Author's Note: Thanks for the great Reviews! Sorry this chapter is a tad disjointed when it comes to comic/cartoon continuity (they seem to be trying to make them match more with the new 52, but it's still enough to make your head explode...) Hopefully this still works within the boundaries of "sense" and "plot."

...

I don't own any characters mentioned in this story. The rights belong to DC comics, Bob Kane, etc.

...

Darkness Cannot Drive

Part 2/?

.

I said to my soul, be still
And let the dark come upon you
Which shall be the darkness of God

T.S. Eliot, Four Quartets

.

"Hey Commish!"

Barbara Gordon looks up from her data screen, frowning. "Aren't you supposed to be in school, McGuiness?"

"Free period," Terry shrugs, a small smirk playing on his lips. "I'm probably supposed to be studying for my History test, but..." A shadow moves across his features. "I'm more interested in a different type of history right now."

"Oh?" She tries not to encourage the kid, but he's done a lot for the city. Plus, he's a Bat, and therefore he's family.

"Listen, I heard the old man talking to Clark last night. They said something about someone named Jason. Supes sounded pretty concerned, and Bruce just sounded pissed. I asked him about it later, but you know how he is. Totally clammed up. Won't tell me a thing." Terry grits his teeth and plops down in the chair in front of Barbara's desk. "I think it has something to do with the dead guy. The one who was stabbed." Terry looks up, searching. "Thoughts?"

Barbara doesn't respond. A part of her (the Batgirl part) jumps in pride that Terry has a streak of detective in him after all. But the other part (the part that remembers the cold metal of a wheelchair, that wakes up at night in a cold sweat at the memory) keeps her in check.

"If Bruce felt is was something you needed to know, he would have told you himself, Terry. You need to trust his judgment."

"Funny. I could have sworn that his judgment not to tell me about the Joker almost got me killed about a month ago."

Barbara sighs, half defeated. "He... The Red Hood... well, he's an old friend, Terry. And... and an old enemy. It's complicated."

Terry's eyes narrow, become Batman eyes. "How complicated?"

"Very. And, yes, he's the one who killed your tech thief."

"Think he's the one that's been tailing me too? I've had a Bat Stalker for about a week now."

Barbara raises an eyebrow. "Probably. He was never very good at following someone without them knowing it." Despite herself, the Batgirl-side wins out and Commissioner Gordon finds herself smiling a sweet, nostalgic smile. "Tried to catch Nightwing off guard back when he was in the Teen Titans. Almost ended up with a broken hand because of it."

Batman's face turns back into Terry's— a face of interest and shock. "Wow, so we really are talking about an old friend, huh? Geeze, I'm surprised this guy can walk, let alone keep up with the car."

Barbara starts, shifts back into herself. "It's complicated, McGuiness."

"So you keep telling me." Terry's voice is hard, bitter. He stands up and shoulders his backpack. "Sounds like there's a lot of history here. And I hope you realize that no matter what you do or don't tell me, I'm in the middle of it."

Barbara doesn't have a chance to respond before her office is empty again. Which is fine, because she still has no idea what she would say.

.

.

Everyone is haunted by ghosts today, he thinks. Maybe even ghosts are haunted by ghosts.

It's late afternoon when he finally makes it to Crime Alley. It doesn't look so scary anymore, but the crackling energy is there— like Two-Face after his facial reconstructive surgeries, broken even under the fixed appearance. A small, gold sign advertises the area as Gotham's Historic District. And Jason laughs, knowing that it must have been Bruce who coined the pathetic phrase.

He finds his old apartment building, now being turned into office space and start-up shops. He wonders if anyone will open up anything successful there— where that girl was raped, where that family of five was murdered— or if the presence of ghosts will eventually turn Crime Alley into what it, at the core, always will be: a nurturer of sin, of grime and pain.

A strange part of Jason reverently hopes for the latter.

He starts to leave as the sky dims; it's nearly dusk. Enough time to get back to his place, to suit up for patrol. But Time has a sense of humor and stops for a moment, is interrupted by a throaty laugh. Not HIS laugh, thank god. Merely a parody, an impression.

Jason looks up to see a group of five Jokers blocking his path. One in the center has bright yellow hair and a pink suit, but still looks oddly like the Original, the inspiration for these pathetic crime groups. His black-rimmed eyes are open wide and he toys with a— Jason almost laughs at the irony— crowbar, painted white and purple.

"Awwwwe, somebody doesn't look very happy, kids. I think we need to bring some cheer, don't you think so?" The lead gang member with the garish face-paint darts in front of Jason, a red traced grin stretching across his face. "Give us your money, friend, or things are going to get fuuuuuuunnnnnnnny!"

Jason grabs him by the throat before he can launch into another pun.

"Let me tell you something." Jason is surprised how calm his voice sounds, how much like Bruce. "I'm not a stable person. And I have serious issues with clowns and crowbars." He eyes the lead Joker's weapon, making sure the yellow-haired boy gets a taste of his most dangerous glare. "So, if this gets physical, I can't promise you that you'll survive the night. Really, it's in your best interest to get away from me. Now."

Jason tosses the thug sideways, purposefully hitting his hand against the clown's windpipe just for good measure. The Jokers watch, eyes wide, as their leader coughs and hacks, his eyes scrunched tight as he fights to regain his breath.

He finally stops and glares at Jason. It's the glare of an amateur, but there's still enough menace behind it that Jason knows this kid will end up in the emergency room tonight, most probably in critical condition. Stupid, stupid Jokers.

"Get him!" The clown cries. The rest of the gang hesitates only briefly before they attack.

Jason grins.

.

.

Bruce Wayne sits in the cave, Ace lying quietly at his feet. The reports pour in— the band of Jokers admitted to the Gotham City Hospital, the T-Gang stopped from an attempted rape (seven broken legs), an electronic store robbery earlier tonight foiled (an arm snapped and one thief who almost bled out before the paramedics arrived).

With the exception of the Jokers, who are too scared to say much besides that 'he was just some guy' who was crazy (really truly crazy they insisted seemingly without irony) no one can say much about the shadowed man who came out of the dark to confront them. The news programs are giving the credit to Batman.

(Wayne knows, of course. Knows that the style is different than Terry's. Rougher, more severe. Plus, Terry went home early to study for a test, after stopping a kidnapping and saving a young man from a fire. Nothing to sneeze at, nothing at all).

Commentators praise the Batman, saying he is cleaning up the city. They politely ignore the severity of the violence in these new attacks. No one was killed, so all is forgiven in the eyes of the press. And the thief with the knife in his chest? Surely an accident. Surely a case of criminal against criminal. Batman is a legend, a hero. More than the shadowed vigilante that the older generation remembers.

No one is frightened of Batman. Not like they used to be.

For a brief moment, he allows himself to wonder how right his second soldier might actually be. Then he stops, mentally shaking himself. Ace looks up at his master and whimpers. The old dog can see that his master is brooding more than usual. Wayne smiles minutely and pats his canine friend on the head. "No worries, old chum," he whispers.

The screen of the Bat Computer flickers to life as the suit— the Batsuit, Terry's suit— goes live. "Terry? What's going on."

"Wayne, something blew up at the Modern Art Museum. I could see the explosion from Max's."

The news reports flash red with updates as Terry speaks. Bruce ignores them and pulls up the Gotham City Prison records. "Mad Stan was released this week. And his accounts show massive activity over the past few days."

"Well, that answers that question," Terry grumbles into the radio. "I'm on it!"

Bruce barely hears the faint chime of the Bat Computer reporting 'new message' over Terry's rockets. But he does still hear it, and it makes his fists clench.

Only a few people have ever known how to send messages directly to the Bat Cave computer, and most have been dead for years. Bruce Wayne glares at the message briefly, as if its existence was a personal insult to him, before opening it.

'HEY, POPS— HOPE THE NEW KID IS BETTER THAN HE SEEMS. FOR EVERYONE'S SAKE.'

Bruce doesn't have time to react before there's the sound of another explosion and a scream rips through the Cave, amplified by the computer speakers.

"Terry!" The video screen crackles with interference. Batman gives a slight moan, but no words. "Terry! TERRY!"

There is the sound of something cracking, like a bat hitting a baseball just right, before the connection goes completely black.

To Be Continued...