fanfic: The Suit

[bardicfool]

'Bout time I got this archived here.

title: The Suit
canon: Batman Beyond, assorted Batman and Nightwing comics
rating: PG at most?
summary: In which Terry and Bruce play their parts, and an old friend drops by for a gunfight and an argument or two. As can be expected, craziness ensues. Takes place early on in the series.
standard disclaimer: Batman was created by Bob Kane and is now probably owned by Warner Brothers, DC Comics, and other people who do not include myself. I'm just playing, not making money, so please don't sue me.


I.
A chauffeur needs an appropriate suit, but Terry has never had the time
or inclination to get one because quite frankly, he was not expecting to
ever be doing anything remotely resembling driving a cranky billionaire
to galas in a sleek black Cadillac with a nicely hidden Batsuit-sized
space near the glove compartment. Anyway he assumes he can bum one off
Wayne and save himself the embarrassment of more ecstatic motherly pride
for a son who finally has more need of a tux than a juvie uniform.

When he mentions it Wayne stares at him blankly, apparently floored by
the possibility that a boy could grow up without ever needing a nice
suit. Terry points out that he'd assumed there would be only one suit
he'd need for this job. Wayne smirks, takes up his cane, and tells Terry
to follow him.

They end up somewhere in the east wing; Terry isn't quite following all
the twists and turns of the manor, since he spends most of his time
underneath it. There's something a bit twisted about the fact that he
knows Wayne Manor's secret lair better than he knows the rest of the
place. Wayne, of course, would know every inch of it blindfolded, which
is a bit funny because as far as Terry can tell, he never goes anywhere
except the cave and the living room. Probably doesn't even own a bed.

Wayne takes him to a bedroom which obviously hasn't been used in living
memory. There are dust covers on all the furniture and nothing to
distinguish it from a drab guest room, except that when Wayne pulls open
the wardrobe, Terry can see it's full of clothing. Wayne hesitates in
front of it, then steps aside. "Take what you need," he says. His voice
sounds a bit tighter than usual.

Terry sticks his head into the closet, chokes on the dust, and eyes the
array. A few suits, nice shirts, slacks; nondescript, the sort of thing
he assumes most rich kids have. They look a bit small for Wayne. Terry
hopes he won't be expected to iron something. Shouldn't there be a
butler around for that?

He fingers the collar of one of the shirts and
notices initials stitched into the inside. He checks another; the same
letters. They're on the pants and jackets as well. They'd probably be on
the underwear, too, if there were any.

"Who's DG?" he asks.

Wayne doesn't answer. "I'll meet you downstairs," he says.

II.
The champagne tastes flat. He has to remind himself why he's here, which
hands to shake, which toast to make. He knows it's important to Bruce
Wayne, but the trouble is that he doesn't always remember that he is Bruce Wayne. He may no longer wear that other suit, but he can't slough
off the skin of that identity. He's spent so long wrapped in mythos he
hardly knows how to be a regular man, even after years of practice.

He knows he can't get by like that anymore. He's tired of watching
Powers wrest the Wayne Enterprises from him, tired of seeing his
father's legacy dragged through the mud, tired of feeling like he's just
taking up the perfumed space of the elite. He had been resigned, if not
content, to spending the rest of his days avoiding the news and nursing
his demons; then McGinnis knocked on his door.

He can't decide what really caused him to accept the boy. He's so young,
so angry, so earnest. Like Bruce was. Like they all were. Determined to
prove something. To find a purpose. To make things better, or die trying.

That's what will happen, you know, Bruce tells himself roughly. He'll
die, or else he'll end up hating you and leaving you just like all the
others. Bruce knows it isn't fair to think this way, but he's
hard-pressed to be lenient when his bones are aching from standing
so long and the society columnist opposite him keeps asking for his
opinion on hair gel products.

The explosion is a welcome distraction.

There is the requisite screaming, startled shouts, ducking and running.
A burly man is laughing maniacally from the balcony, which is surrounded
by billowing smoke. "Stinkin' fascists!" he screams. "You eat your
canapes while the proletariat starves! There's only one solution--blow
it all up!"

Terry is at Bruce's elbow. "Show time," he says quietly, a wicked grin
on his face. Then he's gone.

Bruce has the sinking suspicion that he didn't see the shadowy figure
already making its way up to the balcony.

III.
The thing about the suit is that it makes you think you're a god, an
invincible enforcer of Justice, a Protector Of The Weak, Defender Of The
Defenseless. Terry can hold his own against a few Jokerz or jocks of the
Nelson persuasion, but he's prepared to face his general inadequacy in
the realm of real butt-kicking--except that with the suit, he doesn't
have to. He can flick a few switches, ignite the jets in his boots, and
fly. He can throw a punch or ten or twelve and never have to worry about
breaking a finger or missing a target. He can tap his belt and become,
for all intents and purposes, invisible.

This, Terry thinks, is probably the best after-school job in the universe.

When he makes it to the balcony Stan is still spouting off something or
other about inequality and economic class. He takes a break from it to
inform Batman that he's on Stan's list of socio-economic terrorists.

"Guess you'll have to blow me up, too," says Terry pleasantly as he
plants a fist in Stan's face.

The fight doesn't go well. Terry's been sucking it up and following
Wayne's training sequences to the letter, but that doesn't change the
fact that he's still new to this whole Batman thing, and Stan is twice
his size. Terry could probably dodge him all night, but that wouldn't
solve the problem of the worried socialites below or the detonator
Stan's thumb keeps inching dangerously toward.

Terry's gotten in a few good hits, but Stan shows no sign of slowing
down; in fact, his next punch knocks the wind out of Terry's lungs with
an audible woosh and sends him flying into a huge pile of debris.
Stunned, he can hear screams from below and more of Stan's maniacal
laughter. Forget the spinning room, forget the pounding pain in his
chest; got to get to that trigger before Stan manages to get lucky....

"You're a mess, aren't you?" says a mild, amused voice from somewhere
above his head.

Terry springs to his feet, half an eye on Stan, who is picking up a
pillar rocked loose by the first blast, half an eye on this new crazy, a
fifty-something in an impeccable, if slightly mussed, tux. Terry wonders
what kind of lunatic makes his way toward danger rather than away from
it. Aside from himself, of course.

"Get out of here," Terry hisses, turning back to face Stan. "It's
dangerous."

"Right," says the man, and Terry can hear the smirk in his voice. "How
many times have I--" He stops, suddenly getting a good look at Terry. At
Batman. The man's entire body tenses, and pulls a gun out of nowhere.

"No," says Terry, and hurls himself at Stan, who seems a bit too
preoccupied by screaming and getting ready to throw the very large
pillar at Terry to notice that a man with a firearm is about to blow his
head off.

A lot of things happen nearly at once.

Stan stumbles, finally noticing the lunatic racing toward him.

The man smacks Stan in the face with the gun, drops to the ground in a
move that is entirely too fast and graceful for someone his age, and
kicks Stan's legs out from under him.

Terry's leap takes him straight into the man's back, the momentum
bowling them both over as Stan drops the pillar exactly where Terry and
this idiot would have been had Terry not managed to direct their roll
out of Stan's way.

"What the hell are you doing?" the man demands, wrenching himself away
from Terry and returning his gun to a holster Terry realizes is cleverly
hidden beneath his tuxedo jacket. Probably custom-made.

"Looks like I'm saving your life," Terry growls, noting that Stan
appears to be down for the count. That was some move.

"Or just getting in the way," the man retorts, giving Terry a full
once-over. "Who are you?"

Terry blinks. "I'm Batman."

The man snorts. "Yeah, right."

Terry doesn't feel like arguing. "And you are...?"

The man pulls out a badge. "Blüdhaven PD. Stan's got a date with our
judicial system. You'll have to get in line." He eyes Terry warily.
"Assuming you are who you say you are."

So much for the suit's ability to instill righteous fear. "Look," says
Terry, feeling annoyed, "If you think--"

"You might want to take care of that detonator before the police get
here," says Wayne's voice. Terry turns to find the old man standing in
the shadows looking at the two of them with an unreadable expression.

"My god," says the Blüdhaven idiot. "I thought--"

"Now," says Wayne sharply.

Terry does as he's told.

IV.
"I thought he was you," Dick confides in him later, sounding a bit sheepish.

"He is me," says Bruce. "Every part of me that matters."

Dick rolls his eyes. "Please don't tone down the drama after fifty years
or anything." His radio crackles and he pulls it from his waistband,
clips off a few words to a partner in a squad car Bruce assumes is
stationed somewhere nearby. Bruce doesn't ask what Stan did in Blüdhaven
or why Dick is in town after so many years to chase what is ostensibly a
relatively low-priority hoodlum who is only set apart from the usual
Blüdhaven lowlife by his penchant for hitting the detonator faster, more
frequently, and in more diverse locations. That's Dick's business, and
Bruce has long since learned not to stick his nose into Dick's business
unless asked.

"You told me it wouldn't happen again," Dick continues quietly. "After
Tim, you said...well, what the hell, you've said a lot of things over
the years and then just gone and done your own thing, haven't you?" He
seems to realize how harsh his voice sounds, and suddenly he looks
embarrassed, a shadow of the scrawny thirteen-year-old boy who was
unable to meet Bruce's gaze after making a mistake, no matter how big or
small. Dick always took it to heart, blamed himself, refused to accept
anything less than absolute perfection. He was clever and spunky and
always had a witty retort, but Bruce was never fool enough to ignore the
pain Dick hid so well. Later he'd dropped a lot of the humor, at least
in Bruce's presence, and gotten on with teenaged rebellion and a whole
lot of anger, but the pain was still there, and Bruce could still see it
better than anyone. Dick lets his pain come through in his anger,
immediately regrets it, then does it all over again. Nothing's changed.

"He wanted this," says Bruce. "He wanted to do some good."

"And dressing up like a flying rodent was his only option," says Dick
coldly.

Bruce raises his eyebrows. "You didn't seem to mind."

"I never wore that suit. Not like he does."

And that's the crux of the matter, Bruce realizes. It's not just that
he's taken on a new protegé; it's the suit that protegé wears, the name
he's adopted. The fact that Terry is doing what Bruce never really let
any of the others do: he is Batman.

"I didn't give it to him; he took it," Bruce growls, though he knows
it's inadequate.

"But you let him keep it." Dick runs an agitated hand through his hair.
Bruce is surprised to see how much of it is gray. "Look, how old is he?
Sixteen? Seventeen? I'm not saying he doesn't want it as much as the
rest of us did, but have you ever considered that maybe you should've
talked him out of it?"

Bruce smirks. "Barbara said the same thing."

Dick's face freezes for about half a second before he grimaces. "Yeah.
Barbara. Listen, I'd rather not be around when she gets to the scene, if
it's all the same to you...."

Someone coughs politely from behind them. Bruce turns to find that Terry
has returned, back in his borrowed dress clothing, playing the part of a
frightened errand boy who ran off at the first sign of trouble and is
now sheepishly coming out of hiding just in time to miss all the danger.
He'd have the part down pat if he weren't doing such a poor job of
hiding the glare he's sending Dick's way.

Bruce performs the introductions. "Terry McGinnis, Dick Grayson."

They shake on mutual animosity, leaving Bruce to wonder how he gets
himself into these situations.

V.
I'm scared, Terry thinks. Scared, terrified, embarrassed to have left my
employer in danger while I ran like the yellow little twip I am. I've
got nothing to do with explosions and would like to run home to Mommy
now, thanks. That's my statement and I'm sticking to it.

It doesn't help, of course, that while Terry giving this stellar
performance to the bored-looking Gotham PD drone in front of him, he can
see Grayson out of the corner of his eye sending him surreptitious looks
that are no doubt designed to floor whatever dregs Grayson usually finds
himself up against. Terry's not sure whether he should be flattered or
annoyed to be on that list.

Really he'd rather just call it a night--his ribs are still aching from
Stan's unceremonious throw, and Terry already knows he's going to fall
asleep during the chem test tomorrow--but it looks like Wayne is going
to be tied up in red tape for a little while longer, if the hoard of
people around him are any indication. Wayne looks really pleased about
that: he keeps trying to catch the Commissioner's eye, but Gordon isn't
giving him the time of day, busy as she is directing her troops,
reassuring civilians, and staying very clear of Grayson.

Grayson, however, must have a very severe death wish, because he heads
Terry's way as soon as the GPD idiot is done getting Terry's statement.

"Nice performance," he says. "I almost believed you for less than a second."

"Gotham's not full of the same stunning intellect as Blüdhaven," Terry
replies. "A little misdirection goes a long way." He supposes Grayson
would know about that, being from Blüdhaven and all. Terry's heard the
corruption in the ranks there puts Gotham lowlifes to shame. He wonders,
not for the first time tonight, how Wayne knows this loser. And more
importantly, just how much this loser knows about Wayne.

Grayson shrugs. "Just thought you might want to work on your alibi. The
running, ducking, and covering one only goes so far before even the
dumbest cop starts to get a clue."

"Well, I guess you'd know."

Grayson gets a weird look on his face like he's trying to swallow a bug,
or maybe just a laugh. Terry didn't think he could like this guy any
less, but he's just been proven wrong.

"I wasn't going to shoot him, you know," Grayson says in a low voice.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Terry says automatically.
Because, of course, he wasn't there. Batman was.

"Right." Grayson gives him a hard look. "Listen, kid, we've got to talk."

"Funny, I thought that was what we were doing."

"You're going to get yourself killed."

"You gonna to do it?"

The look on Grayson's face is one Terry's seen before. His mom often
gets that way when she's debating strangling him, but that whole
familial tie thing is getting in the way. All in all, it's definitely
not the way Terry wants some loony police officer looking at him. Like
he knows something Terry doesn't. Like he's pitying him. Like Terry is
some little kid who needs to have his nose wiped and his hand held and
his decisions made for him.

One thing Terry's mom doesn't do in this sort of situation, however, is
grab him by the front of his shirt and slam him against a wall. Terry's
rib cage is now screaming bloody murder, but Grayson doesn't seem to
care. Terry might be surprised at Grayson's vehemence if he weren't so
busy trying to wriggle free and punch the jerk in the face.

"Listen," says Grayson through clenched teeth. "You have no idea what
you've gotten yourself into. Trust me on this. Get out while you still can."

"Why?" Terry demands. "Because you'll bash my face in if I don't?"

"Enough," says Wayne, who has somehow appeared between them and has
what looks like an excruciatingly painful grip on Grayson's arm. "You're
making a scene."

Terry realizes that a few cops and socialites have paused to stare at
them. Even Gordon is looking their way, and Terry is a little surprised
that she's not the one breaking them up. But no, she seems fine with
letting Wayne handle it, although her lips are pressed together in that
firm way that means business. Terry thinks it's probably just as well
she hasn't gotten involved, since he likes his head still attached to
the rest of his body.

"Bruce," Grayson begins in a dangerous voice.

"Let go of him," says Wayne. "Now."

Grayson does so. Terry doesn't rub his aching chest because he won't
give Grayson the satisfaction.

"Terry, get the car," Wayne continues. He sounds tired.

"Bruce...." Grayson tries again.

"No, Dick. Another time."

Terry turns on his heel and heads for the door.

VI.
The first half of the ride home is tranquilly silent. Though he's only
known Terry a few months, Bruce has come to understand that silence, in
Terry's case, rarely means anything other than a calm before the storm.
And given tonight's events, not to mention the way Terry's hands are
gripping the steering wheel tight enough to turn his knuckles white,
Bruce is expecting more than a little thunder and lightning.

It starts out normally enough. "Your friend," Terry begins. "How well do
you know him?"

Well enough to know I can count on him. Well enough to know he's the
most loyal friend I've ever had. Well enough to know that despite all
that he'll never stop being a royal pain in the ass.

"Well enough," says Bruce.

Terry frowns, keeping his eyes stoically on the road. Reflected
streetlamp light makes criss-cross patterns on his face. Bruce wonders
if he knows that his frown is really more like a spoiled little child's
pout.

"How much does he know?" Terry asks, his voice carefully neutral.

Bruce smirks into the darkness. "He knows enough."

"He's dangerous," says Terry.

Bruce snorts. "Not for me." He doesn't say the next thing that comes to
mind, but the words sit there thickly in the silence between them:
Maybe for you.

Terry's frown deepens. "I don't like him."

"Yes, I got that impression."

They're nearing Wayne Manor now; Bruce can see its outline on the
horizon, and he thinks fleetingly of the warm fire and Ace at his feet
before he realizes that that thought is awfully close to something a
tired old man would think. He grimaces and shoves it from his mind.

Terry sighs loudly. "All right, enough with the cryptic old man vibe.
Tell me the truth. Who is this Grayson guy?"

Bruce knows he could continue to beat around the bush, or change the
subject entirely, or sternly demand that they not discuss this at all.
But he's talking to a boy who came to him for help, who figured out his
biggest secret, and really, what harm can it do?

"He's my son," says Bruce.

They are blinded by the bright headlights of an oncoming car as Terry
abruptly swerves into the other lane. Bruce feels himself involuntarily
trying to hit the brake as horns screech, brakes squeal, and angry
voices start yelling. Of course the noise is relatively muted by the
Cadillac's thick glass, but it doesn't take much imagination to read
lips and count fingers.

"Your son?" says Terry, madly turning the steering wheel to put them
back into the right lane.

"Adopted. And if you get us killed before we get home, you're fired,"
says Bruce grimly.

"But you never--But that would mean--"

"Drive first, yap later," Bruce snaps.

Terry falls silent for a moment, then says suddenly, "Um. I guess I'm
wearing his suit."

VII.
One sleepless night, two fights with Matt, and one spectacularly failed
chem test later, Terry is standing outside of Wayne Manor wondering what
exactly he ought to say to the old man. A sort of apology, something
along the lines of, "Hi there, sorry I spent so much time bad-mouthing
your son to your face; if I'd known you were related I would've done it
behind your back"? Or maybe just play it cool, not mention it at all.
Knowing Wayne, he'll just pretend it never happened. Seems to be the way
he deals with anything he doesn't want to think about, and Terry is
pretty darn certain Grayson's appearance falls under the heading of
"emotional inconveniences we will not be discussing" in Wayne's book.

His first inkling that something's wrong isn't so much the silence of
the manor (he's used to that) or the fact that Wayne is not there to
greet him (Wayne usually hides out in the cave and only shows himself
when he's good and ready), but that Ace is nowhere to be found. Terry's
gotten used to the mutt's incessant growling in his presence and is even
starting to get over the urge to kick him, particularly since there is
no doubt that the Batdog can take him in two seconds flat (he has the
bite marks to prove it). Yes, the lack of Ace's glaring black eyes
watching his every move is definitely a clue that not all is well in
Batville.

The other big clue is that someone has definitely been into the Batcave
long before Terry got there tonight. Terry's relatively certain of this
because the clock is open and the carpet in the room is littered with
broken bottles and other obvious signs of a struggle. The lack of both
Batdog and cranky old millionaire is beginning to look a bit too ominous
for Terry's comfort.

He races down the stairs into the cave, managing (just barely) not to
trip and crack his skull open. Bats screech and take flight somewhere
over his head, but he's not paying too much attention to them as he
scans the dimly-lit cavern, looking for signs of an intruder. But
amazingly, down here everything seems exactly like it always is: damp,
dark, untouched.

Which just means whoever broke in thinks he's clever.

Grabbing a Batarang from one of the shelves nearby, Terry flips on the
lights and tenses, scanning the shadows. He waits for about five million
years before he catches a slight movement out of the corner of his eye.
He lets loose the Batarang before he even realizes he's done it, and is
rewarded with a yelp from behind the big coin and a soft growl from
somewhere further back in the darkness.

"Geez, you're going to cut someone's head off with those things," says a
familiar voice. Terry hears some scuffling, then the definite scratching
noise of the Batarang being pulled out of the wall. "Your aim is
terrible," continues the voice cheerfully as its owner steps out into
the dim light.

Terry's not surprised to see him, but that doesn't mean he's happy about
it, either. "What are you doing here?" he demands.

"You mean, why am I skulking suspiciously in the shadows?" Grayson
smirks. He's flipping the Batarang around his knuckles in an
absent-minded way which Terry sternly tells himself is not cool at all.
"I'd like to say I came just to make you jittery, but I was hoping to
talk to Bruce. Obviously he's, er, out. And your dog has been hiding
back here trying to rip my hands off for the last fifteen minutes."

"He's got taste," says Terry dryly. He hustles over to the coin. Upon
closer inspection he can see two glinting black specks which might be
eyes in the darkness, just out of reach. Ace growls when Terry reaches
out a hand to him.

"Yeah," says Grayson. "Taste."

"He's scared," says Terry, surprised. "Ace never gets scared. What gives?"

Grayson frowns. "Off-hand I'd say what happened upstairs spooked him."

Upstairs. Broken glass. Obvious forced entry. No sign of Wayne anywhere.
"What happened?" he asks, hoping he doesn't sound too panicked.

"That's what I'd like to know."

Terry sizes him up. "You mean you don't?"

"No," says Grayson grimly. "But I think I might have an idea."

VIII.
It's dark and cold, and he has a headache to end all headaches. He's
relatively certain that it was induced by a blow to the head with a
blunt object--a vase from the living room, if memory serves. Something
ugly and pointless in his mind, but Alfred liked it. He's a little sad
to think of it gone: so few of Alfred's touches are left in the manor
these days.

But other things are more immediately important than an old man's
sentimentality. He needs to know where he is, get an idea of his
surroundings, piece together what happened and what needs to happen. As
his eyes get used to the dark and the pounding in his head fades to a
dull ache, he realizes he's in the back of a truck, and if the bouncing
is any indication, they're on a highway.

And he's not alone. There are seven other presumably unconscious
people-shaped lumps around him, all bound and gagged, as he realizes he
is. This is going to make getting out a bit more complicated,
particularly as he can't seem to find his cane anywhere. Being beaten,
gassed, and thrown into the back of a truck has done nothing for his
aged muscles. For a moment he lets himself fervently, angrily wish he
were thirty years younger. But it won't do any good to dwell. He hauls
his protesting body up sitting position just as the truck screeches to a
halt, nearly throwing him down again.

The abrupt stop appears to have nudged the others into wakefulness, if
the moaning and groaning is any indication. Bruce has barely managed to
face himself toward the back of the truck before it's suddenly swung
wide open, and two piercing flashlight beams temporarily blind him.

"They're awake already," says a familiar voice as the beams sweep over
Bruce and the others. "I told you this was a bad idea, man."

From the lights Bruce can see the other captives a bit better, and he
realizes he recognizes them vaguely from television and the society
pages. Their names mean money: Vreeland, Hill, Van Dorn, Fallbrook....He
finds he can place an illustrious name with each face. These are the
cream of the elite crop. So it's really about ransom. Bruce idly wonders
what the kidnappers think it's about.

"You've already messed us up once, and I had to bail you out," says a
second voice, this one thoroughly annoyed. "What do you know?"

"I know socialite scum, man," says the first voice petulantly. "Shoulda
just let me blow them all up."

"Right," sneers the second, "because that worked so well last time.
Listen, Stan, if you want justice you've gotta come at it from the right
angle, you know?"

Right. Justice. Bruce groans inwardly.

But it's worse than that. As they lower the flashlights, Bruce
recognizes Mad Stan, his wrists bearing broken handcuffs from his
adventures last night. The other man is older, sandy-blonde hair
liberally laced with gray, and just as mean-looking as Stan.
Inexplicably, he's wearing army camouflage pants, a black mask across
his eyes, and a red, white, and black sports jersey with letters
spelling out "Nite-Wing" across his chest.

It's then that Bruce realizes he's been kidnapped by the two most
idiotic criminals known to man.

IX.
"You have got to be kidding," says Terry, looking at the computer monitor.

"What, you think Gotham's got a monopoly on psychos?" says Grayson. "I'm
telling you, we've got Ryerstad linked to Stan six ways from Sunday.
Subtlety's not exactly his forte. He's constantly escaping out of jail
down in Blüdhaven--we can't seem to keep him away from his one-man war
against crime. Remind you of anyone we know?"

Terry snorts. "Yeah. And I suppose he and Mad Stan make up the Dynamic Duo."

Terry can see Grayson's grimace reflected on the screen. "Something like
that. Anyway, lately I've been getting the impression that Ryterstad's
one-man army got a new recruit. The stunts he's been pulling,
particularly the explosives he's been using--"

"So you're saying this guy who thinks he's a vigilante has been running
around blowing stuff up and kidnapping Blüdhaven socialites, and now
he's hooked up with Stan and started doing the same thing in Gotham?"

"Yeah, that's about it."

"Why?"

Grayson hesitates, tapping his fingers annoyingly on the back of Terry's
chair. "Justice."

"I think they're calling it certifiable craziness these days."

Grayson shakes his head. "Ryerstad thinks he has a score to settle. He
wants to clean up the Haven, and he wants to do it his way. Stan just
happens to be the sort of guy who's easily called in on that sort of
activism."

"You mean he puts together a fast, cheap load of dynamite for the right
cause."

"Like getting rid of the corrupt upper crust."

"Which explains why Wayne's name was on the list." Terry frowns. He
really doesn't like how Grayson seems to know everything about
everything, but Terry reflects that punching Grayson in the face is not
going to help bring Wayne back, or help any of the other kidnapping
victims. And getting everyone back sooner rather than later sounds like
a good plan if the brains behind the operation are Stan and this
Blüdhaven psycho. Still, he gets the sneaking suspicion that Grayson
knows more than he's letting on. "And how do we know this Ryerstad
guy's not the real Nightwing gone totally bonkers?" Terry asks suddenly.

Grayson's reflection scratches his chin. "Well, the costume's got shoddy
execution, and the color scheme is all wrong. And I seem to recall
Nightwing having a sort of, I dunno, godlike grace that Ryerstad doesn't
quite manage...."

Terry swivels the chair around to face him. Not surprisingly, Grayson is
looking awfully amused with himself. Terry eyes him, looks over at the
case of costumes by the wall, and then back at Grayson. "Huh," he says.
"And here I'd pegged you for a Robin."

The grin gets a bit wider. "Who says I wasn't?"

Terry narrows his eyes. "Is there any costume over there you didn't wear?"

Grayson pretends to consider. "Well, Babs was always a little particular
about letting anyone else play dress up with the Batgirl threads, but
there was this one time--"

Terry hops out of the chair and heads for his backpack. "Forget it, I
don't want to know."

He's nearly changed when he hears Grayson's voice from across the room.
"So you know where to find them, I suppose?"

Terry pulls the cowl over his face, adjusts his gloves, and just barely
suppresses the urge to throw a well-placed Batarang. "No," he says
grimly. "But I'll figure it out."

"Really." Grayson is now throwing some sort of transmitter up and down
and catching it casually in his right hand, like he thinks he's cool or
something.

Terry begins to think he knows where this is going. "No way."

Grayson shrugs. "It'd be a lot faster if you used the tracking device I
planted on Stan to find them."

"And you'd just hand that transmitter over and run along, I bet."

"Even the real Batman needed back up now and then."

Terry glares at him. "I am Batman," he says in a low,
dangerous voice.

Grayson snatches the transmitter out of the air and meets Terry's gaze
without flinching. They stand there for a good thirty seconds, the only
movement or noise the bats shuffling quietly above them.

"I don't know if Bruce told you...." Grayson starts at last.

"That you're his son," says Terry.

Grayson's eyes shift away from Terry's for a moment. "Then you know why
I have to go with you."

Terry frowns. "I don't think it's a good idea."

"I'm not asking you to like it, I'm asking you to do it," says Grayson
shortly.

Like father, like son. Terry has to stop himself from smirking too
broadly. "All right," he says finally. He looks over at the costume
case. "You, uh, want to take one for old time's sake?"

Grayson half-smiles and pockets the transmitter. "It'd take too long to
figure out which one to wear. Your car or mine?"

Terry raises an eyebrow. "Obviously," he says, "you haven't seen my car."

X.
Bruce supposes he ought to be fearing for his life, but in fact, he's
having a pretty decent evening, all things considered. Which is more
than can be said for his captors.

"This dress is a Versace original," whines the Vreeland girl for the
fiftieth time. "Do you have any idea how impossible it is to get rust
stains out of a Versace?"

"Easier than getting a bullet out of your head?" mutters Ryerstad, who
has been pacing impatiently around the huddled prisoners for the last
twenty minutes. "Stan, hurry up."

"I do explosives, man, not TV cameras," growls Stan from the other side
of the warehouse, where he has his hands full setting up the video
equipment. Bruce assumes a live broadcast of demands is imminent. He
hopes they've scripted it beforehand, or else it will be an
exceptionally long night.

"A-are you going to kill us?" whimpers the Hill man.

"Oh God oh God," says the rotund Fallbrook woman.

"My dress!" moans the Vreeland girl.

"Should have gagged them," Bruce says helpfully.

"Shut up," Ryerstad says, waving his gun in their faces. "All of you,
just shut up! This is your own fault, you know! Waving your money
around, buying off the cops, masterminding the crime in this city, while
the people who depend on you waste away in all the filth and corruption!
It's time someone taught you the meaning of justice!"

"By breaking the law?" says Bruce. "Interesting sense of justice."

Ryerstad turns on his heel and points the gun at Bruce's forehead. "The
cops forgot what real justice is a long time ago, old man. I'm just
reminding them. Reminding all of you."

"And what's he doing?" Bruce nods toward Stan, who is cursing loudly and
tripping over wires.

Ryerstad's face falls momentarily. "He's--uh--being my henchman."

Bruce smirks. "Only villains have henchmen."

Ryerstad draws himself up to his full height and puffs out his chest so
that the letters on his shirt spelling out "Nite-Wing" are particularly
visible. "I'm not a villain. I'm a vigilante."

Bruce's smirk widens. "Sure you are."

"Anyway," Ryerstad continues, "All the vigilantes have hench--er,
sidekicks. Green Arrow had Speedy, Aquaman had Aqualad, Batman had--"

A dark figure bursts through the warehouse skylight just then, spraying
them all with shattered glass. The Vreeland girl squeals loudly, Stan
lets out a shout, and the silhouette of a bat appears against the nearly
full moon for a split second before it drops to the floor.

"Batman!" says Ryerstad.

"They always act like they're surprised, don't they?" comments someone
at Bruce's elbow.

"You're late," says Bruce.

"You're welcome," says the voice, and he feels the ropes around his
wrists loosen.

Bruce grunts and watches Ryerstad and Stan close in on an extremely
unperturbed McGinnis--Batman. "Did I always look that...theatrical?" he
asks suddenly.

"Just be thankful you weren't wearing the green shorts."

"Those were your idea, if I recall correctly."

"You don't."

"Um...excuse me?" says the willowy Van Dorn man. "Are you here to rescue us?"

"No," says Dick. "But he is."

XI.
Okay, so the entrance was a bit much. If the rich folks are digging
glass shards out of their hair for the next few hours, well...at least
they're not digging out bullets. Terry's man enough to admit when he's
gone a little overboard. He's also man enough to admit that it's a good
thing this cowl dramatically minimizes his facial expressions, because
the way Ryerstad is looking at him is, quite frankly, freaking him out.

"You'll understand what I'm trying to do," Ryerstad is saying, eyes
wide, looking at Terry like a little kid sizing up his Christmas
stocking. Terry's always thought crooks were supposed to fear Batman,
not fanboy him. This gig is just full of surprises.

"I understand you're taking your show a little outside your
neighborhood, Ryerstad," Terry says. "Kidnapping charges in Blüdhaven
not enough for you?"

Ryerstad looks confused, and Terry hasn't even hit him yet. "This isn't
kidnapping, Batman."

"Really?" says Terry. He eyes the corner of the room, where Grayson and
Wayne are untying the extremely rumpled-looking elite. "What do you call tying up a bunch of rich folks and carting them around town in the
middle of the night?"

Ryerstad's pout is even more annoying than Matt's, and not nearly as
cute. "They're the bad guys, Batman! Everything going on in the Haven--the corruption, the crime--you can trace it all back to them, and
the people like them. Gotham's just the same, haven't you noticed? Wayne
and that Powers guy own this town, and people are getting away with
murder. Because they're rich. Because they have the power. The cops
aren't helping, the government's shot to hell, and it's not fair.
Someone has to stand up to them. Someone has to make an example. Someone
has to take the law into their own hands." Ryerstad's eyes are a weird
shade of pathetic ferocity. "I'm only doing the same thing you do."

Terry looks at the tear-streaked faces, the firmly-set jawlines, the
mud-splattered outfits and disheveled hair. "This isn't what I do," he says.

Ryerstad frowns, suddenly more than a little petulant. "You're all the
same, aren't you, with your stupid spandex costumes and your lame
propaganda? You say you're going to protect the people, but all you do
is form your little clubs and act like you're all above it, while people
are stealing and dying and you don't do a damned thing about it!" He
raises his gun so that it's pointing directly at Terry's face. "You're
the disease," he says in a low, dangerous voice. "And I'm the cure."

"Not today," Terry says, and lets a Batarang fly at Ryerstad's wrist.

Might have been a bit more productive if he'd factored in total pandemonium.

The Batarang knocks the gun out of Ryerstad's hand, but Terry only gets
a split second to see him hopping around, cursing and holding his
injured wrist, before something enormous tackles Terry to the ground.
Terry tries to control the roll but realizes too late that they're
headed straight toward the line of prisoners who, helpfully, have
started screaming their heads off and scrambling to get out of the way.

Terry ends up on the ground near the wall with Stan on top of him, huge
fists around his throat, pleasantly having the life choked out of him.
Through a haze of air deprivation and a soundtrack of squealing rich
idiots, Terry notices Grayson crouched less than a foot away from him,
grimacing and pulling his gun out of nowhere. Neat trick. "I'm on
Ryerstad," he says under his breath to Terry, who considers mentioning
something along the lines of, Hello, being strangled here, but even
as he begins to get his mouth around the words, Grayson's sprinted away.
Well goddamn the previous generation, leaving everything to the kids of
today. Luckily, Terry's up to it.

Focused as Stan is on crushing Batman's trachea, he doesn't notice when
Terry manages to pull out another Batarang, squirm a bit to get a good
angle, and slam it into his leg. In fact, it takes a good five seconds
before Stan realizes something is wrong, loosens his grip on Terry's
neck, and looks down at his bleeding leg in surprise. He blinks
stupidly, then lets out an ear-splitting howl--but by then Terry has
rolled a safe distance away.

The situation isn't looking good. Terry can see Wayne trying to usher
the frightened ex-prisoners out of the warehouse, but they're too
hysterical to really listen to him, despite how menacing he's looking. Meanwhile Grayson and Ryerstad, a
little worse for wear after a bit of a tussle, have reached a standoff:
Ryerstad, having retrieved his gun, is pointing it in Grayson's face,
and Grayson is returning the favor.

"Come down all the way from the Haven to bring me in, Officer?"
Ryerstad is saying, his face contorted into a sneer. "Couldn't catch me
yourself, and now you need a bat to help, is that it?"

"Put the gun down, and I won't have to add armed assault to your already
impressive rap sheet," says Grayson. Terry is a little surprised to hear
the edge in his voice.

Ryerstad laughs humorlessly. "What about the right to bear arms? You
cops, always running around with your guns, like it gives you some kinda
privilege over the rest of us--"

"Nothing gives you the right to kill," says Grayson, and Terry realizes
his gun is cocked and ready to fire. Okay, now there's a contradiction,
to talk about not killing when it's looking an awful lot like Grayson is
about to blow someone's head off.

Ryerstad's eyes narrow. "I haven't killed anyone."

"Sergeant Amy Rohbach, Blüdhaven PD. Ring a bell?"

Personal vendetta. This just keeps getting better.

Ryerstad considers. "Not really."

Grayson's frown gets uglier. "She was on duty the last night you were
booked down in Blüdhaven. You decided you had other places to be. She
disagreed with your plans, so you stole another cop's gun and shot her
in the head. She had a husband and two kids."

Ryerstad shrugs. "She shouldn't have gotten in the way."

Okay, that's quite enough of that. Terry pulls out another Batarang
and throws it in an arc so that it knocks the guns out of both men's
hands. He's even got a good quip on the tip of his tongue, but he has to
settle for biting it when Stan bowls him over yet again and sends them
flying across the room.

"Think you can beat me, Batman?" Stan roars in his ear.

"That's the plan, yeah," Terry grunts, struggling against the massive
arms that are wrapped around him from behind. This is getting really old
really fast, and it's not nearly as interesting as keeping Grayson from
shooting people. Terry flicks a switch and his boots ignite, shooting
them over to the wall. Stan, caught between Batman and a hard place,
smacks his head on concrete and crumples to the ground, down for the count.

Ryerstad and Grayson have resorted to fists, and Grayson appears to be
winning, though they're both looking a bit bloodied for their efforts.
Ryerstad's vicious, kicking and throwing his fists around wherever he
thinks he can get a hit; Grayson, on the other hand, is agile and quick,
parrying and punching with fluid motions, like it's a game he's got all
the time in the world to win. Pretty impressive for an old guy. Not that
Terry's about to tell him that.

Still, better to pull apart the bullies, since there are hostages to
save and goons to lock up. Terry uses the jets to hustle on over and
take Ryerstad out of the ring. He barely misses Grayson's fist as he
shoves Ryerstad away.

"Stay out of this," Grayson hisses at him.

"Sorry, not in the job description," says Terry. "And seriously, stop
trying to shoot people on my watch."

"I wasn't going to shoot him," mutters Grayson.

"Right, that's why you had the gun ready to fire."

"Move."

Generally Terry doesn't pay much attention in physics, but he's fairly
certain that, with Grayson on one side of him and Ryerstad on the other,
the bolt he's just heard being expelled from Ryerstad's gun ought to hit
Terry in the back. So when he finds himself still standing, albeit
shoved to one side, he has to remember to breathe, which he's heard from
health class is good for brain function. He's not really thinking
about much of anything, but his body's on autopilot, and he
realizes he's just thrown another Batarang and knocked the gun out of
Ryerstad's hand. The gun hits the ground with a loud clank and slides
across the floor and out of reach.

Still not really tracking well, Terry turns and sees that the reason he
doesn't currently have a hole in his back is that Grayson is on the
ground with a hole in his chest.

"Shit," Terry says.

XII.
Bruce doesn't like hospitals. He is perfectly happy to donate money to
them on occasion, and he even pretends to appreciate it when they name
wings after him at expansive galas commemorating his donation (even
though said wings are invariably called the Wayne Wing, which is
entirely too much alliteration to be taken seriously). But when it comes
to the actual practice of medicine in these halls that smell like
antiseptic and fear, Bruce thinks he could more than do without. He
longs for the days when there were no sissy pills to take or nurses to
answer to; just Alfred with a needle and thread and a cutting quip or
two to which Bruce always pretended not to be paying any attention.

Waiting in a hospital waiting room with an impatient, nervous
sixteen-year-old boy is not Bruce's idea of a good time. McGinnis has
been pacing ever since they got here, and Bruce is torn between the need
to reassure him and the need to strangle him. Terry has not actually
said a word, but Bruce knows a thing or two about compulsive pacing and
the feeling of responsibility when someone is injured during a case.

The doctor, a slim Indian woman who walks with an air of calm
self-assurance, enters the waiting room from the bowels of the sterile
inner hospital. Bruce looks up and watches her approach, trying to gauge
the severity of the news by her gait; but she's done this too many times
to be so easily read. Or maybe he's just getting soft.

Terry stops his pacing and comes to sit awkwardly next to Bruce. He
doesn't say anything, but his agitation is apparent.

The doctor addresses Bruce. "That was a nasty business, Mr. Wayne," she
says. "A quarter of an inch closer to the heart, and...." She shrugs, then
smiles slightly. "He'll be all right now. He's a tough one."

"That he is," says Bruce, surprised by the pride in his own voice. He
looks over at Terry, who is very purposefully not looking back, although
Bruce can see he's relaxed his shoulders ever so slightly and doesn't
seem quite as inclined to pace about futilely anymore.

"You can see him if you'd like," says the doctor to Bruce. She quirks an
eyebrow. "I'd suggest you encourage him to retire while he still can."

"With all due respect for this establishment, I'd rather not be spending
the night in the ICU myself," says Bruce dryly. He uses his cane to help
himself to his feet. "Coming, Terry?" he asks mildly when the boy
doesn't move.

Terry shakes himself. "What? Oh, no. You go have a moment or whatever."

Bruce leaves Terry sitting in the waiting room and follows a nurse down
the hall. Through the open doorway Bruce can see Dick lying in the bed,
hooked up to all manner of machines but, for all that, looking as though
he could very easily get up and take a walk in the park.

"Hey, old man," Dick calls. His voice is thick and tired, but he's
making a real effort to sound much perkier than a man who just took a
gunshot to the chest should sound.

The nurse leaves, and Bruce sits down on a chair next to Dick's bed,
giving him a quick once-over and determining that, while he may not
have the resilience of an adolescent boy anymore, Dick still mends quickly--at least on the outside.

For a few moments they sit in what could not, by any stretch of the
imagination, be called comfortable silence.

"Looks like you're still in one piece," Bruce says at last. It's not at
all what he wanted to say.

"The kid, too," says Dick. "Though I notice you didn't drag him in here
with you."

"He's waiting outside," Bruce says. "Been pacing for the last two hours."

Dick laughs, then winces at the pain in his chest. "I know a guy who can
out-pace him in a heartbeat," he says.

They fall silent again. Bruce can hear a lone bird somewhere outside the
window, chirping away in the sunlight, which falls in bars of light and
shadow on the bed.

"Ryerstad and Stan have been booked," Bruce tells Dick. "I doubt they'll
be causing any more trouble for awhile."

"But not long a while." Dick looks over at him and smiles in a
charmingly lopsided manner. "It's never a long while, is it?"

"No," Bruce agrees. "The job's never quite done."

"Even after you are."

Bruce looks sternly at Dick, who waves a hand feebly. "It was only a
matter of time, Bruce. You were the only one who thought you'd be doing
it forever."

Bruce smirks. "The doctor told me to tell you to retire while you still
can."

Dick snorts. "Doesn't look like it's been doing much for you." Then his
face grows serious. "Bruce, listen, I know why--"

"You don't," says Bruce curtly. "I don't even know why I took him in."

"Really? After all these years? After me and Jason and Tim and Barbara,
you still don't know?" Dick half-smiles at Bruce's scowl. "We all know
why you did it, and you do, too. It's not because it's a war, even
though it is. It's not because you got old, although you did. Think
about it, old man: a guy out for revenge, a real loner, who takes in a
bunch of kids and makes them into some sort of family? A guy doesn't do
that for no reason at all."

Bruce knows what he's supposed to say--that he was lonely, that he
needed someone outside himself to think about, to care about, to love.
It's one thing to dress up like a bat and fight crime because you're
pissed off at the miscreant who killed your parents; it's another to
actively seek out others who have had similar experiences and give them
suits to wear, Kevlar to protect against bullets, masks to protect
against acknowledging the wrong identity, a duty to protect against a
feeling of helplessness. The world isn't any different now than it was
all those years ago when he saw something terrifying in the window and
knew that terror was what would ultimately bring him peace.

Bruce looks at Dick and Dick looks at him, and it's a testament to the
whole thing that even now, as out of practice as they are, neither of
them has to say a thing.

Dick, of course, always had a way of saying what doesn't need to be
said, and lying shot up in a hospital bed just this side of the morgue
isn't about to deter him. "I'm sorry," he says quietly.

Bruce shakes his head and shuffles to his feet with more trouble than
he'd care to admit. "It's not necessary," he says stiffly.

"No," Dick agrees, "it isn't. But I am. Sorry, that is. About a lot of
things."

Bruce smirks. "But not everything."

Dick laughs a little despite the pain. "No, not everything," he says,
grinning or grimacing, Bruce isn't really sure which.

Bruce walks over to the door, puts his hand on it, then pauses. He finds
himself wanting to say something, nearly thirty years' worth of
something, but it gets stuck in his throat, and he remembers that he was
never any good at this kind of thing, anyway. "I'm glad you're all
right," he says, though it's not enough, not at all what he wanted to
say, but it will have to do for now.

"You, too," Dick says. He doesn't add anything trite about doing dinner
sometime or trying to visit more often, but all the same Bruce finds
himself feeling better about things than he has in a long time.

Bruce turns, pushes open the door, and steps aside just in time to let
Terry fall into the room flat on his face.

"Amateur," Bruce snorts, stepping over him and walking away down the hall.

XIII.
Terry wonders what you're supposed to say to a guy who just took a
bolt for you and at whose door you've been eavesdropping. Somehow,
"Gee, thanks for saving my life and sorry about invading your privacy,"
doesn't quite cut it. Particularly when the guy doing the saving is a
pain in the ass who is currently looking at you like he wants to laugh
in your face, but the sutures are keeping him from getting on with it.

Getting to his feet and rubbing his head sheepishly, Terry walks over to
the side of the bed, sits in the visitor's chair, and feels like a
complete idiot for about thirty seconds which feel an awful lot more
like thirty thousand years. He's actually about to resort to mentioning
the weather when Grayson gets it into his head to say something.

"I wore the suit for awhile," he says in about the same tone you'd use
to talk about how much rain there's been lately.

It takes Terry a moment to realize what he's saying. "You mean--?"

Grayson smirks. "Yeah. Bruce was injured, and we weren't sure he'd
ever...well. There has to be a Batman, right? So I did it."

"Makes sense," says Terry. "You being his son and all."

Grayson's eyes get hard for a moment before he's able to stifle it. "I
wasn't the first one he asked," he says.

Terry frowns. "Who else--?"

Grayson shakes his head slightly. "It's a long story. Anyway, that
suit...it's not the same one you've got now, of course, but there was
something about it. The way it makes you feel. It's not like being Robin
or Nightwing or any other costumed vigilante. When you put that thing
on, you become him."

Terry isn't sure who Grayson means by "him"--Bruce? Batman? That creepy
thing in the dark that sends a shiver down the spine of any evildoer who
sees it? It's hooey, banking on the superstition of a flying rodent and
a few well-placed shadows; but Terry's seen how it works, and, though he
doesn't want to admit it, he knows exactly what Grayson is talking
about. The suit is power, the sort most sixteen-year-old kids never even
get close to having.

"But it's not really becoming him, is it?" Terry says, not quite
realizing he's thinking out loud. "I mean, sure, there's the urban
legend and all that, but you're basically just a guy in a dopey suit.
It's what you do with it that matters." He looks Grayson full on in the
face. "Yeah, okay, so you wore the suit; but you weren't him--you were
just you, getting the job done the way you knew how to do it." The
dangerous, reckless way that gets you shot and nearly killed while
trying to save a punk kid you don't even like.

But, Terry reflects, it's what he would've done. What Batman would've
done. In the end, they're all just doing what they think needs doing.
The suit's only an excuse.

Grayson smiles at him--a real smile, not loaded or anything, just
straight-forward, no strings attached. "You're all right, kid," he says.

Terry makes a face. "Worth getting shot for?" he asks, immediately
wishing he hadn't.

Grayson laughs, wincing slightly at the pain but doing it anyway. "Sure.
I don't let myself get shot just for anybody, you know."

"You get shot a lot?" Terry asks, raising an eyebrow.

Grayson shrugs. "Yeah, well, it comes with the job."

"How about learning to duck? That come with the job, too?"

Grayson raises an eyebrow back. "Don't push it; I don't like you that much."

"It's mutual," says Terry, but he's grinning, and Grayson is, too.

Epilogue.
"So what's he like?"

"A royal pain in the ass."

"In other words, exactly what Bruce needs."

"But not what I need. Did I tell you I got shot?"

"Only about five times in the last three minutes."

"Yeah, well...it hurt."

"All right, old man, go take another Tylenol and we'll talk some other
time."

"That reminds me: I've been meaning to tell you--You're not funny at all."

"I'm not paid to be funny."

"I'm not paying you."

"My point exactly."

"Anyway, he's rash, outspoken, and might have a damn good head on his
shoulders if he'd ever actually use it."

"In other words, he reminds you of yourself."

"Actually...I was thinking he's more like Jason."

"...Oh."

"Not that I think he's going to get himself killed. Well, not in the
same way, at least. I mean, he talks back to Bruce and wants to do
things his own way, but he doesn't take stupid chances. Without a good
reason. Usually."

"A ringing endorsement, that is."

"It's just that he's not the Boy Scout you were."

"Look who's talking, Mr. I'll-Drop-Everything-And-Run-In-From-Blüdhaven-
At-A-Moment's-Notice."

"Hey, it was a case!"

"I'm not talking about this time."

"Look, do you want to hear about the kid or not?"

"Just tell me if you think it's going to work."

"Well, if Bruce hasn't thrown him out yet, and if McGinnis can put up
with the old man....More power to 'em, I guess."

"Why do you think Bruce gave him the suit?"

"You mean because it went so well the other times he's had someone else
wear it?"

"Dick--"

"No, I know. It's weird. It's not like Bruce has given up the identity--
you and I both know hell will freeze over before that happens--
but...maybe he's finally ready to pass it on. At least part of it. Maybe
he was just impressed the kid figured him out. I've heard figuring stuff
out landed someone a stint as Robin in the past."

"Cute. So he's got your seal of approval?"

"Maybe. But I still think someone should keep an eye on him."

"Thus the call to me. Listen, if he finds out, he's not going to be very
happy."

"Hey, aren't you the one who sees all and knows all and never leaves a
trace? So he won't know. And like hell you haven't had the cave
monitored for years, anyway."

"Ever the dutiful son, spying on the old man and his new errand boy. All
right, I'll do it, but only because it's fun to see you so disgustingly
jealous."

"Am not. And it's not like you've got anything better to do."

"Oh look, it's the JLA on the other line."

"Right. Listen, Tim...."

"I know. They'll be fine."

"And if they're not...you'll call me?"

"You know, Bruce might call you."

"Yeah, and the crime rate in Gotham and Blüdhaven might reach zero this
year."

"Point. I'll let you know."

"Thanks."

"Take it easy, bro. Oracle out."

-End-

I miss this universe. Maybe it's time for a sequel....