Interlude

Chapter 12: Rites of Passage

I carried my fear of the world
and let it nuzzle close to me,
and when it nipped, when it bit
down hard to taste me, part of me
shined: I had been right.
—Maggie Smith, "What I Carried" (excerpt)

DETECTIVE COMICS

Batgirl thought it was a quiet night. Batman knew better.

"Look down and tell me what's wrong with this scene," he said to her. From where they stood on a rooftop in the Bowery, he indicated at the street below. In front of a large building that declared FOR LEASE, there was a rain-drenched bus stop, where a slim figure sat slumped against the glass panels, eyes vacant.

Batgirl pointed. "There. He looks… dead."

The two of them silently grappled down to the ground. Up close, Batman saw that the young man's pale skin displayed track marks. An empty syringe was stuck in his left elbow, and a teaspoon and lighter lay beside him.

In quiet tones, Batman told Batgirl how to collect the evidence, being careful to store the needle safely.

Dead, he thought, brushing the gaping eyes shut with a gloved hand. Can't be more than twenty. There hasn't been junk on the street in ten days. Clearly, that's changed. Like many long-time users who've been deprived, he overdid it when he finally scored. He wouldn't have wasted any time…

"… which means someone's dealing within a few blocks of here," he finished telling Batgirl. She was uniquely skilled in combat, and her ability to read body language was a valuable asset, but his own years of detective work meant that there were many connections he took for granted. Batgirl had not yet learned to make those connections, so he found himself spelling out these details to her, prompting her brain to link the evidence and her own knowledge together.

Robin, he knew, was an excellent detective who rarely needed prompting. But Robin wasn't there.

BATMAN

Cassandra's adoption papers still had not been filed. There had been a hundred things to do—remove any traces of Robin or Batman from the Drakes' condo, scour the crime scene for evidence before the police and media arrived, send Tim and Dana to the Manor in the abandoned Batmobile, inform Batgirl and Alfred of the situation and radio Oliver about this latest development in the Dibny case. And, after that, there had been questions of living arrangements for Tim and Dana, of funeral planning, of a will, of assets and guardianship.

The process was not unfamiliar to Bruce. After Janet Drake's death several years ago, Bruce had taken it upon himself to contact the Drakes' lawyers (none of whom knew Tim personally), search for next of kin (he discovered that Tim had no extended family, not even grandparents), file for temporary guardianship of Tim (not difficult while Jack Drake was in a coma) and make funeral arrangements. Tim had been thirteen years old, stoic and distraught by turns, and had reminded Bruce too much of himself. Tim would wake from nightmares, stifling his own gasping sobs, but Bruce had to steady his own breaths, had to secure his own mask first before he could help Tim.

In some ways, sixteen-year-old Tim was not so different from the Tim of long ago, the Tim who was not yet Robin. Both moved as silently as ghosts, flitting from room to room without stopping, as if grief were a physical ache that could be alleviated through constant motion. But what puzzled and frustrated Bruce most was the way Tim had shuffled into the Batcave that first night, his face pale and his eyes red-rimmed as he said, "Bruce… I need to ask you a favour."

"Of course, Tim," Bruce said immediately, and Tim inched forward, looking at the floor.

"It's about Dana. She—she can't stay at the condo. I was hoping she could stay at the Manor, at least until we figure out what happens next." Tim glanced up and bit his lip. "Is that okay?"

Bruce stood up and put a hand on Tim's shoulder. "You don't even have to ask. Both of you are welcome here for as long as you need."

Tim let out a breath. "I wish it hadn't happened the way that it did, but I'm not sorry that she knows now."

"It couldn't be helped. You are not to blame."

Tim had not spoken of Robin since his father's death, but Bruce was secretly relieved. Tim needed time to mourn with his stepmother and help her process the revelation. Like Dick and Stephanie, Tim and Dana could convalesce at Wayne Manor for as long as they needed. When Tim was ready to take up the mantle again, Bruce would be there for him.

DETECTIVE COMICS

Three people crowded around a man at the entrance of an alleyway.

"It's good, right?" asked the girl. "Cause there's been nothing but bunk goin' around for, like, ever."

"Oh, it's the real deal, sugar," assured the dealer, spreading his arms wide. A crucifix hung from his neck.

"Better be," said a third, a long-haired man who languished beside a dumpster. "Cause if it ain't—"

"Stay cool, bro. I said it's good. Pure. Just came in. Trust me."

"Okay," said the girl. "Gimme fifty."

But the dealer appraised her and said, "Y'know. I might be inclined to cut a deal with a pretty little girl like you… you interested?"

"Uh, I… dunno—" She drew her arms protectively around herself.

Batgirl glanced at Batman, seeking confirmation. Batman nodded. Silent as shadows, the two of them descended into the alleyway, behind the dealer.

"Hey," interjected the long-haired man. "That offer open to me, 'bro'? I just need to get high, I don't care if I gotta—"

"Sorry, but special offers only apply to the ladies. So how 'bout it, sweetness?"

Batman signalled to Batgirl. Your move.

"How's about we step into my office—gukk!" The dealer's words were cut off by Batgirl grabbing him and wrenching him backwards into the darkness. Too fast to see, she struck a tender bundle of nerves.

"AIIEEE!"

The three would-be customers scattered as the dealer brandished his crucifix in desperation.

The drugs were distributed out of Coventry, the aristocratic neighbourhood north of Robinson Park. While Batman drove (he really needed to teach Cassandra the intricacies of the Batmobile one of these days), he filled in Batgirl.

"The opium poppy has regional varieties. The heroin I got off the boy and the dealer is of Indonesian origin. Used to be the Lucky Hand Triad controlled the Asian heroin trade. Usually as tar. Not only is this stuff powdered—it's also cut in the exact same fashion seen in the junk brought in from South America by the Escabedo Cartel."

"So… something isn't right," Batgirl deduced.

Batman nodded grimly. My thoughts exactly. The Escabedo Cartel had been decimated and scattered in the gang war. True to suspicion, someone was organising what was left, and he knew they had to strike while the iron was hot.

"Cops," said Batgirl suddenly, referring to three GCPD cars which were in pursuit of the speeding Batmobile, complete with red lights and shrieking sirens.

"I know." Now, let me show you a thing or two about driving…!

Over an empty bridge and alongside the train line they went, effortlessly weaving through the pouring rain. The Batmobile drew up to the front of a passenger train, and Batman knew that he could use the oncoming tunnel to his advantage.

Watch this, he thought to the girl beside him, and with a burst of energy, the Batmobile leapt onto the tracks in the path of the oncoming passenger train, which was no match for the Batmobile's high-powered engine. The cop cars halted in helpless fury beside the tracks, and the flashing lights vanished in the rear view as the train entered the tunnel.

BATMAN

On a shadowy, overcast day in Gotham, Jack Drake was buried next to his first wife. Despite the publicity surrounding his death, the funeral was small and private—Bruce had made sure of that. But he had lost count of how many superheroes had sent along their condolences, even those who hardly knew Tim.

"I'm sorry for your loss."

"Take care of him, Bruce."

"Let us know if there's anything we can do."

"Tell Robin to feel free to visit the Tower whenever he's ready… there's no rush…"

A small piece titled In Memoriam: JACK DRAKE, 43, BUSINESSMAN, ADVENTURER was published in the obituaries section of the Daily Planet. Its last line read:

He is survived by his only son, Timothy Drake (16), and his second wife, Dana Winters Drake.

Bruce remembered another terrible day, standing under a large black umbrella, staring stoically ahead and clutching two red roses while Alfred murmured beside him, "I'm sorry, Master Bruce."

And again, under the high striped circus tent, while a small boy cried above the broken bodies of his parents, Bruce became lost in his own memories and could do nothing more than say, "I'm sorry, Dick."

Now, Bruce was standing at Jack Drake's grave, flanked by Dick and Cassandra. Tim was a little in front, with Dana leaning on his shoulder; Alfred had been obliged to stay home to care for Stephanie, much to the latter's consternation.

"I'm sorry, Tim," Bruce said quietly.

Tim gave a tiny nod as he stared straight ahead.

"It wasn't your fault, Tim," Dana whispered, almost too softly for Bruce to hear.

Tim didn't reply.

"Tim, please. I know you. Even… even before, I already knew what kind of person you are. You're sweet and thoughtful and brave and selfless. If anyone can be blamed, it's me."

Tim's head whipped around. "Dana…"

"It was my idea to visit your new school," she said firmly. "And I didn't know about anything else—I couldn't have! Do you blame me?"

"Of course not!" he said immediately.

"Then I won't let you blame yourself. I can't. I can't—" Dana's voice broke, and she suddenly enveloped her stepson in a tight hug. As Tim silently lifted his arms to return the embrace, Bruce heard Dana murmur, "I can't lose you, too."

DETECTIVE COMICS

Apartment 12E. Eight storeys down. Third window from the left. North wind at… six mph. Easy enough. On the rain-washed street below, two cops emerged from a 24-hour doughnut shop and headed towards their car. Batman met Batgirl's eyes, and she nodded in understanding.

We'll use them to our advantage.

The large glass window gave way to their force with an enormous crash, triggering a single scream from within. Batgirl lunged for the goon who had screamed, knocking him out in an instant and moving on to two men in black suits, one bald and the other bespectacled. As she dodged their bullets and effortlessly accosted the bespectacled leader, Batman focused on who else was in the room.

"Police are coming," Batgirl told the leader as she held him up by his collar. "You want to talk to them… or me?"

Batman saw five girls, all wearing hats and seemingly unbothered by the violent intrusion, sitting in a row while they handled and divided white powder at the desks in front of them. He whipped off the hats, and one by one the girls blinked and gasped.

"He's dead," said Batgirl in frustration, dropping the leader's body to the floor. Batman spun around, registered the faces of the three men and realised his mistake in an instant.

"Cyanide tooth. They're Yakuza." I was expecting Triad or Escabedo. There's a whole other methodology when dealing with the Yakuza—damn! And why is the Mad Hatter involved? This isn't really his style…

He snatched one of the hats, and when the GCPD burst through the door, he and Batgirl had already disappeared.

BATMAN

Jack Drake had been sent a gun. That much was certain. It had been delivered in a plain lined shoe box, along with a piece of paper that read JACK DRAKE. The "R" in DRAKE was both written and circled in red, in stark contrast to the other black letters. The box also contained a note that simply read: PROTECT YOURSELF.

It wasn't much to go on. But Bruce knew he had to start somewhere. Somebody had sent Captain Boomerang to kill Jack Drake, and somebody had sent the gun and the note. However, when Batman visited the last known hideout of the Calculator—the rogues' version of Oracle—he only found an single abandoned television and a note with a Bat-symbol on it, which read:

Bats—

We're not all morons.

The Calculator was innocent. He might have chosen Captain Boomerang for the job, but he wouldn't have sent his own friend to his death by providing the gun.

Bruce cursed. Back to square one, then.

Sue's body was burned after she died. The only reason to do that is to hide something. But who benefits?

Again, Bruce went over the evidence from the Dibnys' apartment. He checked every point of entry, accounted for teleporters, and even called external help to hunt for traces of magic, to no avail.

Rooms for former Leaguers are practically airtight—even the air pressure's controlled—we've got it down to the last… molecule…

The realisation struck him with force, and he sucked in a sharp breath.

"Oh, no…"

DETECTIVE COMICS

The hat was a behaviour control device. It received a signal that kept the girls mindlessly "on task" for days at a time.

"A trace on the signal will take some time. There are some rigorous relays in place," Batman informed Batgirl as he showed her how the tracer worked. He was annoyed at himself. He'd thought Mad Hatter was still in the prison hospital ward.

It was much like the early days—no police support, no Oracle to remind him which rogues were where. And yet, he had a partner by his side, even if she was different from any Robin he had ever known. He knew Gotham inside and out. He knew his own strengths and weaknesses. He—no, he and his partners… allies… family—they would continue, always in the shadows, always protecting the citizens of Gotham.

Even if those citizens thought he was a cop-killing monster.

While he and Batgirl patrolled and waited for the trace to finish, Batman added up the pieces and thought.

It's not a coincidence. Someone's reorganising crime. It's different now. More efficient, different factions working together—

He was sure that Catwoman and Onyx had been right. It's him. I know it. I just need—

The tracer lit up.

—confirmation.

Batman showed the tracer to Batgirl. "Tell me where we're headed."

With constant practice, her map-reading skills had improved dramatically. It only took her a minute before she said, "The Iceberg Lounge."

BATMAN

Most of the League had been tempted, almost eager to believe that the recently deceased Captain Boomerang had killed Sue Dibny and attempted to kill Jean Loring. Perhaps he had even sent the gun, in addition to killing Jack Drake. But Bruce was certain that there was a piece of the puzzle missing.

Who benefits when the family member of a hero is killed?

It must be the Atom, the evidence told him. Ray Palmer. But that wasn't quite right…

Who benefits?

When Bruce received confirmation of what he suspected, the victory was hollow. Jean had slipped up, Ray said. It had quickly become apparent that she knew more than she should, and then the truth had come tumbling out. Jean had borrowed one of his old suits, and when she inadvertently killed Sue instead of knocking her out, that was when the flamethrower had come in handy. And then Ray had come back to her, just like she'd hoped…

Who benefits, but the family members of all the other heroes?

Shocked and disturbed, Ray committed his ex-wife to Arkham Asylum, and then he handed in his own Justice League signal device and vanished.

No, not vanished. Shrank to the size of an atom…

DETECTIVE COMICS

The Iceberg Lounge. Home to Oswald Cobblepot, the Penguin. Though, apparently, not for much longer. Or not at all. Cobblepot was long gone. But as his footsteps followed the tracker in his hands, Batman knew something was not right, and he could tell from Batgirl's posture that she sensed it, too.

The signal was coming from behind a thick set of double doors on one of the upper levels. The Mad Hatter would be there, Batman suspected. Along with some muscle… perhaps Killer Croc. Still, despite the obvious trap, Batman knew that there was only one way to know for sure.

"Keep out of sight for now," he murmured to Batgirl, who nodded in understanding and slipped into the shadows as he kicked the doors open.

"Oh, thank God you've arrived," crowed the Mad Hatter. "We are in desperate need of a March Hare. And the ears are perfect."

He was sitting at a round tea-table in the middle of the room, in front of a large window overlooking the high-rise buildings of the Diamond District. On his left was Killer Croc, wearing a pointed party hat and slumped over in sleep, oblivious to the teapot and teacups on the table. But on the far side of the table, a blonde woman was aiming a handgun at a young boy who sat bound and gagged in a blue armchair.

I expected the Mad Hatter and some muscle, like Killer Croc, thought Batman grimly. But Alexandra Kosov is a surprise. Head of the Odessa Mob and responsible for the massacre at Tim's school, she conveniently disappeared just before things got ugly.

"Oh, that look on his face," continued the Mad Hatter. "I know it, I certainly do. It says, 'I hope that's not Earl Grey.' Well, it's not. It's Darjeeling… so you'll just have to suffer."

"Oh, don't you think our guest has done enough suffering recently?" countered Kosov. "What do you think, little boy?"

The boy made a sound behind the gag that was too muffled to understand.

"No, neither do I."

"The boy is a nice touch," Batman said easily, stepping forward beyond the doorway. "Where'd you snatch him? A park? A playground?"

"A Buddy Burger bathroom, of course," answered Hatter, standing up.

"How novel. You must be very proud."

"I know what you're doing with this banter," said Hatter, smirking at the predicament he seemed to think Batman was in. "You're buying time. Coming up with a plan to get the weepy-eyed kid before she can shoot him. Well, you can't, Bats. You can't. Besides, we still haven't eaten or had the obligatory big fight scene. Oh, I know! Two birds, one stone—" Hatter turned to the figure on the table and raised his tone in a sing-song. "Oh, Croc?"

Killer Croc's head lifted. "Huh?!"

"Who's hungry?"

Croc's brown eyes widened and he upturned the table, scattering the tea set as he lunged for Batman with a shout of, "Me!"

That was his cue. Batman rushed forwards, dropping a smoke bomb and spreading his cape in the same movement so that he entirely obscured the doorway and its surroundings. As expected, Killer Croc leapt for him, but Batman was prepared. Letting Croc's momentum propel them both back through the doorway and crashing over the railing, Batman swung around—noting with satisfaction that Batgirl was nowhere to be seen—and landed on Croc's back with a satisfying wham, knocking the party hat loose.

"Oh, and by the way"—Hatter's voice floated down from the landing—"that's just a plain old paper party hat. I went ahead and implanted a device right in his head. Just a little heads up!"

Keep Hatter watching. Put on a show.

Croc reared up with a roar, catching Batman hard on the jaw. Stunned on the ground for a split second, Batman felt for broken bones, then spun around in time to propel the charging Croc overhead and into the wall.

Use his own strength against him.

Batman shot a net at Killer Croc, which expanded to trap him against the wall in its sticky web. Croc furiously ripped the net away and started for Batman again, but the force used to pull the net had weakened a portion of the wall, which rumbled and collapsed on top of Killer Croc, knocking him out at Batman's feet. Satisfied with his success, Batman turned back to the railing to see Batgirl standing over the Mad Hatter, who lay prone on the ground, his green hat crushed beneath her feet.

"You're a cheat!" the Mad Hatter howled, ignoring Batgirl. "You're supposed to work alone!"

"Not for a long time," corrected Bruce. "Tell us who's behind all this, Jervis."

"Come back up here and you'll find out," said Hatter sulkily. Batman instantly cleared the broken railing and Batgirl curled her hand threateningly around Hatter's collar, causing him to screech, "Not me—the hat in the corner—the switch on the side—"

Batgirl had made quick work of the round room in Batman's brief absence. Alexandra Kosov lay unconscious on the floor, a clear victim of one of Batgirl's nerve pinches. The kidnapped boy stood unbound against the far wall. His wide eyes never left Batgirl. And in the corner of the room was a maroon top hat, which Batman quickly realised was rigged with a holographic device. He made sure the tracing device he had used earlier was ready, then flicked the switch.

Above the hat, a blueish-grey image of Black Mask's skeletal face appeared, grinning in triumph. He faltered slightly when he saw the freed boy and Kosov lying on the floor, but regained composure.

"Hello, Detective. You've done better than I thought you would. But this isn't Jervis' game—or yours anymore, either. It's mine, all mine."

A/N: This isn't really a cliffhanger. It's just that the chapter was getting too long. See you in another two days, when we will delve into Part 2: Water, which goes beyond Bruce's experiences to introduce some new points of view. First up are Cassandra and Dana, and Selina will also make another appearance in Chapter 13: Secrets and Lies.

Sources:

The scenes involving Batman and Batgirl are based on Detective Comics #800. I couldn't remember where the Iceberg Lounge is located within Gotham, so I've placed it in the Diamond District. (Not that it matters much! I'm just a stickler for detail.)

Details about the Dibny case and Jack Drake's death are from Identity Crisis #5-7.