Sounding an Alert

Helena sighed. This was beginning to become far too frequent. She never did like going to the principal's office—hell, who did? But this school year, she found herself coming here more and more regularly.

Standing in front of the door, she absently smoothed down her shirt and the long skirt she wore. Today had felt like a skirt day, but the one she would have worn out for a night on the town was definitely not appropriate for a school. So she wore one that went all the way down to her ankles, revealing only the toes of her boots. Squaring her shoulders, she finally opened the door.

The principal wasn't present, which was a good thing. That woman had a tendency to get patronizing, which wasn't something nine year olds needed to hear.

The boy that was sitting in the office was no nine year old, however. He was actually ten, one of the very few kids that were held back a grade these days. Due to government oversight, which came with government funds, it was generally in a school's interest to not hold kids back if they could help it. It was sort of a last resort thing now versus how common it was in previous generations.

The boy had a head of unmade red hair. It definitely could have used a comb to tame it, but that was the least of the boy's worries. He was an orphan, ya see, both parents dead, and constantly in-and-out of foster homes.

The reason for his frequent changes was because he was on the spectrum. For those not in the know, that meant the Autism spectrum. This wasn't a Rainman sort of thing though. Just about anything that wasn't considered normal could be found on the spectrum, ranging from learning disabilities to social deficits. Terms like high-functioning to low-functioning usually described just how severe the condition was.

High-functioning was usually code for a kid that was perhaps a little slower than your regular child, but could keep up with additional time and attention. Low-functioning were the kids most thought of when someone thought of mentally challenged. Down's Syndrome was a good example of this, or the infamous kid-in-a-helmet stereotype. Oh yes, those did exist, but they were usually kept in a separate class assuming the school had the funds for such a program.

Unfortunately, there was a group of children that usually fell somewhere in-between these two terms. They were too high-functioning for the low-functioning kids, but lower than the high-functioning ones.

Colin Wilkes fell into this group, unfortunately.

Closing the door behind her, Helena walked to the chair that was next to the one Colin sat in. The little red-haired boy immediately looked at her, revealing a dried trail of blood that ran from his nose and down to his chin. There was a bloody handkerchief in his hand, but it was nowhere near his face, the boy holding it in his lap. "Ms. Bertinelli, it wasn't my—" he immediately began to say.

Helena immediately held her hand up to cut him off. It didn't really work as the boy kept rambling. "-fault! Tommy started it! He wouldn't leave me alone and I kept telling him to stop and he wouldn't stop and—"

Geez, take a breath kid. "Colin, Colin," Helena just said, repeating his name over and over until he came to a stop. She took a seat in the chair next to him, placing a hand on the armrest of the chair he sat in. "Just take a breath, okay? Relax, breathe."

Colin huffed, but he at least made an effort to calm down. Helena had his file memorized by now. He had a learning deficit, one that made it difficult for him to keep up with the other kids. That frustrated him to no end, especially when his previous teachers hadn't adapted to their teaching style to him. While that sounded simple in theory, most teachers couldn't devote that sort of attention due to the size of their class. Colin really could benefit from a one-on-one teacher, but there wasn't the staff or money for that because there were easily thirty other kids that could use that sort of help too. And Helena had twenty four other kids she had to keep up with.

And because he became frustrated so easily, he hadn't yet come up with coping mechanisms to handle it. That was where the label "behavioral problem" came in. Colin was a nice boy, don't get her wrong, but it took quite a bit of effort to back him off of the cliff he always seemed to head too when he lost his temper.

"Alright, are you feeling calmer?" she asked him after several moments.

"Yes, Ms. Bertinelli," Colin mumbled, looking down at the floor.

"Okay, now I need you to look up at me." Colin did no such thing. "Colin, look up at me, please."

Reluctantly, he did. "Now, tell me how it started. I know you and Tommy were at your desks. What were you doing first?"

"We were doing what you told us to do," Colin immediately responded. "I was working on my sheet and Tommy said I had a wrong answer. Then he wouldn't tell me which one was wrong and then he called me dumb and I said not to call me dumb and he kept doing it and then I told him to leave me alone and he wouldn't."

"Okay, okay," Helena said. "So Tommy should have kept to his own work and not bother you. That sounds about right?"

"Yeah, Ms. Bertinelli."

"And this is what led to you hitting him?"

"He wouldn't stop, no matter how many times I told him to!"

"So you thought hitting him would stop him?"

"I couldn't think of anything else!"

"What about telling me?"

"You were too busy! I raised my hand and called for you, but you never came!"

"That very well happened. But does that mean you should have hit Tommy? Since I didn't answer you?"

"But I wanted him to stop!"

"You and I both know that you shouldn't hit people. It's not a nice thing to do."

Internally, Helena could feel bile working its way up her throat. Here she was, telling a little kid that violence wasn't the answer when it was definitely an option. In fact, just last night she had broken the femur of some thug, she really couldn't remember what he was up to. Last night had been busy, from carjackings, robberies, attempted rapes, and all of the usual Gotham crimes.

Unfortunately, kids didn't have that option, even if it was justified.

Well, perhaps that was for the best. Kids would be smacking each other left and right if they were given that chance, whether someone deserved it or not.

"Why is it always me?" Colin then demanded. "I'm always getting picked on, but I'm the only one getting in trouble. It's not fair!"

"I will deal with Tommy," Helena responded reassuringly. "The problem, Colin, isn't that you hit him. It's that you hit him over and over. You were both covered in blood by the time I pulled you off of him. That isn't right, Colin."

"It's not right that he kept bothering me," he grumbled.

"No it isn't, but two wrongs don't make a right. Why did you think hitting him would be a good idea."

"It's what Batman would do."

Helena resisted the urge to twitch her eye. Oh great, this argument again.

It was coming up more and more lately. Whenever there was a…violent altercation…between the students, Batman was used as a justification. Batman would have fought back. Batman beats up bad guys, why can't I? It went on and on. Ironically enough, it usually happened when at least one of the kids was wearing a Batman shirt. Beneath Colon's red flannel shirt that he was basically wearing as a jacket, he had on a…

Wait, that wasn't a Batman shirt. For one, it was purple, not that color would stop T-shirt companies. There were plenty of shirts, from red to blue to orange to green that had the Bat symbol plastered on them. Purple wasn't all that usual, however. Which led to the second point that this wasn't a Batman T-shirt.

Instead of a Bat Symbol, she saw an H, one with the outer sides rounded, much like the H-shaped shuriken she used.

Was…was this a Huntress T-shirt?

Tilting her head so that she got a better look, she then glanced to Colin's face. "Hey, what kind of shirt are you wearing?"

Colin immediately looked down, then back up. "It's my Huntress shirt," he said, his earlier frustration with getting in trouble seemingly forgotten.

"Who is that?" she asked nicely.

"She's one of these superheroes in Gotham!" The redhead was starting to get excited now. "She goes around and beats up bad people with these other ladies; they're called the Birds of Prey. They work with Batman sometimes and they do all these things and—"

"And you like Huntress, huh?"

"Yeah! She's my favorite."

Okay, now he was just flattering her, not that he knew it. Heh, she had no idea she had her own T-shirt line. That actually made her feel good. Besides, she had managed to get Colin off of his tirade against injustice against him. All she needed to do is get him to see that even his heroes didn't always beat people up to get him to see why he shouldn't have hit Tommy and she could get the lesson in.

"Why don't you tell me more about her?" she then asked.

In a contest of wills, the first one to give in lost. Such a loss created a negative feedback loop, one that made the loser more likely to lose and the winner more likely to win. It was a big reason why people seemed to give into Batman more often than not. He knew how long he needed to outlast his opponent and just calmly waited it out.

Cassandra was in the midst of her latest battle. There was a scowl on her face, her eyes narrowed. She would not give in, refused to give in.

The same could be said for Damian.

The little brat had the same expression on his face as she did. They were standing across from each other, her staring down on him and he up to her. She could read the defiance in his body language, the simmering rage that boiled beneath his surface. They had not said a word to each other for several minutes now.

Cassandra was willing to go for as long as it would take.

"Do it, Usurper," Damian growled lowly. "That is your function here and you will do it."

"I will not," she countered coolly. "If you want it done, you're going to have to do it yourself."

"I will not lower myself to perform servile tasks. That is beneath me. This is a task for a servant."

"I fail to see how it is my responsibility."

"Because it just is."

"Well, I'm not doing it. You have to do it."

Damian bristled at that. "I will not make my bed."

Yes, this entire climatic battle of wills was over Damian making his bed.

And in case you were wondering, the servant he was referring to wasn't the housekeeping staff, but her.

"And I am not your servant," she shot back. "If you want your bed made, it's on you. I've already made my own bed because I want to. I don't have to do yours."

"You will if I tell my father," Damian retorted, purposefully stressing that one word.

"Go ahead. All I have to do is leave; even if he did want me to, he can't make me if I'm not here." Yeah, she highly doubted her father would make her pamper Damian the way he wanted, but that logic had yet to work on the brat. So now she was showing him that she had any number of escapes out of his desires, even if he did get his way with their parental figure.

Anger flushed the boy's cheeks. "Do as I say, woman! That is your role and you will do as you are ordered!"

All Cassandra did was raise her hands up. She balled one into a fist and then clasped the other around it. She cracked her knuckles, each pop seemingly echoing throughout the penthouse they were in. "I would sooner kick your ass than do as you tell me. So either go away, or go run to Daddy. Either way, you will not get your way."

Damian stuck a finger into her face, one she had to resist the urge to grab and snap with a flick of her wrist. "This isn't over, Usurper," he spat at her.

"As far as I'm concerned, it is, Jerkface."

Spinning on her heel, Cassandra left the bedroom—Damian's bedroom. She ventured through the penthouse, the manor still under construction, though with noticeably more security. After the events of the previous month, the rebuilding manor now had around-the-clock security watching the place. No way was there going to be a repeat of all of the break-ins.

As she reached the kitchen, she faintly wondered what she should eat. It was lunch time and she was only here because her father wanted her to check on Damian and make certain he hadn't starved to death. Those weren't his words, but it was implied, or at least that's how she chose to see things.

Despite the murder case she and Damian had solved, they hadn't gotten much closer since they had proved their father's innocence. It seemed living in close-quarters had only exacerbated the tension between them. In hindsight, perhaps that shouldn't have been surprising.

Faintly, she wondered why Damian hadn't returned to Talia by now. She knew for certain the al Ghul woman was constantly calling to see how the boy was doing. Allegedly, her father was trying to coax Damian into seeing her, but the child was steadfast in his refusal. At first, Cassandra could understand his reluctance, she really could. However, as time went by, she was beginning to wonder if Damian's continued presence was because he wanted to glue himself to their father. It was no secret he wanted the man all to himself and he was finally taking his shot at doing so.

And she was going to be there at every turn to make certain he didn't flat out cut her out completely.

Glancing at the clock on the microwave, Cassandra could see she was running out of time on her lunch break. The bickering between her and her adoptive brother—ugh, did she really think that of him?-had eaten a lot of time, more than she had thought. She was going to have to just grab something and head back. If she told Lucius how things had gone, maybe he would let her eat at her desk for lunch.

"Usurper!" Damian shouted then.

"Jerkface!" she shouted back.

"My socks aren't in the hamper! Put them where they belong!"

…before this was over, she was going to kill that brat.

While it was never a dull day at the GCPD, it could not be said that it was tedious. The amount of workflow was never ending; just when you thought you were making headway, more gets plopped in your lap with a demand to make it all make sense.

Barbara knew this was what she had signed up for. Being in the labs may not be the same as walking the beat, but it had its rough edges too. Evidence of all kinds would flow in with not a lot of results flowing out. It was all backlogged, sometimes days and in one case months.

For her role, she was currently cyber. Anything that had to do with computers, she was the up and comer. Every laptop, every hard drive, every phone, if it was electronic, it would be heading her way and sometimes five at a time. For the most part, people were idiots when it came to their electronics. Internet search histories were a gold mine and very few people knew how to properly delete files.

Thought you had deleted that one embarrassing photo? Make sure to check your recycle bin. You might find something that might horrify you. Your search history was not your friend either. Those little things called cookies? They weren't sweet and ready to eat, but did provide digital breadcrumbs to wherever you searched. So many mistakes and all done out of ignorance.

Why was it then that these idiots decided they wanted to look up untraceable poisons and how to file off a gun's serial number? Google searches for the fastest routes away from a location, when a bank was open, Facebook posts!

This was tedious for a hacker who had been around and in places many of her colleagues didn't know about.

Not that Barbara was going to brag about it. That would get her into needless trouble. Thanks to her skills and her current placement, she now had access to the department's database and she didn't even need to hack in anymore, though there was some to make sure she left no digital paper trail. There was no need to tip anyone off to her other clandestine efforts.

Rubbing at her hands, Barbara wondered if she was going to be developing carpal tunnel sooner rather than later in her life. All the typing…well, the increase in typing and clicking made her hands feel sore at times. Maybe getting some over the counter remedies would help. She couldn't afford anything happening to her greatest assets now. It was bad enough being paraplegic as it was.

In the small amount of time it took for her to rub at her hands, another case was put at her desk, a form that held the relevant information including where to find the next piece of evidence she was going to have to forensically investigate. See what she meant with more work coming in?

Well, from the rumblings she had been hearing, it sounded like a big case was unfolding. A few certain words had the hacker's haunches raising because those certain words were the last ones you ever wanted to hear surfacing in Gotham. It could only mean bad things.

On the desk she was occupying, a landline phone rested, sitting there dark and with a display that indicated no missed calls or messages. That was remedied when it lit up, signaling an incoming call needed the wheelchair-bound woman's attention. The ringing was also a dead giveaway and not too uncommon down here. Ringing phones in the police department were background noises, easy to ignore unless it was right in front of you.

Barely looking, Barbara reached out and picked up the receiver, bringing it to the side of her face and saying, "Forensics, Gordon speaking."

It took everything in her not to visibly respond when a certain voice spoke, "I hope I'm not interrupting anything."

Tim. Or Red Robin. Why the hell was he calling her at work? This line wasn't for friendly chats. "You are actually. How about you call later and stop tying up the line?"

Sure, that was a short response, but she was not at her workstation back at home. This was in the middle of a precinct for the GCPD for Christ's sake! This kind of business did not need to be on a police line, thank you very much!

"The line's secure. No one will hear about this unless you're loud enough to draw attention. Just act normal and we can get this over with."

"I have my doubts, but even if I trusted that, this is still not the time or place," she reprimanded. "Can it wait until later? Hopefully when I'm not surrounded by a group of people with the power to lock me up."

"Then I'll make this quick. Can you tell me about any kind of animal attacks in the last two weeks? Anything that would have happened within the city limits?"

Barbara blinked, then frowned. That was an odd question, but she could make it look like she was working if she decided to answer it. Glancing around without making it too obvious, the incognito hacker brought up a new window and opened up the program that would let her search through the countless files the department had. Inputting the proper search terms and filters, she let the program do its thing.

"Any reason why? That's not something you hear about unless it's on the local news," she remarked. A small circle was spinning, indicating that her search was processing.

"Humor me. Depending on what you find out, that's going to determine what I tell you next."

If that wasn't ominous. Alright, the first few files were loading up. There was a list, it seemed. Okay, time to narrow this down a bit more. She changed a filter, added another search term, and ran the program once more. Several seconds later, she had a shorter list, each file dated during the last two weeks.

Opening up the one at the top, she did a quick read through and closed it. Dog attack. Second file, pet store robbery where one of the perps had a retired member of the K-9 unit assaulting him. Huh, ol' Ginger was still snapping, wasn't she? Third file, fourth file, fifth one was about cordoning off a bat suspected to have rabies.

"What exactly am I looking here for?" she asked, raising a shoulder up to better balance the phone receiver.

"Survivors or…deaths." Her fingers stilled for a fraction of a second, but then resumed without missing a beat. "There was an attack in Blüdhaven last night that matches—"

"Should have mentioned that sooner," Barbara interrupted. Another window opened, this time looking up any kind of articles about an animal attack in Nightwing's territory. It wasn't easy, but she found something. Naturally, a lot of details were missing, but this was still an active investigation and the article she had was from a local paper. Alley ways, though, time to add in a few more terms and a couple more filters.

A few moments later, "I got three that might be of interest to you. Two had survivors, each described seeing a…monster. Different descriptions. Is this what you're looking for?"

There was some silence on Tim's end. What, no prompt response? "It might." Ah, he speaks. "I'll need you to forward those to Cyborg."

"Why?" Her wariness was back now.

"A case. We followed the trail and it leads to Gotham."

Now Barbara was quick to interrupt. "You're not telling me you're back in the neighborhood, are you?" It took every ounce of her strength not to yell that out.

"Okay, I won't." That cheeky…

"You're not going to get the red carpet treatment here," she warned, once more glancing around at her colleagues. "Higher up is going to want you gone before you even set foot here. Whatever it is you're trying to solve, give me the details and I can pass them along."

"With everything he does, do you think he'll have time for this? We don't even know where to start looking; all we know is that the starting point is Gotham. She could be anywhere."

"And you should remember how resourceful he is," Barbara quipped right back. "He'd probably get it done in twenty-four. Twenty five if it's a busy day." Pausing, she glanced towards a commotion and noticed a cart being wheeled in. There were plastic evidence bags littered on its top and it was being directed towards one of the smaller labs. She could hear the familiar bellow of Bullock declare that everything on the cart was high priority and to get DNA samples ASAP. If that was what she thought it was… "Then again, he might be a little bit busy."

"Busy enough not to get it done in twenty four hours?"

"I've been overhearing talk about a new case, one that involves clowns," she answered dryly.

The line was quiet for several seconds. It was the response she was expecting. Eventually, "Is it him?"

"We'll be finding out soon enough."

"Yeah, this is just great." She could hear the exasperation. "We're nearly there anyway." Oh, you have got to be kidding! If this was everyone's worst fears coming true, Tim and his Scooby Gang were going to be mixed up in perhaps one of the worst timed visits to Gotham ever. They did not need any metahumans being added to a volatile mix. "Sometime after dark. Can you find out what you can and tell us where not to go?"

And he was being an idiot and coming anyway. Oh, the big cheese himself was not going to like this. However, it was going to be on Tim's head. Of all the times to get headstrong, this was not a good one.

"Then I'll give him the heads up and let him deal with you. You better be able to argue your case or those threats of violence aren't going to be threats," she warned.

"Yeah, that's what I figured too."

A boot slammed down on the bench, helping to allow a foot to shove into it. Clasps were pressed down, locking it into place. The foot moved away before a second boot appeared, the other foot sliding into it.

A glove slid onto a hand next, fingers bending inward to improve the fit, the leather squealing in response. The gauntlet the glove was attached to clicked into place, triangle blades gleaming in the fluorescent light. A second hand did the same, shoving itself into a glove and gauntlet a moment later.

Finally, a cape was thrown over one shoulder, being attached to its anchor points. All that was left was the cowl itself.

It slid over Bruce's head, the white lenses of the mask lighting up the moment he pushed a button on his gauntlet. Batman turned his head from left to right and back, checking for fit and to see if the cowl was on properly. Everything seemed to be in order.

Due to the Manor being under-construction still, prepping in the Batcave was not an option. Fortunately, there were a number of bunkers he had scattered throughout the city, ones he could use at a moment's notice. Now, while the main reason for the need for construction was the destruction of the Batcave itself, with the help from some…friends…it had been restored relatively quickly. If it hadn't been for the press reporting on the damage to the Manor, the same superhero construction team would have been used to fix it in a matter of minutes. For now, things would have to go this long, inconvenient way.

Fortunately, he only needed to upgrade one of the bunkers to be his main base for the time being. This one looked much like all the other ones, save for the one under Robinson Park. The ceiling was made entirely of fluorescent lights, which made the entire room look brighter than it was due to the white walls and flooring. A computer monitor and system had been set up close to the entrance, which was currently on, loading up details for tonight's patrol.

What he wanted to do was look more into Max Shreck and this power plant of his. So far, the investigation had shown that Shreck was up to something, but the exact details were still very much unknown. The business mogul was playing things close to the vest on this one, which wasn't too out of the ordinary. Previous inquiries had shown, however, that Shreck had kept it all out of the digital realm; hell, a physical paper trail was just as hard to turn up.

Aside from this plant existing solely inside of Shreck's head, there had to be something that indicated this thing was past the idea phase. Shreck wouldn't be trying to round up as much support for it if he hadn't. His office at his main headquarters hadn't revealed anything so far.

So while Batman was more than comfortable looking into other avenues, something naturally had to come up. This something had a smile.

Any self-respecting Gothamite knew what that meant.

A string of murders had been committed in the last week. The first had been at a dentist office, a patient to be exact. Jack Dawson had only gone in for a routine check-up, only to be brutally murdered with a drill. As if people already had reservations for going to the dentist, the GCPD was keeping the details of that murder under tight wraps lest the entire city give into its phobia around dentists.

The second murder involved a Jane Doe at a bakery. She didn't have an ID on her, so fingerprints were being run, along with—ironically—dental records to identify her. As far as anyone could tell, the middle-aged woman had entered the bakery and had been assaulted with a wooden oven spatula. It was one of those oversized ones, which allowed bakers to reach into their large ovens without placing themselves in it. Knocked unconscious, the woman was then tossed into the oven herself; that was also a reason why they were having a difficult time trying to ID her. She had been covered in fourth degree burns. One hand had miraculously hung outside of the oven, which only partially damaged her fingers when her clothes were set ablaze by the heat.

The third and fourth murders had happened simultaneously. They were parents Shawn and Marcia Patterson, and they had been in the process of setting up a birthday party. The perpetrators had entered the home and attacked the two in the kitchen, tying them up, and slashing their throats. Additional trauma had been inflicted on their mouths, cutting them wider.

Lastly, a psychiatrist had been attacked in his office, the entire room set on fire. The source of the fire had been the psychiatrist himself, the flames spreading to the rest of the room once it caught onto the rug in the room. Unlike the Jane Doe at the bakery, they at least had an ID on this victim, a Dr. Byron Merideth.

The seemingly randomness of the victims made a connection between them all very tenuous, if not impossible. None of the deaths followed a similar script, no similar M.O. with the killings. Each seemed to be involved with what was present at the time.

However, what did connect each of these murders was the calling card.

On the screen on his computer, Batman saw an image of the card. At each crime scene, a card with the words LEAGUE OF SMILES had been left behind. There was even a round, yellow smiley face on it. If it weren't for these cards, no one would have connected the murders to each other.

Fingerprint analysis, DNA analysis, even a damn blacklight had been used to turn up further clues on the cards, and nothing had turned up. There was also a lack of CCTV cameras at each scene, or if there were any, they were disabled before the murders were committed. There was an intelligence behind these murders, that much was evident.

Unfortunately, the intelligence he felt was behind this was an insane one.

It had only been a matter of time. He had said as much on a number of occasions. To have those words become prophetic was bitter.

The Joker was back. He had set up this League of Smiles to commit these murders, he had no doubt. There was a reason he chose those people for death, and Batman needed to figure out what that was. Even now, his computer was running background checks on each of the known victims, trying to find other commonalities between them. Something that would have placed bull's eyes on their backs by the insane clown.

Tonight's patrol was also with an emphasis to find this League of Smiles as well. With the amount of success they've had, they would be emboldened by now. They would strike without fear of repercussion. They would find themselves to be very mistaken in this regard.

And once he had them done, they would be finding out just how far Batman would go to find their boss. Each and every one of them wouldn't be smiling for a very long time when he was through with them.