Author's Note: One more chapter after this and then Endgame is finished. Enjoy.

Confessions

"My old man was murdered when I was twelve. Instead of foster care I went on the streets. And at first, everything was okay." I tell the group I'm sitting in. I shrug. "I'd been pickpocketing and hustling since I was ten so for the first few weeks, I got by with the help of a few five-finger discounts and classic cons down the pool hall. I didn't get too greedy. I kept the take small to stop them beating the shit out of me. But they got wise quickly. Marks protected their valuables better. A buck was harder to come by." When I finally find the courage to look up from my clasped hands, everybody in the room is listening intently to what I have to say. I think they've heard this one before. I'd stop talking but now I'm rolling I have to finish. I swallow hard.

"After holding out for five months on nothing but pennies, I sold my body for the first time. I was just…" I close my eyes for a moment as I try to articulate the end of that sentence. I open them, look around and laugh before shaking my head. "I was just so fucking hungry I would've done anything. When I went with this guy, I hadn't eaten in four days. It felt like my stomach was trying to eat itself before he made the offer in the subway. Plus, I think I was a little dehydrated too, a little spaced. So I didn't really hear what he was asking me to do. All I heard was food if I did as I was told." The black kid on my right, the one who gave me dirty looks when I came in and sat down, is dumbfounded by what I'm saying. He can tell I'm serious. His name's Lenny Johnson and he's one of the guys Bruce is interested in. He's about my age, maybe a little older and definitely a street tough and gang leader. He frowns.

"So what happened, man?" He asks me, putting a hand on my shoulder. I notice the gang tattoo on his forearm that says he belongs to the Killaz, strictly territorial gangbangers down in Park Row and with past relations to Two-Face. I look at him and smirk.

"I did exactly what I was told." Lenny squeezes my shoulder supportively and nods in what looks like complete understanding. I think I've won him over already. I incline my head in appreciation and his hand falls away. I turn back to the group. "We went into the subway bathroom, into one of the cubicles and he told me to get down on my knees. Then he opened his flies, pulled out his dick and stuck it in my mouth. I just about managed not to choke. It went on for a while, like five minutes, and then he stood me back up and spun me around." They all know what's coming next and most of them look both disgusted and mesmerized in equal measure. I know what happens next too, but I'm not in the mood to tell them. Somehow though, I can see managing to utter just a few more words of the story is going to swing them all in my favour for good. So I push on even though my stomach is doing backflips and my heart is beginning to pound in my chest. "He pulled down my pants and underwear…bent me forward over the cistern and then…took whatever innocence I had left to offer in the next three minutes." I nod, satisfied I've given them the best version of my first time. I'm silent for a long time after that.

"How much did he pay you?" Alice Tate, a fifteen-year-old girl from the Bowery, asks from across the room. She's seems like a nice enough girl, but the nose piercings and tattoos on her neck kind of kill my interest. I smile at her.

"Seven dollars. It was just enough to buy a Burger Deluxe Meal from Eddie's down in the Narrows. For the fifteen minutes it took me to eat it all, everything was okay again. When it was over, I just felt numb." I remember I didn't walk right for two weeks. I remember I said to myself that I'd never go that low again. I remember that promise lasted all of three months. No-one else speaks for an even longer time than I did. The guy heading the group, a Hispanic man in his late forties with a neat goatee and general air of professionalism called Michael, nods in appreciation.

"Thank you Jason. It was very brave of you to start the discussion like that. If you don't to share more, I think we'll understand." The guy says in a sincere tone of voice. I can tell he cares about his work. That means Bruce had to do some serious digging to find him. I frown.

"Would you guys mind if I ran my mouth some more?" When they all shake their heads in unison, I'm not surprised. Stories like mine interest people. I mean, they know I'm from a broken home and they know I've done some hard yards on the streets, but they want to know how I got to here. I'm not still where they are and they want to know why and more importantly how I escaped. They know Bruce Wayne is my saviour, but they want to know how I found him and how I ran with it. As it turns out, I kind of want to tell them too. It felt like I was going to die earlier when recapping my first customer, but now it's out in the open, I feel relief. It's one less skeleton I need to hide. I want to feel that release of pressure again. So I continue talking. I think I talk for something like another hour, completely killing off the entire session time in the process. Nobody says a word by the closing stages of my story, even Michael.

I outline the basics of my other six customers, my attempt to steal the wheels off Bruce's car and his pity for my situation. I tell them it was a Bentley and that he was there to mourn the spot where his parents were gunned down instead of the truth. They all buy it easily enough: I get the impression they all think Bruce Wayne is a bit of a weirdo anyway. It's okay though, better a weirdo than the bat-clad freak he really is. In reeling off the darkest part of my history and revealing the blackest details of my torment on Gotham's streets, I've managed to do something I have never been able to do in Bruce or Al's presence. Somehow strangers make things easier. Somehow I feel better than I have in a long time. Because even though I've poured my guts out, Bruce still doesn't know. And he never will. And that's why I still feel strong and capable despite showing vulnerability: because the big guy is clueless about the truth. When Michael signals that we're out of time and that we'll have to pick things up at the next session, everyone else leaves. I stay.

"Hey Michael?" I ask as the man begins clearing away his notes on the session into a professional-looking briefcase.

"Yes Jason?"

"I'm sorry I hijacked your session there. I didn't mean to yammer on so much." The guy turns to me and smiles.

"It's not a big deal. You obviously had a lot of stuff to get off your chest. It's good you were able to vent." I can tell the guy is sincere in what he says, honest to a point I'm not familiar with in his field of expertise: shrinks are usually always so cryptic. Since he's so open and also a professional, I have to ask the obvious.

"So what did you think of what I said?" He frowns at me.

"What do you mean?"

"Did you think…I was…disgusting to do what I did?"

"Not even slightly. You were just trying to survive." Michael tells me with a shake of his head. "And quite frankly, I'm amazed you were able to go to such lengths just to stay alive. I've never heard of a twelve-year-old lasting fourteen months on Gotham's streets without having any gang affiliations or a network of friends. It's remarkable."

"Well you'll be glad to know I don't have any other tales to tell on the next session. At least you can listen to someone else's voice for a change."

"All the same, I'm very grateful you were the first one to speak. Your contribution is going to be invaluable in getting the others to open up. I got the impression they were a lot more willing to speak towards the end than at the beginning and that is entirely thanks to you." He informs me picking up his briefcase and gesturing to the door, "Would you care to walk me out?" I like Michael's style. He doesn't push or force issues. He doesn't insist on doing things a set way. He just waits for an opportunity, an opening to capitalize and build on. He's a really good guy. I could definitely work with him again. I walk with him to his car. We make a little small talk about the Gotham Knights and their chances during the remaining games of the post-season and then he's gone. Al picks me up from outside the centre some fifteen minutes later.

Whenever it's just me and Al in the car, I ride up front with him. He thinks it's unprofessional to allow me to do it, but secretly I know he likes the company. Today is no different. He greets me in his usual manner and then it's at least five minutes of silence before he chooses to speak again.

"How was your therapy session, young man?" I shrug my shoulders.

"It was okay."

"So you are not…upset by anything that may have been said during the session?" He asks a little tentatively. The old man is always delicate in broaching these kind of subjects. He doesn't want to hurt my feelings. It means a lot. I shake my head.

"No. I feel fine."

"I'm very glad to hear that. Would it be too bold to inquire what exactly you told them?" He says with more confidence now he knows I'm still as solid as ever. I grin.

"For anyone else but you, Al. I told them everything." I see an involuntary raise of his brow in response to that answer. He frowns.

"Everything?"

"Yep, the whole sorry story about Jason Todd's life on the streets."

"I would have thought such a story would require an awful amount of time to properly tell."

"That's why I talked for the whole session. Nobody else said a word."

"Then may I say how proud I am of you, Master Jason. It takes a far greater amount of courage and mental fortitude to confront such personal demons in a public forum than it does to face down an army of thugs and degenerates. I hope you are proud of yourself as well. You have every right to be."

"Thanks, but Bruce is going to be pissed. I didn't manage to get any information on Two-Face's location."

"I would argue your mental health and well-being are of far greater importance than Mr. Dent's current whereabouts."

"Yeah, but you would, Al: you're human."

We arrive back at the house shortly before four in the afternoon. I go straight up to my room. Bruce is already there. He's not waiting for me though: when I get in the doorway, I see he's looking around the room in a general sort of way like a real estate agent might appraise a property. He's still dressed in his business suit and tie but seems to be lost in thought: he doesn't notice me even when I advance a few steps inside, a rare occurrence to say the least. He's definitely thinking about me otherwise he wouldn't be in my room, but I don't know what he could be musing on whilst staring at this blank slate of a bedroom. Suddenly his ears prick up. It's a minute tilt of his head, but it means he has become aware of my presence.

"I apologize for the intrusion, Jason. I did not intend to be here when you arrived back." He says without emotion or turning to face me.

"I didn't get any information about Two-Face." I tell him. He nods in understanding.

"I expected as much. I would imagine you succeeded in gaining their trust though?"

"Yeah, they'll talk during the next session for sure."

"That is fine. We still have time. What was your impression of those potential targets I gave you? I was rather hopeful for Leonard Johnson." Yeah, he should be: the intel he gave me was spot on for the guy's reactions to my stories. I give him what he wants to hear.

"I think if anyone'll know anything about Lumpy's location, he will."

"And can I tell Mr. Hoya to expect you on Thursday?"

"Yeah whatever you need."

"Then I shall leave you to your own devices until dinner." Bruce says finally turning around. My eyes widen at the sight. The big guy's face is a mess. He's got a black eye, a split lip and maybe half-a-dozen stitches over his forehead. Added to that are several other fist-sized bruises dotting his jawline and right cheek. I know his patrol got rough last night while I was taking a night off to recover for today's mental beat-down, but I didn't expect this kind of damage. I can't help but grimace as he advances towards the door.

"Are you okay?" I ask. He stops a foot or so in front of me and nods whilst slipping his hands into his pant pockets.

"Yes I'm fine. I merely encountered firmer resistance than I had anticipated. It is nothing to concern yourself with. How was your session?"

"It was fine. I was able to say a lot of things I haven't been able to say in the past."

"I am glad it proved beneficial to you. And how was your tutoring with Barbara this morning? Alfred informs me she was impressed with your knowledge of poetry." He says in the same empty tone he's been using since the start of the conversation. Looking at him, I'm surprised he can talk at all with that kind of damage: sore jaws and split lips hurt like hell when you're trying to form coherent vowels. I try to shrug off his compliment.

"I just recited a few lines of Hemmingway for her. It's all I can remember of Al's lessons on the arts."

"Regardless it would appear your relationship as student and tutor could yet bear fruit. I am pleased with your efforts, both in your studies and extra-curricular activities. As a reward, I think it is only fitting that I excuse you duties for a few days. You may take an entire week if you wish. It is entirely up to you." I scrutinize the big man's face again. I want numbers. If he had any number below thirty to contend with, he wouldn't have a scratch on him: it had to have been a hell of a scrap to leave that kind of mark.

"How many were there?"

"I counted forty-one combatants at the outset of the encounter. It is not inconceivable that more joined the battle as it gathered momentum. It is nothing to concern yourself with."

"Yeah, but I've seen you take down fifty guys before single-handedly and then go and take another thirty an hour later on the same patrol. Is everything alright?"

"I admit to being somewhat…distracted during the closing stages of the encounter: it was during the last five or six minutes that I sustained the majority of my injuries." Bruce would not say distracted if it was not some sort of mental problem. If it were physical, say a light in his eyes, tear gas or maybe being blindsided during the fight, he would have used the word impaired. When he says distracted, it's because he is thinking about something that is too problematic to simply split his concentration on. Since he's here, in my room and not the cave or his study, he was distracted because he was thinking about me. Facing down forty-one thugs who wanted his blood and the guy was thinking about me.

"You didn't know how it was going to go today, did you?" I say. Bruce's expression is still blank as he answers.

"No."

"Were you worried going to this counselling crap might hurt me?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because I cannot read you. I was also concerned my attempts to help you confront difficult issues from your past would backfire and cause you to regress further into yourself."

"You thought I'd become you?" I say. Bruce doesn't even blink in the face of that pretty strong analogy of the situation.

"No. I feared you would lose your restraint." Nice. He thought I might start killing people. I don't think I'm that far gone just yet, even if today had gone south. I shrug.

"Well, it hasn't." He nods.

"I am aware of that now."

"And I want to join you on patrol tonight." I inform him. He raised an eyebrow in obvious surprise.

"How is your nose? It still appears somewhat discoloured from here." He says regarding it with some trace of concern across his face. Yeah, it's still bruised and pretty tender, but not hard to live with.

"It's fine. I'm good to go."

"You are under no obligation to join me this evening."

"Are you still worried about me?" I say. For just a fraction of a second, I see him hesitate in responding. He's more than a little human today.

"I do not wish to upset you."

"I'm not going to get mad if you say yes. Most parents never stop worrying about their kids. Considering what we do on a nightly basis and my own less than glittering past, I'd understand." Bruce is still less than willing to verbalise his thoughts. So I speak for him. "Yes, you're still worried is the short answer you want to give me. My counter offer to that is if I go on patrol with you, you can see how okay I feel for yourself. Nothing says happy-go-lucky than being able to beat-up scumbags without any problems. I know I can't stop you worrying altogether, but at least by doing this you can worry a little less." The big guy nods in both appreciation and agreement. It means something to know he cares this much beneath the surface. He hides it because he's trained to. It takes a hard night to show me how much he cares, but at least he's shown me something.

"Thank you Jason. I will see you at dinner."

It's about seven hours later. We're in the Bowery, back-to-back and fighting off a small army of hired goons sent out to do some fire sales on nearby businesses. It looks like local turf wars are escalating a little. We foil the arson attacks and then have to contend with their backup numbers arriving. It isn't all that difficult. As long as you hit them in the face, the ribs or the groin, they go down hard enough to stay there. That's all I concentrate on with my share. Bruce meanwhile is probably employing projectiles, nerve strikes and variety to deal with his numbers. I'd turn around to look, but I don't want to break ranks while we're still getting swarmed. Once they've been dealt with, I ask him about leads for Two-Face's location.

"I had believed last night's lead was promising, however it proved to be a dead-end. I still maintain that those individuals in your counselling group are the best leads we have. Other than that, we have only one other avenue to explore." He tells me whilst scanning the immediate area for some grapnel purchase.

"What's that?"

"We get lucky." He says without humour. I get why: guys in our line of work don't get lucky, especially with the amount of mirrors we break and illegal gambling dens we close down every month. Twenty minutes later, a typical example of our kind of luck presents itself on the police scanner. There's been a homicide in Park Row, close to the area Wayne Enterprises has housed its apprenticeship personnel. The details begin to mount up as we draw closer to the crime scene: African-American male, roughly mid-to-late teens, approximately six feet in height, and multiple stab wounds to the abdomen as primary cause of death. According to the tattoo on his forearm, he belongs to the Killaz. It sounds suspiciously like someone I may have met today. When he arrive on scene fifteen minutes later, the body is under a tarp and forensics are swarming all over it. Jim Gordon isn't working the primary investigation, Harvey Bullock is. As soon as he sees us, he warns us away.

"Thanks, but we don't need your help, fellas. This is an open and shut case. The kid here was the victim of his gang affiliations. The Killaz don't like one of their own turning their back on the gangbanger way of life. This is a straight-up honour killing. We can find the scumbags responsible pretty easily given the DNA evidence the lab boys are turning up." I have to give it to the guy: he is a solid detective even with his prejudices. All we want is an I.D.

"Have you been able to formally identify the body?" The big guy asks as cordially as he's capable of doing under the cowl. Harvey turns to his notebook and flips to the first page.

"The kid's name is Leonard Johnson, seventeen-years-old and recently enrolled in this Wayne Enterprises scheme. Poor kid probably never stood a chance growing up in that neighbourhood of being anything other than one of them." That is our typical luck when we need some good fortune or we've done the hard yards to get on the cusp of our result: witnesses turn up dead. I take a cursory glance under the sheet to check we're not dealing with mistaken identity. When Lenny's lifeless eyes meet mine, I can't help but voice my disappointment.

"Fuck."

We spend the next three hours combing the streets for the killers. We're not lucky enough to simply stumble across them, but we do turn up the murder weapons, a couple of wooden shivs tossed into a trash can, less than two blocks from the crime scene. We radio in the cops to collect one of them while Bruce pockets the other for forensic testing of his own. We return to the crime scene but with the amount of trace from the forensic team in the area, it's impossible to get much more than what we already know. Even though Bullock's probably right about this being an honour killing by Lenny's gang, there's a slight chance Two-Face hired them to bump off the poor kid before he could spill his guts. It's virtually non-existent, but with Lenny bumped off, it's the only premise we can grab hold of. We need to make sure that finding the killers doesn't somehow mean finding the former D.A. as well.

We head back to the cave for around two in the morning. We run tests on our shiv and get a partial thumb print on the handle. There's just enough markers available to get an I.D through the computer database. The guy we're after is Alistair Taylor-Brown, a.k.a. Preach, a mid-level player in the Killaz hierarchy. He's already got prior for this kind of crime, including a stretch in Blackgate for a murder charge and Gotham County awaiting trial for other murders of which he was later acquitted. He seems a likely candidate for a hit man even without his fingerprints and someone else's blood on a known murder weapon. By this stage of the night, I'm in my workout sweats having taken a shower while the forensics were being analysed. The big guy has also managed a quick rinse before donning his dressing gown and slippers for the heavy part of the analysis.

"He could have been hired by Dent. Do you see what I mean?" Bruce says as we read the guy's jacket over again. I see three convictions for what could pass for honour killings within the gang. A weird fact about Killaz if they are going to kill one of their own: they only kill on Tuesdays. Why Tuesdays? According to Bruce, they have meetings on Wednesday that pass as some kind of state of address. Thursdays they're out supplementing their income, same applies to the weekend. Mondays they have what could be classed as a day off. Tuesdays are the only day when they allow for that kind of punishment. I don't want to know how the big man knows their routine so well, but I do see all the other dates mentioned match up for Tuesdays. With today being Thursday, killing one of their own feels off.

"I see it but it's incredibly thin on the ground. It could just be an unsanctioned killing or revenge for something else."

"I wasn't merely referring to the day of the week. Look again."

I scan the information again. Something in the known associates' column jumps out at me. It's a single name of the ten or so present. Harry Marsh. There's something about that name I know links to Two-Face. I look at the big man and shrug.

"Harry Marsh?" Bruce smiles at me, something he never does, and nods.

"Marsh is known associate of both Alistair Taylor-Brown and Harvey Dent. He is also out on bail relating to minor theft and fraud. His location is also unknown. In the past, he has acted as Dent's lieutenant in criminal affairs. It is not inconceivable that Dent told Marsh to hire Taylor-Brown to kill Leonard Johnson."

"But it's just a theory. Is there any other proof we can lean on?"

"Perhaps. At present, only we know of Taylor-Brown's involvement in the killing. We have a last known address in Park Row, less than half a mile from the crime scene. We could question him now."

"But surely by now, Gordon and his men have got a positive match from the other shiv and are heading over to arrest their man: doesn't that mean our guy is going take a little vacation for the time being?"

"Shall we check?" Bruce says already keying in the area code and phone number listed for the residence. This is grasping at straws now. Criminals never pick up the phone like this. But we're desperate now our star witness has been iced. He puts it on speaker and we both sit quiet as the dial tone repeats for over a minute. Just when the big guy is about to terminate the call, someone picks up the receiver.

"Yeah?" A deep voice asks. Bruce takes a second before answering in a nasally Bronx accent.

"That you, Preach?"

"Harry? Man, what you doing calling me here? You said no landlines, only disposables." Holy fucking shit: did we just get lucky? Jesus Christ it's an actual miracle. The big man is quick on his feet and immediately presses the issue.

"Look, the boss needs to know if our 'problem' has been fixed." He's good, avoiding all the key words that are inadmissible in court like 'murdered' or 'grasser'. The answer comes back quick and definitely hurried.

"Hell yeah it's been taken care of, but L.A.M's been busted." L.A.M is probably Lamar Davis, one of Alistair's best friends in the gang. Bruce is already a step ahead though.

"Okay, I'll take care of it. You okay?"

"Yeah I'm cool, man. I need to get out of this place for a while though."

"You stay there one more hour and then we'll get you out of there."

"An hour? Man this area's hot! The cops are all over this place! I ain't got more than another damn minute before they're knocking on my door too!" Okay we got a flight risk here. The guy's nervous and understandably too since he's just killed some kid in cold blood. The big man has to be tactful in getting him to stay grounded in the neighbourhood.

"Hey, your boys'll protect you until we can get there, alright? Just hang tough and we'll be there soon. Have I ever let you down?" There's a short and tense silence as Bruce's big risk is mulled over. We don't know if Harry Marsh has ever screwed this guy over, but we can hope he hasn't. Finally, after nearly thirty seconds, Alistair comes back over the airwaves.

"Shit man…alright, I'm going to trust you this once, Harry. I'll stay put. But get here quick, man: it ain't safe." He hangs up and the line goes dead. Bruce and I exchange glances. I have to say it before the moment passes.

"That was absolutely fucking incredible. How did you know Marsh had a Bronx accent?"

"He was born in Hoboken, New Jersey. It was either Bronx or North Jersey, so I guessed."

"Good guess. And the nasally edge you added to it?"

"I may have heard him speak briefly on the telephone during a previous operation involving Dent. I recall it was quite high pitched." I can't help but grin at him.

"We got lucky." I say. Bruce smiles and nods in total agreement.

"We got lucky."

"What now?"

"We get Gordon to pick him up in less than twenty minutes and to hold him for questioning. We hand over the other murder weapon, saying we found it after a second search and linked it to Taylor-Brown. Then once he's been held for twenty-four hours, we'll press him for information on Marsh's whereabouts."

"And Lamar?"

"He's just insurance. I'm pretty sure he'll know nothing unless Taylor-Brown told him. I highly doubt he would have told him anything important."

"So we'll probably find lumpy features in what, less than forty-eight hours?" I say. Bruce smirks.

"With any luck."