at a man fully out of options. Slade was backed against the wall, slowly turning to face his pursuer.

"It seems we're at an impasse, Jim."

Gordon, between his heavy breaths, just took aim with his pistol. "On the ground, scum!"

The mask was rigid, but if he didn't know better Jim could've sworn that Slade arched his eyebrow at him.

"Ground? Now, why in heaven's name would I do that?"

"I warned you!"

Jim squeezed the trigger, and the bullet smacked straight into Slade's chest. The bullet pinged off as if it didn't even exist. Slade's eye visibly narrowed, and with a bit of irritation asked "Was that supposed to do something?"

Jim scoffed with contempt for his weapon and tossed it aside, bringing up his dukes and spitting on them for good luck. "It was a warm up shot," Gordon retorted. "it comes right before I beat your ass into the next calendar. You don't get to run anymore!"

His feet pushed him along, and Jim charged into the alley, leading in with all the force he could put into a rushing punch.

He didn't know what had happened. In a flash, Slade moved faster than the eye could follow, snatching up Gordon by his hair with his right hand and yanking him out of balance. The left hand casually slipped a knife between the officer's ribs. Jim nearly gagged from the sudden onrush of pain, but Slade wouldn't give him that luxury. His hand roughly yanked the Commissioner's face around to look him in the eye.

"Oh, Jim, when will you learn?"

The eye narrowed to nothing but a slit, and his next words came with such a low growl of fury, Jim could hear the devil behind them.

"I've never been running."

Slade's hand moved like lightning, slamming the side of Gordon's head into the nearest brick wall.

Dick remained where he had promised he would, watching the exchange of blows up in the farthest reaches of the circus tent. He could hardly see anything, but whoever that man was, he was getting his butt handed to him by somebody. Not Batman, though. He was still climbing the rope; nearly there, but not quite. He was transfixed on the exchange of blows when two voices called out behind him.

"Dick!"

"Robin!"

He turned, and didn't even stop to question as he hugged his parents as tightly as he could. He felt his spine ready to crumble under their combined strength. He didn't mind, though.

"Oh thank god, Dick, we were so worried!"

"Dad, I was worried! You almost got shot!"

"None of that matters!" Mary insisted, squeezing the both of them tighter just to shut them up. "You're safe, we're safe, that's all that's important."

"Not quite." John reminded her. With a gentle nudge he broke off the hug and set his hands on his boy's shoulders. "Dick, where are Barbara and Bruce?"

"Bruce left the tent before your act, he never came back. Barbara left in all the big rush to go look for him."

"Okay, at least they're out then." John said with a sigh of relief. "A-all right, everyone, think. We need a plan. Is it safe to move?"

Dick peered over the side of the wall, at the action happening above. It was hard to tell, but it seemed the man was down. Batman and the stranger were… talking.

"I… I think the gunman's down. The other two are… wait. Wait, something's happening, they're—"

"BARBARA!" came the cry from above.

KRAKOOM

An entire section of the walkway was decimated in shrapnel and smoke, and beside Batman's tumbling body two more came streaking down. The Graysons watched, petrified, as the Bat flailed in midair, desperately trying to right himself. He flipped over twice, before at last his cape solidified into a single wing-like shape, allowing him to swoop down and snatch one of the bodies from the air. The second hit the grandstands on the far side of the arena with a sickening crunch.

They'd all heard the name Batman called. They weren't sure what that meant, but they had to check. They hopped over the side, rushing out to meet the Bat as he landed. Most of his face was hidden behind the mask, but the look of terror couldn't be missed. It was like he didn't even notice them there. His only care was the woman in his arms. The armor was wafting smoke, charred and splintered from the blast. He wrestled with the helmet, wrenching it away and stripping back the mask from her face.

The entire world seemed to change, the air itself becoming a sickly pallor of green and yellow when the Graysons saw the gashed face of Barbara Gordon revealed. Mary looked away, unable to handle the shock; her husband embraced her, bowing his head and averting his eyes. But Dick watched. He couldn't tear his eyes away as Batman desperately worked. He ripped away the covering on her torso and pressed her chest, performing CPR. His breathing was frantic, erratic as he listened for any signs of life. Minutes passed.

A grim silence fell, only the distant sound of the blowing fans above them providing indifferent ambiance. Slowly, uncertain of what to say or do, it seemed, Batman leaned back from the body. On his knees, he silently crouched and buried his face in the palm of his hand. Dick thought he saw tears on his cheeks.

It struck him, then, that something was off in the air. Something smelled foul. He'd never experienced it before, but it was raging in his nostrils like all the world had gone wrong. He looked up, and almost mechanically asked "What's that smell?"

"Smell?" asked a raspy voice. The Graysons and Batman alike felt a shiver in their spines as they looked to the grandstands. Over the wall leaned a figure thin as bone and covered in rags, glowing eyes beneath a straw cap staring them down with a sewed-on grin. "That's the smell of fear, Mister Grayson."

All around his body, the strange figure seemed to exude noxious green smoke, polluting the very soul of the world around him. His grin split open, revealing a twisting, twirling array of spiders and creatures of the night within his burlap skull.

"After all… what's Halloween without a few scares?!"