Double Headed

by Chess-Blackfyre

There's a new vigilante in Gotham City-Flamebird. But there's more to the story. There's always more to the story. (Duela Dent Time-Travel Fix-It. Rachel Dawes x Harvey Dent)

The basement of Arkham Asylum hasn't changed much. Fifteen years ago, this was the pit where Doctor Jonathan Crane and his accomplices contaminated Gotham's water supply with fear toxin. They never bothered to renovate, but the vigilante doesn't mind. Not when it's left her with such a good perch. Her name is Eleanor Dent–Duela to most–but better known to Gotham City as Flamebird.

From above, she studies her prey. Down in the pit, a man in a dark robe is on his hands and knees, scribbling something in chalk. Occult symbols cover the cement floor. Duela can't begin to understand what he's writing, but it doesn't matter.

Once, John Dee was just a tinkerer. A mechanical genius who made gadgets and gear for Gotham's underworld in an attempt to keep up with Batman. Key word: attempt. Recently, he's gotten into the occult. Really into the occult. But Duela's been dealing with the League of Assassins since she was ten, and this is Just Some Guy with a weird hobby.

You'd think after all this time, the superstitious and cowardly lot would learn to look up. They rarely do. The vigilante drops to the floor. Silent as a shadow, she approaches from behind.

"It's over, Dee." Flamebird growls, towering over him. The man startles, and she kicks him over onto his back. Something glistens on the floor, a centerpiece among the scribbles. He reaches for it, but she's quicker, her foot slamming down onto his wrist. Dee screams in pain, and she takes what he was reaching for.

"You broke into GCPD evidence, and killed two officers." She holds up the double headed silver dollar, scorched on one side. "All for this. Why?"

"You wouldn't understand."

"Try me."

Nothing.

She presses down on his wrist.

"Agh! Fuck–I'll talk. I'll talk!" Flamebird doesn't remove the boot, but she takes her weight off of it. The man swallows. "I-I needed it for this to work. A totem, a powerful totem. Of luck. Of chance. A burning death's head is what I saw, and understood. The High Priestess, Death and Judgement."

Duela can't begin to untangle the knot of dream logic John Dee was operating off of, so she doesn't even try. She taps the side of her helmet.

"Oracle, I've got Dee. Basement of Arkham Asylum, east wing."

" Understood. Did you find it?"

"Holding it in my hand. Hard to believe he went through all this trouble for a coin." The young vigilante holds it up to the light.

" ...doesn't matter. I've got officers already on their way."

Duela will let Barbara contact Batman, if he wasn't already listening in. Flipping the coin over, she studies the unscorched side. Liberty. In God We Trust. Where has she seen this before?

She doesn't see the gun he kept under the folds of his robe. Not until it's too late. Not until a Smith & Wesson model 36 revolver is pointed up at her.

A gunshot echoes. Duela falls.

Rachel Dawes is a lot of things to Bruce Wayne. His best friend, his confidant, his ally…and in his more somber moments, he thinks she might be the only woman he'll ever love.

He'll never forget the first time he saw her again. Seven years apart, but recognizing each other instantly. Seeing that ring on her finger and the gentle curve of her stomach was like a steel-toed kick in the teeth.

"You were gone a long time." Rachel said, and Bruce felt exactly like the entitled brats he's spent his life despising. What, had he really thought she would wait for him? He'd never asked her to, and it was stupid of him to expect it.

Alfred filled him in on the rest. While Bruce was in Nanda Parbat, Rachel met Harvey Dent. A six month whirlwind romance, and now she was married with a child on the way.

Six months. If he had returned to Gotham just six months earlier so much could have been different. Maybe he and Rachel could have…

Well. It doesn't matter. She gives birth to a beautiful baby girl a few weeks later. Despite being a toddler, Eleanor Dent is already becoming one of Bruce's favorite people. And despite the cloying, childish envy that stabs through him every time he sees them together, Bruce likes Harvey too. He's a good guy, one hell of a prosecutor, and was already a frontrunner in the polls before Brucie Wayne throws his support behind him in the run for District Attorney.

Rachel is happy, and Bruce wants her to be happy. So he'll be her friend and her confidant and the godfather of her child, and it'll be enough. It has to be enough.

"So, how's life?" Bruce asks with a smile.

They're sitting in a booth of Rachel's favorite cafe. The seats are comfortable, the shop isn't too busy, and sweet smells of coffee beans and cinnamon waft through the air. Their server–a teenage girl with an undercut and several piercings –delivers their coffee with a polite smile. If she recognizes the billionaire playboy, she's doing a good job hiding it. Then again, Instead of the usual suit and tie, he's wearing jeans and an old Gotham Gators sweatshirt he's had since high school. Rachel is in full business casual, her attaché case on the floor underneath the booth.

"Good. Ellie's finally weaned so I can stop feeling like a glorified milk cow." Rachel hasn't had a sip of coffee since she found out she was pregnant. A long, deep inhale, appreciating the smell of the white chocolate latte with cinnamon sprinkled on top. A slow, appreciative drink. "Harvey and I are working to get ready for the Sal Maroni trial. Lots of long nights, I probably owe Alfred a thank-you gift for babysitting as much as he has."

Bruce takes a sip of his own. "He says he doesn't mind, but a bottle of nice scotch would probably be appreciated. Although…" he leans forward, lowering his voice. "With everything you and Harvey are doing, do you ever worry about someone like Maroni going after Ellie?"

"Constantly. But we can't let fear stop us from acting."

His lips press into a thin line. "Ever consider getting some extra protection? For all of you."

"Bruce—"

He holds up a finger. "Hear me out. Alfred has some contacts, and knows some people—trustworthy people—who could help keep you safe. Some of them are even willing to help with childcare on top of it."

"A Green Beret is willing to work as a nanny?"

"I've been told it's a tight job market." The joke falls flat.

Rachel gives Bruce a look. "You already talked us into letting you pay for that high end security system, we aren't inviting a stranger into our home. Harvey and I are being careful, so don't worry."

The server returns and Bruce sits back up, his expression flipping back to polite interest. She refills their water glasses without having to ask, and tells them that it'll just be a few more minutes until their food is ready.

"Can I get either of you anything else?"

"No. Thank you." Bruce flashes a smile, and Rachel wonders if he'll leave a $50 bill as a tip or a full $100.

Flamebird doesn't initially draw Harvey Dent's interest. Just another wannabe vigilante. With all the Batman copycats crawling out of the woodwork, at least this one is doing something original.

Then he hears about the fact she's a teenage girl. Even with the voice modulator and the helmet, it's not hard to put together. Lord, the press would have a field day with that. So, as Harvey burps his baby daughter, he watches the dashcam footage.

A dark red helmet, with tufts similar to the Bat's cowl ears but styled more like feathers. Bird motif to go along with the name. Same shade of dark red for her body armor, featuring a black cape with red lining. Instead of a bat across her chest, she seems to be sporting a double headed eagle. A dark red utility belt, and black combat boots. He'd turned in his own motorcycle for a minivan once he got married, but Harvey knows the bike she's riding isn't something you can buy from the average dealership.

Whoever Batman is, he's a man with resources. This Flamebird clearly has access to the same kind of toys.

"You're under arrest–" the officer tries.

"Blow me." She sneers, her voice distorted by some kind of voice modulator. Perhaps something in the helmet? Before the officer can react, she's speeding off on the motorcycle. Detectives are reviewing surveillance footage from nearby streets to try to pick up her trail, but Harvey isn't holding out hope of them finding her. There was no license plate, and from what little he's read about Flamebird, she doesn't seem to be dumb enough to have purchased the bike under her own name.

Still, it was always good to be prepared. As Eleanor amuses herself with building blocks, Harvey scribbles out a first draft of what he'd say to the press if Flamebird is ever arrested. He places it in a pocket of his attaché case, right next to the one he wrote for Batman.

The unidentified vigilante "Flamebird" has access to similar technology as the Batman. Current evidence points to her as some kind of accomplice. Appears to be female, still younger than 18. Despite her age, Flamebird is a formidable fighter with a high level of intelligence and impressive acrobatic abilities that make her difficult to apprehend. We don't currently know if the parents/legal guardians have any idea this adolescent girl risks her life as a vigilante. Regardless, the GCPD intends to try her as an adult.

Automotive experts figure her motorcycle as some kind of custom job. We've pulled records from several prominent machine shops to determine potential suspects.

Prepared by

Detective Michael Wuertz

The weather that Monday morning in Gotham City was gorgeous. It seems that winter has finally gone, and spring has arrived. Two minutes until the trial starts, and he's jogging up the courthouse steps.

A teenage girl in a motorcycle jacket exits the courthouse, looking at something in her messenger bag. She stares at Harvey as he makes his way up, but smiles as she holds the door open for him. He sees her red-brown hair and the silver stud through her right eyebrow without committing either to memory.

"Thanks."

"No problem. Knock 'em dead, Mr. Dent," she calls out.

"Will do," he replies over his shoulder.

At 9:31 he burst into one of the chambers. The courtroom is filled with lawyers, spectators, uniformed policemen, and the defendant, Salvatore Maroni.

"Sorry I'm late," He says to no one in particular as he sits at the prosecutor's table next to his wife.

"Where were you?" Rachel whispers.

"Trouble at daycare. Worried you'd have to step up?" Harvey grins and opens his attaché case.

When the bailiff says "all rise" he's already forgotten about the girl he passed at the entrance.

Later, he won't even question why Wilmer Rossi's gun misfired. Probably just shoddy manufacturing.

Memory Lane is a small cafe only a short walk away from the District Attorney's office. Many young ADAs have frequented the place for coffee, early morning bear claws or late night donut runs.

During her walk there from the courthouse, Duela Dent ejects the clip, throwing it into a nearby public trash can. Once she reaches the cafe, she throws the empty ceramic 0.28 caliber into the dumpster out back.

The cafe owner, Hubert Fallon, would become an ally to Batman in the years to come. Right now, he's a man willing to let a teenage girl with nothing but a motorcycle and body armor sleep in the spare room above the cafe. The cafe adjoins a long abandoned mechanic's shop, where she's currently hiding her Flamebird paraphernalia. Small solar panels are stuck to the windows as her gear recharges. WayneTech was about ten years out from this particular development in solar power. All the energy generation of the standard solar panels at a fraction of the size. Duela has half a plan to track down the owner and buy them out once she has the money together, but it's not really a priority.

The spare room is mostly used for storage, so Duela has had to push some boxes around to make room for herself. She doesn't need much space, sleeping on a small cot with mismatching linens but a soft, warm quilt on top.

Two weeks since she's traveled back in time and she's no closer to figuring out a way back home. It isn't bothering her as much as it probably should. Duela misses having Babs in her ear. Flamebird didn't quite realize how much she's come to rely on Oracle's information network until she's forced to work with it

She can go back whenever, but there's a limited window of time for her to make a real difference.

She pulls a coin out of her pocket. The 1922 silver dollar. One side was already scorched and now there was a bullet hole clean through the center. Duela flips it into the air, and slaps it down onto her wrist. Tails.

The Crimson Towers apartment building is burning. But not everyone has been able to evacuate. The lift had come to a sudden stop, trapping its occupants between the floors. After rappelling down the elevator shaft, secured by her utility belt, Flamebird works on forcing the doors open, the clawed tips of her gauntlets digging into the metal. They part with the groaning of gears and the scrape of metal.

Two figures are inside, a middle aged black woman and her son, about nine years old. The boy brightens at seeing her, leaning forward in his wheelchair. The woman tries to place herself between Duela and the boy.

"I know you're scared, but I promise you have nothing to fear." She smiles. "I'm called Flamebird. I'm here to help."

They have to leave the wheelchair behind. The boy and his mother cling to her, Flamebird holding each of them by the waist. A tug on the zipline, and all three of them whoosh back up the elevator shaft.

"Kiddo, my hands are full, so on my call, I need you to hit that button on my belt, okay?"

"Okay, Flamebird!"

"If either of you are scared of heights, you may want to close your eyes." Almost…almost…"Now!"

With a press of the button, they clear the building. The kid screams in delight, his mother just screams. "Don't worry, I've done this before." Up and out, Flamebird spreads her wings, the button press also snapping the memory cloth into a glider.

"Chair!" She calls out to the first responders as they get closer to the ground. It would be easier to steer if her hands were free, but all three came to a clean, if unsteady landing. The glider snaps back down into a cape.

The firefighters stare. The EMTs snap right into action and Flamebird sets the kid down into the waiting wheelchair. "They were the last. Rest is clear for the GCFD. The fire was caused by faulty gas piping," she presses another button on her belt. "I'd bet good money the landlord ignored the code citations. And another thing…" she kneels down, looking at the boy. "This kid's a hero. What's your name?"

"Jamal."

"Well, Jamal, thank you for helping me." She holds out her hand, and he responds with an enthusiastic high five. She stands, only to find herself suddenly pulled into a hug.

"Thank you," Jamal's mother murmurs. "Thank you, thank you, thank you."

"It's uh," she can hear the incoming motorcycle. "It's no problem."

The advanced machine bobs and weaves through fire engines, ambulances, and onlookers, coming to a stop before Duela. The young knight rides off into the night.

The first time Rachel sees the footage of Flamebird, she knows exactly who she needs to talk to.

Bruce swears up and down that he's not helping her. That he has no idea who she is. Rachel wants to believe him, but the idea of her best friend dragging a kid into this half-suicidal crusade of his isn't as far-fetched as it should have been. But even if he is telling the truth, it's not hard to guess where Flamebird got the idea.

The fugitive Dr. Jonathan Crane has finally been apprehended, but many of his accomplices were still at large. Then, about a dozen of the wanted fugitives were found on the doorsteps of ten different precinct in a single night. Then a police helicopter spots Flamebird on her motorcycle.

Loeb has been doubling down on the 'zero tolerance' policy towards vigilantism. So when a police helicopter spots Flamebird on her motorcycle, that leads to a high speed chase which leads to the kid being cornered in an abandoned building outnumbered ten to one by a bunch of cops with the implicit (if not explicit) order to take no prisoners. In command, the leader of GCPD's SWAT team, Captain Branden. Rachel knows Branden' reputation. They'll be lucky if there's enough left of Flamebird to scoop off of the pavement.

Except, no. All Rachel has to go off is radio chatter as she sits with Major Crimes, but it's clear from the screaming and the gunfire that if anything, Branden is the one who needs backup.

Rachel takes a drink of coffee to hide her smirk from the gathered detectives listening to the dispatch.

Snapping on a pair of rubber gloves, the district attorney of Gotham City sits at his office desk and inspects the new piece of evidence. It was a weapon. Sort of. It wasn't the solid metal of batarangs–the cute nickname the public gave to the bat-shaped shuriken the Batman uses. The twin, wing-shaped blades fold down but snapped up at the press of the center button.

There was a knock against the door. Harvey looks up. "Hey."

"Hey. Ready to head home yet?" Rachel asks.

"Almost just, one more thing…" he holds the weapon up to the light.

Rachel pushes the stroller into his office. Inside, their precious cargo is snoozing away. Harvey's the one who bought the frog-patterned baby clothes Ellie's wearing, and got her dressed this morning. Tonight was Rachel's turn to pick her up from daycare.

"Whatcha got there?"

"Something Flamebird used against the SWAT team." He holds it up for her inspection. Rachel cocks her head, not about to break the chain of evidence by touching it.

"Fancy throwing knife?"

"Sort of. According to Branden, they had the kid cornered when Flamebird throws this right into his vest. It blinks one, then releases some kind of aerosol. With their impeded and coughing on the smoke, she takes them out."

"One part throwing knife, another part smoke grenade. Casualties?" Rachel asks.

"A few cuts and bruises, but nothing too serious. I think most of the damage was to their pride." Harvey grins. Captain Branden, the GCPD's poster boy for excessive force and police brutality, got his ass handed to him by a teenage girl. He's never going to live this down.

"Couldn't have happened to a nicer guy." She deadpans. "Any DNA or fingerprints?"

"Lab techs said they couldn't find any. Not even on the internal components."

"So she's careful."

"Or paranoid, but you'd never guess based on the way she acts," Harvey shakes his head. "She actually agrees to take selfies with people."

"Seriously?"

"Apparently she's trending on Twitter." Harvey pulls up the screenshot he's saved to his desktop.

Rachel raises an eyebrow. "Is that a Sailor Moon pose?"

"A what?"

"You know," the ADA plants one hand on her hip and flashes a sideways peace sign over her face. "Sailor Moon?" Harvey shakes his head. "It's this Japanese cartoon. I ran into Sarah and Barbara Gordon earlier. Babs is apparently obsessed with it right now."

Ellie begins to fuss, waving her little arms in adorable indignation. Harvey gets up from the desk. Kneeling in front of the stroller, a few moments of attention settle her back down.

"Think they'll find her?" Harvey comments, putting the pacifier back in the baby's mouth.

"Doubtful."

Bruce studies the surveillance tape.

He can hear Alfred's approach. "I thought you weren't concerning yourself with copycats?" The butler asks, not unkindly.

"This isn't just any copycat. She's got resources. Tech. Technique. She's been well-trained." He replays the video in slow motion. "Like right here. I used the grappling line. She sliced the cable around her ankle before it went taut. You don't just do that. It has to be practiced. Learned."

"Perhaps the League of Assassins?" Alfred suggests. "Even with the head gone, the body could still spasm."

"Maybe…but that wouldn't explain the tech. Everything she has is improved versions of my gear. WayneTech but next gen. Longer grappling hook, combination smoke bombs and shuriken. Lighter armor that's just as tough."

"A young tech prodigy, perhaps?"

"Theoretically maybe, but, where would she get the resources to construct them?"

"Quite the puzzle. But may I remind you we're expecting company soon, Master Wayne?"

The vigilante hums, not looking away from the computer monitor.

"Specifically, the Dents." That gets his attention.

"Oh. Right."

Going up to the penthouse, Bruce showers, shaves and changes his clothes, ready for company by the time Rachel and Harvey step out of the elevator.

"There's my girl," Bruce brightens as Ellie squeals and makes grabby hands for him. Later, she spits up on his shoulder but that was why he'd worn the old Gotham Gators sweatshirt.

The long term care wing of Gotham General is becoming more familiar to Anna Ramirez than her apartment. But as she approaches her mother's hospital room–visiting an almost daily habit–the detective hears something unexpected. Laughter.

She pokes her head in through the open door. Anna knows most of the nurses and volunteers on this floor by now, but this candy-striper is new. A teenage girl with red-brown hair up in a ponytail, revealing an undercut. She's sitting across from her mother, a small table between them. Both of them are holding cards, the white girl telling some kind of story.

"-to which the bartender responds 'Thanks, but I'm stuffed'."

Maria Ramirez breaks out into a peel of laughter, almost dropping the cards in her hand. It's been awhile since Anna's heard her mother laugh. Especially in this place.

The young detective knocks on the door. Both women turn. "Sounds like you two are having fun."

"Oh yes," her mother wipes her eyes. "I was just teaching Dahlia here how to play truco."

"More like cleaning the floor with me," the girl smiles. That's when her watch beeps. "I'm so sorry, Mrs. Ramirez, but that's the end of my shift. Is there anything I can do to make you more comfortable before I leave?"

"So respectful. Could you lower the shades? This time of day the sun causes a glare on the TV."

A swift nod, and Dahlia offers her chair to Anna. The young detective takes it. After adjusting the shades just right, the volunteer leaves.

"So…what were you two talking about?"

"Oh this and that. Hobbies, what shows we like, you–oh! And she told me about this Wayne Foundation thing."

Anna blinks. "The what?"

"Some kind of program to help with hospital bills. For a spoiled rich white boy, Bruce Wayne apparently loves to throw money at hospitals. I think we should at least look into it."

A long sigh. "Mom–"

Maria raises a finger. "I know, I know, you're able to cover it now. But with all that overtime and double shifts, I worry about you, mija."

The young detective looks down and grabs the playing cards.

"...how about another hand of truco?"

The first time they meet Flamebird face to face, she's in their apartment. Ellie was being fussy, only deigning to fall asleep after being held and rocked for awhile by her poppa. Such a daddy's girl. Rachel opens the door to the nursery.

"Holy shit," Harvey gasps.

Flamebird is standing over Eleanor's crib.

It's hard to tell with the helmet–no eyeholes, just a smooth cowl with white decals where the eyes would be–but Rachel could swear Flamebird is studying them. The ADA studies her back, noticing the armor, the utility belt and the spider bite piercings on her lower lip. Especially as her mouth twists into a smile.

"What are you doing here?" Harvey's voice is low and warning. He places himself between her and Flamebird, holding onto Ellie just that bit tighter.

The teenager is clearly unintimidated. "We need to talk. Someplace we wouldn't be overheard."

"So you decided to break into our home?" Flamebird is lucky they don't want to wake Ellie up.

"Well. Yeah." She says like it was the obvious and completely logical course of action. "You should really update the code for your security system, by the way. Your daughter's birthday was literally my first guess."

Rachel sighs. "You wanted to talk? Then talk."

"Trust no one inside of Major Crimes. Gordon's clean but he's forced to work with what he has. Plus the usual thin blue line bull."

"You got something more specific?"

She's silent for a long moment. "Wuertz and Ramirez. He got greedy, but her mother's hospital bills made her desperate."

Harvey and Rachel share a look. Not so long ago, they almost had the young detective on a racketeering charge before the witnesses were suddenly recanting their testimony. They'd suspected someone was protecting her but it was good to get outside confirmation. As for Wuertz…well, Gordon making him primary for the Batman investigation tells them exactly how much trust and faith the Lieutenant has in him.

"That's what you wanted to tell us?" Rachel prompts.

"For now, at least." She moves to the shelf of baby toys they at least try to keep organized. For whatever reason, the vigilante picks up the black and white stuffed bunny, one of Ellie's favorites. "Oh, and don't change the alarm code to your anniversary or either of your birthdays. That's the next thing anyone would guess." Flamebird gently puts the bunny down.

Ellie starts to fuss against Harvey's chest. Drawing her parent's attention away from the vigilante, if only for a moment. When they look back, she's gone.

" If you love somebody enough, you follow them wherever they go…That's how I got to Memphis," Duela sings quietly, accompanying herself on the guitar. " That's how I got to Memphis…"

The cafe is closed for the night, Duela already having finished sweeping up and cleaning out the oven. Fallon was counting out the cash register.

She found the instrument while rummaging through some of the boxes in her room. In dire need of tuning but in otherwise good condition, the young vigilante has it working order once more.

"I didn't know you could play."

A shrug. "It helps me clear my head." So does playing the piano and ukulele. Learning to play the saxophone had been mostly an act of spite. Then Bruce had the music room sound-proofed and Duela was too stubborn to give it up.

"So. What's a kid from Gotham doing singing about Memphis?" Fallon asks, locking the cash register.

"It's a metaphor, 'Memphis' is just a stand in for wherever you are in your life right now."

"Or when?"

A sidelong glance, but she doesn't rise to the bait.

"While I have enjoyed your company Ms. Dent—sorry, Ms. Doe— I do question why you haven't been trying to collaborate more with your mentor?"

A strum of C major chord. "He's still in his bullheaded 'I work alone' phase. I'm better off doing my own thing." Barbara Gordon was always amazingly capable, but she's currently eight years old.

"What about Agent A? Have you reached out to him at all?"

Duela fiddles with the coin. Stringing a thin chain through the bullet hole, she's taken to wearing it underneath her clothing. Even underneath her armor.

There is a part of her that wants to go crying home to Wayne Manor. To knock on the door and beg Alfred for help. To try to explain who she was and how she got there. Except the current Eleanor was a toddler, and the butler would definitely think she was crazy. Even if she convinced them to do some sort of DNA test, they'd try to find a reasonable explanation. Besides, if she goes to Alfred, that means she'll have to deal with Bruce.

Duela does not want to deal with Bruce.

"Ah. I see." Fallon starts wiping down the counters. "Just something to keep in mind."

Her tongue grazes one of the small magnets on the inside of her mouth. She wouldn't get actual spider bite piercings. Too much upkeep and too much of an identifying feature. The faux bites doubled as a handy tracking device.

She goes back to strumming the guitar. " If you love somebody enough, then you go where your heart needs to go. That's how I got to Memphis…That's how I got to Memphis…"

Bruce knows what Rachel's calling him about the moment he hears the phone ring. Building digital back doors into the Dent's security system isn't exactly the most ethical thing he's ever done, but it's definitely worth it. "Before you say anything, she's not working with me."

"I know."

Rachel gives him an overview of the conversation they had with Flamebird. Including the part about the corrupt detectives in Major Crimes.

"Are you sure there isn't something you can do?" She sighs.

"About the detectives?"

"About Flamebird."

Bruce pauses. "Rachel, I don't think my…usual methods of persuasion are appropriate here." In their first meeting, she managed to slip away easily enough. They haven't had to go one on one, but Bruce is doing this to go after hardened criminals, not teenagers.

"I meant talking to her. You seem to have been an inspiration, maybe she'll listen to you."

Bruce sighs. "You'd think so. I told her to knock it off. She said, and I quote: 'you're not my dad'."

"I don't suppose you could threaten to call her parents?" He tactfully says nothing. But Rachel knows him too well. "Wait a second, you still don't know who she is?"

"Rachel, we have bigger problems to deal with."

"Still, not even a suspect?"

Of course there were suspects. There's Roxy Ballantine, a STEM prodigy in WayneTech's mentorship program. About the right age, and definitely smart enough to be able to reverse-engineer his tech, if she didn't stumble across old Applied Science blueprints. Except the night Flamebird was cornered by the SWAT team, Roxy and her parents were at the celebratory dinner for the program in a packed ballroom. Her alibia is the front page story in the WayneTech newsletter, with a photo to match.

Then there's Kitrina Falcone, granddaughter of Carmine "The Roman" Falcone. While Salvatore Maroni swooped in to take over most of the Falcone's criminal empire, Carmine's kids are still active in the Gotham Underworld. Including Kitrina's father, Alberto. Even if they're not involving the teenage girl in the family business, it wouldn't be hard for her to overhear things. It would explain how Flamebird seems to know so much. Maybe she's resentful. Maybe vigilantism was the ultimate teenage rebellion. With only a little digging around Bruce found Kitrina's love of dirt biking and her black belt in taekwondo. Except she also has alibis for many of the nights Flamebird was active.

"...like I said, we've had bigger things to worry about."

Memory Lane is a nice little cafe close to where they worked. It was Saturday, but they both had some things they needed to pick up at the DA's office. Ellie starts to fuss, so Rachel picks her up once they're inside. Harvey parks the stroller out of the way of the door, a diaper bag slung over his shoulders. The teenage girl behind the counter smiles at them.

It only takes a glance at the menu to decide what she wants. Rachel adjusts Ellie onto her hip, reaching into her purse. Harvey waves her off. "No, no, let me get it."

"You always get it." Even after a year of being married to him she isn't sure if it's some weird chivalry thing, a guy thing or just a Harvey thing.

"We have a joint checking account."

"Which is why you should let me pay for once."

"Okay, let's let fate decide." Harvey takes a coin out of his pocket, flips it into the air, and as its falling says: "Heads, I pick up the bill. Tails, it's yours."

Rachel Dawes rolls her eyes but smiles. Their toddler, meanwhile, is completely enraptured by the bright, shiny thing. Ellie squeals, making grabby hands towards her father and the small piece of metal she could easily choke on. Harvey slaps the coin down onto the back of his hand and shows it to Rachel.

The barista leans forward with a curious look. Harvey shows it to her too. "Heads. I got it."

A strange look crosses the girl's face, quickly replaced by a customer service smile. "Alrighty then. What can I get for you?"

"Two bear claws, caramel macchiato, and one mocha latte, all to go."

"Coming right up."

The second time Harvey meets Flamebird, she's crashing his first meeting with Batman. Well, not crashing per se. Harvey waits by the floodlight on top of MCU for the better part of ten minutes when he finally hears the flutter of a cape.

"You're a hard man to—" red instead of black, one of her spider bites catching the light "—reach."

"I take it you were expecting the big guy?" The amusement is clear through the voice modulator.

He assesses the vigilante up and down. There are a few new scratches on her armor, but she doesn't look injured. "He sent you?"

"I was in the area."

Harvey knows deflection when he hears it, but presses on. "I take it you wanted to talk again?"

"Yep," she pops the 'p'. "You've got them nervous. So they've decided to hire someone to kill you and Batman."

"And you?" Flamebird hasn't been getting the same amount of press, but he knows she's been doing her own fair share of damage.

"...and me. But you two are the priority."

"This someone have a name?"

"The Joker. The one responsible for the robbery at Gotham National Bank."

Harvey quirks an eyebrow. "Seriously? A clown?"

She's suddenly much closer to him, all amusement gone."He's not an enforcer with a gimmick. They're about to start bankrolling a domestic terrorist, not a hitman." Flamebird barely lets it sink in when she continues. "Once Joker's off the leash, things are going to spiral out of control and spiral quickly. Remember what I said?" Harvey nods.

The young vigilante glances over her shoulder. "You know, it's rude to eavesdrop." Harvey looks up in time to see Batman step out of the shadows. Ignoring the young woman's jape, the other man looks over at Dent.

"She with you?" Batman growls, voice low, raspy and pretty much like you'd expect a man in a cape and black body armor to talk.

"I thought she was with you."

"She's not."

Flamebird steps away, trying to muffle a giggle. Harvey glances over at the teenager."Sorry—sorry. It's just, you hear how ridiculous you sound, right?" Whatever Batman was expecting, it clearly wasn't that. She looks at Harvey. "You hear him too? He sounds like he needs a cough drop."

"...I mean–"

"See! Dent agrees with me."

Then the door to the stairwell slams open and Gordon, gun in hand, bursts onto the roof. He looks at Dent, Flamebird, and Batman and holsters his weapon. Ignoring the pair of vigilantes, he approaches Dent.

"You don't turn the signal on without my permission!" Gordon says, flipping it off.

"And you don't move on the mob without telling me ," Harvey snaps back, remembering why he's here. "Lau's halfway to Hong Kong. If you'd asked, I could have taken his passport. I told you to keep me in the loop."

Flamebird and Batman share a look.

"Yeah? All that was left in the vault were marked bills. They knew we were coming. As soon as your office gets involved, there's a leak!"

"My office? You're sitting down there with scum like Wuertz and Ramirez…oh yeah, Gordon, I almost had your rookie cold on a racketeering beef."

"Don't try to cloud the fact that Maroni's clearly got people in your office, Dent."

The lawyer turns to the bat and the bird. "We need Lau back, but the Chinese won't extradite a national under any circumstances."

"If I get him to you," Batman asks, voice marginally less raspy. "Can you get him to talk?"

"I'll get him to sing."

"Great," Flamebird chips up. "You deal with that, I'll keep on Joker."

"One man or the whole mob, Flamebird?" The bat questions. A sharp, joyless chuckle is the teen's response.

"This isn't funny," Batman growls.

"Oh, you have no idea."

"We're going after the mob's life savings," Gordon reminds. "Things will get ugly."

"I knew the risks when I took this job, Lieutenant. Same as you," Harvey turns. "How will you get him back any–"

But neither vigilante was there.

Gordon makes a hapless 'what are you gonna do' gesture. "He does that."

"Any luck on getting a proper identification on our Pagliacci?" Fallon asks once Duela gets off of her shift. She didn't come in until late last night, and they haven't had a chance to talk until now.

"No. The guy's a ghost. I do have eyes on some of his crew, and am tracking their movements." The spider bites weren't her only tracking devices. Plus, she could improvise a few other ones. "Plus, while Bats is off in China, I want to do something I know he won't approve of."

"Such as?"

"Find wherever it is the mob is keeping their liquid assets while their money launderers are all in the clink."

"Essentially, their own personal piggy bank?"

"Yep."

"I've heard of freezing their assets, but this…It's bold, Ms. Doe." His eyes crinkle at the corners and just the barest hint of a Mona Lisa smile graces his face. "I cannot say I do not approve, however. How could I assist you?"

"Well, considering how much money they're dealing with, they need someplace to store it, right? So, I need to find a place that's both big enough to hold everything, and secure enough that they don't have to worry about someone trying to make off with it."

Fallon hums, opening his laptop. "Well, I have a few ideas, but no promises. I'll have to reach out to a few of my contacts. Where are you going?"

Flamebird checks the charge level on her helmet. 100%. "Three can keep a secret if two of them are dead. If there's a giant pile of cash sitting in the middle of Gotham, people are going to know about it, and they're going to talk about it."

"Dare I ask what you're planning?"

"Ask a few questions." Duela pulls her gauntlets off the charger. "And smash the mob's piggy bank."

Hearing the cape is a courtesy. Sherry can't make heads or tails of the kid, but she's figured out that much.

"Firecracker," she snaps her gum.

"Ms. Paulson." The vigilante greets, polite as ever. In the Narrows, manners are as rare as the potholes are plentiful. "I was wondering if you had a moment?"

"For you baby? Always."

She meant it too. Two weeks ago some schmuck with the Maroni family was trying to get all the working girls to work for them, by force if necessary. More than a few girls ended up in the ER, unable or unwilling to go to the cops. Then this pretty little birdie swoops in and introduces the Maronis to the heel of her combat boots. Flamebird is good people. Willing to stop and listen and handle things the big bad bat probably considers beneath his notice.

"How about a giant pile of money in the middle of Gotham? And you know I mean big. "

Sherry pops her bubblegum. "I may have heard a few things through the grapevine. But keep in mind, someone's been walking around with pruning shears, so you didn't hear it from me."

"Never."

So she tells the kid what she's heard.

Flamebird nods, rapidly typing down the details on a burner cell. And Sherry thought her niece was a fast texter.

"Any other trouble I should know about?"

Sherry shakes her head. "Jen and Holly's landlord was being an ass, but Selina already took care of him."

A considering hum. "Good to know. Stay safe, ma'am."

Sherry leans down and presses a kiss to the top of her helmet. The bright pink lipstick stands out against the dark kevlar, and the kid's face is beet red. It's adorable. "You too, kiddo."

The next time Harvey meets Flamebird, she's handing him a tracking device. Another late night at the office, the DA takes a second to stretch and roll his shoulders. When he looks up, she's standing in front of his desk.

"Jesus–!"

"Not quite." Instead of an apology, she places something on his desk. "You said you wanted to be kept in the loop."

"What's this?" The outer casing looks like it once belonged to a Gameboy, but it's clearly been modified.

"With Lau compromised, our conglomerate of crime can't launder their money through the banks. I have a lead on the liquid assets. If it's not a trap," she presses one of the spider bite piercings, and a bright red dot appears on screen, "that'll turn on and you can meet me there."

"And if it is a trap?"

She shrugs. "I'll deal with it."

Her lead turns out to be good. Harvey takes three separate cabs to the warehouse district. Zig-zagging through the dark alleyways, following that little red dot into one of almost a dozen identical looking buildings. When he sees the unconscious guards and the parked motorcycle, he knows he's in the right place.

Officially, Carmine Falcone made his fortune importing luxury goods from Italy. Warehouses owned by his company were famous for smuggling, all the different places contraband could be hidden if a search warrant was ever served. Not this though.

Flamebird perches on top of a truly giant pile of money, at least twenty feet tall.

Dent whistles, and picks up a stack of hundred dollar bills. "Business is clearly booming." He flips through them. "You know, if we were anyone else…"

She jumps down to the ground in a move that makes Harvey's knees ache just from watching it. "We're not."

"Right. Of course." He sets it back down. "So. What now?"

Flamebird hums. "Bats would tell us to call Gordon. Have Major Crimes pick this up as evidence. But you just know they have people in the city assembly and the mayor's office."

"So it'll just end up back in their coffers by tomorrow."

"Exactly. So we need to make it disappear."

Harvey looks up at the piles of cash. Even the smallest of the stacked piles is at least twice his height. "Any ideas on that? Even with a forklift, moving it could take days."

Flamebird pulls a book of matches out of her utility belt. Holds it up between her pointer and middle fingers.

He raises an eyebrow. "Seriously?"

"Eh, what's a little arson between friends?"

Harvey fiddles with the coin in his pocket.

There were a dozen reasons he should say no. It was dangerous. It was illegal. If the fire got out of control people could get seriously hurt, or even die. People have been killed for way less. If he gets caught, his career is in shambles.

On the other hand, to men like Salvatore Maroni and Rupert Thorne…this was what it was all for. This was all they cared about. Money. Not other people's lives, not basic decency, just money. Money is bribes, payoffs, fast cars, fancy penthouse apartments and influence over the levers of government. If he wants them to hurt, to really hurt, it needs to be destroyed.

Besides, it's not like he's never thought about doing something like this before. No judges to buy, no juries to threaten. Direct action.

Taking the matches from Flamebird, Harvey clenches and unclenches his jaw. Maybe Batman keeping him out of the loop is less about trust and more about deniability.

"Wanna flip for it, counselor? Heads we burn it down?"

Harvey pulls out his father's lucky coin.

When the district attorney gets out of the shower, he can hear the TV going in the living room.

Ellie's in her playpen, adorably trying to figure out which hole the star-shaped block should go into. Rachel is sitting on the couch. On screen is a news report about a sudden fire in the warehouse district. They're interviewing someone from the fire department about how lucky it was the fire didn't spread to the surrounding buildings.

Rachel looks over at him, eyes sharp but saying nothing. Harvey opens his mouth, but she raises a hand.

"Don't. Even with spousal privilege, I don't want to know."

He leans over to her, flashing a charming grin. "Have I told you I love you?"

Rachel smiles, despite herself. "Don't push it, buster," she trails her fingers up his chest. "And don't make a habit of this either." Cupping the sides of his face, she pulls him down into a kiss. The clatter of a play block falling into a hole, and Ellie makes a happy squeal.

Finally. For a girl in dark red armor and a cape, Flamebird wasn't an easy person to find. She's staked out on a rooftop, watching something across the street through a pair of binoculars.

Keeping his footsteps silent, Batman sneaks up behind her. It was time to get some answers.

"Don't bother, I know you're there." She didn't even look up from the binoculars. How the hell does she keep doing that?

"We need to talk." He crouches down next to her, not so close as to crowd or loom, but close enough so they could speak quietly.

"Do we?" She challenges, body tilting away from him.

"You burned the mob's money. You and Dent." That gets her attention. Her head slowly turns towards him, her lips pressed into a thin line. "How the hell did you talk him into arson?"

"With surprising ease."

"Are you trying to get yourself killed?"

"That's a bit hypocritical coming from you." She looks back through the binoculars. Following her gaze, he can just make out a clown mask through the window.

"Joker?"

"He's not here, but this is one of the crew's safe houses. They've got about a half dozen scattered throughout the city. They've also been buying trucks, heavy-duty wire, and a bazooka among other things." She rises to her feet, hooks the binoculars to her belt, and hands him a folded piece of paper. Batman unfolds it, but keeps his eyes on Flamebird. On one side is a list of names, addresses, and on the other side is presumably the Joker's shopping list.

Bruce hates to admit it but the kid maybe, possibly actually knew what the hell she was doing. Not just with fighting, but detective work too.

"You know who he is?"

"Not a clue. But whoever he used to be isn't as important as what he's going to do. Like the bomb underneath Judge Sorillo's car or the poison slipped in the decanter Commissioner Loeb keeps in his office."

"…what?"

Flamebird turns away.

Batman grabs her shoulder. "No. How the hell do you know what he's planning?"

"I have my sources."

"Tell me."

"Nope," she responds, popping the 'p'.

A few things suddenly click together. Loose threads suddenly tying themselves together. "What did the Joker do to you?"

She brushes off his hand, walking to the other side of the rooftop. "None of your business."

"They know about the money," Bruce presses. "They know you were the one who set it on fire."

"If the mob doesn't want you dead, you're not doing your job right." There's something in her tone he can't quite pin down. Something underneath the quip. "Between this and the collective RICO charge, they're finally feeling the heat."

"…was that a pun?"

"Yeah, not my best work." Flamebird shoots her grappling hook, securing it around the body of a stone gargoyle. With a single tug, the bird takes flight. Batman doesn't try to follow.

They leave Eleanor with a sitter the night of the fundraiser. Sitter being less of a mouthful than the highly trained nanny-slash-bodyguard they decide to let Bruce hire for them. Flamebird is one thing, but the idea of any other stranger coming into their home, coming after their baby…they finally say yes. Her name is Sasha Bordeaux, former special forces operative, honorably discharged. Actually good with the baby, which makes Rachel feel marginally better about all this.

"Goodnight, pretty bird," Rachel coos to Ellie before they leave. "Mommy and Daddy will see you soon."

"Muninn to Flamebird, do you read me?"

"Loud and clear," Duela murmurs into her comm. Figuring out where Bruce put the cameras was a breeze once she hacked the building's security system. He really needs to change the password from the time and date of his parents death.

"I hate to interrupt, but I have some updates…"

Duela listens as Fallon explains. "Fuck."

"Language."

"We have to move quickly," a waitress suddenly appears behind Bruce as Rachel leaves him to re-join the party.

Bruce blinks. "Uh, miss, aren't you a little young to be–"

She rolls her eyes. "Skip the Brucie act, we don't have much time. I know who you are, and it shouldn't take long for you to figure out who I am."

He narrows his eyes. Flamebird? He mouths

"Yep. Look. I've done what I could, but in a couple of minutes the Joker is going to crash through that door, and we'll need to be ready when he is."

"Ready how?"

"I'll secure the Dents. You need to get dressed." She presses a finger to his chest. "Do not blow this, B. I'm serious. If we can grab him now–" Flamebird cuts herself off. "Just, no matter what happens, stay on the Joker."

Bruce narrows his eyes. "Fine. I'll trust you. For now."

"Champagne?" A waitress offers. There were two glasses left.

"Thanks." Mr. and Mrs. Dent each take a glass, and take a sip.

Rachel cocks her head at their server. A girl with red-brown hair. Vaguely familiar. "Excuse me but, aren't you a little young to be…working…"

The champagne flutes shatter on the floor, and Harvey's knees buckle underneath him.

"Sorry about this. Seriously."

All Harvey can see is the spider-bites as the world goes dark.

Through the steady stream of the police chatter in her ear, Flamebird hears a sniper take out Loeb and how Sorrillo is stabbed to death by a guy who was waiting for her in the backseat of her car. Duela Dent is having a pretty shit night.

It's not like she expects everything to go perfectly but. Well. Suffice it to say going to Bruce has always been her last choice.

"Was drugging them really necessary?" Bruce asks after they lock Rachel and Harvey in a nearby broom closet. The same one Duela stashed her gear in.

"It was the quickest." She clips on the utility belt.

Duela swipes the grease paint after Batman finishes applying it around his eyes. They have work to do.

Alfred Pennyworth is ashamed to say he underestimated this Joker character. His training (and basic survival instinct) scream at him to do something, but the Joker's being clever. From the way he's holding him, if Alfred tries to fight back, the Joker can easily drop him over the ledge before he could possibly regain his foothold.

Master Wayne is doing an admirable job hiding his fear. But the younger one–Flamebird–remains focused on her target.

"Let him go." The Batman growls. Flamebird's hand moves underneath her cape.

"Very poor choice of words."

Alfred drops.

He knows Bruce will follow. The boy he's raised loves too much to bear losing anyone else. But instead of one shadow, there's two.

"I've got you!" Flamebird reaches him first.

"I had him!" Flamebird yells, flinging her arms out. "I freaking had him and if you had just trusted me we wouldn't have lost the Joker!"

"I didn't know that!" Batman snarls back. All he could see was Alfred going over the balcony. "And you want to talk about trust?! You won't tell me about your sources or where you're getting a lot of your information. What's with all the secrecy?"

"Oh that is rich coming from you, Bruce," she snorts. "As if you've always been Mr. Transparency."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"I'm talking about my–" Flamebird stops herself. With a frustrated sigh, she climbs back onto her motorcycle.

"Hey! We're not done."

She starts her bike. "You want transparency? Fine. The Joker's next move is at Loeb's funeral. The sniper and the threat against the mayor is just a distraction. When Dent gets the bright idea to use himself as bait, Joker goes after the police transport. He wants to get caught. Because while he's in lock up, Wuertz and Ramirez are going to be tasked with getting to the Dents. Joker will only talk to you. Two bombs, two different sides of town, and you'll have to pick which one you'll save. Because it's all about you," she snarls, the word dripping like venom. "While you're off spectacularly failing to save the day, he just busts out again and Harvey Dent–" she stops. "Eleanor loses both her parents."

That…was a lot of information to get in thirty seconds. Before Bruce can even try to process all of it, the engine revs, and Flamebird rides away into the night.

"Stupid," Duela repeats, speeding through the Gotham night. "Stupid. Stupid. Stupid."

After putting on her pajamas, Rachel finds Harvey hovering over Ellie's crib. His suit jacket is slung over the rocking chair, but he's still in the clothes he wore to the fundraiser.

"So. I guess we can second degree assault to Flamebird's rap sheet," the ADA whispers. By Gotham City law, someone who 'administers to or causes to be taken by another, poison or any other destructive or noxious substance' is guilty of Assault in the Second Degree. That extends to sedatives or other sedating type drugs. It's a class B felony with up to ten years in prison.

"Given the circumstances, I'm inclined towards leniency," Harvey murmurs. As she slept, their baby's hand was gripping his finger.

"She could have just asked ," Rachel counters, wrapping her arms around Harvey's waist and resting her cheek against his shoulder.

Very faintly, they can hear the sounds of a police siren outside. "Rachel Dawes, actually agreeing to run and hide? Color me shocked."

"Hm. Like you're any different."

Harvey says nothing. Just keeps looking down at Ellie, who will hopefully have the self-preservation instincts that seem to have skipped both of them.

Faintly, they catch the hum of a motorcycle engine as it passes by their building.

"You have to wonder what kind of parent would be okay with their kid doing things like that," Harvey murmurs.

"If they even realize."

The DA shakes his head. "No. Either they know and somehow think it's okay, or they don't care enough to notice."

"Let me get this straight…Flamebird breaks into our house, drugs us, locks us in a broom closet, and you're wondering what her home situation is like?"

"Just saying. Someone clearly dropped the ball with that kid."

Hubert Fallon tilts his head as the door chimes. "You're late."

"By two minutes," Duela pulls her hair up into a ponytail. She never came back to Memory Lane last night and it's clear she didn't sleep somewhere else. He only heard the motorcycle pull into the garage five minutes ago.

"Still. Two minutes late for you is like ten minutes for anyone else. Is something wrong?"

Slipping the coin necklace beneath her shirt, Duela dons her apron. "Don't worry about it."

"Amazing. You pay top dollar for one of the best security systems on the market, and not one good look at her face," Alfred remarks, bringing Bruce a cup of coffee. He's been going over the security footage for hours now. First speed up, then slowed down, now practically frame by frame. Still, nothing.

"She knew where all the cameras were," the billionaire sighs. "Of course."

"Did Rachel and Harvey have anything to add?"

"No. They didn't get a good look and the drugs kicked in quickly." Bruce takes a long drink of coffee.

"Well, given that she went out of her way to save someone she's never met, I think we can safely rule out the League of Assassins, sir."

"I think you might be right. But that doesn't automatically mean we can trust her."

"Why not?" Alfred challenges.

Making her own whirlybirds is harder than Duela expected. (Yes, a whirlybird is also a name for a helicopter but she came up with the name when she was eight and she's not changing it now.) Unlike the sculpted metal of the current generation of batarangs, her gear requires a lot more work in terms of construction. Especially without the WayneTech 3D printer.

Even with conserving her resources as much as possible, Duela finally has to re-stock.

First, she goes old school. Scrap metal with the right weight is easy to find if you know where to look, and she has plenty of examples to work with. After nine months of Batman activity, there's a box full of batarangs they more or less just toss into a corner of GCPD evidence. Duela is pretty sure she's not the only one who's grabbed a souvenir. The simple folding throwing whirlybirds with none of the extras, she's able to make ten of easy enough.

Second, the more advanced tech like tracking devices and smoke bombs she can't reliably mass produce. The chemicals for the smoke bombs aren't difficult to acquire, it's constructing the proper housing for them. After a full afternoon at the workbench, she only has another five at her disposal.

Alone in the garage, the teenage girl stretches her arms and shoulders. Goodness, how long has she been hunched over? She can practically hear Alfred reminding her to mind her posture.

In the corner, the radio chatters about Commissioner Loeb's upcoming funeral. Judge Sorillo's family has decided on a small, private service, but donations could be sent to such and such charity.

Duela slips the coin off of the chain.

Holding it up to the light, her blue eyes slowly go over the scorch marks on one side. The rough edge of the bullet hole from the .36. Once, it was a simple 1922 double headed Liberty Dollar. Once, it was Harvey Dent's lucky coin, and his father's before him.

Duela flips the coin up into the air, and slaps it down onto the back of her palm.

"Heads." She calls.

It comes up tails.

Bruce doesn't want to believe it at first. But in the following days, every word of Flamebird's warning rings true. Loeb's funeral, the sniper, the threat against the mayor. The threat against Rachel.

Two bombs.

You fail.

"I am the Batman."

Everyone in the cafe is staring at the TV in the corner. At the press conference where Harvey Dent, District Attorney and Gotham's so-called White Knight, all but decides to slather himself in meat sauce and throw himself into the lion's den.

Duela pinches her nose and takes a deep breath. Her father is an absolute idiot.

Well. That was exciting.

Harvey watches Gordon and the Joker leave in an unmarked car. He looks around, but there's nary a sign of a bat or a bird. He was hoping to at least offer a 'thank you' but they've probably already melted back into the shadows. If what he just heard from Gordon is right, then the kid's already probably getting an earful from Batman.

The ban on journalists has been lifted, and already the street was swarming with reporters and the tools of their trade. A dozen reporters close in on him, brandishing microphones and cameras.

"Mr. Dent! Mr. Dent! How does it feel to be the biggest hero in Gotham?"

He looks around again. "No, I'm no hero. Gotham's finest, they're the heroes." He wasn't referring to the GCPD, but no one else needed to know that.

"But you and your office have been working with Batman and Flamebird all along?"

"No, but I trusted them to do the right thing."

"Which was?"

"Saving my ass."

"Alright people, that's enough " Detective Anna Ramirez makes some room. "Let him be, let him be." She guides him out through the crowd of reporters and towards another unmarked car.

"Thank you, detective," he murmurs, and clocks Detective Michael Wuertz in the driver's seat. Shit. Shit shit shit. Flamebird's warning rings loud and clear, but he can't think of a single excuse to not get in the car. Besides, they're surrounded by reporters. "I have a date with a pretty upset wife."

Over the sounds of camera shutters, he thinks he hears a motorcycle. Harvey gets in.

After weeks, Bruce has finally found the frequency Flamebird's comms operate on, even if she wasn't currently talking to anyone. "Was that little stunt really necessary?"

"Yes."

Okay. Not the response he was expecting. "You could have killed him."

"I had everything under control."

"Didn't look like it."

"Don't worry, I wasn't about to break your precious rule."

"If you cross that line–"

"The Joker's still alive, ain't he? And in custody. Try to keep it that way. Now if you don't mind, I have somewhere to be." Batman can only sigh as Flamebird adjusts her comms to a different channel. Great. Just great.

Harvey's been noticing a few things on this drive. The first is that the backseat windows are locked. The second is the way Wuertz keeps glancing at him through the rearview mirror. Neither over concerning in and of themselves, but the final nail is the way the detective is ignoring Harvey's suggestions for better routes back to his apartment. All he said was 'this is a safer route' and 'don't worry about it, counselor'.

He's never hated being right more in his life. After the "leave the gun, take the cannoli" scene from The Godfather flashes through his mind, Harvey is scrambling to think of a way out of this.

Something lands on top of the car.

"What the hell–" Wuertz hits the breaks. The driver's side door opens. A clawed gauntlet unbuckles Wuertz's seatbelt and Flamebird pulls the detective out into the street. Sliding in and grabbing the wheel, she hits the gas so hard Harvey's seatbelt tightens against his chest.

"The hell are you doing?"

"Saving your ass." The tires squeal, and she adjusts the rear view mirror. "I told you not to trust him."

"I don't, but a dozen reporters just watched me get in the car and–"

"And I told you he's on Maroni's payroll, who happens to still want you dead."

"…did you really try to hit the Joker with your motorcycle?"

"I wasn't gonna kill him," she explains, as if all she did was rear-end the mailbox. "Besides, we've got a tail."

That was when he clocks the two other cars following them in the rearview mirror.

Rachel stays in her office until she's heard, through official channels, that Harvey Dent is all right. Sasha meets her with Ellie. They're going to go back to Bruce's penthouse. It's one of the safest places in the city right now, with plenty of space for all of them besides. On her way out of the courthouse, an officer whom she knows from Gordon's squad asks her if she'd look at something odd. Rachel moves to follow but Sasha grabs her wrist, quietly shaking her head while Ramirez's back is turned.

"You coming?" The young detective asks. Rachel can't help but notice the nervous looks she flashed towards Eleanor.

"You know what?" The ADA forces herself to sound casual. "It's been a long night. We really need to get this one home."

Having lost the element of surprise, they still try to grab them. Sasha pushes Eleanor into Rachel's arms and— Well. However much Bruce is paying her, Ms. Bordeaux certainly deserves every penny.

By the time Detectives Montoya and Yin come to see what the fuss is about, it's already over.

"We need to get you to the safe house," Sascha determines. "Both of you. Now."

(In another life, a janitor would find Eleanor asleep in her mother's office. A note reading "can you find my mommy?" Was pinned to her onesie, written in bright red ink.)

There's a little joy buzzer in the toe of the Joker's shoe. He's always been something of a sucker for the classics. Like Morse code. When it buzzes, only he can feel it, and he can tap out orders with his big toe with no one else any the wiser.

So when his little piggies get a tingle, he can only smile. Dawes was the biggest, shiniest lure he could have dangled, but there were other options.

Okay then. Onto Plan Q.

Jim Gordon is riding shotgun with Murphy when he gets a call on his cellphone. Unknown number. He picks up anyway.

"Hello?"

"Who did you send to pick up Dent?"

Batman. He never sounds happy, but now he sounds particularly unhappy.

"Berg volunteered. Why?"

"Because Wuertz was the one who showed up, and we already know he's on Maroni's payroll."

Gordon glances back at the Joker, handcuffed and smiling in the backseat.

"Oh? What's the scoop, Jimbo?" The clown taunts. "Anything fun?"

"...shit."

He gets on dispatch. "All units be advised: Harvey Dent has been abducted. I repeat: Harvey Dent has been abduct–"

It's the cackling that clues him that something's wrong. A glint in a nearby window and–

Things pick up after they run a red light. The pair of cars behind them run it as well. Harvey narrows his eyes. "Do you even have a driver's license?"

"Uh," she passes another car without using her turn signal. That driver hammers on the horn while the person in the passenger seat flashes them the finger and a death glare. "I plead the fifth?"

"So no."

Flamebird huffs, probably rolling her eyes. "Twenty minutes ago I landed my bike on an eighteen-wheeler going about 80 miles an hour while they were waving around a bazooka. I know how to drive."

"You did what?!" Another sharp turn that nearly slams his head against the window. Already buckled in, Harvey holds onto that little handle thing above the door for dear life.

Flamebird breaks the glass divider with her elbow and hands something back to him. "Hey, do me a favor. Roll down your window, twist this clockwise, and throw it out towards the other car."

Gently grabbing it with his fingertips, Harvey looks at the small spherical device. "What is it?"

"Just a small explosive."

"A small—" forcing himself to take a breath, Harvey reminds himself she was just trying to save his life. "Okay." He rolls down the window, twists it counter-clockwise, and throws. Three seconds later, the first car following them suddenly swerves off to the side, a thick black smoke coming from underneath the hood.

Flamebird makes another turn.

"Blinker!"

"People are trying to kill us—and you want me to use a blinker?!"

Wuertz's head is bleeding, his knee is aching, and there's a bozo in a clown mask driving like a maniac in the seat next to him. If they lose Dent, it's his head on Maroni's chopping block. Not to mention, he's officially lost the right to give Branden shit for getting his ass kicked by a teenage girl. He's had better days.

The radio crackles. "They're heading for Roxbury bridge."

"Don't worry, that's about to become a dead-end." The bozo grabs the walkie-talkie. "Maury, you're on!"

Even from the backseat, Harvey sees how Flamebird eyes the rapidly ascending bridge. She wouldn't–who is he kidding she absolutely would.

"Don't," Harvey tries. She doesn't hit the breaks.

"We can make it."

"You can't!"

"We'll make it!"

Gordon's head is ringing, his glasses broken. Murphy isn't moving. The last thing he remembers—

"All units be advised. Harvey Dent has been abducted. I repeat: Harvey Dent has been abduct–."

From the backseat, the Joker just starts cackling. A glint in the window and–

The police lieutenant stumbles out of the car. Something slams into his back, sending him to the ground. He reaches for his gun, but it's already gone.

"You know, Jimbo, I had a plan." The Joker drawls, a vague green-and-purple shape hovering above him. "It was a nice plan, a fun plan. Lots of bombs, a few boats…" he clucks his tongue, and Jim hears the clatter as the gun is tossed away. "Me and Batsy were finally going to get a little one on one time, if ya know what I mean. But that little bird has a real talent for breaking my toys. Ah well," a kick to the gut when he tries to stand. "I don't hang my hat on if my plans work or not. Improvising around the two of them has been a delight, if I'm being honest. Besides," the Joker twirls a….tire iron? "Sometimes it's good to go back to basics."

The first thing Harvey feels is bumping. He's on the floor of a moving vehicle—a van?—and he catches a glimpse of a cape in the corner of his eye. The last thing he remembers is Flamebird's smile after they made it across the bridge.

"—c'mon, not even a peak?"

"No. You know what the boss said. No peeking till he gets here."

And again nothing.

Duela wakes up to see Joker rifling through her utility belt. Fuck.

She's sitting up. She's sitting in a chair. Metal. Cold. Duela wiggles. It's not secured to the floor. She still feels the coin underneath her shirt. That could be something. Her hands are zip-tied behind her back. She tests it. Secured tight, no slack, and no way for her to dislocate her own thumb to try to slip out. No armor, no belt, no helmet–son of a bitch even took her shoes . Double fuck.

Duela does not panic. Panicking would be the worst thing she can do. Even as she looks beside her and sees Harvey Dent. Who is also zip-tied to a chair. And staring right at her.

Panicking is the worst thing she can do. Her eyes dart back to the clown in the corner.

"Lock picks, smoke bombs, military grade thermite, tasers built into the gloves—seriously kiddo, where do you even get this stuff?" Joker chuckles, rifling through the different pockets. "Don't tell me!. The mystery is half the fun."

Flamebird says nothing. The Joker is always looking for an audience. It's no fun for him without the reaction shot.

"Hey," Harvey murmurs, leaning his head towards her. "I'm going to get you out of this, you hear?"

Joker waggles a finger. "Tsk-tsk counselor. Don't make promises you can't keep. Here we go." Finishing with the camera, he stands in front of them, a sickening joy radiating out from him. "Hello Gotham City!"

Jim is holding an ice pack to the back of his head. The EMTs say he probably doesn't have a TBI, and that's just about the only bit of good news he has right now. Murphy's dead, Dent's missing, Wuertz isn't picking up his phone, the Joker's on the loose and they've got Ramirez in holding for trying to abduct Rachel Dawes.

That's when the emergency broadcast channel flashes across the TV. Harvey Dent and a teenage girl dressed in some kind of black bodysuit with paint on her face. She's looking at the floor. Flamebird , Jim realizes with a start. Standing in front of both of them is the Joker.

"Turn that up!" He orders. Berg fumbles with the remote for a second, but increases the volume.

"People of Gotham, we've had an exciting couple of days. Now, I had a spectacular grand finale planned out but a certain Flamebird," he grabs her chin, forcing her face up. "Convinced me to go a different route." She tries to bite his hand.

Good girl, Jim thinks.

"We're going to have a little popularity contest–I know, so high school. But it'll be fun, I promise. You see, I really really want to kill someone, but I can't decide which one. Instead of good ole eenie-meenie-minie-moe I'm going to let you , the people of Gotham, choose who lives and who dies. Your White Knight? Or the Girl Wonder? You have half an hour to call one of the numbers on your screen. To be clear, call the one you want to die." He cackles.

"Fuck you," Dent spits.

"Harv," the Joker spins on his heel, pressing a pencil towards Dent's face like a microphone, "you're the politician. Why should they vote for you?"

"She's just a kid," the DA insists. "I signed up for this, she didn't. Kill me, let her go."

"No." Flamebird grits out, looking at the floor again . "Let him go."

Whipping his head her way, Harvey furrows his brow. "What the hell are you doing?"

"You have a kid." Flamebird's feet kick at the floor, and Jim is struck by just how young she really is. "Your daughter—she needs you to get out of this alive. You've got people who love you, who are depending on you. If I die…no one's gonna miss me. Not really."

"Oh, now isn't this just delicious." Joker laughs into the camera. "Thirty minutes, Gotham. On the dot." The feed cuts out, but the two phone numbers remain on screen.

Gordon notices one of the detectives going for his cellphone. "What the hell are you doing?"

"Trying to save Dent," Bullock responds, hitting the buttons on his phone. The lieutenant practically slaps it out of the other cop's hand.

"And kill the kid? Jesus. No one calls! No one, you hear?" He calls out to the other cops. "Spread the word."

Finally placing her face is like a slap across Harvey's. The girl who's Flamebird is also the same girl who's been serving him and Rachel coffee for the past few weeks. Delia? Daniella? He can almost picture her nametag and it definitely starts with a D and ends with an A.

"So," Harvey clears his throat. The Joker's not in the basement with them right now, but he's under no illusion the clown isn't listening in. "What's with the eye makeup?"

The kid looks up at him. She's been looking around for awhile now, clearly trying to think of a way out of there for them.

"…some of the tech in my helmet works off of eye movement. I can blink a few times and have it take a recording. Look at something and blink three times to zoom in. The grease paint gives the sensors a better contrast. Wait–" her eyes widen. "What did you do with that thing I gave you?"

"You mean the tra–" she kicks him in the shin. Right. Joker is probably still listening in. "Yeah. The thing. I still have the thing…in my briefcase."

A small nod. Flamebird's tongue flicks out and taps one of her spider-bites. It's a long shot, but it's their only chance right now.

Rachel stares at the TV. For twenty-five minutes, the picture hasn't changed. Just those two phone numbers, one promising her husband's life, the other his death. The baby is sleeping in her playpen. She should really put Ellie down in a crib, but having her daughter out of her sight is a bridge too far.

"You haven't called." Alfred observes, voice carefully neutral.

"Harvey would never forgive me."

Sasha tilts her head. "But he'd be alive."

Rachel's hand tightens on her cell phone.

There's no clock down here, but Harvey has enough of a sense of time to know they're closing in on that half hour mark. If it were just him, he'd resign himself for the end. He's had a good life, all things considered. His family is safe, and Rachel will be able to carry on their mission. Ellie isn't even old enough to miss him, though it kills him he'll never But Flamebird is here.

"...Thank you."

"What?"

"For everything. I guess." She looks over at him, a small, nervous smile on her lips. "And if there's anyone I had to be zip-tied together in a basement with, I'm glad it was you." The kid's eyes are big and blue and so innocent despite all he knows she's done.

Harvey's mouth opens, closes, and opens again. He's starting to figure out how to reply when they hear the door open.

That's when the Joker trots back down the stairs, accompanied by two other people in clown masks. Twisting around, Harvey can see the clown slipping a small notebook into his coat pocket, a tire iron in the other hand. Unbidden, Harvey's mind flashes back to his father. A nightstick in one hand, the coin in the other, a little boy hoping against all reason it would come up tails this time. At the very least, he knows how much he can take, and won't stop crying until they at least break his legs.

One of the bozos inspects the camera, mumbling something about the battery charge. The Joker waves them off, saying it's fine.

Harvey looks over at Flamebird. Like him, she's glaring at the Joker with a focused intensity. Whatever else, whoever else she is, she's not afraid of him.

With a showman's flair, he spins on his heel towards the pair of hostages. A darkly eager smile on his face, the clown leans closer. "So. Anything to say before we get this show on the road?"

Harvey's 'fuck you' not particularly elegant, but fitting for the occasion.

"Honestly," Flamebird pipes up, "I'm not impressed. I mean seriously, a dingy basement in the warehouse district? What is this, amateur hour?"

"What the fuck are you doing?" He hisses. He's all for bravery but the kid's the one who's going to live. She shouldn't be poking the bear when she has a chance to get out of here. Flamebird snarls.

"Where's the flare? The showmanship? The acid-spitting flowers? You're not really doing anything unique here. I'm disappointed."

"Kid," the Joker smiles, dragging the edge of iron across her face, smearing the grease paint. "I have no idea what the hell your deal is, and I hope I never find out."

He turns around, and the camera comes to life.

Bruce is having a pretty shit night. Alfred told him about the ticking timer on Harvey Dent and/or Flamebird's life. The list of names and addresses she gave him aren't leading everywhere and the warning of failure rings in Batman's ears like a dolorous bell.

"Well, Mr. Dent, by a thin margin of 72 votes…" Here it comes. He can take it. "..you are the lucky loser of this little contest."

No.

The clown laughs, gesturing to him with the tire iron. "Maybe next time."

"No!" Two sets of hands wrap around his biceps.

"Harvey? Harvey!" Despite the kid's best try, the restraints don't budge.

Harvey Dent kicks and screams as they drag him up the basement stairs. " Flamebird!" Throat raw, hands bleeding as he tries to free himself. To get back to the kid. He could hear the cackling and the first, terrible whacks of that tire iron. The door slams shut.

Not even undoing the zip ties, the Joker's crew blackbag the DA and dump him in some back alley. As Harvey struggles to his feet, he can already hear the getaway car speeding off.

He needs to get to a phone. He needs this bag of his head. He needs to do something. To save Flamebird. To save the kid. To save–

Five minutes. For wonderful minutes, the Joker has Gotham's undivided attention. He feels the eyes of the city on him, feeling them watching him. With the lens of the camera tilted down for the money shot, he rains blow after blow on Flamebird. Blood flies, bones break, and despite the adorable attempts otherwise, the little bird starts singing with pain.

Then–!

The battery dies. Of fucking course. Can't rely on anything these days. Disappointing, but really just a speedbump. After all, the best artists do their best work for themselves. The fact that other people enjoy it is just a bonus. And the Joker? He really adores his art.

"You know, I'm curious, birdie. What hurts more? A?"

Whack

"Or B?"

Whack

"Forehand?"

Whack

"Or backhand?" A wheezing, reedy gasp for air was the response. Joker kicks Flamebird over onto her back. Leans in closer, a hand cupped to his ear. "A little louder, birdie. I think you may have a collapsed lung—always impedes the oratory."

A wet, red blob of spittle hits the Joker's cheek.

A delighted chortle. "You know, that's what I like about you, kid. You've got that spark ." He pulls a long, red-blue-yellow-orange handkerchief from his coat pocket, and wipes away the blood. "I can't wait to watch it die."

The iron clatters to the concrete floor, and Joker slings the utility belt over his shoulder.

It's the Batman that finds him. Harvey's just managed to get his feet under him when he hears the purr of the twincycle. "What building did you come out of?" The vigilante asks, cutting the zip ties.

"They drove me—I don't—" Harvey tries to steady himself, the blood rushing back into his hands. Grip tight on Batman's shoulders.

"How long a drive?"

"Ten minutes, I think. But. My briefcase—"

Batman is guiding him back to the cycle. "Mr. Dent, please focus."

"Tracking device! She gave me a tracking device to find her. With her–" hands fumbling, he taps the corner of her lip. Batman nods. "Briefcase."

The man's mouth is set in a grim line as he nods. "That's good. I need to get you someplace safe."

"No! You need to find Flamebird. You need to—the tracking device," his fingers dig into the fabric of Batman's cape. "She's just a kid. Her lip thing, it's a tracking device and it's on and the other thing is in my briefcase and you need to find her!"

"Mrs. Dawes," Alfred's voice is tight, his eyes glancing towards Sasha Bordeaux across the room. "A moment, if you will?"

It's getting harder to breathe.

Duela can't understand what the Joker's saying. At this point, he's little more than a purple and green blur. The world is blurred. Noise distorted. It's as if she's viewing everything from underwater.

The green-and-purple-blur gestures to some weird mess of lines and colors. Duela can't see out of her left eye anymore, and she can't get her right to focus. Then the Joker does…something. Her right eye finally snaps into focus at the bright red digital display.

08:00

He presses something on the underside.

0:7:59

Oh. Oh.

With one last kick in the ribs, the Joker moises on up the stairs, and shuts the door behind him.

Anyone else would have passed out ages ago. Slipped into unconsciousness in an attempt to protect themselves from the sheer amount of pain. But because Duela is a stubborn idiot, raised by an even more stubborn idiot, she keeps on. Forcing her body across the floor and up the flight of stairs. Each move is hell against her ribs. And her legs. Her everything, really.

Eventually, she makes it to the top of the landing. Now for the hard part.

Something in her right leg was probably broken, and a definite fracture in her left. Leveraging her weight against the door, Duela tries to get her left foot underneath her. To support her weight. It doesn't want to.

"C'mon," she says, or maybe just thinks very loudly. "Get up."

The leg is unconvinced.

"I said get up."

Duela tries again. The leg is slightly more cooperative. She can work with that. Leaning against the door, her hands fumble for the knob.

It's locked. Of fucking course.

A glance shows her what she already knows: the timer is still ticking down. One minute now. Fifty-nine seconds.

Her head rests back against the door. Flamebird just…tries to breathe. It's even harder now.

Suffocation is not a pleasant way to die. Bleeding to death inside her skull only slightly better. An explosion would at least be quick.

Is this what her mother felt? At the end?

I saved him ; she thinks very loudly. I saved them both.

What's there to worry about? She won.

Eleanor—this Eleanor— will grow up with her parents. She'll grow up adored and wanted and never made to feel like a screw up or a disappointment. They'll go to her piano recitals and kiss her goodnight and tell her they love her every single day.

Duela Dent watches the timer tick down from the corner of her right eye. Forty seconds. Thirty-five seconds. Thirty. Twenty seconds. Fifteen.

She lets it drift closed.

Bruce has no idea how the fuck this kid managed to get herself up the stairs in her state but right now, he doesn't care. One less thing for him to do.

"I've got you," Batman assures, gently but quickly lifting her off the ground.

"…B…?" Her remaining eye cracks open.

"I'm here. You're safe now." Moving her wasn't good for any potential spinal injury, but the bomb is slightly more pressing.

They're at minimum safe distance when the warehouse blows. Batman grunts, feeling the heat and knock back even through the armor.

He told Harvey to stay with the twincycle.

Dent winces, but doesn't stop moving towards them. Bruce had ordered him to stay with the twincycle. Knowing Harvey, Bruce should be grateful the DA didn't try to follow him back inside. Despite the actively on fire townhouse right next to him, the other man's focus is squarely on Flamebird.

"Is she–" the DA swallows. The adrenaline was already starting to wear off. He'll crash sooner rather than later.

"She's alive," Batman confirms. "But she needs medical attention."

Alfred looks up from the comms. "He's got them."

"Thank god," Rachel sighs. The so-called panic room at Bruce's penthouse was less of a panic room, and more of a remote command center. Computers, gear, some basic medical supplies–now with the addition of a baby carrier in the corner table, Ellie snoozing inside. But it still has all of the nifty security features that came with a panic room, so they'll be safe if anyone tries to break into the penthouse.

Rachel takes a deep breath.

"Bruce. Give your back up comm to Harvey. He needs to be part of this."

"Rachel—"

"Give. The comm. To Harvey." She repeats, annunciating each word.

A new comm channel opens. A new dot appears on the bat-computer.

"….Rachel?"

"Yeah, baby," she nods, even knowing he can't see her. "It's me. I'm with Ellie, and Alfred, and we're safe."

"Flamebird is the waitress from the coffee shop...why do you have a comm line with Batman?"

"Well," she sighs. "That's a long story. I'll give you the short version."

It doesn't take long to explain everything to him. One minute and forty-four seconds if someone uses a stopwatch.

He's going to have one hell of an adrenaline crash. Harvey can already tell. The pain and exhaustion of the last five? Six hours hasn't entirely hit him yet. He's shrugged off his jacket, pillowing it underneath Flamebird's head as Batman administers first aid. The heat from the burning warehouse was hot against his back, pressing on them even from here. They've been hearing sirens on and off during the drive, but none of them seem to be coming in this direction. For now, at least.

"We can't go to a hospital," he repeats. "We do that, she'll be dead in a day. Smothered or overdosed or however else they could get rid of her."

"She'll die if we don't, Harvey," Batman (who is also Bruce Wayne and he is way too tired to even start to untangle that) repeats.

"Well the Joker only broadcasted her face. Grease paint or no, we bring her to any ER in Gotham and it won't be hard to put together."

"Gordon could provide protection—"

"For the love of—don't you get it?!" Harvey snaps. "They have people in my office, Wuertz and Martinez and God knows who else at Major Crimes! They probably have people watching the hospitals and even if they don't, people are going to notice Flamebird, and they're going to talk."

For a long minute, the only sound is the crackling fire behind them. Each breath Flamebird takes is wheezy and thin. Harvey rubs a hand over his face.

Rachel speaks over the comms. "Alfred, go to their location. Bring Bruce and Flamebird a quick change of clothes. And crash the car."

"What?"

"Take one of those flashy cars and crash it. Bruce picked up a teenage hitchhiker. When the warehouse blew up, it startled you so bad you crashed. That's our cover story. Wipe away grease paint, and get her into normal clothes and maybe Brucie Wayne can distract everyone from looking too closely at her face."

Harvey sees the cold calculation in the billionaire's face. Not if they can do it, just how. "Alfred?"

"Forty-five miles per hour should do it. I'll escort Mr. Dent to the penthouse. May I suggest the Lamborghini, sir?"

"Nah," Bruce shakes his head, slipping the unneeded gauze back into his utility belt. "Take the Ferrari."

Doctor Leslie Thompkins graduated top of her class from Gotham University Medical School. A colleague and close friend of Dr. Thomas Wayne, she runs the free clinics that the Wayne Foundation funds for the low income residents of Gotham. Regarded as one of the best doctors in the city, it's often been remarked she could be making ten times her salary at any other hospital. She's also known Bruce Wayne since he was in diapers, and isn't afraid to remind him of it.

Like right now, shining a pen light to check pupillary response, and asking him about potential head trauma.

"I'm fine, Leslie," Bruce tries to assure.

"Funny, I seem to remember you saying the same thing while you had the worst case of strep throat I'd ever seen," the doctor deadpans, pulling out her stethoscope. "Your definition of 'fine' needs work."

"The car took the worst of it," he waves off. Looking decidedly unimpressed, Leslie presses the cold metal against Bruce's chest. "Breathe for me."

He complies.

She repeats the order, moving the stethoscope to the other side of his chest. They repeat the process.

"...The girl I came with. Is she going to be okay?" He asks, glancing away.

Leslie removes the stethoscope from her ears and sighs. "It's still touch and go. That skull fracture is worrying, and it would be easier to list which of her bones aren't currently broken. Quite the contrast to you, barely having a scratch." Bruce opens his mouth, but Leslie holds up a finger. "Don't. Right now everyone's buying the 'car accident' story, or is at least pretending to. Keep your mouth shut and maybe we can keep it that way."

Alfred drives him home from the hospital. Neither of them talk much, the TV in the back of the limo tuned to GCN filling the silence. He's been going for twenty hours straight at this point, but Bruce knows his limits. He can go longer, endure longer. He has to.

"Rachel and Eleanor?" He finally asks, turning down the volume. "And Harvey?"

"Safe. I doubt anyone will go looking for them underneath the Manor," Alfred assures. "Mr. Dent collapsed almost as soon as I got him there. Last I saw, he and his daughter were sleeping on the pull out cot."

"Our friend, Ms. Bordeaux?"

"Most of the east wing is complete, so I've set her up in one of the guest rooms. As far as she knows, we've moved the Dents to a private panic room in the basement. Should I send her to keep an eye on our Ms. Doe?"

Bruce considers it. On one hand, it would make him feel better. It's unlikely Flamebird would run off with two broken legs and a fractured skull; but at this point he wouldn't put anything past her. But on the other hand, Sasha is there to protect Rachel's family. From what he's heard, the prevailing assumption is that the Joker killed Flamebird. Hopefully, the clown thinks the same.

"No. Anonymity is our best defense right now. I trust Leslie to keep her hidden and we don't want to draw too much attention."

He can see Alfred's nod in the rearview mirror. "And your friend Lieutenant Gordon?"

"Knows that with his unit compromised, the Dents are tucked away someplace safe. Batman even told him himself." Batman hadn't told Gordon about Flamebird surviving, but he doesn't think the officer would blame him too much.

"I suppose all that leaves is the Joker then."

"Yeah," the billionaire scratches at day-old stubble. "Suppose so."

Reaching into his pocket, Bruce pulls out a small plastic baggie. Inside were two things. The first a piece of white gauze stained with a dark red, already turning a rusty, dried brown. The second, a coin. A bullet through its center with a chain strung through.

That's when GCN breaks in with a special report. About Coleman Reese. Specifically, Coleman Reese knowing the identity of the Batman.

Bruce leans his head back against his headrest and sighs.

If there's one thing Rachel's learned since Eleanor's birth, it's that you can't get too picky about where you change a diaper. If the need is great enough any flat and mostly clean surface will do. Like right now, Ellie is squirming on the same work table that Bruce uses to make those bat-shaped shuriken as Rachel tries to put a fresh diaper on her.

Behind her, she can hear Harvey's footsteps echo in the dark caverns. His head has been on a swivel since he woke up in the Batcave, looking around the vast caverns that spread out underneath Wayne Manor. Inspecting the computers, tech, and full body armor, all of it. Rachel knows her husband too well to worry about him turning them in.

"So," Harvey finally breaks his silence. "How long have you known?"

"The chemical attack on the Narrows. Crane…I was exposed. He synthesized an antidote from my blood."

An absent nod. "Were you ever planning on telling me?"

"I…" Rachel isn't sure where to even start with that. Harvey takes Ellie

"I'm not mad." He clarifies, running a hand up and down their daughter's back. "No damn clue what I'm feeling but I'm not mad. But we are going to have that conversation."

She nods. That's when the rev of an engine echoes in the darkness. Two pairs of blue eyes watch as Flamebird's red and black motorcycle drives itself up the car ramp and parks itself onto one of the platforms. A high, trilling sound comes next. Some kind of alert?

Rachel's brow furrows. With a mix of curiosity and caution, she inspects the bike. Along with the standard fuel gauge and speedometer, there is some kind of digital display built into the windshield.

"What's…?"

Go home protocol. A clipped, robotic voice informs. Last check in: 10:52 pm. 4212 52nd street.

Battery at 5%

Recharge required.

Husband and wife share a look. Behind them, their daughter squeals, wondering where her momma and poppa have gone.

Leslie's seen a lot in this line of work. She's seen people at their best and at their worst. She's seen joy and despair, every invocation of Murphy's law and every flavor of dying you could imagine.

Duela Doe. It's the name on her learner's permit that Bruce 'forgot' was in his pocket. Leslie knows they're both fake, but it's something.

Her left eye is gone. Possibly carved out as a trophy, possibly lost as she took repeated hits to that side of her skull. Her left lung was punctured by two of her ribs, and too many broken bones. No next of kin to be found. The girl still hasn't woken up.

Unseen by the doctor, a pair of twin ravens lands by her window.

For a long time Duela just…floats. Suspended in something that isn't darkness. Isn't anything, really. She's nowhere. Anywhere. A space between. From what little she remembers after John Dee shot her, she's been here before.

A tug.

Things start to feel real. More real.

A double headed eagle burns before her eyes. Or maybe behind them? Somewhere, very far away, she can hear the soft 'clink' of her coin on its chain.

"It's okay baby," a kind voice tells her, a gentle hand stroking back her hair. "You're okay."

Duela is safe. Warm. A part of her knows she's dreaming, but the rest of her doesn't care.

She forces one of her eyes open. No matter how much she tries, the other one refuses. What she sees is a nightmare of burned and melted skin, bits of bone poking through the medley of black, pink and white. And a pair of kind blue eyes.

"Dad?"

"I'm here, Duela," he assures, one eye staring down at her, bare in its socket. "I'm right here."

"…it hurts."

"I know, honey."

"It really hurts."

The tears burn; she doesn't try to stop them as they slip down her face. Her father keeps stroking her hair, telling her she's safe now. That she didn't have to be strong anymore. Something else holds her hand, ephemeral and vaguely person-shaped. Their touch is gentle and warm.

Mother.

For the first time in a very long time, Duela Dent lets herself cry.

Harvey paces back and forth, his daughter's cries echoing in the darkness of the Batcave.

"It's okay baby," he comforts, running a hand up and down her back, eyeing the creatures hanging up in the far-off ceiling. So far none of the bats have bothered them while they're staying down here, but Harvey doesn't trust it to last forever.

Eleanor hasn't stopped crying. Not a dirty diaper, and she wasn't hungry. It's been the better part of an hour, and she's still sobbing. Even him walking around, rocking her and holding her against his chest isn't having its usual effect.

Harvey's mind keeps going back to the girl in the hospital. Duela her nametag always said. Is she even alive? Batman– Bruce would tell them if she dies, he'd guess. Everything is still so uncertain, and as much as the District Attorney thinks himself a coward for not going back out there, there's only so much he can do with Joker still on the loose. It would have been all too easy for him to be in the hospital room instead, or even the morgue. She could still end up there.

She was like this once. Small. Flamebird was once someone's baby girl.

"Someone really dropped the ball with that kid."

"You've got people who love you, who are depending on you. If I die…no one's gonna miss me. Not really."

Harvey keeps rocking Eleanor back and forth.

When Rachel opens her eyes, her husband is sitting at the end of the bed. At least, she thinks it's him.

"Harvey?"

His face is half-cast in shadows. When he leans forward–

Smoke swirls around him, thick and heavy. Clinging to him like a lover's embrace.

I'm dreaming.

"Our daughter," the death's head speaks, voice gentle. "She needs you."

"Ellie?" Rachel shoots up in bed. "What is it? What's happening?"

"She needs you. She's alone and she needs you. Both of you."

He flips the coin up into the air. Rachel is awake before he can slap it down.

Awake…

Her eyes drift across the batcave. Harvey. She can see him now, and she can hear Eleanor. Her husband's back is to her, his golden hair half shining in the light. He's wearing jogging pants and a faded Star Wars t-shirt. He's not wearing a suit. His face is not a death's head,

It was just a dream, she tells herself, trying to force the image from her mind. Just a–

Something catches her attention. Wrapping the comforter around herself, Rachel walks over to Bruce's work space. The bloody gauze is still in the plastic bag, but Flamebird's necklace is placed on the table. She picks it up by the chain.

I know this coin.

Burned as it was, a hole clean through, she knows it. Rifling through the pockets of the jacket that still smells of smoke, the lawyer finds its twin. Holds the pair of them up to the light.

Soft footsteps. Harvey turns around.

Rachel's eyes go from him, to Eleanor, and back again. Her arms wrap around his, her and the blanket, and she presses a kiss to the back of his neck. Harvey savors the feeling of her lips against his skin. Eleanor finally begins to quiet.

On the second day, Rachel visits Duela Doe.

No protection detail by the door, no cards or flowers besides the one Bruce sent. Gotham must truly think the sun shines out of his ass, as no one seems to find anything untoward in the billionaire playboy giving an underage girl a ride home after dark. At least, no one's saying anything out loud. Not even the gossip rags Rachel's been front page 'news' in more than once over the years.

In a white hospital gown, the left side of Flamebird's face is covered in bandages—most of her is covered in bandages—the girl looks halfway to a mummy costume for Halloween. Her long red-brown hair is out of its usual ponytail, spread out over the light green pillow. A white blanket pulled up to her lap and an oxygen tube running down her nose. An IV lead in her right arm, and wires keep the girl connected to the heart monitor. Her usual jewelry, including the fake spider-bites, are in a small plastic bag on the side tray close to the bed.

Rachel places the coin next to the bag, chain still strung through the bullet hole. Heads.

On the second day, Harvey goes back to the office. The Joker is finally, finally, safely tucked away in a maximum security cell at Arkham. Professor Hugo Strange, the new superintendent, has given the district attorney every reassurance that they are taking every precaution to keep their John Doe from escaping custody. The FBI is making noise about domestic terrorism charges, and it's a headache of jurisdiction and precedent Harvey is definitely not looking forward to untangling. Jim Gordon is acting police commissioner. Flamebird still hasn't stabilized.

A small, white package is waiting for him on his desk, among other office mail. He didn't recognize the return address, or the handwriting. Then he clocks the playing card stamp in the corner.

"Too light to be a bomb," he tells Gordon as they watch the technicians in thick hazmat suits on the other side of the glass walls. "But I'd rather not touch thallium or anthrax or whatever else that could be."

Nodding, Gordon pitches his voice low. "Any word from our mutual friend?" Harvey glances around. Alone. For now.

"The CI is alive," he murmurs. "That's as far as I know."

"Uh, Commissioner?" The hazmat technician speaks up. "You're gonna want to take a look at this."

For a moment, Harvey doesn't understand what they're holding. Then he does.

"Jesus," the officer's eyes go wide. "Is that–?"

Harvey doesn't hear how the sentence ends. Can't hear anything over the blood rushing in his ears.

When the district attorney comes back to himself, his knuckles are bloody and there's a dent in the wall. Gordon is eyeing him, half sympathetic and half searching; Harvey doesn't even remember throwing the punch.

On the third day, Rachel finds Bruce staring at the computer. She asks him what's wrong. He tells her.

"Nothing in the DNA samples in Gotham City's records. None in the FBI's or the CIA's or even Interpool's. So I expanded the search pool to partial matches. To try to find relatives."

"And you found one?"

"I found…two."

Evidence is everything in their line of work. So they don't even start to consider the possibility until Bruce runs the DNA three more times. The first time was with that bloody gauze he'd taken from the hospital, and saliva from the baby's pacifier. But the other three were with blood samples taken directly from Duela and Eleanor, their little one screaming at the prick of the needle in her arm.

The results are the same. So Bruce takes samples directly from Rachel and Harvey. Still the same.

"There has to be a logical explanation," Harvey insists, mostly to himself. Ellie is in her playpen, a treat of strawberries and her favorite block toys having smoothed over her earlier discomfort.

"Really? Because short of us both having secret identical twins I'm not coming up with one." Rachel reminds. "And…she has your eyes."

Clenching and unclenching his jaw, Harvey Dent can't meet his wife's eyes. "I didn't–there wasn't–sixteen years ago I was still in undergrad."

"I was in high school."

"And we didn't know each other."

"And I think I'd remember getting pregnant." And you're not the type to sleep with underage girls. Nodding, Harvey scratches at his stubble.

He's said a hundred times that Eleanor looks like her, usually adding how lucky he is to have two beautiful girls in his life. Duela also looks like her. Some of her and Bruce's high school photos survived the fire. Digging them out is a slap in the face.

Besides, Harvey Dent does nothing by halves. Absolute and reckless devotion is the only way he knows how to love, as much as it hurts him. The girl could still die, and they would be helpless to do anything. Harvey doesn't deal well with helplessness. Even if he lost a case, there was always another appeal, another avenue of investigation, another witness to find or another crime to charge them with. Another trap to set. Another target to paint on his own back. Self-destruction, at the very least, is a choice.

On the fourth day, they meet Hubert Fallon. Two rottweilers rest by the man's heels, quietly napping underneath the corner booth. "Geri and Freki," he introduces. "They're rescues, and quite gentle, I assure you." They look like the kinds of creatures Harvey's seen dragged from dog fighting rings with muzzles, but he knows better than to say it. One of the dogs raises its head, gives the pair of attorneys a gentle sniff. Both hounds rise to their feet.

After hearing why they wished to speak, the cafe owner tells the barista to take the rest of the afternoon off, and flips the sign to 'closed'.

His eyes flicker from Rachel, to Harvey and back again. "Ah. You must be Duela's parents."

"She told you?!" Harvey immediately regrets snapping at the man. In his mind, Flamebird's eye still stares at him from that plastic evidence bag. Rachel's gaze flickers over to him, but says nothing.

"Not in so many words." An amused smile. "But given how often I saw your face on campaign posters, newspapers, ads, and the local news, Mr. Dent, a certain familial resemblance wasn't hard to puzzle out." Placing themselves between their master and the interlopers, both hounds receive a head scratch.

"What did she tell you?" Rachel asks, voice careful.

"That she was a girl who wants to make a difference, and knows I do too. All she had was that motorbike and her armor. All she needed was a place to sleep." Fallon's smile was enigmatic. "She certainly didn't lead with the whole time travel thing, and I wouldn't have believed her if she had."

"But you do now?" She presses. "Why?"

The man shrugs. " There are more things between heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy. "

Fallon leads them up to the spare storage room she's been sleeping in. Harvey inspects what only the most duplicitous and jaded real estate agent would call a studio apartment. "She's been living here?"

A small cot in the corner, the bed still messy from the last time she slept.

The kitchenette consisted of a pizza oven, a microwave and a mini fridge filled primarily with peanut butter and blackberry protein shakes. A box of granola bars sits on her desk and empty cans of Red Bull in the trash can next to it.

An old bulletin board was hung on the exposed brick wall. Pinned on it were newspaper articles, surveillance photographs and handwritten notes; pieces of long red yarn ran connecting them together in a web of intrigue. It looks like one of the evidence boards Rachel likes to put together before a trial. In the center of it all was a picture of them. Rachel, Harvey and Eleanor, clearly clipped from the feature spread on them in the Gotham Gazette last month.

Both their faces were circled, hers in blue marker, his in black. Following the lines of red yarn pinned above their heads, his eyes spy a pair of simple white note cards.

Rachel Alice Dawes - total body disruption

250 52nd Street

Det. Anna Ramirez

Harvey Apollo Dent - GSW, 0.36

1942 Kain Street

Severe second and third degree burns

No skin graft?

Det. Michael Wuertz

Another red line follows the detective's name to another list.

Michael Wuertz - GSW, 0.36, front of the head

Willis Todd - GSW, 0.36, back of the head

Salvatore Maroni - blunt force trauma, car crash

"Ah, here it is." Harvey turns around as Fallon pulls out a thick manilla envelope from one of the boxes. He holds it out to Rachel.

"...what's this?"

"A logical explanation, if you want it."

The logical explanation goes thusly: Charles Dent, the deceased younger brother of Harvey's father, had a son named Erik and a granddaughter named Duela. This Duela Dent was born and raised in Bludhaven. Six months ago, both of her parents died in a car accident and she became a ward of the state of New Jersey. Two weeks ago, the paperwork was approved for her to become an emancipated minor.

Rachel's eyes narrowed. "I think I would remember having a cousin." She shows him the death certificate for Leah Dent. Maiden name Dawes.

"You sure?"

"Both of my parents are only children."

"And I don't remember Uncle Charlie having a kid. Is any of this true?" The District Attorney of Gotham City rises to his full height, towering over the cafe owner. Hubert shrugs, unperturbed.

"If you want it to be."

On the fifth day, Leslie calls. Duela is now stable, her body healing.

On the seventh day, Bruce finally manages to crack the encryption on Flamebird's bike.

"The Go Home protocol is a dead man's switch," he explains, a mess of wires pulled out from underneath the hood of the bike and stuck into the computer. "If Flamebird doesn't press something on her utility belt within a certain amount of time, it's programmed to first send out a distress signal, then to return to the manor on its own."

Okay. The protocol in and of itself wasn't insane, but…

Why the manor? Did you leave something in the batcave for her to find? "Is WayneTech by any chance working on self-driving motorcycles?" She asks instead.

"Nope. And even if we were, this is years ahead of any of the advanced prototypes currently out there. Don't even get me started on the solar panels…" Bruce sighs, running a hand over his face.

"What about her armor?" Harvey adds, hands on his hips, shoulders tense. The kind of tense she couldn't fix by grabbing him by the tie, pressing him against the nearest wall and shoving her tongue down his throat.

"Joker used the thermite in her utility belt for the bomb, and placed her armor right next to it. Probably wanted the shrapnel to kill her, if the heat and force of it didn't." W ell that's delightful she thinks, lips pressed in a thin line. "But even from the scraps, I can already tell it was better than mine. Same protection with a lighter kevlar weave."

"Everything she has is next-gen versions of what I have. She knew the Joker's plan and was working against him at every step. She knew what I would do at every step. At first I thought the League trained her but now…" Bruce runs a hand over his face. "...I think I did."

"Once you rule out the impossible…" Rachel lets the sentence hang, its feet twitching as the noose tightens.

"Time travel? We're seriously considering time travel?" Harvey asks, eyebrows nearly hitting his hairline.

On the eighth day, Harvey rewinds the video.

Exactly one-minute and forty-seven seconds after he's dragged away, the first bit of blood spray hits the camera lens. The next spray comes three minutes and eighteen seconds, along with the first crack as her bones start to break. At four minutes and thirty-six seconds, the Joker rolls his shoulders, complaining about being out of shape. At four-minutes forty-four seconds, he starts again. At five minutes and twenty-two seconds, the screen goes static. The camera died. The camera always dies.

Harvey rewinds the video. And presses play.

After nine days and nine nights, Duela wakes up. It's actually rather anticlimactic. According to Leslie, the girl just asked the nurse if she could go to the bathroom. "Nearly gave the poor man a heart attack," the doctor tells them, and Rachel can hear the smile in her voice.

"Could we visit?"

"According to the updated records, you're Miss Duela Dent 's only family. Of course you can visit. And Rachel?"

"Yes?"

"Tell Bruce that I know what he did. And if he knows what's good for him, he will never, and I mean never violate patient rights like that again."

Rachel doesn't need to pass on the message. When she goes to tell Bruce, she finds him already in the phone, expression suitably apologetic. "I think I'll let the two of you handle this one."

Rachel almost asks Sasha or Alfred to come with, someone who wasn't staving off a complete emotional breakdown would be a very useful thing to have around. But Bruce was right. Flamebird was their CI, and Eleanor— Duela is their daughter.

"She's very groggy from the concussion and the painkillers," a nurse warns. "Don't be surprised if she repeats herself, or doesn't remember what happened. It'll improve."

Rachel tries not to be disappointed. Probably too much to expect any immediate answers.

"Hiya!" The kid brightens the moment she spots them. Rachel squeezes her husband's hand.

"Hello Duela," Rachel squeezes her

"They let me pet a dog."

"That's nice. I'm Rachel Dawes and this is Harvey Dent."

"Howdy." Duela purses her lips, thoughtful. "I think I'm gonna hurl."

It's close, but Rachel gets the trash can over to her in time.

Scratching at the bandages on the right side of her face, Duela pouts like an angry little kitten. "Ugh, when do these come off?"

"Not for awhile, kiddo." Rachel swallows, her husband squeezing her hand. "You lost an eye."

"Oh." She blinks once. Twice. "Right. The knife. Usually not one for trophies though. Can it be green?"

Now it's Rachel's turn to blink. "I'm sorry?"

"My new eye. I think I can get a new one? I'd like it to be green."

"Alright," Rachel promises. "I'll talk to Dr. Thompkins about it."

"Leslie's here?" She perks up. "She's gonna be so mad I lost an eye."

"She already knows, sweetie."

"Oh."

Her eyes open, close, and open again, but with more difficulty. Harvey still hasn't said anything. "Oh hey-ya," Duela waves towards him. "When did you get here?"

Clearing his throat, Harvey shoves his hands in his coat pockets. "The whole time."

"Neat-o." Duela squints, studying him. "Don't feel bad," she giggles. "I'm gonna get a green eye."

Harvey studies his shoes then looks up at the ceiling.

"Can I ask you something?" Rachel ventures.

"'Kay."

Rachel holds up the necklace, the girl's jewelry still in the bag. "What is this?"

"Oh." Duela flashes a smile. "It's my father's lucky coin."

On the tenth day, Harvey rewinds the footage. Stops at the moment he's dragged off camera. Presses play. One minute and forty-seven seconds later, her blood hits the camera lens. At three minutes eighteen seconds–

The screen cuts to black.

"Hey!" He barks, looking up. I was–"

"Punishing yourself?" Rachel questions, holding the electrical cord like a challenge.

"You're punishing yourself."

"There is absolutely no one to blame here but the Joker."

"The Joker's just a mad dog," Harvey scratches his chin, the stubble long and itchy. "Maroni was the one who let him off the leash." And Michael Wuertz and Anna Ramirez and–and– "He sent me her eye."

"I know."

"He sent me our baby's eye," Harvey babbles. "Carved it out and— she said no one would care if she died—how—" he looks up at her, helpless. Tears glisten in Rachel's eyes, mouth thin as she tries to keep herself together. They hold each other as they fall apart.

Two days later, the doctors start weaning her off of the painkillers. Leslie reports Duela is a lot more lucid, Rachel says they'll go together after they get done with work. Harvey goes during his lunch break. Alone.

She's awake when he gets to the hospital room. A few more flowers and cards, including a gift basket from the other employees of Memory Lane. The girl is watching a Jeopardy rerun and absently eating chocolate pudding. The breathing tubes are gone.

Harvey lightly raps his knuckles against the door frame. "Can I come in?"

If Duela's surprised to see him, she doesn't show it. "Sure," she grunts.

"How are you feeling?"

"Like a psychotic clown hit me with a tire iron." She scrapes her spoon along the side of the pudding cup, managing less than one last spoonful. Rachel does that too.

"Ah."

"I, uh, got the flowers," she gestures to the bouquet featuring red and pink dahlias with the spoon. "It's nice."

"Yeah."

She throws the empty pudding cup across the room. It lands perfectly in the small trash can. "Huh. Nice," he half-mumbles.

The lone blue eye searches his face. A long sigh. "Bruce ran the DNA didn't he?"

Never ask a question you don't know the answer to. It's the first rule of witness examination, direct or cross. Rolling her eyes, Duela sits up in her hospital bed.

"Okay, out with it." She waves a hand.

"What?"

"All the questions you want to ask. Out with 'em."

Harvey says nothing at first, grabbing a chair and sitting down by her hospital bed. Less of a chance of someone overhearing them.

"What's your name? Your real name?" He almost said can you state your name for the record and that would have been embarrassing for everyone involved.

"Eleanor Dahlia Dent," she places the spoon on the side table. Indelicately, metal clatters against plastic. "I've been going by Duela since grade school."

"Really?" Another voice chirps in. "After all the time we spent picking out 'Eleanor'." Two heads whip around to take in the third. Rachel Dawes stands in the doorway, arms crossed over her chest and one eyebrow cocked.

"Yeah, well," Duela made a dismissive gesture. "It has most of the same letters."

"Less than half, but please," she pulls up a chair on the other side of the hospital bed, shooting her husband a fond, if exasperated kind of look, "continue."

It's then that he notices the coin necklace is out of the bag. At some point, Duela wrapped it around her wrist like a bracelet. Holding the half-burned coin against her palm.

Harvey clears his throat. "What happened, Duela? What really happened?"

She squints. Squant? Narrows her sole eye, expression pure befuddlement. "Okay. You're gonna need to be slightly more specific."

"Well for starters," Rachel crosses her legs. "How did you get here?"

"Oh." The girl blinks. "I have no idea."

"...what?"

A shrug. "Sorry. No convenient Delorean or anything like that."

"Okay," Harvey rubs a hand over his face. "Why don't you tell us what you do know?"

"Well, long story short: you both died. Bruce got custody. The world's most emotionally unavailable helicopter parent trains me to be a kid crime-fighter all while covering up what actually, you know, happened to you. I found out. We got into a fight. I got shot, woke up here with my armor and bike."

Well. Shit. That's…

"Wow," Rachel sighs.

Harvey taps his fingers against the arm of his chair. "The cover up." Duela looks from her mother, to her father, and back again.

"The Joker killed you," she gestures at Rachel. "Two bombs, but the addresses flipped so when and when he went to rescue you, Batman found him instead. Gordon didn't make it to the other place in time." She glances away. "When mom died, you…didn't take it well, to say the least. Went on a bit of a spree. Took the Gordons hostage and then…" Duela fiddles with the coin in her hand. "Bruce and Jim covered it up. Hid the truth so everyone could remember you as Gotham's White Knight. Told everyone the Joker was responsible for your death, and the people you killed."

Harvey runs a hand over his face. 0.36 caliber. "And that worked?"

"I mean, over the past two weeks he's left enough bodies to give dieners burnout, so it's not exactly hard. But yeah. That was the story I heard my entire childhood. Then Babs told me what really happened."

"Barbara Gordon?" Harvey leans forward in his chair.

"You kind of tried to kill her mom. Something about making him go through what you did?" Duela scratches the side of her head. "She's like seven and didn't really understand what was happening."

Rachel sighs, rubbing her forehead. "Okay. So Barbara told you. What happened next?"

"Well, coincidentally, Anna Ramirez was being released from prison."

"For…?"

"Aiding and abetting your murder, basically. So. I wanted to talk to her. Don't give me that look, I wasn't going to do anything. I was just…" Duela sighs. "I don't know. But then Bruce found out Babs told me his dirty little secret and we…" she sucks in air through her teeth.

"Had a fight?"

"More like a screaming match. I told him I knew everything. How he'd been lying to me my entire childhood. I said a lot of things…the kind of things you can't take back, you know?" Duela murmurs. "Then we got the call. Some jackass broke into GCPD evidence, killed two officers. We split up, and I followed the fugitive to the basement of Arkham. He had this," she tapped the coin around her neck. "And was scrawling this occult symbol thing-ies on the floor. Then he shot me, and I woke up."

"He shot you?" Harvey demands.

"Yeah," Duela flushes. "I'd just called Oracle–Babs' callsign—and…well I was still pissed. I should have secured the weapon. Total rookie move."

"No. Where did he shoot you?"

"I–" her brow furrows. "It hit the coin? Somehow? It's all still pretty fuzzy."

"Then you just woke up here?"

"Yeah," Duela mumbles, struggling to keep her eye open. Rachel nods.

"We'll let you get some sleep," she promises, rising out of her chair.

Harvey almost turns to go. Almost. Instead, he gently leans forward, and brushes some of Duela's hair back from her forehead. "Just sleep, kiddo, we'll figure everything else out later."

As Rachel and Harvey walk out of the hospital room, hand in hand, they start to make plans. Their apartment wasn't big, but they had a spare room they'd already been using as an office space.

"We'll have to bring Ellie next time," Harvey muses. "Introduce her to her new big sister."

Rachel squeezes his hand.

A faint song could be heard from the other room.

That's how I got to Memphis…

That's how I got to Memphis…