Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

 

 

Chapter 01: So here I am

 

 

Ducklair Tower, Duckburg, Saturday August 11, 7:55 pm.

 

Lights flickered ominously through the empty 150^th floor of Ducklair Tower. Machines whirred. Energy crackled through the wiring. Data was collected, analysed and filed away within the hundred thousands of terabytes of the main databases. Non-stop. Ceaselessly, the machines recorded everything that happened within the long range of the sensors installed on the tower's roof.

 

Somewhere, deep inside the multitude of interconnected central processors, a subroutine registered a blip. It was weak. Only a short burst of the type of energy not usually found in the city that the tower stood in. The subroutine filed the coordinates, linked them to a time-stamp, and flagged the information for future use. Then, it turned its attention to the next scan. All of this happened unbeknownst to the artificial intelligence who existed within the tower's computing structure.

 

Said A.I. was currently watching the news of Channel 00, eagerly waiting for the newest episode (number 1647) of Silicium Hearts to air. It did not keep a metaphorical eye on the automated scans or on their results.

 

One had long ago perfected the art of delegating the more tedious tasks to other people, or in this case to his subroutines.

 

So, instead of noticing the sudden and unexplainable burst of tachyon emissions in Duckburg's most notorious docklands, he entertained himself with blowing raspberries at James Duckett, the current anchorman of Channel 00's news.

 

“In addition to discussing ways to handle the growing rates of petty crime in the city, Commissioner Gill proposed a new approach to juvenile rehabilitation measures in socio-economically disadvantaged neighbourhoods.”

 

One sighed. “Come on. Get on with it.”

 

The footage cut to Police Commissioner Stanton D. Gill standing in front of police headquarters, a horde of journalists thrusting a colourful multitude of microphones into his chubby face.

 

“Juvenile gang crime has risen by more than 12 per cent over the last months. The situation for the regular citizens has become unbearable. Therefore, it is time that we clamp down hard on the gangs that believe they owe our streets. What this city needs is a radical reform of the laws in order to act firmly in regard to juvenile delinquents. The time for letting delinquent youths into our social centres, retirement homes and kindergartens for rehabilitation must be over. Social rehabilitation must not be a slap on the fingers. It must be work. Hard work, that will turn these youths into upstanding citizens.”

 

“Really? I thought it would be a good start to open up the youth centres again”, One suggested snidely to thin air. In lack of a physical head to shake, he recalibrated his holographic projection to shake from left to right twice. The simplemindedness shown certainly deserved a good head-shake, he thought.

 

The footage cut back to James Duckett who squinted into the camera. “In answer to Commissioner Gill's demands Governor Lewis stated that to cap the rising crime rates among local youths a direct approach and a prompt response would certainly be needed. However, he also stressed that it would be of utmost importance to take precautions against possible exploitations of the youths in question.”

 

“And is he still having that affair with his sixteen year old intern?” One scowled.

 

“On other news, Gotham City's playboy billionaire Bruce Wayne, head of the renowned Wayne Enterprises, will arrive in Duckburg tomorrow where he will conduct talks with several prominent businessmen of the city, among them Scrooge McDuck and John Rockerduck, both notorious for their constant competition for the title of “richest man in the world”. Mr Wayne has recently publicly announced his support for the Dent Act, a piece of legislature inspired by Gotham City's late district attorney Harvey Dent, which is expected to help eliminate organized crime in Gotham City, and whose progress is observed with great attention by other city governments all over the U.S.”

 

“Well, good luck dealing with the old tight-wad”, One commented, rolling his eyes. “At least, he'll have experience handling bullheads like those two.”

 

He decreased the volume of the television feed and pulled up dozens of live feeds from CCTV cameras all over the city. Zapping through those surveillance feeds that covered the most sensitive areas, One calmed his consciousness. He had promised his partner that he would take over the masked Avengers patrol for tonight. So, it was only fair that he took a personal look from time to time. Reassured that all was well in the metropolis outside the walls of his tower, the artificial intelligence switched back to watching the television just in time for the opening credits of Silicium Hearts to run. Absently, he set up a new subroutine to keep watch over the CCTV cameras and settled himself in for a glorious evening of entertainment in the abyss that was human relationships.

 

***

 

Scrooge McDuck's Money Bin, Duckburg, Sunday August 12, 1:30 pm.

 

Mrs. Featherby's fingers danced over her old-fashioned typewriter, when her phone rang. She straightened the glasses on her nose and picked up the receiver. Without saying a word, she listened attentively. When the woman at the other end had finished, she nodded once.

 

“I see. Very well. Thank you for calling.”

 

She put the receiver down and looked through the open door to her right into the office, where the richest man in the world tried to sharpen a one inch long pencil stump. She sighed quietly before getting up.

 

“Mr. McDuck?” She stepped forward through the open door.

 

The old man behind the even older desk looked up. “Aye, Mrs. Featherby?”

 

“Ms. Decarlo called. She won't be able to take the limousine to the airport.” Her voice was strict.

 

Scrooge McDuck frowned. “Why not?”

 

“Her daughter is sick.”

 

Mr. McDuck's frown deepened but he refrained from commenting. Mrs Featherby couldn't help but remember the old days, when her employer would not have stopped the derisive comment lying on his tongue. But those days were long over. There were not many people who knew the real man behind the cold façade, but she prided herself of being one of them. For Scrooge McDuck, family always came first, even though most people who had met him would argue that point. She knew that he might grumble and argue, but she was also certain that in the end there would be no consequences for the chauffeur. She frowned displeased. In her opinion, Ms Decarlo could have called earlier. But of course, the young woman also knew that there would be no repercussions from Scrooge McDuck if a little girl was concerned. And indeed, as soon as Mrs Featherby had finished her thought, the old man nodded.

 

He put the pencil stump he had been fiddling with down. When he looked up at her again, the lenses of his pince-nez flashed bright in the sunlight that streamed in through the one small office window.

 

“It cannae be helped. Call on me nephew, please.”

 

Mrs Featherby nodded. “Of course, Mr. McDuck.”

 

She turned back to her own desk without waiting for another comment. She knew that the conversation was over. If she had learned anything in all those years working for Scrooge McDuck, it was that the man was as frugal with words as he was with money.

 

***

 

Somewhere above Utah, Sunday August 12, 1:45 pm.

 

Bruce Wayne sighed and flipped listlessly through the pages of the magazine in his hands. He wasn't reading it. But it provided something to do with his hands during the flight. He had spend the first hour observing the other traveller's in first class, and the second one slinking around the plane and studying the passengers in economy class. When a stewardess there had recognized him, and asked what he was doing down there, he had taken it as his cue to sit back down in his own seat.

 

He had been twiddling his thumbs mentally for twenty minutes now, and he was nearing breaking point. There had to be something to do here.

 

He pulled his notebook out of his briefcase. While he waited for it to boot up, he wondered at which point in his recent life he had become so restless. This had never been a problem before. He could lurk on a rooftop for hours, but he couldn't sit still through a cross-continent flight?

 

He dragged a hand through his hair and connected his notebook wirelessly to Wayne Enterprises mainframe.

 

No, he thought. He knew the causes for this restlessness. He knew them too well. The most obvious was the difference between being in control of his surroundings at all times, and being a powerless passenger in a plane whose life laid in the hands of other people. Bruce liked being in control. He would have preferred to fly the plane himself. But that was completely out of the question. The other reason, the one his thoughts still shied away from, was the same one why he had taken up Alfred's suggestion of attending the business conference in Duckburg in the first place. It was the nightmares. The shadows leering at him. The face of an old friend hailed like a hero when he had turned out to be anything but that. The giggles that still filled the silence of his nights.

 

Alfred was right. He needed a vacation. Some time away from it all.

 

Bruce smiled ruefully. Alfred was always right, when it came to these things.

 

He checked the clock on his notebook's screen. Then he double checked with his wristwatch. But there was no difference. He sighed. Still another 40 minutes to go. When had these flights become so tedious?

 

With a few precise clicks, he navigated to the files he had stored on his own server in preparation for the upcoming conference in Duckburg. He ignored “Ducklair”, “Glomgold”, “Meadows”, and “Rockerduck” in favour of going straight to the most interesting file in the lot.

 

With the biography of Scrooge McDuck open on his screen, he reflected that at least the weekend would pay off in that he got to meet some very interesting people. The man's personal history read like an adventure novel. And even though most was probably embellishment on the author's part, Bruce couldn't help but wonder which parts of it constituted the truth at the core.

 

***

 

Ducklair Tower, Duckburg, at the same time

 

“Aw, phooey!”

 

Donald threw the receiver down so hard, the phone bounced off the table.

 

“What's wrong?” a voice asked from thin air.

 

Donald scowled at the device that had just committed high treason. “Uncle Scrooge has summoned me to the Money Bin”, he complained to the intercom system installed in the wall next to the filing room's entry door. He didn't bother to stand up and push a button on it. The artificial intelligence inhabiting the tower was listening anyway. Donald had never really been bothered by that. The lack of privacy was just something you had to accept and roll with. Like a wave. A big roller. Yeah, that was a good picture. He nodded to himself.

 

If One saw it, he didn't comment on it. Or maybe, Donald reflected, his friend had gotten used to his strange behaviours just as he had gotten used to One's constant snooping around in his private life.

 

“Has he said what he wants?”

 

Donald rolled his eyes. “Not per se. Mrs. Featherby called. Just said, he wanted to see me.” He sighed and heaved himself onto his feet. “But she mentioned my debts, so he probably wants something that I won't like.” He scowled.

 

“Well, you better go then.”

 

“That sounds as if you want to get rid of me. Planned something for today?”

 

“Me? Of course not. Don't be ridiculous.” One huffed. Donald wasn't fooled. He had been hanging around the A.I. for too long now. He could hear the silent laughter underneath the denial. If he had been anyone else, he might wonder how it was even possible for a computer program to sound huffy or amused, but being himself, Donald just accepted it as given.

 

“Well, then”, he smirked as he pulled his old blue navy blouse on, “have fun while I find out what the old miser wants this time.”

 

He grabbed his keys and his wallet from the table. On the way out through the tower's lobby, he checked the contents of his pockets for change. Finding only a few cents, he sighed in dismay. He would have to fare-dodge again. Just another thing to add to the alarmingly growing list of illegal activities he had engaged in this year.

 

***

 

Somewhere above Nevada, Sunday August 12, 2:30 pm.

 

“Sir?”

 

Bruce Wayne looked up from his reading to blink at the flight attendant smiling down at him.

 

“Yes?”

 

“Would you like another drink?” She gestured at the empty glass on the armrest of his luxurious seat.

 

He smiled up at her. “I'd love to. Thank you.”

 

She blushed but left in an otherwise professional manner. He watched her leave and peaked through the door into the small kitchen area to see her fill up his glass with another whisky. When she returned a minute later, the ice clattered in the glass.

 

“Here you go, sir.”

 

“Thank you.” He smiled at her again. “I'm sorry, but do you know when we will arrive?”

 

“In about another thirty minutes, sir.” Her blush was more pronounced now.

 

Bruce felt vaguely annoyed, but didn't let it show.

 

“Thank you”, he said before turning his attention back to the notebook in front of him.

 

From the corner of his eyes, he saw the woman's smile dim at the obvious dismissal, before she went to speak to the passenger sitting in front of him.

 

***

 

Scrooge McDuck's Money Bin, Duckburg, at the same time

 

“What do you want now?”

 

Donald stood in the open door to his uncle's office, arms akimbo, staring straight ahead at the old man presiding over his empire from behind his desk. He felt quite proud about the entrance.

 

Scrooge continued to read the paper he held in his hands.

 

Donald felt a twitch under his left eye. His hands balled into fists so hard, his nails bit painfully into his palms.

 

Scrooge put the sheet down and folded his hands on top of it. He looked up with a serene smile and Donald knew that there was an argument coming that he could not win.

 

Of course, that didn't mean he wouldn't try.

 

“Ah want ye tae do me a favour.”

 

Donald frowned. “A favour?” he asked. “What kind of favour? I won't like it, will I?”

 

“Of course, ye won't like it. It has tae do with work. When have ye ever liked that?” Scrooge snorted. “Me chauffeur is nae available today. So, Ah need ye tae drive the limo tae the airport, pick up a guest and escort him tae the hotel. It's simple. Even ye should manage that.”

 

“Seriously? You want me to play babysitter to some guy you invited?” Donald was perplexed. “Why don't you do it yourself?”

 

“Technically, Mr. Wayne isn't me guest. But Ah've agreed tae host him during the conference.”

 

“Wayne?” Donald frowned. Where had he heard that name before?

 

“Aye, the lad's from Gotham City. Ah had some dealings with his father a long time ago.”

 

Donald cocked his head. He prided himself of knowing a lot more about his uncle's business dealings than he usually let up. But he couldn't remember that. After a moment of thoughtful confusion, he shrugged it off. There was always the option of asking One for information later.

 

He vaguely wondered if he was becoming a bit lazy. No, scratch that. He knew that he was becoming lazy. At some point in the last year he had literally stopped trying to find his own information, and had begun to rely nearly entirely on his partner for that. It was just as he had told the A.I. not so long ago: One was the more intelligent one of them. Donald had no problem acknowledging that he himself was the brawn of the duo. And, strangely, he had grown quite comfortable in that role. Maybe he should talk with One about that. It couldn't be healthy to let someone else be your brain.

 

“Maybe later.”

 

“What?”

 

Donald blinked at Scrooge's perplexed frown and to his own surprise felt that his anger had all but evaporated. He shook his head.

 

“Nothing. Just remembered something I need to do.”

 

Scrooge stared at him for long enough that Donald started twitching. Did he talk to himself often? That was new, too. But it would explain why so many people kept glancing at him suspiciously in the streets lately. Huh? Something else to think about.

 

“Whatever.” Scrooge shrugged it of. “The plane arrives in half an hour. Check-out through the VIP exit takes about another 15 minutes. So ye best get going, shouldn't ye?”

 

“Alright, Uncle Scrooge”, Donald sighed. He buried his hands in his jacket pockets. “How do I recognize the guy?”

 

Scrooge stared at him, making him feel as if he was stupid. Again. Donald's body faltered instinctively under the stare but inwardly he couldn't help but celebrate. He wasn't sure why appearing dumb came so easily to him. Maybe it was a talent. But it sure came in handy if you had a secret identity to protect. Why his alternate persona never suffered of foot-in-mouth disease amazed him on occasion. Saying that the way his body switched back and forth between both versions frightened him would be a bit much. But when he had enough time to ponder the fact, it did – on occasion – weird him out.

 

And some days he wondered if his uncle Ludwig wouldn't have a ball studying him for some psychological paper or another.

 

“It's Bruce Wayne.” Scrooge repeated slowly.

 

The name tickled a memory in the back of his mind. But for the life of him, Donald couldn't say where he had heard it or in what context it had been mentioned. So, he shrugged.

 

Scrooge rolled his eyes but reached down into one of his desk drawers. He pulled out a folded newspaper and threw it at Donald with a flick of his wrist.

 

Donald caught it with a swift movement. He looked at the page that was folded to be at the front and at the picture featured on it. A tall, dark haired man with an equally dark aura stared back. The caption identified the man as “Bruce Wayne, discussing the implementation of the Dent Act with Mayor Garcia and Commissioner Gordon.”

 

So, that was Bruce Wayne? He gazed back at the picture. Dent Act? Where had he heard that before? Well, at least the man was noticeable enough to pick him out of a crowd at the airport.

 

There was only one more question to ask.

 

“Which hotel?”

 

“The Plaza.”

 

Donald nodded. Good choice. Close enough to the Hilton where the conference would be held, but far enough away so that it wouldn't be overrun by journalists. And just enough pomp to make an impression on a future business partner while also being conveniently owned by McDuck Industries. And thus all money spend during the rich guest's stay would eventually find its way into the Money Bin. It was a perfect decision for Scrooge. Donald would have been disappointed had it been differently.

 

***

 

Duckburg Municipal Airport, Sunday August 12, 3:15 pm.

 

Going through customs went a lot faster than Bruce had hoped for.

 

As soon as he had gotten off the plane, he followed the other first class passengers to the VIP-lounge integrated into the airport's main building. It was a modern structure made of glass and steel. A group of customs officers awaited them in the lounge and cleared them for proceeding in record time. Bruce smiled during the whole exercise, and stepped into the VIP lounge with his briefcase held firmly in his right hand and a light frown fastened to his face.

 

The lounge was a strange mix of modern appearance and a seventies style that very nearly made him smile. He passed the exit line in favour of stepping up to the high glass window making up one wall. It overlooked the main terminal of the airport. Hundreds of travellers milled around underneath his feet. And while no sound could be heard inside the lounge, he could imagine the noise down there. He could see children running around and screaming at each other, while their obviously tired parents heaved big suitcases onto the luggage check-in. A grey haired man in a rumpled suit waited for his suitcase at the conveyor belt, while a group of Asian tourists huddled in the middle of the hall, pointing up excitedly at the departure announcement board.

 

After the quiet flight in first class, the chaotic bustle was a welcome change to Bruce. He looked around to check if the driver he had been promised had already arrived. Seeing no-one who was actively searching for someone, or waving a paper with his name on it, he sighed. Then, he let himself sink into one of the bright green easy chairs clustered in the lounge, purposefully choosing one that offered him a wall in his back, a good view of the entrance doors and an equally good view of the hall below. He put his briefcase on the floor between his feet and settled in for yet another wait.

 

***

 

Duckburg Turnpike, exit Municipal Airport, at the same time

 

“Yeah. Fine. I'll do it.”

 

He hadn't been gracious about it. But neither Scrooge nor Donald himself had expected that.

 

The memory of him agreeing to play chauffeur for his uncle again replayed itself over and over in Donald's head, as he stared out at the line of cars moving stop-and-go towards the turnpike's exit.

 

His teeth gnashed. The knuckles of his fingers glowed white against the dark leather covered steering wheel.

 

“Yeah. Fine. I'll do it.”

 

Why had he agreed? Why hadn't he just told the old man where he could stuff his request and gone home? Well, that was a rhetorical question. He couldn't have backed off from the task. Scrooge had a way of getting what he wanted. And in the end it was always better to go along with the old man's wishes than to argue. Not that Donald didn't argue. He did. Lots and lots of times. He just never won. It was a recurring theme in his life. One that he wasn't very proud of, but that he couldn't dismiss in good consciousness. Besides of that, he was kind of curious to meet this so-called billionaire playboy from Gotham City.

 

During the car ride Donald had taken the liberty of skimming the newspaper article. It might not have been proper behaviour, and it might have gotten him a ticket for reckless driving, but he did it anyway. If he could manage making a telephone call while steering a flying car and being shot at by aliens, then he damn well could manage to read a newspaper article while being stuck in a traffic jam.

 

But this pile-up was going to cost him his last nerve. It was as if half of Duckburg had decided to take a vacation as far away as they could get. He couldn't think of any other reason why everyone would want to go to Cornelius-Coot Municipal.

 

“There are three different airports in this city”, Donald ranted, while he stared out the windscreen, “why is everyone going to this one? Seriously! There has to be a reason for it!”

 

“Aside from most national flights departing from here?” One commented drily from the smart phone placed on the dashboard.

 

Donald rolled his eyes.

 

“Funny fact”, One continued, “Nearly 70 per cent of the city's air traffic departs and arrives at Municipal.”

 

“Really?”, Donald sighed. “I didn't know that. Do I need to know that?”

 

“International and Regional serve 20 and 10 per cent respectively.”

 

Donald cocked his head in thought.

 

“I'd have thought that there were more international flights.”

 

There was a slight hesitation before his partner answered. It told Donald that the AI had checked up on some obscure fact online that wasn't readily stored in his own databases.

 

“There were.” One answered. “But the number declined considerably, probably in the wake of the terrorist scares of recent years. Most international flights come in through San Francisco and Los Angeles now.”

 

Donald pondered this and nearly missed the line of traffic starting up again. He thrust the limousine into first gear and stamped on the gas.

 

“So, these people really are all wannabe vacationers?”

 

“Wannabe?”

 

Donald smiled at the questioning tone echoing in his partner's tone.

 

“You don't know?” He asked teasingly.

 

“Know what? I know a lot of things. Could you be more precise?”

 

Donald rolled his eyes. “No need to get snippy.”

 

“I'm not programmed to get snippy.”

 

Donald knew that One was lying. Experience had shown him that the AI could not only be very snippy, but also sarcastic, irritable and, on occasion, outright resentful.

 

“I meant: Don't you know the best place to spend the summer vacation at?” Donald relented.

 

One seemed stumped. After a moment, he answered: “Chicago?”

 

Donald blinked at his mobile phone. “Chicago? Seriously? How do you get that?”

 

“It's America's most popular summer vacation destination. Over 2 million rooms rented each year.”

 

“Seriously?” Donald shook his head to clear it. “Never mind. That's not what I meant. The actual answer is 'Duckburg' itself.”

 

Silence greeted his pronouncement.

 

“Think about it”, Donald continued, “everyone else leaves the city for somewhere else. Which more or less leaves the city peacefully empty for that time.”

 

“I see.”

 

Oh, so they had arrived at the 'humour-your-insane-partner-and-smile-and-nod' approach. Donald nearly groaned. But he held it in and prepared himself for a more in depth explanation.

 

“A few years back, we had this really hot summer, right?”

 

“If you could be a bit more precise-”

 

“Never mind what year it was exactly”, Donald interrupted, “the thing is, the boys wanted to go on vacation and I wanted too, but we didn't have the money for it. Okay? So, we packed our stuff up and drove out to grandma's farm. It seemed like a good idea.”

 

“So, I guess it wasn't?”

 

One sounded interested in his tale, so Donald gladly accepted the distraction from the stop-and-go traffic he was caught in.

 

“No. Turned out that nearly all of Duckburg's bad guys had the same idea. I ended up running around non-stop preventing crimes and stopping some dastardly deed or another.” He grinned as he put extra emphasis onto the cocky alliteration. “In the end, I gave up and went back to Duckburg. And wouldn't you know, it turned out to be the calmest week of the year. Lounging around rooftops. Drinking daiquiris. Great times.”

 

“You spend a summer vacation drinking cocktails on rooftops.” One repeated amused. “Let me guess, in full costume, right?”

 

“Of course”, Donald chuckled, “I don't usually hang around rooftops as Donald, you know?”

 

“And you wonder why some people call you a would-be hero”, One commented sardonically.

 

Donald stuck his tongue out in the general direction of his phone. Then, he noticed the children in the car beside his staring at him wide-eyed, and gave them a bright smile and a wave. They turned to their stressed-looking parents and babbled something, pointing their fingers over at him. He groaned and bumped his head against the steering wheel.

 

He wasn't sure if he could do this much longer.

 

“Problem, hero?”

 

“Shut up, One. Please. Let me suffer in silence for once.”

 

“Oh, we're playing at martyr now. I'm impressed.”

 

Donald sighed, but raised his head to peer out the windscreen at the queue of cars stretching along the turnpike.

 

“If you want to make yourself useful”, he said, “then check on this conference uncle Scrooge is so gung-ho about. There's gonna be one heck of a large crowd of very rich and very posh people there. It's an open invitation to any criminal passing by.”

 

“Sure, partner.” He could practically hear One rolling his eyes at him. Never mind the fact that technically the AI didn't have eyes. How he managed to sound so anyway, Donald would probably never understand. So, he ignored it.

 

“Thanks.”

 

Finally, the exit came into view. Donald sighed deeply in relief.

 

“Call you back once I've delivered the package.” He reached out to the phone.

 

“Don't let Mr. Wayne hear you refer to him like that”, One snorted before he disconnected the call.

 

Donald slipped the phone into his jacket pocket with a grin.

 

Life was all right, he reflected. Sometimes he caught himself fondly remembering the times before he had made One's acquaintance. The good old times they might have been, but looking back, it all seemed so small and unimportant to him. Life was a lot more interesting now. More dangerous, too. A lot more dangerous. But over all, pretty much dandy.

 

***

 

Duckburg Municipal Airport, Sunday August 12, 3:45 pm.

 

Bruce Wayne was bored. He was fighting to keep his foot from tapping. Such behaviour would not fit at all with the image he tried to project. After another ten minutes of pointless waiting, he decided to screw this all. There was obviously no one coming to pick him up. He might as well make his own way to the hotel.

 

He walked up to a lone security guard standing near the lounge exit doors.

 

“Excuse me. Could you point me to the nearest car rental service?”

 

The guard blinked at him. A polite smile appeared on his chubby face as he pointed downstairs.

 

“There are a few. Just down these stairs and into the main hall. Turn right and walk straight on. You'd be making a bee-line for the counters.”

 

“Thank you”, Bruce sighed. For one short moment he contemplated calling a rental company by phone, but then he shook the idea off.

 

He looked into the direction of the entrance hall, and felt his excitement rise. This could actually be fun. If he held his head down, people might not recognize him. It had been some time since he had a chance to move in the open without having to worry about paparazzi.

 

Having made his decision, he picked up his briefcase and left for the commotion downstairs.

 

Once he was in the main hall, he studiously kept his head down, even though no one paid him any mind.

 

He slunk through the crowds and breathed a sigh of relief. There was something to be said about moving unrecognised through the masses like this. It made him feel lighter when the need to uphold his playboy persona at all times could be shed off and he could be himself for a moment. It felt good, to slip back into his other skin like this.

 

Breathing freely for the first time in weeks, Bruce Wayne made his way through the airport's great central hall.

 

He accidentally jostled a woman and mumbled an excuse. She looked up at him with glazed eyes, nodded absently and turned back around to call after her toddler who disappeared behind a pile of luggage a group of teenagers had erected near a fast food counter. Bruce smiled at her ignorance.

 

Yes, he thought to himself. It was nice to not be recognised at first sight for once.

 

As he walked in the general direction the security guard had indicated, he passed a variety of snack shops, newsagents and shops. As was usual for airports of this size, the shopping area was ridiculously large. It stretched over three floors, which were interconnected by a good dozen moving staircases. Travellers were milling around everywhere. He had to alternate his attention between the announcements being made, the hundreds of voices talking around him, and random pieces of luggage that threatened to trip him up. Bruce knew he shouldn't have so much fun doing this, and that Alfred would probably have something to say about it, if he knew what Bruce was doing right now. Even though, he couldn't find it in himself to feel bad. It might just be a small act of rebellion, but it was totally worth it.

 

The signs of the car rental companies already in sight, he stopped in front of a newsagent. The best way to understand a city was to see what its inhabitants considered noteworthy. Thus, it couldn't hurt to get a first impression out of the local newspapers before he plunged into the swamp of local business deals and politics.

 

He stepped aside to let a woman with a stroller pass through the door before he entered the shop.

 

Bypassing the national and international newspapers, he went straight for the regional ones. Caught between the Duckburg Times and the Duckburg Gazette, he finally decided to buy them both. It wasn't as if he had to worry about the price. And the different approaches might help to give him a clearer view of the public opinion in the city.

 

He got in line at the checkout, behind a family of Canadians, a businesswoman, and two teenagers.

 

“Kat”, the younger one of the teenagers, a boy of about 12 years, whined.

 

“What is it?” his sister asked annoyed.

 

The boy pointed at a display stand to the right. “I want to have a booster pack.”

 

Bruce's gaze followed the boy's pointing finger to the display stand that housed a rather particular line of merchandise. He looked at the stylized image of a caped figure displayed on cups, buttons, lighters, and keychains. A logo reading “Duckburg's Phantom Avenger” was boastfully printed all over the surfaces. Bruce blinked. It seemed, he had missed a new trend. Or maybe, it had just passed Gotham by so that he hadn't noticed it until now. After all, Gotham City had been very busy with their own problems lately. Still, the variety of vigilante-schemed merchandise was breathtaking. There were indeed collectible cards of the Avenger. There were also comics, fake costumes for children, and even a special “Avenger's Choice” coffee variant.

 

“Forget it”, the older girl answered. “Mum's going to go ballistic if she finds out. You know she said she'd scrub your allowance if you keep spending it on stuff like that.”

 

“But, Kat. It's the new 'white night'-line. It just came out this week. Everyone at school will have it.”

 

The girl rolled her eyes. “Then, get one when we come back from the holidays. That'll be early enough, right?”

 

The boy pouted, but his sister ignored it and paid for the journals she was holding.

 

Bruce grinned bemused. Someone was making a lot of money with this, he thought with a not insignificant amount of gratitude that no one in Gotham had ever entertained the thought of capitalizing on the Batman like this. He wondered if there really was a vigilante that this whole thing was based on, but dismissed the idea. It seemed too ludicrous that anyone would accept this kind of commercialization of themselves – presumed of course that the person in question was serious about the whole fighting-bad-guys thing. Although he himself would never have stood for it, Bruce could acknowledge that there might well be someone who got his kicks off from this type of attention. He shook his head and stepped up to the checkout to pay for the two newspapers in his hand.

 

 

***

 

Donald burst through the airports main entrance, jostling against an older gentleman, who proceeded to send a barrage of curses at him that made even Donald, with all his years in the navy, blush a bit.

 

“I'm sorry!” he called back over his shoulder but it got lost in the general commotion around him.

 

He skidded a few steps on the polished tiles, grabbed onto the railing and took the stairs leading up to the VIP lounge three steps at a time.

 

Then, he barged into the lounge and nearly ran face first into a security guard standing at ease right behind the door. The broad shouldered man grabbed unto Donald's jacket, steadying him on his feet while at the same time keeping a firm grip on him just in case he tried to do something funny.

 

Donald paid him no mind at first. Instead, he blinked at the room that was completely void of any waiting travellers. It was only after the absence of his supposed passenger had registered that he turned his attention to the security guard.

 

The man glared down at him from under bushy black eyebrows, his surly expression clearly not amused.

 

“I'm sorry”, Donald coughed out, still out of breath from his sprint up the stairs. He pulled a newspaper page from the back pocket of his jeans and unfolded it with trembling fingers. “Have you seen this man? He was supposed to wait here for me.”

 

The security guard squinted at the black and white picture of Bruce Wayne that Donald had thoughtfully ripped out of the newspaper Scrooge had given him. Then, after what seemed like half an eternity to Donald, he nodded.

 

“Yeah. He went downstairs.”

 

Donald frowned. “Did he say where to?”

 

The guard shrugged. His uniform stretched so thin over his shoulders that it crackled at the seams. “He asked me where the car rental companies have their counters.”

 

Donald bit back a curse.

 

“Thanks”, he mumbled. Then, he turned his back to the lounge and made his way back down to the main hall.

 

Halfway down the stairs, he stopped and let his gaze wander over the hustle and bustle down below. He sighed. How was he supposed to find the stupid man in there?

 

He rolled his neck and made a decision. Still holding the newspaper part in his right hand, he pulled his mobile phone out with his left and called One. As usual, the AI answered after the first ring.

 

“Already delivered your package, partner?”

 

Donald rolled his eyes at the mocking tone. “I have a problem.”

 

“No. Really?”

 

“Yes.” Donald groaned. “I need to find Mr. Wayne. He's wandered off to God knows where.”

 

“So, your package absconded without leaving a message?”

 

“This isn't the time for jokes”, Donald whispered, He was painfully aware of the looming security guard standing only a few feet above him. “Can you track him?”

 

“Maybe he just didn't want to wait any longer and made his own way to the hotel?” One offered. He sounded distracted, which told Donald that his partner was actually getting to work. He waited nervously and chewed on his lower lip to relieve his stress.

 

“I hacked into the airports CCTV”, One said after what felt like an hour to Donald but in reality was probably just under a minute. “I'm running a facial recognition software over the recordings now.”

 

Donald shifted his weight from one leg onto the other.

 

Finally, One declared: “Found him.”

 

“Where?”

 

“He entered a newsagent's on level one a few minutes ago. Down the stairs, through the hall towards the exit and then on the left. He's still standing at the checkout.”

 

“Thanks, partner.” Donald disconnected the call and put the phone back into his pocket. As he crossed through the hall, he took the time to wave at one of the security cameras, before he took off in the direction One had indicated.

 

***

 

 

Bruce folded his suit jacket carefully over his arm, and lifted his briefcase with the other, ready to get his luggage now and to find a means of transport to take him to the hotel. He was actually looking forward to it. It was a bit of adventure in his daily life that he had sorely missed over the last weeks.

 

But he didn't get far. He had only taken a few steps towards the luggage conveyor belt as a small tumult broke out not far from him. With a feeling of weariness that he would usually attribute to his other personality Bruce stopped and shifted his weight onto both feet – just in case the trouble was coming in his direction.

 

It was.

 

The trouble in this case was a short man, who sprinted through the crowds of people while keeping up a steady flow of “Excuse me”, “Watch out” and “I'm sorry”. He came to a skidding stop right in front of Bruce, bent forward, his hands braced on his knees, and gasping loudly for breath.

 

Bruce blinked. Then, he looked to the left and to the right, thinking that maybe the man had not actually wanted to meet with him. But no one in his vicinity seemed to feel that the man was there for them. So, Bruce decided to take the initiative.

 

“Excuse me”, he started, taking in the man's navy blouse and the decidedly not navy-issued jeans and sneakers. “Are you alright?”

 

Still fighting to get his breathing back to normal, the man straightened up. Privately, Bruce thought that he wasn't very impressive. Even at his full height, the guy's head barely reached his own shoulders.

 

“I'll survive it.” The answer was accompanied by a rueful smile and one of the hardest cases of speech disorder Bruce had ever witnessed. “I'm sorry, that you had to wait. My name's Donald Duck. My uncle Scrooge send me to take you to the hotel.”

 

After taking a few seconds to decipher what the other man had said, Bruce smiled down into the younger face that was staring up at him.

 

So, this was Scrooge McDuck's nephew? He had been mentioned in the file Alfred had compiled in preparation for the conference. Still, this was not what he had expected the nephew of the richest man in the world to look like. Everything, from the worn-out sneakers to the battered jeans, the callused hands, and the unevenly cut snowy blond hair, screamed 'blue-collar worker' instead of 'future billionaire heir'. Bruce blinked and took a second look. Was the hair on the man's head really blonde or was it pure white? He couldn't tell in the mix of artificial lighting and sunlit windows. But he had an unsettling feeling in his stomach that maybe it just might be pure white. Bleached probably. But there were more preferable colours to go for in that case.

 

“Something wrong?”

 

McDuck's nephew sounded nervous and insecure, probably wondering if he had spoken to the right person. So, Bruce hastened to reassure him.

 

“No, no. It's fine.” He held his hand out for the smaller man to shake. “Bruce Wayne. It's a pleasure to meet you.”

 

The grip on his hand was surprisingly strong for someone who couldn't have been taller than 5' 2. The calluses on his hands were prominent now, and Bruce was absolutely certain that this was a man who regularly worked hard with his hands, and was also quite possibly an avid do-it-yourselfer.

 

“I wasn't certain if someone would come to meet me”, he added.

 

Donald Duck smiled up at him with an enchanting brilliant smile. “Traffic is a disaster today”, he confided, “and I filled in for Uncle Scrooge's chauffeur on short notice.”

 

Bruce nodded although it still struck him as strange that the richest man of the world would send his own nephew to run an errand like this. There was the possibility that the man in front of him was trying to pull a prank on him, or even maybe try to kidnap him, but somehow he doubted it. Surely, kidnappers would play to his expectations more instead of trying to pass off a man like this as Scrooge McDuck's nephew. It wouldn't hurt to make sure, though.

 

“I'm sorry”, he said. “I don't want to sound impolite, but do you have some credentials on you? Or some kind of identification?”

 

The blond blinked up at him. Bruce watched his face cloud over rapidly and instinctively readied himself for an oncoming confrontation. But then the man's face cleared of all traces of anger just as fast as they had appeared. He sighed and pulled a wallet from his back pocket.

“Sure, here you go.”

 

Bruce took the proffered driver's licence and checked it carefully. It looked legit. He handed it back with a smile. Some appearances could be deceiving after all.

 

“Thanks, Mr Duck.”

 

“Donald, please.”

 

As Donald put the driver's licence back in his wallet, Bruce caught sight of a pilot's licence, too. Filing this information away in his memory, he said: “You can't be too careful these days.”

 

Donald threw him a sceptical look. “Yeah, I guess.”

 

Then, he clapped his hands and grinned broadly.

 

“So, where's all your luggage?”

 

Bruce raised an eyebrow at the energetic man. “I was just about to pick it up. I was told that there's a special conveyor belt for the luggage of first class passengers.”

 

“There is.” Donald nodded. “It's right over there.”

 

He led Bruce through the hall, again pushing his way through the crowds with half a dozen excuses falling effortlessly from his mouth.

 

When they arrived at the customs office that had been set aside for VIP travellers, there was only one suitcase left waiting for its owner. Bruce excused himself politely as he handed over his receipt to the female customs officer. She grumbled a bit but found nothing objectionable, so she handed the suitcase over without any further delay.

 

Bruce lifted it up and for a second the unexpected weight made him stumble. What had Alfred packed in that thing?

 

“Uhm...”

 

He looked up to see Donald staring at him.

 

“Should I take that?” The smaller man offered, although his face said clearly that he only did so out of politeness and that he would really rather not carry it if it was all the same, thank you.

 

Bruce bit back a laugh. “No”, he said, “It's fine.”

 

Donald nodded slowly and Bruce hoped that he wouldn't push the point. He didn't want to hand his luggage over to anyone else. Thankfully, Donald's laziness won out and he didn't argue further.

 

“Alright. Let's go then. Shall we?”

 

Bruce nodded.

 

“It's going to take a while to get to the hotel”, Donald continued. “So, might as well get on the way now.”

 

As he followed the short man towards the airport's main exit, Bruce couldn't help but ask: “Is it always this busy or is there something special going on in the city right now?”

 

“You mean besides the conference you're attending?”

 

Bruce smiled. “Yes, aside from that.”

 

“It's the holidays.” Donald shrugged. “Everyone's on the move. But it should calm down in a few days. Once the families are away on vacation.”

 

With that he stepped out of the airport. Bruce followed straight behind.

 

 

 

 

[End chapter 1]

Chapter Text

Chapter 02: Doing everything I can

 

 

Duckburg Municipal Airport, V.I.P. Car park area, Sunday August 12, 4:35 pm.

 

 

Bruce stared slack-jawed while Donald heaved his suitcase into the back of the car.

 

“Is that...”, he trailed off. Then, he wet his lips with his tongue and tried again: “Is that a Duesenberg?”

 

It couldn't be.

 

Donald leaned nonchalantly against the bright red paint. “Yep. An SJ.” He patted the convertible hood fondly.

 

Bruce stepped closer. His fingers brushed reverently over the car's hood and the three shiny exhaust pipes. “There were only 36 cars ever built”, he breathed.

 

In the corner of his eye he saw Donald shrug and nod.

 

“Is it still in original condition?”

 

Donald frowned. “The gearbox was renewed, I think.”

 

Bruce twitched. “A shame.”

 

“You have to make sacrifices sometimes.”

 

Bruce nodded absently. His gaze travelled over the interior, taking in every inch of the custom made seats and fittings.

 

“It's still manual though”, he pointed out.

 

Donald nodded. “Compromises only go that far. You ready to go?”

 

Bruce blinked. Then, he shook his head to clear it.

 

“Yes”, he said, “yes, of course.”

 

He sank into the passenger seat and marvelled at how smooth the leather felt.

 

Donald climbed in behind the steering wheel.

 

“Well, if your uncle wanted to impress me, it's certainly working.” Bruce sighed.

 

“Nah”, Donald waved the comment off, “he just told me to take the limousine. He never said which one. I picked the car from the lot. If I'm going to run errands I might as well do it in style. Besides, I like this one.” He patted the dashboard twice and pushed the ignition.

 

The motor started with a deep rumble.

 

As the classic car glided out of the car park and into the bright sunshine, Bruce closed his eyes. He felt the gentle vibrations of power around him and heard the quiet creaking as Donald switched gears. It took only a few minutes before the heat creeping in became unbearable. He opened his eyes to watch the city crawling by behind lines of other cars. The air flickered. His lips were dry and his suit jacket was sweaty. He shrugged it off with some difficulty before settling back into his seat and rolling up his shirt sleeves.

 

“Is it always this hot?”

 

Donald snorted. He kept his eyes firmly fixed on the stop-and-go traffic in front of them. “Welcome to California.”

 

Bruce glanced at the pale man. He had discarded his blouse and was now wearing a dark red t-shirt which had clearly seen better days. It was a stark contrast to his otherwise pale skin and bleached white hair. Bruce watched Donald squinting through the windscreen with icy blue eyes, before he pulled a pair of sunglasses out of a glove compartment. As soon as he had slid them on, Bruce saw his shoulders slump and his whole posture relax.

 

“You get used to it if you live here long enough.” Donald said, nodding his head into the direction they were going.

 

“You live downtown?” Bruce asked looking at the skyscrapers rising in the distance.

 

“I have a house in Kingsgate. A neighbourhood in the east.”

 

“Not a flat?”

 

“No. I need my space. So do the boys.”

 

Bruce turned his head to look at Donald. “You have children?” He was surprised. There had been no word on that in the file he had read.

 

“Nephews”, Donald clarified. Then, after a pause, he added: “Three.”

 

Bruce leaned back. He remembered the three boys mentioned in the file. But there hadn't been much information on them. Only a marginal note about Scrooge McDuck having three grand-nephews.

 

Bruce considered this a perfect topic of conversation. It might even give him more insight into his host's private life.

 

“They live with you?”

 

“Yes.”

 

He waited for more information to come forth. But it didn't seem as if his conversational partner was as eager to stay on this topic as he was. Internally, Bruce shrugged. That was fine. He could satisfy his curiosity later and look up the information online.

 

Just as he had resigned himself to a change of topic, Donald continued: “My sister left them with me. They were too much for her to handle.”

 

Bruce frowned, suddenly understanding why the topic might not be appreciated by Donald.

“That couldn't have been easy.” He ventured.

 

“It was rocky at first. But we're good now.”

 

“How old are they?”

 

“Ten.”

 

Bruce waited for more ages to be listed. But nothing came. Instead, he noticed Donald looking at him.

 

“Do you have kids?” He asked.

 

“No.”

 

“Want some?”

 

“No.”

 

“Why not?”

 

Bruce sighed and watched Donald carefully. When he saw nothing but open curiosity on the other's face, he shrugged and turned his head to look at the city outside again. “I wouldn't be a good father.”

 

Donald seemed to think about this for a moment, before he asked: “Is that about the playboy gig?”

 

Bruce shrugged, not feeling up to getting involved in that conversation. He felt the other man's gaze on his face.

 

“Do you have a girlfriend?” He tried to change the subject.

 

Donald's gaze returned to the street. “Not right now.”

 

This surprised Bruce. He knew from the file that Donald had, in fact, a fiancé. “Why not?” he pried.

 

Donald sighed. “It's complicated.”

 

Silence reigned while Bruce waited for more.

 

“My girlfriend and I are on-and-off. We're in an off-phase right now.”

 

Donald's tone was even, but his knuckles stood out white against the steering wheel. Bruce decided to drop the topic.

 

Donald seemed to agree, because he changed the drift of the conversation as he pulled the car into a turnpike exit labelled “Old Town / Lake Forest Park”.

 

“You travel a lot for your company?”

 

“Not recently”, Bruce answered. “Do you travel a lot for your uncle?”

 

“Yeah. Sometimes.”

 

They stopped at a red light.

 

“Ever been to China?” Bruce asked to keep the conversation going.

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Morocco?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“New Zealand?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

The light switched to green and Donald let the car sped up again.

 

“Samoa?” Bruce asked.

 

“Yep.”

 

“Malaysia?” By now, Bruce was becoming vaguely annoyed. There had to be a place that he had visited which the blonde hadn't been to yet. He just needed to find it.

 

“That, too.” Donald said distractedly, while switching lanes and taking a turn onto another boulevard.

 

“Central Africa?”

 

“Went on a jungle track once.”

 

“Kiribati.” Bruce would be damned if the man even knew where that island was.

 

“Sailed a yacht across the Pacific.”

 

Exasperated, Bruce offered the last ace he held: “Bhutan.”

 

“Passed through on the way to Nepal.”

 

What McDuck's nephew could have possibly wanted to do in Nepal was a mystery to Bruce. “The North Pole?”

 

Donald fell silent. The street narrowed to four lanes and gave way to a suspension bridge. They crossed a broad river. Bruce could just make out a river isle far to the left. Dozens of white yachts dotted the water's surface underneath them.

 

“Haven't been there yet.” Donald finally said. A high-rise district appeared at the opposite end of the bridge. “Well not really the Pole. I've been to the Arctic, though.” Donald amended. “Greenland, Spitzbergen, Siberia.”

 

Bruce looked at the short guy in bafflement.

 

“I get around a lot. Sorry.”

 

“It's fine.” Bruce sighed. “Maybe I should get out more. I've got the time after all.”

 

Only half a year ago, the thought wouldn't have occurred to him. But with Batman now out of the picture, he wondered what to do with his time. Maybe travelling wouldn't be such a bad idea. He might even pick up some more useful skills. Bruce stopped the thought as soon as it appeared. There was no use in learning skills that he would never get to use. He felt a sadness so suffocating that he feared Donald might pick up on it. He swallowed past the lump in his throat and turned back to the conversation.

 

“So, what's the strangest place you ever had to go to for your uncle?”

 

To his relief, Donald seemed not to have noticed the sudden tension in his voice. “You wouldn't believe it.”

 

“Try.”

 

“Okay”, Donald took a breath. “I went to space in a shuttle.”

 

Bruce blinked. No way. “Really?”

 

A bright laugh bubbled out of the blonde's mouth. “No”, he shook his head. “Sorry.”

 

An odd feeling settled in Bruce's stomach. It hadn't felt like a joke. He stared hard at Donald Duck, trying to ascertain if the short man was making it up or if he was actually telling the truth – no matter how far-fetched it might be. But to his consternation he couldn't tell. There was no hint either way on the blonde's face. Unsure how to proceed, Bruce settled back into his seat.

 

An uneasy silence fell in the car. Taxis passed them by on both sides. Crowds of people moved on the pavement.

 

“So this conference you're here for...” Donald finally started the conversation back up. “It's the first time you've come to the West Coast?”

 

“First time in years anyway”, Bruce admitted.

 

“You've been before?”

 

“Years ago. Things have changed.”

 

Bruce watched a group of suited businessmen leave an ultra-modern high-rise as they passed.

 

“The city changes every day”, Donald agreed. He pointed to a skyscraper in the distance. “I could swear that one wasn't there last week.”

 

“You're exaggerating.”

 

“Yeah. Okay. Maybe.”

 

Bruce smiled painfully aware of Donald's attempt to lighten the mood. “Will you be attending the conference?” Oddly, he was hoping to hear an affirmative answer. He liked the younger man. Talking to Donald Duck was surprisingly easy once you got used to his speech impediment. McDuck's nephew appeared to be down-to-earth and radiated the straightforwardness of a very practical person. It was refreshing in a way and Bruce found himself wishing for a chance to get to know the man better.

 

“Heck, no.” Donald snorted. “Why would I?”

 

“Your uncle might want to take you along.” Bruce suggested.

 

“What for? He's mastered the use of a mobile phone. So now, he doesn't need me to be present in person in order to belittle me.”

 

Bruce frowned. The relationship between nephew and uncle seemed to be a lot more strained than he had previously thought.

 

“What do you do for him exactly?”

 

“Nothing.”

 

Bruce's disbelief must have been visible on his face, because Donald amended: “Well, not that much. Usually. He only calls me in when he needs a sidekick or a pack mule for one of his treasure hunts.”

 

“Treasure hunts?”

 

“Don't ask.”

 

Bruce kept his tongue in check and waited for the blonde to continue. He watched a group of children playing soccer in a small park as they passed by.

 

“Really. Don't ask.”

 

“I'm not asking.”

 

“You are not-asking very loudly.”

 

Bruce snorted. He couldn't help it.

 

“Uncle Scrooge has a passion for treasure hunts.” Donald finally explained. “The more exotic the treasure involved, the better. He's dragged us all around the world by now, I swear. The Amazonian jungle, the Sahara desert. You name it, we've been there.”

 

Bruce wondered if the small smile on his face looked as sappy as it felt. He kept his face turned to the city outside, just in case.

 

“We?”

 

“Me and the boys.”

 

Bruce frowned. “He takes the children along?” This seemed unnecessary risky to him.

 

Donald shrugged. “They love it.”

 

But obviously, their uncle didn't see that. Or he didn't care. Bruce found it difficult to believe that Donald Duck would be irresponsible enough to bring his nephews into obvious danger. So, maybe he had exaggerated earlier.

 

“So, what do you do if you're not busy treasure hunting?” Finding out more about the man might help him make an educated guess regarding his sense of responsibility.

 

“I work.” Donald answered to his surprise. “I actually have a real job.”

 

“Oh? What do you do?” According to his file, Donald Duck was unemployed. He had figured this meant that the man was simply living off his uncle's fortune as so many heirs to rich men were doing.

 

Donald sighed. He activated the turn signal and merged the car into the left lane. “Gofer.” He mumbled. “For Channel 00. That's a local television network.”

 

“You're kidding.”

 

“Wish I were.”

 

“Why?”

 

“Why what?”

 

“Why do you do that work?”

 

Donald stepped on the gas with more force than necessary. The car jumped forward. “Money needs to come from somewhere. I get that it's a difficult concept for guys like you.”

 

He took the turn with more speed than was permitted.

 

“I'm sorry.” Bruce wasn't sure how Donald had misconstrued his question. “I just hadn't thought that you would -”

 

“What? Work?” Donald interrupted roughly.

 

“Well, yes.”

 

“Why?”

 

“You're the heir to a multi-billion dollar company.” It felt weird to Bruce to have to point that out.

 

Donald shook his head and slowed the car's speed down to the allowed miles per hour. “Trillion”, he corrected. “And I don't have anything to do with the company.”

 

“Your uncle is the richest man in the world.” Bruce repeated while mentally trying to get his head around the idea of a multi-trillion company. It was true that no one was able to correctly put a number on Scrooge McDuck's net value. But, still. Multi-trillion?

 

“You're not going to get your head around that, are you?”

 

The accusation was followed by a profound silence.

 

“Listen”, Donald sighed after a while. “I think you've got a wrong impression of uncle Scrooge.”

 

Bruce blinked and turned in his seat to concentrate completely on the younger man.

 

“When people say that 'he's frugal'”, Donald continued, “what they actually mean is that he's a mean-spirited old tight-wad.”

 

“That's harsh.”

 

“No. It's not. It's God's truth.”

 

“So...” Bruce had a vague idea of what the other man wanted to tell him.

 

“So, uncle Scrooge doesn't give money to anyone. Not even his own family.” Here, he paused for a thoughtful moment, before he amended: “At least not unless there's a life-or-death situation.”

 

“Not even to his family?”

 

“Nope. Not a cent.”

 

Bruce waited in silence. He kept his eyes on the blonde and hoped that there would be more information forthcoming.

 

“It's actually not that bad.” Donald continued. “He does give the boys money for ice cream sometimes. And he lends me money if things become tight. But you get the general drift.”

 

Bruce nodded. “He wants you to make your own way.”

 

“Doesn't work too well.” Donald admitted, a self-depreciating smile on his face. “I'm not really that good with financial stuff.”

 

They passed the bold façade of the Hotel Hilton. A bright white banner advertised the upcoming North-American Conference on clean fusion energy.

 

Bruce took a chance. “What can you tell me about the other participants of the conference?”

 

He saw Donald smile. “Why? Want some pointers?”

 

Bruce shrugged but smiled back. His motive was obvious. No reason to lie.

 

Donald's smile grew into a mischievous grin. “What do you want to know?”

 

“Glomgold.” Bruce prompted.

 

Donald frowned. “Old Flintheart”, he said, “A South-African. Just visiting for this gig. He's a lot like uncle Scrooge. Worked his way up from rags to riches, or something. But underneath he's dangerous and a crook. Keep that in mind when you deal with him. The man's gained all his money by tricking other people out of theirs. Uncle Scrooge hates his guts.”

 

“I can see why. Did he try to scam your uncle once?”

 

“Try a dozen times”, Donald snorted. “Scams, thefts, burglaries, kidnappings. You call it, Flinty's been involved in it. Uncle Scrooge hates him. Glomgold's a cheater and 'cheaters never prosper'. Uncle Scrooge is very proud of having made his fortune square.”

 

Bruce nodded, filing the information away in his memory. “Good to know. John Rockerduck.”

 

“Actually, he's an okay kind of guy. But don't tell uncle Scrooge I said that.”

 

“He doesn't like Rockerduck either?”

 

Donald sighed. “Uncle Scrooge dislikes everyone who's a serious danger to his title of richest man in the world. But Rockerduck irks him for more reasons than that.”

 

Bruce frowned and Donald elaborated: “They are like complete opposites to each other. Rockerduck is young, Uncle Scrooge is old. Rockerduck inherited his fortune, Uncle Scrooge was born into poverty. My uncle's stingy to a fault, Rockerduck spends his money left and right.”

 

“I see where this is going.”

 

“Rockerduck's a patron of the arts, donates money to all kinds of good causes: youth groups, sport clubs, the opera, that kind of thing.”

 

“Doesn't sound bad.” Bruce interjected.

 

“As I said, if you catch him alone, he's kind of okay. He's supported the boy's scout group lots of times, and he gets along with me well enough. It's just uncle Scrooge that he's really allergic to.” He thought for a moment before admitting: “And just as often, it's uncle Scrooge who's exacerbating the situation.”

 

Bruce hummed in thought. This rivalry had been mentioned in his files, too. But it seemed as if he should pay more attention to it than he had previously thought.

 

“Everett Ducklair.” He continued half in thought.

 

“Won't be attending.”

 

Surprised, Bruce concentrated back on the conversation. “Why not?”

 

“He's not around.” Donald shrugged, turning yet another corner and keeping his whole attention fixed firmly on the road ahead.

 

“He's the third richest man in the city. Possibly on the continent.” Bruce couldn't believe that the man would not be attending a conference on clean energy. Everything he knew pointed to Everett Ducklair being the country's most recognized expert on that topic.

 

Donald took his eyes of the streets for a moment in order to look at Bruce. Surprise battled a strange kind of moroseness on his face. “He disappeared a year ago.”

 

Bruce felt a tingle run down his spine. He sat up straight in his seat. His head brushed the textile of the convertible hood. “Disappeared?”

 

Truth be told, he had been looking forward to meeting Ducklair. That possibility had been one of the main reasons why he had gone along with Alfred's advice to attend the conference in person instead of letting Lucius send one of his scientists. Everett Ducklair was a world-renowned technical genius and Bruce had been hoping to make his acquaintance for years.

 

“It was all over the news.” Donald told him.

 

Bruce bit his lower lip. His mind was racing. “I was... very busy the last year.”

 

Donald nodded. It seemed awkward and cagey. “One day, Ducklair got up, sold everything he owned, and left.”

 

Bruce had no idea what all of this meant. “Left?”

 

Donald turned his attention back to driving. “Just went away. No one's seen him since.” He pulled the car to the right onto a parking lot.

 

“Why would he do that?”

 

Shutting down the car, Donald said: “Beats me. Midlife crisis?”

 

“What happened to his company?”

 

“Liquidated.” Donald opened the driver's side door and climbed out. Bruce followed, intent on continuing his questioning. But it wasn't necessary. Donald kept talking while he moved around to the back of the car.

 

“Everything was auctioned off.” Donald pulled the suitcase out. “Mostly to the other big players in town. Uncle Scrooge bought a lot of the real estates, including the big tower downtown.”

 

Here, he turned and pointed to a high-rising skyscraper, whose top was just visible over the other buildings around it. Bruce's gaze followed the pointing finger to look at the tower. Rays of the afternoon sun broke in its mirrored surface and created kaleidoscopic flashes of colour all over the neighbouring buildings.

 

“I didn't know that.” He mumbled while he picked up his suitcase. “That's a shame.”

 

For a moment, Donald looked as if he was going to ask him something, but then he closed his mouth and turned to the hotel's rotating entrance door.

 

“Come on“, Donald said instead. “I'll get you settled before I leave.”

 

Bruce followed the smaller man into the hotel's lobby, all the while glancing back at the imposing tower about a mile away.

 

“We always used Ducklair Technologies microchips in our projects”, he mused quietly. “Best on the market. I wonder what Lucius uses now...”

 

He silently resolved to ask Fox about it at the next opportunity.

 

 

***

 

Donald stepped through the rotating glass doors into the hotel lobby, only vaguely aware of the man from Gotham City following him inside. His gaze fixed momentarily onto the frescoed ceiling of the spacious lobby, taking in the red and golden gleaming artwork. Then, his eyes dropped to the receptionist behind the ebony counter. His feet sank into the thick red-and-golden carpet as he passed the old-style leather armchairs that dotted the lobby. Candelabras with artificial candles lightened the room. Giant ferns moved their leaves in the soft breeze of the air conditioning system. Donald concentrated and for a moment he heard the aircon's silent buzzing.

 

He took of his sunglasses and hooked them over the neckline of his shirt. As he reached the reception, he threw a look back at his companion. Mr. Wayne had fallen behind and stood in the middle of the lobby, taking everything in with keen eyes.

 

Donald sighed quietly and turned to address the receptionist. A man in his early thirties, his skin stood out creamy white against the pristine black of his suit, and he wore his wavy brown hair combed to the side in a very strict manner. The man seemed familiar to Donald, but he couldn't remember where he had met the guy before.

 

“Can I help you, Sir?”

 

A sneer passed over the receptionist's face as he took in Donald's appearance. It disappeared quickly behind a mask of professionalism but Donald had noticed it already.

 

He dropped his hand on the top of the ebony counter with a loud thud. “Name's Donald Duck.” He watched the receptionist's eyes widen in barely concealed surprise, quickly followed by recognition and dawning trepidation. “This is Mr. Bruce Wayne”, Donald inclined his head once into Bruce's direction, “you've got a room reservation for him, I think.”

 

The receptionist typed furiously on his keyboard before motioning a bellboy over.

 

“Of course, Mr. Duck”, he mumbled hastily. “This is Ms. Clark. She will show you to the presidential suite.”

 

Donald nodded and accepted the card keys he was presented with. Then, he turned to the young woman in the bellboy uniform. She beamed at him. Her lipstick was bright pink. He grinned back at her.

 

“How long have you worked here?” He asked as they returned to Bruce.

 

“Only about three months”, the girl answered amiably. “I used to job in a lot of other hotels before.”

 

Donald grunted an affirmation.

 

“They wouldn't have taken me on otherwise.”

 

“You don't seem like the typical trainee for a place like this.” Donald agreed. Her hair was obviously coloured to a darker tone, her make-up was too colourful and she moved like an athlete instead of an hotel employee.

 

She shrugged. “I'm not. I'm at college. But I like the job and it pays my tuition.”

 

“Ah.” He nodded. “Mr. Wayne?”

 

Bruce Wayne turned away from a painting he had been inspecting. “Yes?”

 

“This is Ms Clark”, Donald introduced the girl with a wave of his hand. “She'll show us to your suite.”

 

“That's nice”, Bruce Wayne smiled polity. “Thank you.”

 

The girl stood straight, radiating professionalism. “Of course, Sir. If you'd please follow me.”

She made to take his suitcase, but Mr. Wayne beat her to it.

 

“I'll take that.” He said.

 

She looked surprised but nodded her acceptance readily enough. “As you wish, Sir.”

 

Then, she turned around and let the way to one of the elevators situated at the other side of the lobby. They passed a man with long blonde hair puled back into a messy pony-tail who was hunched over an ultra-modern laptop. Donald noticed the pale indentation on his finger, where a wedding band must have been until very recently. And as they stepped up to the elevator, its doors opened to disgorge a white-haired man who was deep in conversation with a lady, her grey hair styled in old-fashioned locks over caramel skin. Behind them a tall and muscular man left the elevator. He had neat black hair, a sun-tanned skin and carried a briefcase in his left hand. Donald nodded a greeting as he passed, but the man did not return it.

 

Donald shrugged and followed the other two into the elevator. The girl pushed a button and the doors closed with a quiet swooshing sound. A strained silence settled over the group. Bothered by it, Donald threw furtive glances to the guest from Gotham City. The man had seemed oddly deep in thought for the last minutes. Even now, he kept staring into thin air as if he was pondering something. Donald thought about breaking the silence, when Bruce Wayne beat him to it.

 

“Do you know who bought up all the patents?”

 

Donald's thoughts were thrown off-track. “What patents?”

 

“Ducklair's”, Mr. Wayne clarified. “Do you know who bought them? You said everything was sold off.”

 

“Auctioned off”, Donald corrected. “And I don't know.” Why was Wayne interested in that? What made Everett Ducklair interesting to him? The guy was gone, and whatever there had been to buy up had already been bought up by others a whole year ago. He didn't voice that thought out loud.

 

But it was an interesting question. What had happened to all those patents that Ducklair must have had lying around his tower? Since there were no super-powered world-destroying apocalyptic weapons up on the market yet it was obvious that the plans for those never got out of Ducklair's workshop. So, the patents where either never filed or, more probably, in limbo somewhere. He should definitely ask One about that. Donald wasn't sure what might worry him more: to learn that the patents were lying forgotten in someone's desk drawer, or to discover that Everett still had control over them, even in his self-imposed exile in Dhasam Bhul.

 

He didn't manage to answer before the elevator doors opened and the bellboy led the way out towards a huge double door. She pulled one of the two key cards through the electronic lock and opened the door. Then, she stepped aside to let Donald and Mr. Wayne inside. “Here you are, Sir. The dining room is on the right, bathroom and dressing room to the left.” She quickly pointed around the room. “The safe is inside the bar. Wi-Fi is free, of course.” She pulled a leaflet out of her inside jacket pocket and handed it over to Mr. Wayne. “You'll find the access codes and anything else you might need to know in here.”

 

Bruce took the leaflet with a smile. “Thank you.”

 

She nodded and smiled at the bill Wayne had unobtrusively pushed into her hand. Donald squinted at it. It was a Fifty. He barely stopped himself from whistling. The bellboy looked up at Bruce Wayne again.

 

“If you need anything else, please, don't hesitate to call.”

 

Wayne smiled back. “I won't.”

 

Donald thought it sounded very flirtatious.

 

The girl left with a polite goodbye and closed the penthouse door behind her.

 

Bruce Wayne turned to him, seeming to wait for something, but Donald was at a loss at what else to say. So, he let his eyes travel through the room in order to buy himself more time.

 

There were two large windows stretching from floor to ceiling, that made up most of the one side of the room. Perfect entry points. Large green ferns framed them on both sides. To the right the room opened into another one, where Donald could just make out the top end of a large dinner table. A low table was used to divide the two parts of the suite from each other. Four candles flickered in the silence. A fire hazard, Donald thought. But the sitting room suite was a nice feature. It seemed heavy enough to give cover even during an extended fire fight. With standard guns, he amended mentally.

 

“Is there anything else?” Wayne's voice interrupted his contemplations.

 

Donald blinked, and tried frantically to remember if there was anything else uncle Scrooge had told him to do. He frowned. “Uncle Scrooge asked me to remind you of something...” He trailed off, thinking hard.

 

Wayne smiled. “Probably our dinner appointment tonight.”

 

Donald face-palmed. “Yeah. That was it.” He pulled his hand slowly down over his face. “Sorry. It's been a long day.”

 

Wayne shrugged. So Donald continued: “Uncle Scrooge asked me to remind you that he would meet you this evening at Aurelio's Steakhouse. It's actually a very posh place”, he hastened to assure. “But it's in Downtown . So, do you need a driver to pick you up?”

 

Wayne nodded. “That would be nice.”

 

“Okay. Around seven?”

 

“Of course.” Donald made a mental note to tell his uncle about this new development. Then, he smiled and held his hand out resolutely. “I guess I'll see you around sometime then.”

 

Wayne smiled back. “Yes, I guess so, too. It was nice meeting you.”

 

They shook hands in goodbye. Donald nodded and turned to leave. When the suite's door had closed behind him, he stopped and strained his ears to listen to the sounds coming from the room. Steps, surprisingly light for a man of Wayne's frame moved away from him. Further into the suite. Probably going into the bedroom to unpack that small but heavy suitcase, Donald thought. Irregular footfalls. Favouring his right side. But so minimally that Donald had not seen it while walking beside the man. Hiding it, maybe. In order not to show a weakness? Donald wondered.

 

When he couldn't hear anything any more, the room's inhabitant having moved too far away, Donald sighed and started down the corridor to the elevator. His sneakers sank into the plush carpet. On the way, he pulled out his mobile and fast-dialled One.

 

Again, the AI answered after the first ring.

 

“Did Bruce Wayne ever met Everett?”

 

One hesitated slightly. “Not to my knowledge. Why do you ask?” He sounded confused.

 

“He told me he'd been here before. And he reacted weird when he heard that Everett wouldn't be at the conference. It just seemed like it.”

 

“They have never come into contact as far as I know.” One repeated. Then he added: “But I'm going to check the databases for possible interactions between them. Just to be sure. Maybe, I simply wasn't told about it.”

 

Neither mentioned how likely that was if Everett had actually been involved.

 

Instead, Donald said: “You do that. And keep an eye on Wayne, too.”

 

The elevator doors opened with a soft chime and he stepped inside. Luckily, he was alone on the ride back down. He pushed the button for the first floor.

 

“Why?” One asked.

 

“I didn't like his interest in Everett. He might start digging.”

 

“It could be coincidental.” One failed to sound reassuring. They both knew very well that people trying to find Everett usually meant trouble.

 

“Let's better be safe than sorry.” Donald said and disconnected the call.

 

The elevator doors closed.

 

***

 

 

Bruce unpacked his luggage, methodically pulling shirts, pants and underwear out and placing them into the hotel suite's dresser. He refolded the ties and socks before storing them away. Toiletries went into the on-suite bathroom, where they joined towels, soaps and a hotel-provided hair blower. Last out of his suitcase were a small mobile WiFi hotspot and the chargers for his laptop and cell phone.

 

He pulled his laptop from his briefcase and placed it next to the hotspot on a desk. Then, he booted both setting up a secure connection to Wayne Enterprise's mainframe.

 

While the computer ran it's customary security updates and installed all the necessary protocols for communicating with the central server in Gotham City, Bruce turned back to his luggage.

 

He pulled the last few items out of the suitcase – a spare pair of shoes and a thick classic novel that Alfred must have slipped in. Bruce smiled as he placed the book on the bedside table.

 

As he lifted the empty suitcase from the bed in order to put it away in a still empty closet, he stumbled surprised at it's weight. This isn't normal, he thought. Carefully, he put the suitcase down on the floor and swept his hands over its surface and inside. It took him less than a minute to find the secret latch. Pulling it, opened a secret compartment that filled out a large part of the suitcase's internal space.

 

Bruce frowned. He stuck both hands inside and felt a familiar form under his fingertips. He pulled it out and, for a long moment, stared in horrified fascination at the Batman mask that now rested in his hands. His gaze jerked down to peek further into the secret compartment. He knew what he would find inside. Damn Alfred. Damn him, damn him, damn him. Bruce cursed under his breath. The mask shook in his hands. With a swift movement, he dropped it back down, slammed the suitcase shut and pushed it into the closet. It was only after he had locked the closet doors that he felt he could breathe again.

 

“Damn you, Alfred!” He punched his fist against the wall, before turning around and leaning heavily against it with his back. He could feel the tremors in his muscles. Closing his eyes, he raked both hands through his hair and over his face.

 

Alfred was just worried, he knew that. This was his butler's way of showing it. And out of sight was at least halfway out of mind. Slowly, Bruce took three deep breaths. Then, he pushed himself away from the wall. He would ignore this, he decided. As much as it was close to impossible to ignore. But he would do it. Batman was a part of the past. There was no need for him any more, especially not here.

 

 

Chapter Text

Chapter 03: Holding on to what I am

 

Scrooge McDuck's Money Bin, Duckburg, Sunday August 12^th, 6:10 pm.

Donald stepped into Scrooge's office. He announced his entry with one sharp knock on the already open door.
 
“I'm back.”
 
Scrooge raised his eyes from the bulky computer screen that was sitting on his desk.
 
“So, Ah can see.” He scrutinized Donald over his glasses. “Did it go right?”
 
Donald rolled his eyes. “Yeah. Sure.”
 
Scrooge stared at him.
 
When the silence became oppressive, Donald sighed. “I picked him up at the airport and accompanied him all the way to the hotel”, he reported. “I even made sure he made it to his room fine. And I stayed till after the bellhop had left. If something happens now...” he shrugged.
 
Scrooge nodded. “Good. Did ye –“
 
“Yes”, Donald interrupted impatiently. “I reminded him of the dinner meeting. He asked me if someone could drive him to the steakhouse.”
 
Scrooge thought for a moment and nodded. “Miss DiCarlo should be back at work by then. Ah'll have her called in.”
 
“Great“, Donald bounced on his feet. “If that's all, I'll be off.” He needed to leave. There were other things to do. “Been great running errands again.”
 
He only managed one step back towards the door before Scrooge's heavy accent stopped him in his tracks. “Wait up!”

Donald spun around on his heel, barely holding onto his temper. “What now? I have an actual job to do, you know?”
 
“Yes, Ah'm aware. As strange as the idea is tae me.” Donald watched his uncle struggle with himself for a moment, before the old man added: “Ah want ye tae come with me tae the dinner.”
 
“What for?” Donald was honestly surprised. He had been certain that Scrooge had given up on molding him into his successor after the last disastrous try.
 
“As me assistant.”
 
Donald waved the idea off. “You have Fenton for that.” Who, he reflected silently, while not being the brightest crayon in the box, was certainly doing a good enough job keeping up with Uncle Scrooge. Something that was more impressive than people gave him credit for.
 
“The lad's busy.”
 
“He's always busy these days. What's he doing for you anyway?”
 
“That's none of yer business.”
 
Intriguing. Donald’s brain did a few jumps trying -and failing- to come up with possible scenarios. What was Fenton doing? And should he be concerned about it? If Uncle Scrooge made such a secret about it, he should probably keep an eye on the situation. On the other hand, it might not be anything important at all. Maybe it had to do with Fenton's mother, and God knew if that was the case, Donald didn't want to get involved.
 
“Pick me up at half eight.”
 
“Fine.”
 
Absently, Donald registered Scrooge's surprised expression and noted that he should have put up more resistance. Trying to justify himself, he shrugged.

“I think I like Mr. Wayne. Might as well hang around a bit more.”
 
Besides, there was still a mystery to solve: Why did Bruce Wayne come to a conference himself, if he could as easily have sent a minion to attend instead?
  
 
***


Aurelio's Steakhouse, Downtown, Sunday August 12^th, 7:35 pm.
 
 
Stepping out of the limo, Bruce smiled at the diminutive, dark-haired woman who had picked him up at his hotel. “Thanks.”
 
“It's my job, Sir.” She replied politely and led him to the Steakhouse' reception area.
 
“Table reserved for McDuck, please.” She told the server manning the reservation desk.
 
“Of course, ma'am”, the server nodded back. “Mr. McDuck hasn't arrived yet, do you wish to wait at the table?”
 
Bruce smiled. “Yes, that'll be fine.”
 
The driver, Ms. DiCarlo, Bruce remembered her name, checked her phone. “Mr. McDuck is on his way. He'll join you in a few minutes.” She informed him quietly.
 
He nodded in understanding.
 
“If it's alright with you, I'd leave now.” She looked vaguely hopeful.
 
“That's fine.” Bruce said, “Thanks.”

He watched her leave before another server escorted him to a small, secluded table.
 
„Is there anything I can bring you while you wait?”
 
Bruce thought for a moment. “A glass of water, please.” It would still be a moment before his dinner appointment arrived.
 
„Of course, Sir.”
 
The server left and Bruce let his gaze wander through the Steakhouse' dining room.
 
McDuck’s nephew had been right, he thought. While Bruce wouldn't have referred to the place as 'posh', it certainly boasted a certain air of refinement and noblesse that he usually associated with first-rate restaurants.
 

***

Aurelio's Steakhouse, Downtown, Sunday August 12^th, 7:50 pm.
 
 
Donald was thrown forward in his seat, as Scrooge pressed down on the brakes much too energetically. How the old geezer had ever passed his driving test was an eternal mystery to him. Actually, now that he thought about it, he wondered if Scrooge ever even had to take a test. Maybe, back in his days, they handed out driving licenses to anyone who could pay for them. It would explain a lot about the old man’s driving style.
 
Scrooge was already out of the car when Donald had pulled his thoughts together enough to let go of the door handle that he had grabbed on to reflexively. Shaking the last vestiges of adrenaline off, Donald followed him out. Aurelio's Steakhouse hadn't changed at all since the last time he had been here. An enticing mix of smells wafted around him: onions, oregano, chili, parsley, and a trace of garlic.
 
His mouth watered as he followed Scrooge inside.
 
“Mr. McDuck”, he overheard the receptionist saying, “Welcome. It's always an honor to have you over for dinner.”
 
Scrooge snorted. “Yes, yes. Ah trust me guest has arrived already?”
 
To his credit, the receptionist didn't let Scrooge's temper deter him from being friendly. “Yes, Mr. McDuck. He arrived about 15 minutes ago. If you'd please follow Ms. Chang to the table we've prepared for you...”
 
A young Asian girl stepped up to greet them. Donald smiled at her politely, trying to make up for his uncle's behavior. Scrooge, of course, didn’t care. As the restaurant’s owner, he could act in it however he wanted. Still, Donald thought, just because you could act like a jerk didn't mean you should. The girl returned the smile tentatively as she led them to a table in a corner of the dining room.
 
On their way through the restaurant, Donald checked on the doorway to the restrooms (both clear, one table nearby occupied by a young family, two children, both parents in their mid-to-end-thirties, mother sniffling slightly, probably an oncoming flu) and the entrance that he knew led to the kitchen, from where the back entrance led out into a shadily lit alleyway (servers moving in and out, main cook on duty the same as on all Friday nights, nothing out of the ordinary).
 
The table they were led to was tucked into an alcove in the back, right next to a picturesque in-door spring. Bruce Wayne was already seated there, sipping on a glass of water (half empty, been here a while) and surreptitiously watching a couple at the neighboring table (expensive jewelry but tarnished wedding band, unhappy marriage?).
 
Mr. Wayne must have heard them coming, because he turned around as Scrooge stepped up to the table. Donald watched his uncle giving the tall man from Gotham a quick once-over before he offered his hand to him.
 
“Mr. Wayne? Scrooge McDuck.”
 
Bruce Wayne gave no hint of having noticed the scrutinizing look as he stood up and took Scrooge's hand.
 
“It's a pleasure.”
 
They let go after a quick shake and Scrooge nodded over his shoulder. “You've met me nephew.”
 
Mr. Wayne smiled. It looked as if he was glad to see him again, a fact that Donald found a bit unsettling. The visitor from Gotham moved forward to shake his hand, too.
 
“It's good to see you again.”
 
“You too.” Donald answered, uncertain what else to say.
 
“I can see the family resemblance”, Wayne smiled slightly.
 
Donald saw Scrooge frown slightly. But then the old man accepted the comment with a nod and sat down. Mr. Wayne glanced over at him, obviously nonplussed. Having gained far more experience with his uncle's moods, Donald shrugged and sat down next to Scrooge, beckoning Wayne to do so, too.
 
The waitress shifted uneasily from one foot to the other. “Would you like something to drink, while you choose?”
 
“Nay.” Scrooge snapped and turned to Mr. Wayne. “Did you have time to check the menu?”
 
Wayne nodded “Yes, I did.”
 
Scrooge turned back to the waitress. “In that case, we can order right now.”
 
Donald stifled a sigh. So much for not being a jerk, he thought. Wayne looked surprised at the rude tone. And the waitress was obviously waiting for the ground to open under her feet.
 
“Time's money”, Donald whispered, winking at her to take some of the sting out of the situation.
 
Uncle Scrooge had obviously heard but chose to ignore the slight twitch of her lips. Maybe he had actually noticed how rude he was being. Wonders would never cease, Donald reflected.
 
Scrooge motioned for Mr. Wayne to make his order first.
 
“I'll take a chopped salad first, then a Prime rib-eye with side dishes.”
 
“Very well, Sir.”, the waitress said, “And for drink?”
 
“Cabernet Sauvignon? And a bottle of sparkling water.”
 
She nodded.
 
“Porterhouse steak with Lyonnaise potatoes and a Merlot.” Scrooge ordered. “And add water for everyone.”
 
“Yes, Sir.”
 
Donald smiled broadly, as she turned her attention to him.
 
“Tuna tacos and a Coke, please.”
 
She smiled back. “Coming right up. Anything for dessert?”
 
He asked hopefully: “Chocolate cake?”
 
She nodded and smiled as he beamed at her happily.
 
Mr. Wayne grinned. “For me, too, please.”
 
“Not for me”, Scrooge shook his head. “I'm fine.”
 
“Very well, Sir. I'll be right back with your drinks.” With that she wandered off into the direction of the bar.
 
“I thought you weren't supposed to come?” It took Donald a moment to register that Mr. Wayne was talking to him. He looked up at the tall, smiling man. Why was the guy so happy to see him? It was a mystery. Hopefully, one that could wait. Maybe he ticked that way.
 
“I'm playing stand-in for Fenton”, Donald answered drily.
 
“Fenton?” Wayne frowned.
 
“Me personal assistant.” Scrooge explained.
 
While this was certainly a handy way to describe Fenton to other people, Donald thought that it hardly did justice to the younger man’s relationship with Scrooge. It may have started out as that, but anyone with half a brain could see that Scrooge had effectively adopted Fenton by now. But then again, many people had trouble seeing the family man in Scrooge McDuck.
 
When Mr. Wayne looked as if he might ask something else, Scrooge quickly added: “He's running an errand for me right now. Nothing tae do with the conference.” He waved his hand dismissively. “A personal favor, if ye want.”
 
Donald narrowed his eyes. A personal favor? Okay, so maybe it didn't have anything to do with Fenton's mum. For a second he entertained the idea of asking One to track Fenton down, just out of curiosity, but decided against it. It felt like shooting missiles at sparrows. Still, it wouldn't stop him from pestering the younger man with it, once he was back. He'd be damned if he didn't find out what was going on there.
 
He noticed Mr. Wayne watching him curiously and momentarily wondered what the man might have seen on his face. He flashed an empty smile and Wayne turned his attention back to Scrooge.
 
“This is a nice place”, the man from Gotham offered, looking around pointedly. “You've been here before.”
 
It was a statement, Donald noticed, not a question.
 
Scrooge must have noticed, too, because he acknowledged it with a nod. “Ah own it.”
 
Wayne nodded back. “I must admit, that my usual business dinners are held in...” he hesitated, “higher-priced venues.”
 
Donald frowned. “There's nothing wrong with Aurelio's”, he burst out defensively. “It's the best steakhouse around.”
 
He was only half-aware of his uncle watching the exchange shrewdly.
 
“And it's a wonderful change of pace for me.” Wayne assured. “Really. I like it.”
 
He looked as if he meant it, so Donald decided to believe him. It wouldn't do to start a fight here.
 
“You are a lot like your father, you know.” Scrooge had a pensive smile on his face.
 
Blinking, Mr. Wayne turned back to him and raised an eyebrow. “Many people would disagree.” His tone of voice made clear that this was obviously a topic he didn't appreciate.
 
“Many people are idiots.” Scrooge answered simply.
 
Wayne stared at him. And as he watched back and forth between the two, Donald wondered what exactly his uncle had seen in the other man. He knew that Scrooge was a very good judge of character. He had to be, to make such a good businessman. So, there had to be something there. And looking back at Wayne's expression, Donald couldn't help but wonder if being considered to be similar to his father was a good thing in Bruce Wayne’s mind.
 
Finally, Mr. Wayne dropped his shoulders and turned his gaze away from Scrooge. He took a last, long sip from his glass, emptying it, and placed it back down on the table. But before he let go of it, he moved it an inch to the left, until it was aligned with the knife's edge. Only then did he look back up at Scrooge.
 
“You don't mince your words, do you?”
 
Scrooge actually seemed to consider this for a second. “As me sister tells me, it's a bad habit of mine.”
 
Donald saw Mr. Wayne blink. The man turned a questioning look at Donald, who felt a bright grin spreading on his face. Maybe, he thought, maybe, this evening wouldn't be so boring after all.
 
The waitress returned with their drinks and Wayne opened a bottle of sparkling water to re-fill his glass. The silence stretched until, finally, Donald couldn't keep his curiosity in check any longer.
 
“So”, he asked his uncle, “when did you meet Mr. Wayne senior?”
 
“In the late Seventies. Ye were still a wee lad back then.” Scrooge nodded at Wayne. “We cooperated on a development project for the rapid transit system that was built in Gotham City.”
 
From the corner of his eye, Donald saw Wayne wince. It's was such a tiny movement, he first thought he might have imagined it.
 
“I hear the train system was destroyed a while ago.” Scrooge continued.
 
Wayne nodded. “Yes. It was.”
 
“Destroyed?” Donald's curiosity was raised again.
 
“In a terrorist attack.” Wayne told him.
 
“That's a pity.” Scrooge added, although his expression showed that it obviously meant nothing to him.
 
Terrorists? Donald resolved to look that up on the internet later.
 
“You worked with my father on that?” Wayne turned to Scrooge. “I didn't know.”
 
“Well,” Scrooge amended, “it was mostly me brother-in-law who was interested in it.”
 
Donald blinked in surprise. “Uncle Ludwig?”
 
Scrooge nodded.
 
“Doesn't seem like his thing...” Donald pondered.
 
“Engineering was a phase he went through at the time.” Scrooge explained, tossing his water around in his glass.
 
Wayne looked stumped, so Donald took pity on him. “Uncle Ludwig's more into Chemistry and Biology these days.”
 
Scrooge rolled his eyes and, in a characteristic sense of familial responsibilities, rebuked: “Ludwig is a genius. With everything.”
 
Wayne was obviously unconvinced. “Everything?”
 
“Everything.” Donald confirmed.
 
Wayne raised an eyebrow but nodded acceptingly. It was obvious that he was humoring them. Donald was certain that he didn't understand the scope of what they were telling him. These days, people never truly understood what 'universal genius' actually meant. No one ever got Ludwig.
 
Thinking back to last spring, he remembered the Austrian standing in his living room, explaining chagrined how exactly he had figured out that Donald was PK. He also remembered how the old man had decided to erase his own memories, so that he couldn't accidentally tell anyone about his nephew's secret identity. Aside from nearly giving Don a heart attack, that event had only strengthened his fondness of Ludwig.
 
“I must admit”, Wayne said, “I read about him. And your sisters.”
 
Scrooge nodded. “Yes, Ah thought ye might. It's good business sense, after all.”
 
They fell into a discussion about business practices that Donald was happy to tune out. Instead, he concentrated on the other diners, observing who came in and who left the restaurant. It was only when their food arrived that his attention returned to the ongoing discussion.
 
The food was steaming hot. For a few moments there was silence at the table, as everyone sorted out their cutlery. Donald briefly considered knife and fork, but forwent them in favor of his fingers. He consciously refused to feel embarrassed about it, even if the diners at the neighboring tables threw him dark looks. Mr. Wayne smiled at him, as he cut his steak, but he, too, didn't say anything about it. Uncle Scrooge, predictably, shook his head at his antics and dug into his own food.
 
After a while, Mr. Wayne looked up with bright eyes. “You were right. This is good.”
 
Donald scrambled desperately to hold his taco together. “It is, right?”
 
“Dinna speak with yer mouth full.” Scrooge berated absent-mindedly.
 
Donald swallowed hastily. Opposite him, Mr. Wayne's smile widened.
 
They ate in silence, until Wayne asked Scrooge:  “So, will your brother-in-law attend the conference, too?”
 
“Nae”, Scrooge answered. “He's outa the city right now.”
 
This surprised Donald. Flakes of tuna fell down as his grip on the taco slipped. He hadn't known that. Of course, Ludwig travelled a lot. It wasn't that unusual for him to be away. But he always made a point of calling the family to say how long he would (probably) be gone. Which he had not done this time. Except, he had told Scrooge. As if Scrooge would actually go and water the plants.
 
“Where to?” Donald asked curiously. “Do you know?”
 
“Starling City.”
 
“Starling City?” Donald tried to remember what he knew of the city further north. It wasn't much.  “What's he doing there?”

Scrooge peered at him curiously. “Ah have no idea. He told me, but...” he shrugged and trailed off.

He didn't actually have to end the sentence.
 
“Yeah”, Donald nodded. “Got it.”
 
Then, he added in the direction of Mr. Wayne: “Uncle Ludwig can be... hard to understand.”
 
“He functions on a different level than everyone else.” Scrooge explained. His tone left it open to interpretation if he meant it as a compliment or not.
 
“I think”, Mr. Wayne said, “I would have liked to meet him.”
 
The conversation came to another stop as they finished their dinner.
 
“But you will be attending the conference, yes?” Mr. Wayne asked Scrooge as he wiped his mouth with a napkin.
 
“Ya,” Scrooge answered, but he didn't look too happy about it. “Mind, energy is nae me main business. But it pays tae stay on top o' these things.”
 
Mr. Wayne nodded amiably.
 
“And”, Donald added shrewdly, “Rockerduck is coming.”
 
Uncle Scrooge gnashed his teeth. His grip on the knife was so strong that Donald thought he could see it bending in his fist. “O' course he is. The badlin has his fingers in everything these days. Tryin tae get in a foot inna new field, too.” Scrooge's already strong accent thickened noticeably.
 
Mr. Wayne raised his eyebrows, obviously surprised by the sudden onslaught of hatred in the eold man's voice.
 
Uncle Scrooge took a deep breath. He deliberately put the knife down and wiped his hands with a napkin. “Gyro's guest speaker”, he said and added to Wayne: “The lad's an inventor. Has some great ideas in engineering if not a single ounce o' good sense aboot business.”
 
“Gyro Gearloose?” Wayne asked. “Yes, I saw his name on the program? Does he specialize in energy production?”
 
Donald exchanged a look with Scrooge. How best to put this?
 
“Sometimes.” Scrooge finally offered.
 
Donald thought that this needed a bit more explaining. “Gyro's an engineering prodigy. His inventions aren't always working-”
 
“Or sensible”, Scrooge interrupted.
 
“-but he can build the most amazing things.” Donald finished.
 
“And occasionally even something marketable.” Scrooge added, his tone of voice swaying between fond and exasperated.
 
Mr. Wayne looked back and forth between them. “Okay. I'm looking forward to his presentation then.”
 
“Any idea what he's going to talk about?” Donald asked his uncle.
 
“Nae.” Scrooge was clearly disappointed about that. “Ah asked, but the lad was all secret aboot it.”
 
This would bother Scrooge, Donald knew. The old man wasn't used to not getting his way with Gyro.
 
Before he could comment on it, though, he felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. He'd nearly forgotten that he had taken it along at all. He rubbed his fingers off on a napkin and fished it out. Checking the display, he found a text message saying “Call me”. The number belonged to the groundskeeper's office of Ducklair Tower. The message had to be from One. Must be important, he thought. He had asked One to cover his patrol that night. What problem could the AI have encountered that he couldn't deal with himself? Half a dozen scenarios ran through Donald's mind, one worse than the next: Alien invasion started. FBI finally found their secret hide-out in the tower. Angus found a way to unmask him. Someone stole one of Everett's lunatic world-destruction thingies.
 
“Don!” Scrooge's voice broke him out of his musings.
 
Donald looked up and saw the other two staring at him worriedly.
 
“Sorry.” Desperately, he grasped for the first excuse that came to his mind. “It's the boys. Gotta take this one.”
 
He immediately stood up and moved away, nearly missing the shrewd, calculating look Scrooge was giving him. He dismissed it.
 
Once he was in the Steakhouse' entrance area he called One. As usual, the AI answered after the first ring.
 
“Oh god, tell me this isn't important.”
 
Whatever One wanted to say, he discarded it in favor of a simple: “What?”
 
“Because if it is important, it means that something bad is happening right now, and I don't need that. I really, really don't. So, please tell me that this is just an 'are you as bored as I am' call.”
 
Donald could hear a distinct snort over the phone line. “Relax, hero. The world is not yet going to end.”
 
He would never admit it, but in that moment, Donald felt a mountain of dread falling away from his heart.
 
“But”, One continued, “I found some information that I think you'll be interested in hearing.”
 
“And it couldn't wait until I'm back?” Donald asked. “Okay, shoot.” He hastily added: “Metaphorically. We talked about this. No actual shooting. Okay?”
 
One did not sound amused. “Funny. If the hero-gig doesn't work for you, I'm certain there's a career as comedian ahead of you. I will have you know that Master Everett built me as a learning system. I am, in fact, able to adapt to different communicative situations.”
 
Donald remembered staring down the barrel of a ridiculously futuristic gun, big enough to turn him into a pile of ashes on the floor. Learning system. Okay. Looking back on their first meeting though, he still wasn't entirely sure if One hadn't misinterpreted his words merely for giggles.
 
“I merely thought”, One continued, “that you might want to know, that Ducklair Industries did indeed have business relations with Wayne Corp at one point.”
 
Donald closed his eyes. The mountain of dread re-materialized in his chest. He looked back into the dining room, but couldn't see their table from his current position.
 
“However, it is very unlikely that Master Everett and Mr. Wayne met, or even that Mr. Wayne himself was involved in the business dealings.”
 
Donald focused back on the conversation. “How come?”
 
“According to the company reports I'm looking at right now, they took place during a time when Mr. Wayne was incommunicado.”
 
“What does that mean?”
 
“I don't know.” One didn't sound happy about that. “He disappeared for a few years. Probably on an extended sabbatical. He only returned three years ago. A changed man, if the internal reports of Wayne Enterprise can be trusted.”
 
Donald snorted. “Sounds like someone else we know?” He felt an unpleasant pressure building up behind his forehead.
 
“I cannot honestly say that Everett returned a changed man the last time he was here.” One pointed out drily.
 
Thinking back to their last encounter, Donald had to acknowledge the truth in that.  “Okay, yeah. Got your point. What were those business dealings about?”
 
“At that time, Wayne Corp was involved in manufacturing heavy weapons for the armed forces.”
 
Donald pinched the back of his nose. “Why am I not surprised. And he asked me for Everett's patents. One! He asked me for the fucking patents! Who holds these patents right now?”
 
“Patents?” One honestly sounded lost.
 
“For Everett's toys! You know? All those weapons of mass-destruction we're hiding in the tower. The ones that we always pretend don't exist – at least until we need to use them? Don't tell me he never filed patents for these things.”
 
“I'll have to disappoint there. Indeed, Master Everett didn't file patents for the more destructive of his inventions. I imagine that, during his invention frenzies, it simply did not occur to him to do so.”
 
“If I hadn't met the guy in person, I wouldn't believe you.” Donald sighed. “So, if there are only prototypes and no plans, all we need to do is make sure that Wayne doesn't get his hands on Everett's stuff and we'll be fine, right?”
 
“For all it's worth, I don't think that Mr. Wayne wants to acquire Master Everett's weapon systems.”
 
“Why not?”
 
“After he returned, Wayne Corp, then Wayne Enterprise, withdrew from weapons manufacturing. And Mr. Wayne has, so far, shown no incentive to get back into the business.”
 
“Maybe he's waiting for the right toy to start off with.” Donald didn't want to believe that. But you couldn't be cautious enough.
 
“Maybe.” One acknowledged, but his tone of voice said clearly that he doubted it.
 
“So” Donald said, “I guess, we'll keep eyes on him.”
 
“I did clone the access codes for his suite from the hotel's mainframe.” One admitted, “Just in case you'd need them.”
 
Donald grinned. “Hang on to those. I need to get back to the dinner. See you later, partner.”
 
He shut the connection off before One could answer and walked back to the table, wondering about what to do now. His eyes fell on the guest from Gotham City. For the first time, he took notice of the wrinkles around Wayne's eyes, making his face seem older than he was. He noticed the few greying hairs on his temples and the way he held his back straight. In that moment it became obvious to Donald that Bruce Wayne had not led an easy life, no matter what image he tried to project. Donald watched him put down his knife from callused hands with a single graceful movement. This, he recognized, was a man who took pride in his self-control. There was a darkness lurking in Wayne's eyes. It was obvious in the carefully hidden attention he was paying Scrooge, in the way his fingers slid the knife into an easy-to-reach position on the table. This, Donald suddenly saw with clarity, was also a man who knew how to fight and was trying to hide it. It was something he himself was intimately acquainted with, even if he had never had to hide his many abilities from the people around him, since he had been known to be a jack-of-all-trades long before he took up the mantle of the Avenger.

He sank back down on his chair, immediately drawing Scrooge's attention back to himself.
 
“Everything okay with the boys?” Something undefinable resonated in his uncle's voice.
 
Too busy reflecting on his sudden insights on Bruce Wayne, Donald ignored it.
 
“Yeah. Everything's fine.”
 
He saw Scrooge opening his mouth as if to say something else. Not willing to talk more in front of the guest, Donald threw him a look, hoping desperately to transmit the meaning of “don't ask further”. To his surprise, Scrooge actually took the hint. The old man closed his mouth without saying another word. His face, though, said that the discussion was not over yet.
 
As an oppressive silence fell over the table, the waitress re-appeared and started to clear off the dishes.
 
“Did you enjoy your meal?”
 
Bruce Wayne nodded. “Yes, very much, thank you.”
 
Donald wanted nothing more than to get back to the tower and start looking into the man's background. Also, Scrooge's scrutiny was rubbing on his nerves.  “Er... about that cake.” He'd have to forego it today.
 
Misunderstanding him completely, the young waitress hastened to assure him that: “Yes, I will bring it at once, Sir.”
 
After that, she noticed their empty glasses and added: “Anything more to drink?”
 
Wayne looked over at them. “Well, I could do with a Merlot, too. And you?”
 
Predictably, Scrooge denied it. “A tea, maybe.”
 
Donald shook his head. He was itching to leave, but no good excuse came to his mind. The waitress nodded her understanding and turned to fetch their latest orders. Donald turned his attention back to the Gotham billionaire next to him.

Suddenly, an explosion rocked the room.

Donald’s eardrums felt as if they were ripped apart and he was thrown out of his seat by a wave of rushing hot air. Pushing himself desperately to his right, he tried to tackle his uncle down to the ground. He felt his hands twist into Scrooge's frock coat, as the light around him became too bright to see. Dust and ashes filled his nose. Breathing became difficult. Breaking glass and crying people filtered through the incessant ringing in his ears. As he kept a desperate grip on Scrooge, Donald spared a quick thought on Bruce Wayne and hoped that the man had made it. Then, they crashed heavily onto the ground. Donald used the momentum to roll away from the center of the explosion. Wooden splinters and spilled food crunched underneath him. He kept dragging Scrooge along until they were halfway shielded by an overturned table. Donald didn't question where the family was that had previously been seated there. He blinked past the burning sting in his eyes, let go of his uncle's coat and pushed himself up to his knees – just in time to watch the ceiling give in.
 
***

Bruce woke up. His head was spinning. His eyes felt glued shut and a dull ache had settled in his skull. Laboriously, he lifted a hand to his temple and felt warm blood cling to the tips of his fingers. The aching intensified. He let his hand drop down beside him and tried to find his bearings. His ears were ringing. There had been an unimaginable noise. Broken glass tinkled as he moved. Every muscle in his body hurt. Belatedly, he recognized that he was lying on the floor. The thought wormed its way sluggishly into his conscious mind. He pushed himself up onto his elbows and winced as glass shards dug into his hands.

Slowly, his memory returned. There had been an explosion. In the restaurant. While they were waiting for desserts. As the ringing in his ears subsided slowly, it was overwritten by a background noise of sobbing and crying people. He scrambled to his feet, leaning heavily on what he recognized as the broken remains of a wooden table. With each breath he pulled more dust into his lungs and once he had started coughing, he couldn’t stop himself. Movement to his right alerted him to other people close to him. He tried to blink through the dust in his eyes, but finally rubbed his suited forearm until his sight cleared sufficiently to see two uniformed figures help Scrooge McDuck to his feet. The old man swayed between them. Clearly unable to move on his own, the two men, who Bruce recognized as firemen in the flashing light of sirens outside, half carried McDuck towards the street.

Hands still braced on the broken table, Bruce looked around. He could make out the shapes of people moving under the remains of ceiling and furniture in the formerly rich decorated dining room. Dust and ash created a thin carpet on blood and broken bones. Rescue workers moved in and out, carrying more victims towards the lights on the street. Across from him, a hand stuck out from a pile of rocks that had been a wall only minutes before. It didn’t move. Bruce started towards it, but other hands grabbed him from behind.

“Let go”, he coughed, trying to pull himself loose.

“You can’t help her”, an unknown male voice told him from behind, the other’s grip was unbreakable.

Adrenaline surged through Bruce’s veins as he turned around, pulling the other’s arms with him, forcing him to let go or fall down. Bruce was ready to lay into the guy, to tell him that he was going to help, damn it all. But as he blinked his eyes he recognized Donald. The smaller blonde was covered head to toe in soot and ash. His shirt was in tatters, blood smeared over his face and upper body. He swayed on his feet. Bruce felt his anger collapse into concern.

“Are you alright?”

Donald gave him a crooked grin. It looked tired. “Been better.”

Absently, Bruce noticed that the smaller man was easier to understand now, his speech impediment not as disruptive as before. Bruce figured that he must finally have gotten used to listening to the guy. He looked down at the iron grip Donald still held on his right arm and wondered which one of them would fall over first if he let go. His gaze returned to the hand sticking lifelessly out of the rubble.

“Come on”, Donald urged and Bruce let himself be tugged away.

He stumbled behind the blonde until a paramedic appeared and lead them both outside. There, he was ushered to sit down in the back of an ambulance. A flashlight was shone into his eyes, hands felt over his skull and an oxygen mask was pushed over his mouth. While a paramedic took stock of his injuries, Bruce took in the mad scramble around him. Instinctively, his eyes searched out the two men he had been sitting with earlier. Old Scrooge McDuck was being checked over at another ambulance. He seemed unhurt, except for a bleeding cut on his hand. He was complaining loudly to the paramedics that he was ‘arright’ and had been through much worse back in Africa. A few steps further away stood Donald, his mobile phone pressed tightly to his ear. He waved a paramedic off, who obviously wanted to check his neck. Bruce couldn’t hear what was said between the two men, but since the paramedic left without pushing the point, it was obvious that Donald was not injured much. Which meant that the blood on his shirt probably was not his own.

Bruce kept watch as the rescue workers pulled more and more victims from the ruins of Aurelio’s Steakhouse. Police officers cordoned off the area as onlookers flocked around to catch the scene on video. Behind them, on the other side of the road, he suddenly noticed a large figure lurking in the shadows of an alley. He frowned and took off his oxygen mask when his attention was pulled to a commotion breaking out on the other side of the cordoned-off area. He turned his head in time to see Donald push his way through the line of police officers. A broad shouldered uniform tried to stop him, but the blonde man twisted out from underneath his hands. The blonde moved with a grace Bruce would not have thought him capable of, dove straight into the crowd of curious onlookers and disappeared.  
 
*** 

Donald ran. His feet barely touched the ground. The street was eerily empty of cars – as if the commotion at Aurelio’s further down the block had brought all traffic to a close. Right now, he felt a detached sense of gratefulness for that. As the street made a turn to the right, he forced himself to keep going straight ahead and, using his left hand as lever on the white painted railing, hoisted himself over it in one swift movement. He crossed the boardwalk on the other side in two long steps and jumped down a pair of stairs in order to reach the next street.

Turning left, he began to pick up speed. Air burned in his throat with every breath he took. He concentrated on his breathing rate, trying to keep it low and regular. Cars passed him by as he ran. He dodged a Ford SUV as he changed lines to reach the middle of the road, where the tram tracks ran, and slid over the hood of a red Toyota before jumping onto the back of a passing tram. Clinging to the railing at its rear exit he kept his gaze fastened on the grey pavement rushing past underneath him and counted the seconds down. As his count reached zero, he let go and caught his fall by rolling over his shoulder to land back on his feet. As the world turned right side up again, he ignored the cars honking at him in displeasure and used the remaining momentum of his fall to dash over the street again and to throw himself right over another railing. No ground greeted him this time. Instead, his hand reached out automatically to clamp onto the edge his feet had left a moment ago. He skidded straight down the wall, concrete scrunching beneath his boots and cutting into the skin of his hands. After three meters, he landed on the ground, cushioning the fall with his knees. The air was pushed out of his lungs.

He catapulted himself out of the crouch and back into movement.

Breath in, he thought, breath out. Again. And again. He couldn’t afford to lose his breath now. Especially not now. There was still a good way to go.

He skidded a few meters on the polished tiles in front of Carrington Plaza. The modern high-raise office building loomed above him, flags rustling in the mild night breeze. Catching his feet underneath himself again, he took a running jump over the fence into the neighboring park. It stretched from here to Downtown Central; exactly where he needed to go. A perfect short-cut. Pushing through waist-high rhododendrons, he breathed relieved when he reached the gravel path that led through the park. This was a difficult stretch in his run. Easy to twist your feet. Fall down. All the things he had no time to do right now.

He ran along the gravel path, past the lake and startled a couple making out in the bushes. The woman screamed in surprise as she grasped for her discarded blouse in a panicked movement. Donald didn’t bother to stifle the snort of laughter that rose in his throat.

“Sorry!” he yelled back over his shoulder.

He was already past them and stormed out the park entrance closest to the tower. Only about a mile more now. He contemplated taking his phone out to check with One again, but immediately rejected the idea. It would be a waste of time. He’d be at the tower in less time than it took to stop, get the phone out and have a conversation.

He rounded a few more street corners, keeping to side alleys that were thankfully void of pedestrians, until he burst into the place behind the Baxter Building, where the small but ridiculously popular Cat Side Café had put up its tables under the open summer sky. He cursed. It was a nice evening and so all the tables where taken up by guests.

Faced with this sudden group of people blocking his path, he let his eyes flick through the possible alternatives. No chance. It all took too long. And he was way too fast. He used his momentum to propel himself right unto the first table.

From there, he bounced over two others, breaking glasses and stepping into coffee cups as he went. A barrage of curses and screams followed him as he cut straight through the guests to his destination. Before the waiters could do more than start staring at him in gob-smacked surprise, he ducked into the back entrance of the Baxter Building, sprinted through the ground mall, past closed shops and startled cleaning ladies, in order to barge out the main entrance onto 6^th Avenue.

It was one of the main transit lines in the city, crossing Downtown in a nearly straight line. So, of course, it was filled with cars even at this time of night.

Donald nearly ran head first into a passing taxi. The driver stared wide-eyed at him through the wind shield, as he vaulted up and rolled neatly over the car’s hood.

The taxi’s screeching breaks filled his ears, but he didn’t pay it any mind.

In front of him, the glass doors of Ducklair Tower opened automatically to allow him entrance. He rushed through the thankfully empty lobby of the tower. Barging towards the elevator bank he screamed at the top of his lungs: “One!”

 

[tbc]

Chapter Text

 

Chapter 04: Pretending I'm a Superman

 

 

Aurelio’s Steakhouse, Downtown, Sunday August 12, 10:35 p.m.

 

“Mr. Wayne?” Bruce turned his head towards the Scottish voice.

 

“Yes?”

 

“That’s me car.” Scrooge nodded at an old fashioned limousine behind the police cordon. “Let’s get ye back tae the hotel, aye? It’s been a long evening.” The old man was clearly tired. For the first time this evening, Scrooge McDuck looked his age.

 

Bruce allowed himself to be led away.

 

At the car, a lanky man with curly brown hair waited for them. He was in his mid-forties and wore a non-descript cheap suit. As they approached, he opened the door to the back seat.

 

“Thanks, Albert”, Scrooge said.

 

“Making a stop at the Hilton, Sir?” Albert queried with a nod at Bruce.

 

Scrooge nodded and climbed into the backseat. “That we are.”

 

Bruce nodded at Albert who, for a moment, appeared to him like a much younger version of Alfred. But the man’s accent was inherently American and didn’t tally at all with Alfred’s British tones. As Bruce climbed in behind Mr. McDuck he wished that his butler would have come to Duckburg with him.

 

He settled down in the seat opposite the old man and closed his eyes to take a few deep breaths. The car pulled away from the curb.

 

Bruce opened his eyes to Scrooge McDuck fiddling nervously with the handle of his walking cane. While his restlessness was perfectly understandable, Bruce thought that it didn’t suit him well. The nervousness was probably exacerbated by the suspiciously fast exit of his nephew from the scene. Not knowing what had brought that on must have upset the old man’s nerves even more.

 

“Ah’m sorry yer stay in me city started off like this”, Scrooge McDuck finally offered with a frown.

 

“You couldn’t have known that”, Bruce tried to wave it off.

 

“Nae. But it’s a rotten start anyway.”

 

Bruce bit back a tired smile.

 

“That means it can only get better from here, right?” he offered.

 

McDuck rolled his eyes. “Let’s not jinx it, lad. We’ll see what is to come.”

 

After that, they fell back into an uneasy silence. Finally, Bruce asked what had been on his mind for a while now: “Is Donald all right? I saw him leave in a hurry.”

 

Scrooge snorted. “Needs more than a bang tae take down a McDuck. He’s fine.”

 

His voice was derisive, but his face showed worry.

 

 

***

 

 

Ducklair Tower, Downtown, at the same time

 

The 150^th floor of Ducklair tower was kept secret from the inhabitants of the building. It appeared on no map and no elevator stopped there. Indeed, the elevators simply passed it by on the way to the 151^st floor, which had been deliberately mislabeled as 150^th. As it stood, only two people in the city were aware of the secret floor’s existence: The first was the artificial intelligence inhabiting the tower’s computer systems. The second was the tower’s former caretaker. Neither of them had any interest in passing on their knowledge.

 

The highly advanced pieces of machinery on the 150^th floor whirred with life as the AI scanned through the news channels, correlating information about the bombing with the data gleaned through the sensors on the exterior skin of the tower. Web-feeds and television news ran on the large screening wall which took up the space opposite the ceiling-high windows, surrounded by CCTV feeds of the most sensitive areas of the city - as was standard procedure for this time of night.

 

Right in front of it all, Donald was lounging in a spinning chair, a cup of coffee firmly grasped in his hands. The four screens closest to him repeated Channel 00 Midnight News. The video was muted, the anchorman’s mouth moving silently. Next to Donald floated a green bubble, about twice the size of his head, in which One’s facial icon was rendered in 3D. 

 

“The police have finished their preliminary investigations at the steakhouse”, the AI reported.

 

“And...”

 

“Forensics reports that the explosion was caused by a bomb, based on a chemical reaction timer.” A crude drawing, obviously taken from police files appeared on the left side of the screening wall. “The explosion radius shows that the center of explosion wasn't far from the entry to the back office of the steakhouse.” A map of the explosion site joined it.

 

“Who'd place a bomb there?” Donald wondered, sipping on his coffee. “Of all the possible places. An employee maybe?”

 

“According to the statements of surviving staff, one of the waitresses picked up a handbag from behind a plant pot ten minutes before you arrived and put it into the office. She was under the impression that it had been forgotten by a previous guest.”

 

Donald pondered this. “You think that might have been the bomb?”

 

“It does seem likely.” One confirmed.

 

“But why?” Donald shook his head. “It could have been a coincidence. The bomb could have been brought in in half a dozen other ways.”

 

“True.” One agreed in a humoring tone of voice. “But you might be interested to hear that the table the waitress found the bag at was the exact one that Mr McDuck had reserved for the dinner tonight. If the bag had not been noticed by accident and removed in time, it would have been in perfect position for killing you three.”

 

Donald felt the coffee form to a lump in his throat. He forced it down with a painful swallow. “Okay”, he stuttered out, “that's.... that's a good point. So, you think that Uncle Scrooge was the target?”

 

“Or Mr. Wayne. Yes. They were the only targets of interest in the building.”

 

Donald sighed and, putting his coffee down on the floor next to his chair, rubbed a hand over his face. “That's a mess. What's the police say about it?”

 

“They have arrived at the same conclusion.” One huffed. “Chief O'Hara has contacted the PBI. The case will likely be transferred into their responsibility, since it falls under the PBI's purview to investigate domestic terrorism.”

 

“Terrific.” Donald thought of all the problems a PBI investigation would bring for them. “Any chance you could rig it so that the case goes to Agent Flagstarr?”

 

One hesitated. Then he offered: “Her current casework does not leave much leeway for more cases.”

 

Donald knew that. Still, he’d much rather deal with her than any of the other agents. “Try. Please.”

 

One gave a sound of disagreement but didn’t argue. That was a good sign, Donald decided. Then, he asked: “So, any more “good news” you want to share?”

 

“Well, since you told me to keep eyes on Mr. Wayne, I took the liberty to scan for advanced types of energy around him.”

 

Surprised, Donald turned his tired gaze from the screens to the hologram floating serenely next to him.

 

“Why?”

 

“He might have been carrying some type of advanced technology on him”, One justified himself, “for accessing the tower.”

 

This seemed a rather thin excuse to Donald. He raised his eyebrow accusingly. “You snooped. You are a nosy snoop.”

 

“I might as well be, since I noticed something of interest.”

 

“You didn't actually re-task a satellite for that, did you?”

 

One was suspiciously silent.

 

“Oh my God!” Donald drove both hands through his hair, ruffling it up even more. “You did. You know how the guys at NASA react to that.”

 

“Relax, hero. I was gone before they even noticed.”

 

“One of these days, someone will track your hacking back to the tower.” Donald felt compelled to point out. “And then, we'll be in one hell of a problem.” And when exactly had he become the sensible one in this partnership? It wasn’t a role that he usually filled.

 

True to form, One’s hologram rolled its eyes and ignored his worries completely. “So, do you want to hear what I found out, or not?”

 

Donald bit back a grin. “Of course, I want to know. Spill.”

 

“I didn't notice anything out of the ordinary at first, but shortly after the explosion a burst of tachyon emissions occurred on a street opposite the steakhouse.”

 

Donald frowned.

 

“And it's not the only one,” One continued while illustrating his findings on a map of the neighborhood’s streets, “my scanners have recorded a good dozen of hotspot for tachyon activity all over the place within the last two days.”

 

“So?” Donald stared at the 13 blinking red dots on the map. “Time Police?”

 

“That was my first guess, too”, One agreed. “But as far as I can tell, Miss Lay has not deviated from her daily routine lately. If this is the Time Police acting, it would seem that she, at least, is not part of their mission this time.”

 

Donald pondered this. “That's unlikely.” Lyla was the primary Time Agent of this era. It was standard procedure to inform her of all operations on her turf.

 

“True.” One agreed.

 

“Raiders then. Maybe.”

 

“Unfortunately, I wasn't able to find CCTV coverage of those areas.”

 

Donald frowned. “So, whoever it was, they knew how to stay off grid of the normal security systems.” He thought about what this implied about their mysterious bomber. “This isn't good, One. I'll talk to Lyla tomorrow. Maybe that'll bring some light into the situation.”

 

“She might not tell you the truth if she is under orders.” One cautioned him. As if he didn’t know that by now.

 

“I know.” Donald grinned. “But when has that ever stopped us?”

 

 

 

***

 

 

 

 

Aurelio's Steakhouse, Downtown, Monday August 13^th, 01:20 am.

 

The black cape threatened to flap around him, so Bruce held it tight; using his grip on the fire escape platform he squatted on. Putting on the costume had been a struggle. At first, he hadn’t even wanted to look at it, every part of it reminding him painfully of how he had failed Rachel, of how he had failed everyone. But he had no feasible alternative. The black armor was perfect for blending into the background at night. And the cape was useful for getting around airborne.

 

Still, Bruce felt himself twitch underneath the suit. He had kept on a long-armed shirt and sweatpants underneath, hesitant to let the armor touch his skin. It didn’t feel like a part of him anymore.

 

Keeping his eyes firmly away from the building’s windows so as to not accidentally see his own masked reflection, Bruce watched as body bags were carried out of the ruins of Aurelio’s. He frowned. Not everyone in the restaurant had been as lucky as he and his dinner companions had been. He couldn’t take his eyes off the scene. It had been a close call.

 

He was thankful that Scrooge McDuck had gotten him away from the scene as fast as he had. The police officers who had arrived after the emergency responders could have held him for much longer. But it had been obvious that no one wanted to argue with Scrooge McDuck once the man had made up his mind. So, when the old billionaire had offered Bruce a trip back to his hotel, none of the police officers had stopped them. It was a good thing, too. Bruce had needed the distance in order to find his thoughts.

 

He had seriously contemplated to stay at his hotel, to not start his own investigation. But Batman aside, Bruce was curious and horrified enough at the events that he couldn’t keep his feet still. And he had been right. As he watched the bomb disposal unit transport evidence boxes out of the Steakhouse and place them carefully in the back of a police van, he felt grim determination settle on him. Someone had planted a bomb in the building. There had only been two likely targets of interest in it at the time: Scrooge McDuck and himself. This was personal.

 

***

 

The police van pulled away from the ruins of Aurelio’s and started down the street. Bruce hesitated a moment, but then flexed the muscles in his arms and catapulted himself from the fire escape that had served as his vantage point for the last twenty minutes. In a smooth movement, he threw out his arm, loosening the grappling hook attached to the armor’s wrist. It snatched onto a nearby rooftop and allowed him to swing along above the moving car. He was nothing but a black shadow against the equally black sky.

 

He wanted to take a look at the collected evidence. Or maybe even pull the necessary files from the police’ network. It would be easier than trying to conduct an independent forensic investigation. That would be a hassle without proper equipment. And Bruce needed the forensic information if he wanted to solve this case. People had died. Innocent bystanders. And even if this wasn’t his city, he felt the need to find the person who had placed the bomb.

 

The van stopped at a red light. Batman swung over the crossroad and crouched on the side of a skyscraper. As he waited for the lights to turn green, he heard a crash. It sounded suspiciously like a breaking glass pane. He pinpointed the sound to the road underneath him. His curiosity peaked. It was an avenue filled with shops and eating establishments.

 

The street lights turned green. The van started moving again – and a second, louder crash echoed up to Bruce’s ears. It was followed by a voice barking: “Keep it down, man. Call the cops, why dontcha?”

 

Caught between the instinct to follow his first objective and the one to investigate this new event, Batman used a hand-held air-gun to shoot a tracker at the rapidly disappearing vehicle. Then he turned his attention to the avenue underneath his hiding place.

 

Following the direction of the sound, it didn’t take him long to locate its origin. It was a small jewelry store, set back from the main street by a good ten feet, its entrance obscured from view of the casual observer by a piece of modern art. A black van was stopped in front of it and its entrance door had obviously been forced open. No alarm sounded, but light cones from flashlights proved that there were people moving about inside the shop.

 

Behind his mask, Bruce rolled his eyes. He checked the tracker. It was steadily moving down the street, so, with luck, it had properly attached to the van. He could take the time to teach these guys a lesson.

 

Sure footed, he let himself fall down onto the roof of the black van. Movement in the driver’s seat alerted him to the person still in it. A man heaved himself out of the van to check what had created the thump on the roof. Two seconds later, he was out for the count.

 

 

***

 

 

Ducklair Tower, Downtown, Monday August 13^th, 01:30 a.m.

 

 

A black blot moved in the corner of Donald’s left eye and his head snapped around to face the screening wall. “Wait up!”

 

With a swift grace that belied his usual slouching posture, he was on his feet. “What was that?”

 

He pushed One’s bubble aside with his arm and moved closer to the screens – until the tip of his nose nearly touched the display that he had narrowed down as the one who had shown the moving blotch.

 

“What was what?” One asked, irritation showing in his voice.

 

Donald ignored it. “That!” He pointed at the screen. “There!”

 

One enlarged the camera feed so that it covered the whole screening wall. Instinctively, Donald took a few steps back and craned his neck to take in the whole picture.

 

“Which camera is that?”

 

“Drake Center main entrance”, One answered. “Wait a second. I’ll rewind it.”

 

Donald glanced at his partner in surprise. “You recorded it?”

 

“Of course”, One said distractedly, “I always record the CCTV feeds. In case we’ll need them later.”

 

Donald blinked. Then he pushed the thought away deliberately. “Well, if you’ve got the hard drive space for that…” He trailed off concentrating back on the scene that played out in front of him as the camera feed repeated the last minutes.

 

A giant bat sailed between the high-rising skyscrapers. Then, the image froze. Donald peered at it. No. On closer inspection it looked as if the bat was swinging from building to building on a very thin wire. 

 

He turned around to face One’s holographic face. “Do you see that?” he asked incredulously.

 

“Yes”, One projected a frown. “Is that a bat?”

 

“No”, Donald said, “it’s not.” He felt the muscle under his left eye twitch. “It’s a lunatic in a Halloween costume. Again!” He threw himself backwards into his chair, making it skid some good feet over the anti-static floor tiles.

 

One put the video sequence into a loop and they watched the giant human-shaped bat swing by a few times. Donald waited for a comment from the AI, but nothing came. Glancing at him from the side, he noticed One staring back at him with a questioning look on his holographic face. He was obviously waiting for a reaction himself.

 

Donald clamped his hands around the armrests of his chair. Energy crawled through his nerves. He felt it running through him, raising the hairs on his skin. His posture straightened out until he was sitting stock-still and upright. He stood up and planted both feet firmly on the ground. Blood was pumping through his head. He felt his heart beat behind his temples.

 

“Okay, that’s it.” He said, turning on his heel.

 

“Don?”

 

“I’m sick and tired of tonight!” Without conscious thought, he reached for his own costume and equipment. His previous tiredness had been chased out of his bones by the pulsing energy.

 

“Partner?”

 

He barely registered One’s attempts to call him. “Enough is enough!”

 

It took him no time whatsoever to slip into the black jumpsuit, the boots and gloves and the red trimmed vest. Clipping on his belt and weapon holsters, he kept on ranting: “Aliens? Fine, why not. I can deal with those.” His fingers danced over the multitude of connection ports embedded in his suit, painstakingly checking each one’s functionality. “Time-travelling androids? Sure. One of my best friends is one.”

 

He spun fast in place and used the momentum to throw his cape over his shoulders where it fastened into place with automated clasps. “Barbarians from parallel dimensions? As long as they keep their heads down, I don’t mind.”

 

A well trained movement placed the colored smart contact lenses in his eyes, the built-in cameras coming online immediately. As a nearly forgotten afterthought, he slapped his mask onto his face.

 

“But grown men who dress up as supersized bats?” He took two fast steps back to his discarded coffee cup and drained the cold remains with one last gulp. “Those I cannot deal with tonight.”

 

With that, he turned to the elevator.

 

“Don…” One started but corrected himself instead, “PK!”

 

The masked avenger stopped to look at him curiously. “What? I’m in a hurry.”

 

One rolled his eyes. “So, I’ve noticed. I’d like to remind you that the car is still undergoing repairs after your crash with the underground line.”

 

“Ah…,” PK fought the urge to rub his neck in embarrassment as he remembered that unfortunate mishap. “Right.” He considered for a second and spun around. “Okay. I’ll take the Shield.” Walking past One’s projector bubble he wiggled his right wrist at it, where the white hemisphere of the X-Transformer had already connected to the port on his glove. At the movement, the transmutable metal folded itself around his hand and forearm like the iron glove of a knight’s armor.

 

“Be careful.” One’s voice echoed in his ear through the communicator lodged there as the roof’s access doors closed behind him.

 

“Keep me posted on where the bat goes.”

 

He walked straight to the edge of the roof, the lights of the city stretching to the horizon all around his feet.

 

“Will do”, One acknowledged.

 

Without another word, PK snapped his wrist around in a pre-programmed movement and the Shield unfolded into flight mode. At the same moment he jumped right off the roof’s edge and plummeted down towards the street below. After only ten feet of free-falling the propulsion engine of the Shield engaged and pulled him up, out of the fall, and into a straight flightpath.

 

 

***

 

 

Duckburgh, Downtown, thirty minutes later

 

Bruce crouched on top of the black van and watched as the other three burglars came back outside. Each carried a gunnysack. Stolen jewelry, he thought. The situation was so stereotypical that it could have been taken right out of a movie. He suppressed a snort.

 

The three black clad burglars threw their loot into the van and then looked around, searching for their driver. They couldn’t know that he had been stuffed unceremoniously underneath the car.

 

“Shit”, one of the burglars said, “where is he?”

 

Another one snorted. “Run off, I bet! Told you that guy would be trouble.”

 

Raising himself out of the crouch to loom dangerously over the three men, Batman growled: “You’d lose that bet.”

 

Immediately, the burglars froze in their tracks. Aside from two pry bars between them, they seemed to be unarmed. The one closest to him raised the bar in his hands defensively. Bruce stared. He could hardly believe it. This was what burglars looked like outside of Gotham? Laughable. And hardly worth the trouble.

 

The burglar furthest away from the van pointed a trembling finger at him. “P-P-P-P-PK… PK…”

 

The other two slowly inched backwards, not once taking their eyes off him. Bruce frowned.

 

Suddenly the third burglar, a broad-shouldered giant of a man, barked; “That’s not him, idiot. This guy’s way too big.”

 

Weirdly, being “too big” did not deter the burglars at all. On the contrary, to Bruce it looked as if they gained confidence from it as all three went from defense to attack.

 

Before they could try anything funny, Bruce vaulted off the roof of the van and took down the closest man with a kick to the chest. An elbow to the face felled the second one. The third guy dropped his pry bar as he backed away hurriedly. Bruce kicked an overflowing garbage can at him and the fleeing man promptly tangled his legs over it and fell to the ground with a panicked yell. The man scrambled back onto his knees and grabbed the can’s lid. He raised it as a make-shift shield and tried to hide behind it. He was, of course, much too big for that to work. It was ridiculous. Bruce barely contained another sigh. The faster he knocked out this idiot, the faster he could go back to checking on the forensic evidence of the bombing.

 

His muscles tightened as he prepared for a roundhouse kick, but he instinctively aborted the movement when something small shot past his face and shattered loudly against a wall. He jerked back in reflex. A clear, confident voice called down from above him: “That’s enough!”

 

Batman’s head snapped around, tracking the trajectory of the object – a discarded can of coke – back to the fire escape platform it had been thrown from.

 

A shadowy figure crouched there and looked down at the situation unfolding in front of the jewelry store. A long cape fell down from black-clad shoulders and swayed softly in the wind. Lights from cars driving by on the nearby street threw the figure into a stroboscopic light. 

 

Black jumpsuit, Batman registered. Amber boots clinging to shins, same colored gloves visible where hands held onto the railing above the figure’s head. White hair whipped wildly in the wind. The cape, ne noticed baffled, was black on the outside but lined in bright red on the inside. A short red vest accentuated the figure’s chest area and a bulky amber colored utility belt clung to his hips, with weapon holsters on both thighs.

 

Behind Bruce the remaining burglar hiccupped in fear. “P…P…PK…”

 

“Hello, Russ”, came the answer from the figure. It was a male voice in a standard Midwestern dialect. Strange, Bruce thought, to hear it spoken here on the west coast.

 

Batman narrowed his eyes at the black clad figure above him. So, these two knew each other? Thinking back to the airport, he now recognized the costume as that of the local vigilante he had seen depicted on various merchandising products in the gift shop. He switched his weight onto his other foot, turning himself away from the burglar and towards the newcomer.

 

“I... I wasn't doing nothing. Swear.” The burglar stuttered.

 

The vigilante sniggered. “Sure.” The tone of his voice said clearly that he didn’t believe a word. “But see”, he continued amiably, “thing is, you and your buddies here got caught in a very bad situation.”

 

The burglar glanced at his unconscious friends and swallowed so hard that Batman could hear it.

 

The man in the obnoxious red lined cape continued: “And I’m sure the police ain’t gonna believe you. So”, he rubbed his nose ponderously with his forefinger, “what to do now? What to do?”

 

 Bruce felt himself bristle at the guy’s casual attitude.

 

“He’s going to jail”, he growled.

 

The vigilante turned his attention to Batman, staring at him. After a few seconds, he said: “You know what, Russ?”

 

Belatedly, Batman noticed the burglar perk up.

 

“I think you should go home.” The black clad vigilante continued. “Now!” he screamed at the cowering burglar who jumped in fear, stumbled to his feet and ran away, littering trash in his wake.

 

Bruce startled, too. Next, he cursed himself silently for getting distracted and lounged to the side in order to grab the fleeing man. At the same moment, he registered movement from the figure above him. He aborted his own step and turned his attention back to the vigilante in time to see the man dropping down from the fire escape platform. It was a good twelve feet to the ground. The local vigilante landed easily and cushioned his fall by crouching deep down on impact. After that he immediately straightened up again, effectively blocking the way and keeping Batman from following the fleeing burglar.

 

Bruce stopped. He stared at the newcomer, silently assessing him and was far from impressed by what he saw.

 

Still, appearances could be deceiving, he reminded himself.

 

The other vigilante was much smaller than him, the top of his head barely reaching up to Batman’s shoulders. His hair stood out stark-white against his black suit. Long enough to touch the tip of his nose, it gave him an unkempt and wild appearance. The black mask on his face covered only the immediate area around his eyes and through it, the man’s eyes shone in a bright grass green. A white hemisphere was attached to his right wrist. It gleamed in the passing lights of cars, and Batman found his gaze inevitably drawn to it. He couldn’t deduce its purpose. The weapon holsters on the other hand left nothing to imagination. Each held a futuristic looking handgun – all rounded edges and grayish shine. The cape pooled lazily around the man’s feet and dragged over the cobblestones as he shifted his weight. It was a tripping hazard waiting to happen, Bruce reflected drily.

 

The man’s muscles were tense underneath the black suit.

 

To force a reaction, Bruce shifted to the left. The smaller man matched his movement and continued to block his path. He didn’t give or take a step but moved with the grace of a trained martial artist. The last time Bruce had seen someone move like this he had been in Nanda Parbat – it was all calculated movement and perfect balance. Immediately, he corrected his assessment of the other man from “meddlesome” to “potentially dangerous”.

 

And suddenly, he became painfully aware that he was in the other’s territory.

 

To cover his momentary insecurity, he growled: “Why did you let him go?”

 

The other one shrugged nonchalantly. “No point in keeping him.”

 

“Why?” Batman repeated.

 

The blonde grinned and burst out laughing. “Why not?”

 

Mentally, Bruce jerked back as if slapped. A cold drop of sweat ran down his back.

 

“What’s the point?” the other continued grinning. “Shut him away? You got these guys for that.” He jerked his head at the other unconscious burglars lying on the ground around them. “And besides”, he added, “isn’t this much more interesting?” He waved his hand back and forth between them.

 

“This?” Bruce frowned.

 

“Us. Here.”

 

Batman glared at him silently, until the other man sighed, ran his left hand roughly through his hair and made it look even wilder.

 

“You know, I’ve had my share of weirdos”, the man said in a much more serious tone, “but a grown guy playing dress-up as a bat? That’s new.” His eyes flicked over Bruce’s body, taking in his costume and armor. “Though, I gotta say, you fill it out nicely.”

 

Bruce froze. With effort, he bit back the first response that came to his mind.

 

The smaller man blinked and jerked back as if giving the physical version of mentally backtracking.

 

“The armor!” he hastily added, gesticulating widely in front of him. “I was talking about the armor.”

 

For a moment, he looked embarrassed but then he rambled on with the new topic.

 

“Actually, that thing is pretty neat. What is that stuff?” He came closer, shuffling forward until he was at a touching distance and lifted his hand as if to poke at the black armor covering Batman’s arm.

 

Bruce took an instinctive step back. The blonde aborted his movement and looked up into his face with round green eyes. He looked incredibly young to Bruce.

 

“A special alloy.”

 

The blonde nodded, his concentration focusing back onto Batman’s armor. “Yeah”, he offered thoughtfully, “a buddy of mine digs stuff like that.”

 

Then, as if noticing that this wasn’t actually the topic he wanted to talk about, he shook himself minutely and his manner turned serious again so fast, Bruce wondered if he could get a backlash from watching it.

 

“So”, the misplaced Midwesterner asked, “what exactly do you think you’re doing here in my city, Mr. Weird?”

 

“Your city?” Bruce understood were the other vigilante was coming from. If this had been Gotham and had their roles been reversed, the meeting might have gone less smooth.

 

The blonde’s smile turned sharp as a knife.

 

When no answer came, Bruce couldn’t help showing his curiosity. “Who are you?”

 

He knew that there were other masked vigilantes around the world. But he had never before met one, nor had he felt the necessity to seek one out for conversation. But remembering the memorabilia and the obvious adoration of the children at the airport, he felt certain that the other man was not a bad guy. Maybe even a proper local hero. There might be worse people to break his habitual privacy for.

 

The blonde shrugged. “Call me PK.”

 

Yes, Bruce thought, of course. What else would it be? That’s what the burglars were stuttering all the time. He felt his eyebrows rise behind his mask.

 

“PK?”

 

The blonde gave a delicate shrug. “Everyone does these days”, he waved his hand as if to show that it meant nothing.

 

Bruce tried to seize up the small figure in front of him: the way he held himself, the distinct lack of being intimidated even though he was more than a head shorter than Batman and easily only half his weight. It all showed the unshakeable self-confidence of someone who was perfectly assured of his place on the food chain.

 

“They call me Batman.”

 

“Wow”, PK quipped, “I wonder why.” Bruce could detect no scathe in his voice, only an amused smile on his eerily pale face.

 

“So”, the blonde continued before Bruce had time to think of a reply, “-you planning on staying, Mr. Batman?” 

 

“No.” Bruce growled.

 

“Good.” PK’s voice took on a dry tone. He turned his back on Bruce as if wanting to walk away but then added over his shoulder: “Cause I don’t need the kind of trouble that follows you.”

 

Bruce startled. “Trouble?”

 

The blonde shrugged. “People like you – they always bring trouble.” He continued his walk away from the jewelry store. “No offense.” He gave a lazy wave over his shoulder and disappeared around a dark corner into a side street.

 

Bruce stood still, pondering if he should follow or not, as the blonde’s head poked back around the corner.

 

“Nearly forgot”, he added brightly, “you might want to get out of here, too. I called the police ten minutes ago.”

 

There were police sirens audible in the distance.

 

The blonde head was pulled back behind the corner again. As Bruce closed the distance to it with a few quick steps he felt his lips twitch at the smaller man’s antics. He rounded the corner, expecting to see the other man retreat, but found just an empty street. He let his gaze travel over the alley and the fire escape ladders on the buildings. But the blonde was nowhere to be seen.

 

Feeling faintly impressed by the disappearing act, Batman shot a grappling hook at a roof and pulled himself up as the first police cruiser screeched to a stop in front of the black van and the unconscious burglars.

 

 

 

***

 

 

Above Duckburg, Monday August 13^th, 02:25 a.m.

 

 

“Batman? Not overly creative is he?”

 

High above the city, One’s voice cut into PK’s ear with a derisive tone.

 

“To be fair”, the masked Avenger answered, staring down at the flashing lights of police cars to where he could make out a shadow flitting back and forth between the skyscrapers, “with a gig like that he probably couldn’t call himself the Red Admiral. And we’ve had worse.”

 

He was sitting Indian style on the Shield that was floating freely in the air. A stiff night breeze ruffled his hair.

 

“Keep an eye on him”, he added absently.

 

“Yes”, One scoffed, “because that’s all I’m good for these days. Keeping eyes on everyone who crosses your path.”

 

PK rolled his eyes at his partner’s tone.

 

“Stop that”, One chastised, “you know what I mean.”

 

PK drew his gaze away from the cityscape to focus on the tiny green sphere embedded in the Shield right at the place where his ankles crossed. One’s miniaturized green face stared back up at him from it. It was, PK had been told, exactly the same green as his contact lenses.

 

“And let me check your communicator once you’re back”, the AI continued. “There’s too much static on the line.”

 

Absently, PK reached up to his right ear and rubbed at the embedded device. “I think it’s just the wind up here.” One would check it anyway, he knew. “How far are you with the communication implant you were working on?”

 

“Not ready for field application. Yet.”

 

PK accepted that with a nod. Silence settled over them, as he pondered the newest arrival in their city.

 

“I have this idea –“, he finally said, trailing off in mid-thought.

 

“A frightening thought.”

 

PK blinked himself back to reality. “Stuff it. If I am right, you won’t have much trouble keeping the Bat in your sights.”

 

“He might be less conspicuous than you are”, One interjected drily.

 

Clasping his hands at his chest as if he was shot, PK grinned. “Ow. That hurts, One.” He pushed himself to his feet, standing straight up on the Shield, legs a shoulder-width apart. “Research Batman online”, he said, “o’course, what you’ll find is that he comes from Gotham City.”

 

“Gotham City?” One repeated pensively.

 

PK stretched his arms up over his head until his spine cracked satisfyingly.

 

“Yeah”, he grinned, “and isn’t that a coincidence?”

 

[to be continued]

 

Chapter Text

 

 

Chapter 5: What Could I Do More

 

 

The Plaza Hotel, Duckburg Downtown, Monday 07:40 a.m.

 

Bruce had done the first perfunctory search before taking his morning shower. It returned a list of  online retailers selling merchandise and fan sites dedicated to the self-styled “Masked Avenger of Duckburg”.

 Now, already dressed in suit pants and starched dress shirt, Bruce decided to use the remaining hour before he had to depart for the conference opening to conduct a more in depth search on the other vigilante.

5.214.000 search results. P.K., it turned out, was surprisingly difficult to research online. Bruce finished the knot in his tie and took a careful sip from his steaming cup of coffee before he sat down in the chair of his hotel suite’s writing desk. The local vigilante seemed to be a social media phenomenon but there were unexpectedly few solid sources of information.

There were eye witness reports of encounters and sightings. There were rocky videos taken with handheld cameras and mobile phones. There were even fan-made artworks and fanfictions. Bruce’ mind boggled at the latter and for a moment he felt thankful that Batman had not had such a wide-spread influence on popular culture in Gotham, as “PK” had obviously had in Duckburg. The man was an internet meme, for God’s sake.

While the masses of tweets and facebook posts were interesting to read, they quickly became repetitive. So, Bruce turned his attention to the online archives of local newspapers.

He took another sip of his rapidly cooling coffee.

 

“The Great McDuck Robbery: Burglar steals 1 million $”

“Gentleman thief returned?!”

 

Browsing through the old articles Bruce quickly realized that the hero of Duckburg had certainly not started his career off as one. “A thief”, he muttered to himself, scrolling through the earliest mentions he could find in the online archives. And none other than Scrooge McDuck himself seemed to have been the main victim of choice for the masked Avenger – as he was still called back then.

Bruce eyes widened as he read over a more recent article. According to it, there were still a considerable number of outstanding warrants for the “masked menace's” arrest. At one point the millionaire's club – which seemed to be a thing in this city – had offered a very high reward for clues that led to PK's arrest.

 

“Ruins of Villa Rosa under Avenger protection!”

“Avenger assists in arrest of Beagle boys”

 

And then, a few months after his first appearance, the masked avenger's modus operandi had changed. By then, the newspaper articles painted the rough picture of a masked phantom thief developing into an agent provocateur. He still broke the laws regularly, but more often than not his action would now lead to the arrest of other, generally more dangerous, criminals. Reading the articles in a chronological order, Bruce got the impression of a criminal who acquired a taste of taking down other criminals. It was the stuff of Hollywood movies, he reflected.

This seemed to have gone on for quite a while, the masked Avenger receiving more and more public attention and bringing in thieves, robbers, con artists. Some of these, Bruce acknowledged, might have counted as supervillains.

 

“Avenger crashes Anxieties Party”

 

But in the past year things had changed. Again. The more recent articles illustrated that the vigilante's good report with the law enforcement agencies had taken a serious turn for the worse. And so had his appearance on the news. Judging by newer reports, there had been a great change in the Avenger’s behavior.

“His costume changed”, Bruce mumbled to himself, tracing the outline of a blurred image on his laptop’s screen. On the older pictures and videos, the vigilante’s costume matched the one that Bruce had seen on the merchandise sold all throughout the city. But on the newer pictures his costume seemed more – modern. Streamlined. Like the one he had worn last night. The weapons he carried were different, too. And on the newer pictures he often carried a large white shield on his right arm. A shield. Bruce narrowed his eyes at the picture which stubbornly refused to clear up.

He sighed and clicked on a link to the online page of local Channel 00 that displayed a news report from two months ago. In the video a journalist named Angus Fangus leaned forward towards the camera. Behind him, a picture showed the Avenger standing in the midst of hopelessly demolished police cruisers. Policemen cowered behind the lumps of smoking metal, pointing their guns at him.

“Last night,” the anchorman reported, “the masked menace that some might still call a hero showed his true colors again, as he and an accomplice wracked half a dozen police cars, as well as an armored special unit's car, in a stunning example of interminable vandalism. Five police officers were injured, damage with an estimated worth of over half a million dollars dealt out, before PK and his accomplice fled the scene. When will this city finally understand that it needs to take decisive actions against this self-styled hero, before his blasé attitude about the law costs the public more than they are willing to pay?“

There it was again. Bruce stared at the video while he pondered on this other recent development. At some point during the last months people had started calling him “P.K.” instead of “the Avenger”. And again, there was no apparent reason for it. Something must have changed. The thought repeated in his mind. Something that made the other vigilante act out like this; something that made him change his costume; something that made people re-name him. For a moment Bruce entertained the thought that it might simply be a different person wearing the costume, but then he discarded the idea. Comparing the old pictures with his own memories of last night, the two men were so similar in appearance that it had to be the same person, or a twin.

Putting on his shoes, Bruce realized that he wanted to believe that the other vigilante had changed for the better over the years. There was a certain appeal in seeing a thief turning his back on his former ways. And he found himself hoping that there was a good reason for the Avengers recently changed behavior. While the man had always been described as rash, pretentious and indifferent about the law, he had never acted outright cruel, which was a refreshing change to the masked people Bruce had previously tangled with. On the contrary, the masked Avenger seemed to be very aware of the consequences of his actions and had shown a clear moral compass for a long time as well as a good social integration. In fact – Bruce stood up and stretched his arms – he still did. The fan sites still reported him appearing at charity events and even playing regular games of basketball with kids in the underprivileged parts of town.

Bruce pulled his suit jacket down from the coat hanger. And while he put it on, he clicked on the next video in Channel 00’s line-up, to listen to it. But once he registered what the video was about, he gave it his full attention and was surprised to see a good looking woman interviewing the masked vigilante himself.

“What do you say to the accusations some people raise against you regarding endangering innocent bystanders?” the journalist asked while pulling a strand of long dark blond hair behind her ear.

“Sometimes collateral damage occurs,” the vigilante answered tiredly, “no one wants that. It's not nice. And it's definitely not right. But sometimes no matter how much you try, no matter how much you fight against it, people do get hurt.”

“Some might say that, as a hero, it's your responsibility to make sure no one is hurt.”

“I'm not a hero,” came the answer, “I'm an avenger.”

Reaching out, Bruce hit the Stop-button and froze the video onscreen. It showed a close up of the vigilante’s grim face.

“So,” Bruce wondered aloud, “what are you avenging?”

 

***

 

Scrooge McDuck's office, The Money Bin, Duckburg Downtown, Monday 08:30 a.m.

 

Donald stood in the middle of his uncle’s office, right in front of the old man’s desk.  Loose change spilled out of the money bags stacked against the office walls and jingled around his feet.

He watched as Scrooge took his favorite red frock coat from the coat rack near the door.

“Let's go then, slowcoach.” Scrooge carefully navigated his bandaged left arm into the coats sleeve. He also sported a dark bruise on his neck that made Donald wince in sympathy. He was uncertain if it was a result of falling debris, or if the old man had obtained it from being pushed to the ground so ungently. Either way, Donald couldn’t help feeling guilty about it.

He reached up and scratched at the band aid sticking to his own right cheek, right underneath his eye. It itched like hell and he didn’t even need it. It was solely for camouflage. He had been caught in the explosion after all, so people expected him to be injured. But since his scratches had already been healed by Ducklair Tower’s extensive medical unit, he had to walk around with a band aid that served no purpose. And to make matters worse, the glue itched badly on his skin. Donald couldn’t wait to take it off in a few days.

“Are you sure, you're alright?” He nodded to Mrs Featherby as he helped his uncle into his coat. She nodded back once before concentrating back on her typewriter. “It’s going to be a long day.”

Scrooge snorted and twirled his cane. “Ah've been through worse. Reminds me of how...”

“Yeah, yeah”, Donald interrupted him hastily, not wanting to hear another story of Scrooge’s intrepid youth. “But still. You aren’t getting younger.”

“Bah. Ah'm no old crock either.”

As they walked through the Money Bin’s hallways, Donald searched his head for an argument that might make his uncle reconsider attending the conference. Still not knowing if the old man had been the intended target of the bomb or not, Donald would definitely prefer keeping him save in the Bin.

“You don't actually have to be at the conference personally”, he tried again, “you've got people for that. And it's not even as if you're really interested in the topic.”

“Shows what ya know. There's much money to be made in clean energy. Just waitin’ to be picked, Soon as the technology is good to go.”

“Yes, okay. But –“

They stepped outside through the building’s heavy iron front doors. Scrooge turned around and interrupted him. “Rockerduck'll be there.”

And that settled the argument. Donald saw the stubborn look on his uncle’s face and knew the old man wouldn’t be swayed. He sighed, pushed a hand nervously through his hair and scratched his scalp underneath the blue sailor hat.

“Alright. Fine. I just thought –“

„Well don't.” Scrooge waved his objection off. Then, he leaned forward, both hands on his cane, and his eyes narrowed curiously. “Who'd you talk to?”

Donald blinked. “What?”

“Last evenin’”, Scrooge explained, “ye went tae talk tae someone on yer phone.”

Donald frowned. “I told you. The boys. What's got you so curious 'bout that?”

Scrooge shrugged, but his frown deepened. “Nothing much. It's just, see, Ah spoke tae Huey just like two hours before that. An' he told mae that they'd be on a trip tae the jungle for two days. Without reception. An' that Ah was tae tell ye, not tae worry. And that they'd call when they got back.”

Donald twitched under Scrooge’s searching gaze. A cold sweat of sudden panic broke out on his back. He didn’t like being caught out lying. Especially not by Scrooge. He knew from experience that once you had caught that man’s attention, it was difficult to distract him.

Donald opened his mouth, but no excuse came out.

“So?” Scrooge prodded. “ Ah'm curious. Who did ye talk tae?”

Not knowing what else to say, Donald blurted out: “That doesn't concern you.”

“Dunt it?“ Scrooge sighed and leaned back, giving Donald space to breathe. Then, he continued in a quieter tone of voice: „See, last night, the police asked mae if Ah'd noticed something strange happening before the bombing.”

Donald perked up: “Did you tell them about –“

“Nae.” Scrooge paused before continuing: “Even though, ye'd run off already.”

Donald felt a hollow feeling settling in his stomach. Great, Uncle Scrooge had succeeded in giving him a guilty consciousness – again. He sighed, dropped his head and peeked up at Scrooge through his bangs.

He had no doubt that the old man would cover for him with the police. But he also understood that when Scrooge was curious he needed a good explanation. Donald silently cursed himself for getting carried away. It was the whole situation last evening, he decided, that was at fault. He had enough trouble remembering to act like Donald in his normal day-to-day life. Explosions happening during dinner tended to jerk him out of the routine. And he couldn’t afford someone to suspect that he might be more than just Donald. Especially not someone who knew him so well as Scrooge did.

But what to tell the old man?

Of course, he could always say that Daisy had called him, and hope that the resulting awkwardness might be enough to dissuade Scrooge from asking more questions. But unfortunately, Scrooge himself was still on very good speaking terms with Daisy and the risk that this second lie might be discovered was too big.

Uncle Ludwig, then? Maybe to ask about the conference he couldn’t attend? But Ludwig might tattle. He was too scatterbrained to uphold a cover for Donald. Besides, this would entail telling yet another lie to Ludwig; a though that didn’t sit well with Donald.

The boys were out of the question for obvious reasons. So was One.

Gyro was going to be at the conference Scrooge was attending. Too risky to use him as cover.

He was rapidly running out of options.

Fenton? No, he would definitely tattle to Scrooge if he thought that Donald was up to something.

What he needed, Donald thought, was someone who would willingly back him up without asking questions about it. That left only one person.

“Lyla.”

“Lyla? Who's Lyla?”

“Lyla Lay?” Donald prompted. “You remember her, right? She works at Channel 00 News?”

“Ah, yes. Her.” Scrooge sounded far from impressed.

Encouraged, Donald lifted his head to get a better look at his uncle. He felt a slight blush spreading on his neck. He was such a good liar most of the time, so why did he always have so much trouble lying to Scrooge?

The old man looked as if he wanted to say something else, but then he hesitated and left the topic alone. Donald caught the shrewd look that lingered on his uncle’s face as the old man got into the fond of the waiting car.

He gave a short wave as goodbye to his uncle, before Albert closed the car door. Then, Donald watched the car roll down Killmotor Hill and disappear into the busy streets of the city.

As he stepped down from the bottommost step of the Money-Bin, he pulled out his phone and punched in fast dial three.

Lyla answered after a few rings. “Hey. What's up?”

“I had to use you as a cover up with Uncle Scrooge just now. So, if anyone asks, you've called me last evening about something. I don't care what it was, okay?”

Lyla hummed on the other side of the line. “I guess I can manage that.”

“Thanks.” He hesitated, then added: “Listen, I need to talk to you about something else. I'm going to come to work, now. Best not to do that on the phone.”

“Alright. I hope you've got good karma today.”

Fearing for the worst, Donald asked: “Why?” He started walking down the hill towards the next bus stop.

“Angus got a call from customs again.”

Donald winced. “Oh, boy.”

 

***

 

The Hilton Hotel, “North American Conference on Clean Energy“, Monday 11:34 a.m.

 

Bruce left the auditorium, stretching his shoulders and ruthlessly suppressing a yawn. This had been – boring wasn't the right word. The topic was certainly interesting, but he was of the strong opinion that other speakers could have made the opening session a lot more entertaining.

He stopped at the entrance to the large exhibition hall, wondering if he should take a look around now, or if he should listen in on one of the lectures first that were scheduled throughout the day. He tended to visit the exhibition first, out of curiosity and because Lucius Fox had asked him to “Network, boss. Please.” But before he could come to a final decision, someone caught his attention by clearing their throat audibly behind him. He turned around to find Scrooge McDuck standing there. At the old billionaires side stood a tall, lanky man of indefinable age. He sported a mob of reddish brown hair and wore washed out blue jeans, brown shoes that had seen much use, a cheap white shirt and a sweater vest above it. In short, he looked like the quintessential nerd.

“Mr. Wayne”, Mr McDuck went to introduce the younger man, “I'd like you to meet Gyro Gearloose.”

Bruce blinked. Then, he took another good look, appraising the man again. He offered his hand in greeting. “It's a pleasure.”

The redhead gave a polite handshake if kind of jittery.

“The pleasure's all mine.” He threw an uncertain look down at Mr McDuck. “I – I'm sorry, but...“ he trailed off.

“We talked aboot ye last night”, McDuck took up the conversation. “Mr. Wayne here's from Gotham City. He's much interested in yer work, aren't ye?” Here he turned to Bruce, who nodded and smiled politely at Gearloose.

“Yes, I am”, he assured him. “I've looked at some of your inventions in preparation for the conference, and I was very much looking forward to meet you.” He felt relieved for all the training in lying he’d had over the last years. Truth was, he hadn’t looked at the guest speakers list further than the name “Ducklair”. He had run a short internet search on Gyro Gearloose this morning, if only because Mr. McDuck had mentioned the man at dinner. But he had also looked up Ludwig van Drake and had been far more impressed by the “last universal genius” than with what he had found about the younger inventor.

“You did?” Gearloose looked surprised, and Bruce felt a pang of guilt as the redhead smiled at him. “I hope you find the conference entertaining then. The whole topic is terribly interesting, isn't it?”

Bruce nodded. He noticed the fond look Mr McDuck gave Gearloose and wondered about the history between these two.

“I think it has great potential. A safe and clean method for energy production would be invaluable for humanity.” he said instead of asking.

Gearloose head bobbed up and down in energetic agreement. He seemed to be a very idealistic young man, Bruce thought. It had probably never occurred to him that his inventions might be used for nefarious purposes.

“It would, yes.“ Gearloose gestured wildly with his hands. “There are uncountable benefits for the people but also for the environment. Stopping global warming, no air or water pollution, and no strain on the water resources anymore. Which means more drinking water and better living conditions.”

“An inexhaustible energy supply”, Bruce prompted, “with thousands of new job opportunities.”

Gearloose nodded. “Yes, yes.”

Bruce scrutinized him. Did he really not see it?

“Stable energy prizes, reliable energy supply –“ Gearloose continued.

“You see all that in cold fusion?” Bruce interrupted.

“Well, yes.”

Bruce caught Mr McDuck’s eye, certain that they were both thinking the same thing. He suddenly understood the fond look on the old man’s face.

“It could be very destructive if used as a weapon.” he pointed out.

Gearloose looked properly horrified. “Yes, but...“ he frowned. „That's much too dangerous. And uncontrollable. A bomb like that...” he shook his head. “No one would build something like that. The energy involved would easily be enough to destroy the whole city. And the surrounding counties.”

Bruce exchanged a knowing look with Mr McDuck again.

The old man clapped Gearloose on the shoulder. “Yer right, lad. Much tae dangerous. Let's make sure no one does build one, alright?”

For a moment Gearloose seemed lost but then, understanding settled on his face. He nodded pensively. “Right.” Then, he opened his mouth again but whatever else he wanted to say was interrupted by a dry: “Well, well,  well.”

They turned around as one. Bruce gaze fell on a middle-aged man in a bespoke black suit. His bright red tie featured a diamond tipped tie pin.

“Old Scrooge McDuck fishing in the pond of science.”

Mr McDuck’s face morphed into a sneer. “Rockerduck. Ah should’ve known.”

Bruce would’ve recognized the other man from his pictures even if his name hadn’t been voiced aloud. The old fashioned bowler hat was certainly a give-away, as was his surprisingly long black hair, neatly brushed back from his face, the ends curling around his neck.

John Rockerduck was a very notable person.

“Mr. Bruce Wayne, yes?” he held out his hand for Bruce to shake. “Head of Wayne Enterprises. We haven't met before, but let me tell you, it's an honor.”

Bruce shook his hand. “It's a pleasure, Mr. Rockerduck. I've heard quite a lot about you.”

The handshake was sweaty but not unpleasant. It was the soft hand of a man not used to doing manual work. Remembering Donald’s description of Rockerduck, Bruce spontaneously decided to give the man a chance.

“I hope it wasn't too bad.” The newcomer commented, a sleazy smile on his face.

He obviously ruffled Mr McDuck’s feathers as the old man glared at him through narrowed eyes and leaned forward on his cane, suddenly appearing surprisingly threatening.

“Just what are ye implying, ye lying bastard?” McDuck sneered.

“Your non-existent impartiality, old man.” Rockerduck snapped back.

Bruce stared in awe as the pair continued to exchange steadily increasing insults. His gaze flickered to Gearloose, who stood next to Mr McDuck looking resigned. The inventor shrugged his shoulders helplessly.

“I’m sorry, this is just what they do.”

Bruce couldn’t believe it. Here were two of the richest men in the world. And they looked as if they were about to get into a full-fledged brawl in the middle of a five star hotel.

He decided to intervene before the situation got out of hand: „You're here to do business, too, Mr. Rockerduck?”

The millionaire in question turned his attention smoothly back to Bruce. “Of course. We all are. Aren't we?” And he glared back at Mr McDuck from the corner of his eye.

McDuck frowned at back, but Rockerduck ignored him and straightened his hair that got messed up during their argument.

“Let's cut to the chase here”, he went on, “I don't know what the old tightwad has talked to you about, but I for one would definitely like to talk to you about possible future business endeavors.”

Mr McDuck growled beside him and shoved an elbow into Rockerduck’s side. The younger man puffed air out painfully but kept his smile with professional aplomb.

Bruce eyes widened at the obvious attack. But he appreciated Rockerduck's honesty. So, he nodded in agreement.

“Yes, I figured that. Maybe, we can sit down later.”

“Appreciate that. I hear there's a reception for VIP guests planned this evening.”

“Sounds good to me.” Since he would have to attend it anyway, Bruce didn’t mind meeting the man there.

McDuck however seems outraged. “This ain't not aboot some date, lad.” His accent was audibly thickening.

Rockerduck rolled his eyes and straightened his shoulders like a man readying himself for a fight.

“I can make my dates, as I want. It's not my fault, you've grown slow in your old age.”

“Slow!? Ah'll show ye slow, ye wee wanker.” The old man was visibly shaking in anger, but he managed to keep himself from physically attacking his business rival.

Gearloose lifted his hands peacefully, obviously trying to calm him down. “Gentlemen, please. This isn't the place to get into a fight.”

The two billionaires glared at each other. Surprisingly for Bruce, it was Scrooge McDuck who relented first. “The lad’s right.” He relaxed minutely.

Bruce breathed in relief, maybe they would be able to dissolve the situation without making a public scene. Then, Scrooge McDuck continued with a delighted grin: “Let's take this outside.”

Rockerduck returned a grin so sharp, he might have been showing fangs. “My pleasure.”

With that the two turned away to walk out side by side, amiably exchanging insults all the way. Bruce could still hear them even after they had disappeared from his sight.

He looked Gyro Gearloose in surprise. “They aren't actually going beat each other up, are they?”

The inventor shrugged. “They probably are“, he admitted. Then, he added: “Don't worry. They do it all the time. And more often than not, Mr. McDuck wins. Even though he's the older one.”

Bruce for once felt lost for words. He looked into the direction the two billionaires had disappeared in. “Someone should stop them.”

“Someone will. Probably.”

“Probably?”

“Most people have learned to stay out of it”, the inventor tried to explain, “those two... their fights are loud, but not very nasty. It's very seldom that one gets hurt. They usually just scuffle a bit.”

Bruce knew he was staring. “Okay. I'll have to take your word for that.” He blinked. “Have you known Mr McDuck for long?”

“Quite long. My father used to work for him, back when he was still young himself.”

Bruce nodded, prompting the man to tell him more. “You do a lot of work for him?”

“Not that much these days”, the inventor frowned. “I do some licensed work for the military now. It doesn't leave me much free time for other things.”

“The military?” Bruce was surprised. Nothing he had noticed about the inventor pointed to a person, who would willingly let his talents be used to building weapons. And with his answer, Gyro Gearloose proved this assessment to be right:

“Body protection armor, recon drones, things like that. I'm sorry”, the red-head ducked his head apologetically, “I don't think I'm allowed to be more precise.”

Bruce waved it off smiling. “That's fine.” Then, he added, as if it had just occurred to him: “Say, since you know your way around these things –“

“Yes?“

“I read up on Duckburg before coming here and... well there were some mentions of a masked vigilante who worked in the city.”

As he had expected, Gearloose nodded readily. “You mean PK.”

Bruce smiled. “Yes, him.”

“What about him?”

“I wondered if you could tell me something about him. We had our own vigilante in Gotham and - I must confess, I'm curious.”

“Ask away”, Geraloose appeared happy enough with the topic of conversation, that Bruce felt safe to stick with it. “But you might be better off asking some of the reporters here.”

“That's fine”, Bruce kept going. “actually, I was especially interested in the weapons he's using. I saw some pictures in newspapers where he was wearing what looked like a … very futuristic gun. And in some others he seems to be handling a large white shield, made of some kind of metal...” He trailed off invitingly.

The inventor smiled brightly. “Yes! Those are amazing, aren't they?  He has been seen using various guns. Mostly energy weapons based on a truly exotic technology base.”

“What do you mean?”

“One, for example”, Gearloose rambled on, “freezes the target in its movement. It slows down everything about the target. Butfrom what I’ve seen it's not that simple. See, it's not a simple stun-gun. I think...” his eyes took on a far-away look, “well, I think that it might actually be slowing down time around the target.”

Bruce blinked. What an absurd idea. “That... sounds farfetched. How would that even work?”

“I have no idea.” The inventor admitted. “But I would love to look at it. And the shield is a marvel of technology, too. PK has been seen with a variety of different shields. Some square, some round, with different flying attributes. But I believe that they all might be the same basic shield, created from a techno-organic material with shapeshifting attributes.”

Impressed and just a bit worried, Bruce asked: “Could you build something like that?”

To his credit, the inventor thought about the question for a moment before answering. “I think so. But it would take me years to develop the materials necessary for it.”

“So, where did PK get those things from?” Bruce frowned.

“I have no idea. But I would love to ask him some day.”

“Could he have created those things himself?”

It was a farfetched idea, but it might be possible. Bruce himself was no slacker in the science department, so he had to take into account the possibility that the other vigilante might be, too.

But Gyro Gearloose shook his head. “I don't think so. Honestly. PK is clever, but he doesn't strike me as a scientist, much less as a technological prodigy of the caliber needed for something like this. No, I'm certain that he didn't build them himself.” He pondered the thought for a while. “This is curious isn't it?”

Bruce nodded and watched him carefully. There was an impressive intellect at work in that red-haired head. And suddenly he wasn’t certain if that was a good thing. Bruce feared that PK might take offense, if the inventor got to curious. He knew that he himself would have. So, he decided to take the conversation away from the scientific aspect of it.

“Did you ever meet PK yourself?”

“Oh, yes. I did. Quite a few times, actually.”

“He started off as a thief, didn't he?”

The inventor nodded. “Yes, yes, he did. A very successful one, too.” He looked a bit disturbed. “Luckily, that phase passed after a while.”

“From what I've read, he still breaks the law regularly.” Bruce frowned.

“It's not as if anyone can stop him.” Gearloose sighed and shrugged helplessly. “He isn't a bad guy. He just... doesn't seem to care. He isn't a criminal. Not really. If he was, he'd go around stealing other things. Things that are considered impossible to steal. And he would probably frighten people a lot more than he does.”

“And no one's ever tried to arrest him?”

Gyro Gearloose smiled sadly. “Oh they did. But the police probably stopped trying, because at some point everyone recognized they stood no chance.”

“Damn straight!” A rough voice in a broad Kiwi accent interrupted them.

Surprised, Bruce turned to see the journalist he had watched on the internet this morning coming to join them. He easily remembered the man’s name: Angus Fangus. Hard to forget.

“Calls himself an avenger and protector”, the journalist ranted on, “but in reality he's a thief and a criminal who takes delight in destroying public property and pissing on the laws wherever he sees them.”

Taken aback by the brusk choice of words, Bruce was too late to stop Gearloose from mumbling an excuse and shuffling away. It was obvious that he didn’t want to be around the journalist.

Briefly, Bruce entertained the thought to call him back, but the New Zealander had latched onto his arm and was forcefully dragging his attention back.

“You want to know, how I first met him?” the man sneered.

Bruce resigned himself to listen. It never hurt to get more information after all, never mind the source, and it quickly became obvious that the journalist was talking about his favorite topic.

“It was a party of producer Sean Leduck. PK crashed the thing with his accomplices, shot up the whole floor. And I mean ‘shot’! The whole floor! They counted more than a million dollars in damages. And that's not even counting the people who got injured.” He breathed deeply and continued: “ And it goes on like that. Every. Single. Night. The guy is a public menace. But obviously the police is completely useless when it comes to stopping him.”

“Accomplices?” bruce concentrated on the only fact that truly interested him. “So, he doesn't work alone?”

“Nah”, Fangus shook his head. “Got a whole bunch of stooges to help him wreak havoc. And one weirder than the next, I tell you.”

 

***

 

Ducklair Tower, Offices of Channel 00, at the same time

 

Donald carried a box of files through the newsroom of Channel 00. He dumped it onto Angus table with a loud crash. Not seeing the man himself, he turned to the red-headed journalist leaning on the neighboring desk.

“Max”, he asked, “you know where Angus is? He requested these files from the archive.”

“Should be at that hippie thing they've got going at the Hilton.” Max Morrighan shrugged.

“You mean the conference on clean energy?”

“He's supposed to be reporter on site.” Morrighan continued, clearly annoyed by the topic. “You know, doing interviews for that special evening broadcast.”

Donald vaguely remembered having heard about it. He just didn't know that Angus would be the anchorman. It's just as well, he thought, at least this way Angus wasn’t in the office to bully him around. One of these days, Donald feared that he’d loose his self-control and then things would get awkward.

“Okay”, he said pointing to the box. “I'll just leave them here then.”

Morrighan nodded absentmindedly, obviously already having forgotten about the whole thing.

Donald mumbled “Right. Whatever”, to himself and decided to take an early lunch break, hoping to meet Lyla on the way. He still hadn’t managed to exchange more than a perfunctory greeting with her.

He made his way down thirty levels to the cafeteria that served most of the employees of the firms and enterprises located in the upper levels of the tower. When he entered, the smell of fries wafted into his face. His stomach rumbled.

Pushing his way past a group of employees, he noticed Lyla sitting at a window table overlooking downtown Duckburg. The sunlight caught in her hair. She had a salad in front of her that she nibbled on. He turned to join her, but then noticed that she was already deep in conversation with someone else. Inching closer, he recognized Camera 9 sitting on the opposite side of her table. Donald sighed and shook his head. He liked the guy, but how Lyla could so easily make friends with him, Donald would never understand. However, the former star photographer had proven to be a reliable and useful back-up during the recent tower crisis when Angus entered the secret sublevels by accident. So, Donald couldn’t begrudge her the friendship. He thought about going over to interrupt them, when he heard a voice calling out to him.

Ziggy, fellow errand boy at Channel 00, mid-twenties, Caribbean complexion and shoulder length dreadlocks held back by a colorful bandana, waved at him from his place in the queue at the serving counter. He wore baggy jeans again, combined with a colorful but slightly faded t-shirt. Donald looked back at Lyla once, but then decided that there’d be time to speak to her later. His stomach still rumbling, he cut the line to join Ziggy in the queue, eliciting grumbled murmurs from the other people waiting. Donald didn’t care. Neither did Ziggy. They bumped fists.

“Hey, man. How you doin'”

Donald pondered this for a second. “Pretty good actually. What with Angus out on duty today.”

Ziggy grinned. Then, he touched his own face with his fingers. “Ran into a door or somethin'?”

Donald mirrored his movement and touched the band aid on his cheek. It was still itching. “No. You heard about that bombing at Aurelio's last night?”

Ziggy nodded. The queue moved a few steps forward.

“I was there with my uncle.”

“You're kiddin'!” Ziggy exclaimed.

Donald shook his head. “Honest truth.”

“Wow, man. You're cool though? And you're uncle?”

“All fine.”

“Got lucky then”, Ziggy said pensively, “I heard there where a lot injured. Even some dead, right?”

Donald nodded trying to get a look at what was on offer for lunch. “Yeah. Heard that, too.”

When their turn to choose came, Donald followed his first choice and took the fries with a coke on the side. After some serious contemplation Ziggy opted for roast potatoes with fish. Without having to speak about it, they both immediately headed for a small table in the western corner near the potted palm trees. They sat down, both with their backs to the wall. The place offered a wonderful view over the cafeteria and all the necessary exits. It was Donald’s favorite table.

“Pretty good of you to come to work after last night, though.” Ziggy said once they were seated.  “Didn't think about calling in sick?”

Donald shrugged.

“I might have.” Ziggy added.

“Can't keep calling in sick like that. Need the job.”

Donald’s gaze travelled back over to Lyla. She was still picking at her salad, lifting a tomato out to put it in her mouth.

“I hear you, man.” Ziggy said. “You're lucky Angus was called out unexpectedly to go to that conference in Olive's place. He was in a right foul mood this morning.”

Donald watched Lyla smile at something Camera 9 said. The light falling through the window made her eyes sparkle like jewels.

“Yeah. I heard.”

Ziggy’s face leaned into his line of sight. The other man winked. “Not my place to give advice like that”, he said, “but I think you should talk to her.”

Donald startled. “What?”

“Lyla.”

“What about her?”

“Come on. A blind man could see you fancy her.” Ziggy rolled his eyes.

“I do not.” Donald answered immediately.

“Yes, you do.”

“We're just friends.”

“Keep telling yourself that.”

“We are! Okay? Keep it down.”

Clearly amused, Ziggy said: “I watched you around her. You totally go all nice around her. And all gentlemanly.”

“So do a lot of people.”

“A lot of people like Lyla.” Ziggy shrugged. “She a very likeable woman.”

Donald glared at him.

Ziggy’s grin broadened. “There you go, see? Now, you're all 'grrrr'” He mimed fangs with his fingers.

Donald rolled his eyes at the display. “She likes him.” He nodded towards Lyla and Camera 9.

“Your life is a soap opera.” Ziggy snorted and went back to eating.

Donald sighed and dropped his head. In his pocket, his phone vibrated. Thankful for the excuse to not have to answer right then, he checked the display. New mail. He tapped the app for a quick check and felt his pulse start racing as the written words registered in his mind. He swallowed past a lump in his throat and felt a headache coming on. Abruptly, he stood up.

“Sorry, Ziggy. Gotta run.”

Ziggy looked up, his mouth full of potatoes. “ Why?” He held a hand to his mouth to keep potatoes from falling out and swallowed.

“Something came up.” Donald pointed at his nearly untouched dish. “You mind?”

Ziggy shook his head. “No, man.” He looked suspicious but Donald couldn’t be bothered to care. He turned around to leave.

“Is it about the bombing?” Ziggy called after him.

“Yeah”, Donald called back over his shoulder. “Kind of…”

He walked straight toward the next elevator, feeling Ziggy's curious gaze on his back all the way. He pushed the call button and waited three seconds. As the elevator doors opened for him, he immediately stepped in and was vaguely aware of other people trying to follow, but the doors were already closing.

Alone in the elevator, Donald raised his head. “We have a problem.”

He turned around to face the doors as the elevator startes moving up without him having to push a button.

“And we hadn't one already?” One’s voice commented from the speakers.

“Not like this. This is a real mess.”

“Does it have to do with the mail you just received?”

“Did you read it?”

“Should I have? You keep telling me that it's impolite.”

Donald rolled his eyes at his partner’s tone of voice. “As if that's ever stopped you before.”

Silence fell in the elevator until Donald sighed. “Way of a time to start now.”

“So, are you going to tell me”, One asked after a moment, “or should I hack your account to read it myself.”

“It was from Odin.”

“Who?”

“Odin Eidolon. I told you about him.”

“Ah yes, your friend from the future. The droid constructor.”

“Yes, him.”

“Why would he send you an email, of all things? And how?”

“Damn, if I know.” Donald looked back down on the phone in his hand. “It says that I should look out for 'the visitor from Gotham' since he's 'quite important to certain events in the timeline' and that Odin has heard 'unsettling information that a certain organization we both know has issued a hit order on him'.”

The elevator doors open on the 151^st level. Donald stepped off.

“Are you sure it's from him?” One asked from his holographic bubble. “It's probably just a fake.”

Donald walked up to him. “To what end?”

“No idea, hero.”

“Can you track it? The mail, I mean.”

“Already on it.”

A map of the Earth appeared on the large screen wall. Blinking lights marked the main cities. Lines ran over the map, highlighting different areas and cities. After a few seconds the map view changed to a globe, displaying the satellite systems in orbit. Without asking, Donald knew that One was tracking the satellite connections now.

Finally, after five minutes, the A.I gave up. His avatar face looked irritated.

“Nothing”, he reported, frustration clear in his voice.

“Nothing?” Donald prodded. “You telling me, the most highly advanced artificial intelligence on Earth cannot track a single email?”

“I can track emails fine enough!” One snapped back. “But this one was entered into the satellite network from an untraceable source.”

“A temporal communication maybe?” Donald suppressed a smile.

“Maybe.” One gave in graciously.

“You don't know.”

“No I don't know!” Then, One added quieter: “But even if it is, you can't be certain if it's from m… Mr Eidolon.”

Donald noticed that there was a slight hesitation, as if One had wanted to say something different and corrected himself at the last moment. As always, he chose to ignore it.

Instead he sighed: “True. Might be anyone.”

“You need to talk to Miss Lay soon. She might at least know about any recent movements of the Organization.”

Donald nodded, knowing that he had procrastinated. He read the message again.

“Well”, he spoke slowly as the thoughts filtered into his mind, “we know that someone planted a bomb at the table that Scrooge, Donald and Mr. Wayne dined at last night.”

“Meaning that someone else knew that you would be there.” One added.

Donald shook his head. “Scrooge had the table booked a week in advance. Anyone could have found it out.”

“Who would want to kill your uncle?”

“Lots of people have a beef with him. But few would go that far.“ He looked up at One. “I don't think any of them would endanger so many bystanders.”

“So, your uncle most likely wasn't the intended target.”

Donald went on, vaguely aware that his speech pattern had changed to PK’s careful midwestern pronunciation over the last sentences: “Donald is an even more unlikely target. Unless someone managed to track my activities back to him and was trying to take me out by taking out Donald.”

“You know, it's unsettling to have you refer to yourself in the third person, do you?”

PK blinked, thrown out of his train of thought. “What?”

“Never mind. We agree then that Bruce Wayne is the most likely target out of you three?”

“Yes. Yes, he seems to be. Have you found anything online that may be reason for an attack on him?”

“Not really. If we are talking about Bruce Wayne. He's the current head of Wayne Enterprise and made a lot of enemies when he restructured the company. I can't say yet, if any of them are likely perpetrators of this bombing.”

PK frowned. “What about –“

“Your theory on Mr. Wayne and Batman?” One interrupted him. “That is actually a lot more interesting.” The A.I. turned his projection to look at the screen wall. PK followed his gaze. There were video feeds of different cameras playing now showing the interior of the Hotel Hilton. The cameras followed Bruce Wayne as he moved through the exhibition hall, talking to different people, shaking hands, handing out business cards.

“How did you figure it out?” One asked quietly.

PK smiled self-deprecatingly. “Accident. Sorry.” He concentrated on the video feeds while he explained: “Ever since I started as PK, the boys have kept this scrapbook with newspaper clippings on 'superheroes'. Mostly about me, but occasionally they'd add something else they found on the net. A few months ago I overheard them arguing about the vigilante from Gotham City – Batman.”

“So?”

“I think he had just appeared in public back then. Anyway, it was the first time the boys found news of him online. There was a loud disagreement if he actually had superpowers. Dewey made a good case for gadgetry.” He smiled fondly. “Anyway, that's how I made the connection.”

He turned to his partner. “What makes you believe I'm right?”

“While your hunches have proven to be surprisingly effective, I collected some more impartial if incidental evidence. For one, I used the CCTV cameras to follow Batman's retreat last night. He stayed out of video coverage a lot. But I did manage to discern that his way took him into the direction of the Plaza Hotel.”

“He managed to lose you? Not bad.”

“Annoying more likely”, One scowled. “And educational. I have already placed orders from various companies to security firms. Obviously, their security system was lacking.”

“You hacked a bunch of companies to fake orders for more security cameras on their behalf?” PK  affected to look shocked. “Devious.” He grinned broadly. “I like it. Just don't use my credit card to pay for it.”

One snorted. “Please.”

PK sniggered at the cheek of his partner. It was an aspect that he really liked about One, and one reason why they worked so well together. Of course, he recognized they egged each other on. He hadn't done so many illegal things before he met One as he had done since then. And he was absolutely certain that One never got to act out like this as long as Everett was still around. And having raised the boys for years now, he could recognize a rebellious attitude when he saw it.

“Also, I took the liberty to monitor Mr Wayne's online activity”, One continued back on track, “and it proved to be very educational.”

“Why? What did he do?”

“He researched you.”

“Me?”

“Well, PK.”

PK frowned at Bruce Wayne moving on the screen wall.

“Since it was Batman you met last night, Mr Wayne had no reason to do so that I could concern.” One continued. “And yet, he spent three hours this morning accessing different online resources about you.”

“It's not as if we aren't checking up on him.” PK waved at the video feed. “But just out of curiosity, what did he look at?”

One changed the feeds on the view screen wall to display Bruce Wayne’s browser history from that morning. Dozens of newspaper articles from all over PK's career flashed by and settled on different screens. Varying from his early days as a thief to the more recent clashes he had with the police. There were blog entries and shaky videos taken with phone cameras as well as merchandising sides and recordings of television documentaries. The last video to settle right in front of his nose was one of Angus calling him names again in a report about the fight he and the Raider had with the police back when the Raider had called him out about Project Cold Sun.

“Could be worse”, PK said in a dry and understating tone, “you remember the video where Angus made me look like an attention craving poor sucker instead of a supervillain and then faked me de-masking myself in public?”

“Ye-es.”

“You still have a record of that, do you?” PK stared at his partner accusingly.

“Of course not. Why would I? I promised I would delete it.” One protested. He looked suspiciously innocent.

Suddenly, a shrill alarm blared through the room. It was so loud, PK felt his teeth vibrate in his jaw. He desperately covered his ears with his hands, trying to shut out as much from it as possible.

“What the hell is that?!“ He screamed over the noise.

Just as suddenly as it had started, the alarm shut off again. One turned his facial projection, so that he was looking at the screening wall which now showed a map of Downtown Duckburg. He was studying it attentively.

“That was the tachyon alert.” He offered as explanation.

PK rubbed his still hurting ears: “The what?”

One pulled up a specific part of the map and enlarged it. A bright red light glowed at an intersection.

“The tachyon alert. I put it up after the bombing at Aurelio's last night. I tasked some subroutines to scan for more tachyon emissions, and they activate the alarm if they find something.”

“So, our mysterious time traveler is back?” PK concluded.

“It seems so.” The A.I. placed a satellite picture on top of the map.

“Sweet.” PK rubbed his hands in anticipation. “So, where did he appear?”

One hesitated slightly before answering: “At the hotel Hilton.”

There was a small pause in which PK studies the satellite picture. Then, his gaze travelled to the side where another video feed still showed Bruce Wayne in the exhibition hall of the conference held at the Hilton. He was standing at a stall and had an animated discussion with the vendor.

PK sighed and ruffled his hair: “Of course he did.”

 

[to be continued]

 

 

 

Chapter Text

Chapter 6: „I'm really not sure“

 

Hotel Hilton, exhibition hall, Monday at the same time

Bruce smiled genially at the middle-aged scientist in front of him. The woman’s long blonde hair was pulled into a ponytail and a pair of wire-rimmed glasses perched on her nose.

“And you think you could have this collector ready for mass production by next year?” Bruce looked suitably impressed at the prototype solar panel presented to him. Diagrams were pinned to large pin boards next to it, showing a power output forty times higher than the normal one.

“Of course.” Doctor Solfrid answered. But despite her assurance she carried the air of uncertainty around herself. “It depends on whether we get the funding.” She admitted looking chagrined. “But the basic formulas are ready. At this point, implementation and production are the main obstacles.”

Bruce pondered this before he smiled at her. “I’m sure we could come up with something, Doctor.” He took out one of his business cards and scribbled Lucius Fox’s mail address onto the back before handing it over to her. “If you’d contact my head of R&D, I’m certain that he’ll be very interested in speaking to you.”

She smiled at him as she accepted the card. “Thank you, Mr. Wayne. You won’t be disappointed.”

As Bruce stepped away from the booth she turned towards another businessman walking past.

“Hello, Sir! Could I interest you in the future of solar energy production?”

The man shot her a sour look. “No.”

Surprised at the harsh tone, Bruce studied him. He was wearing a run of the mill suit, if maybe a bit old fashioned, a fluffy red tie, and a cane in his hand. His hair was grey and cut short except for the full beard on his face. Belatedly, he recognized him. Their gazes met before the older man turned back to Dr. Solfrid.

“I'm here to hear about cold fusion and its future appliances. Not some schmuck that's been around for decades.” His South-African dialect only served to enhance the derisiveness of his words.

And now, the set’s complete, Bruce thought.

Dismissing the blushing scientist, Flintheart Glomgold turned his attention to Bruce. The smile on his face seemed oddly wrong.

“Bruce Wayne. What a pleasure. I’ve heard many things about you, my boy. It's Glomgold. Flintheart Glomgold.”

Bruce shook the offered hand politely. Internally, though, he flinched back. “The pleasure's all mine, Mr. Glomgold.”

“I was very much looking forward to meeting you. One can never make enough acquaintances in our line of work, yes?”

Bruce nodded, if only to see where the conversation was going. Glomgold placed both of his hands back on the head of his cane. He seemed at ease. Bruce had the strange feeling of being appraised by a predator skulking through the grass of the African savannah. A drop of sweat ran down his neck.

“I am a very big fan of what you made out of Wayne Enterprise. It seems obvious to me that you are a man with a vision.” Glomgold smiled oddly sardonic and Bruce wondered what this said about him.

“I feared that maybe you would be hesitant to follow your dear father's footsteps, what with withdrawing from the public for such a long time,” the South-African billionaire went on “but I can clearly see that my worry was unfounded.” A shiver ran down Bruce's spine.

“But dear me. Here I am talking all the time. And you are being so quiet.”

Bruce was oddly reminded of a hyena as he watched Glomgold smile.

This man wanted something from him, he was certain, but he didn’t know what it was. The silence stretched uncomfortably as Bruce recalled Donald's warning words about the African billionaire.

He was saved from having to answer, as the man’s attention was suddenly drawn away by someone else. Bruce followed Glomgold’s low gaze to see John Rockerduck, looking slightly worse for wear but oddly at ease, passing them by.

“Well, never mind.” Glomgold said “I see there is someone else I urgently need to talk to. And I am certain I shall see you at tonight's VIP reception, yes?”

He grinned dismissively at Bruce, who suppressed a sigh.

“Yes, I imagine so.”

Glomgold nodded his head once in acknowledgement and turned away to follow Mr. Rockerduck.

Going by his first impression, Bruce was reasonably certain that he didn’t want to get to know the Boer further. And he found himself vaguely worried what the man might have to talk to Mr. Rockerduck about.

It was time for a break, he decided. Glomgold’s behavior had reminded him too much of the business circles back home in Gotham. Surprisingly, everyone else he had met in Duckburg until now – even including Scrooge McDuck and John Rockerduck – had been painfully honest with him. It was very refreshing.

His stomach rumbled and Bruce made his way to the food buffet at the south-eastern end of the exhibition hall. It was an opulent affair, covered in a breathtaking plentitude of appetizers, finger food and desserts. Bruce smiled to himself contently as he picked up a bacon-wrapped date.

He was moving down the buffet when he noticed yet another figure shuffling unobtrusively up beside him. The other person bumped into him and muttered a quiet “Sorry.”

Bruce answered automatically: “No problem.”

It was only then that he noticed the small frame of the guy, and the pale blonde hair sticking out unruly from underneath a baseball cap that was pulled deeply over his face to shield the man’s features from view. His thought automatically went to Donald Duck before the Midwestern accent registered and he did a double take. His eyes flickered over the guy’s clothes which seemed horribly out of place for the location. Heavy army boots that had obviously seen good use stuck out from under well-worn dark jeans. He was wearing a dark green sports jacket. And on second look, his hair seemed longer than Donald's and fell far into the guy’s face. Through it, bright green eyes peeked up at Bruce.

'No.' Bruce thought, 'No Way. He wouldn't possibly be that brazen.'

But he knew with a sinking feeling in his stomach that it really was PK standing right next to him.

The local vigilante grinned. His head was ducked but his whole posture screamed that he was in no way insecure about standing without a mask in the middle of a well-guarded public event.

“We need to talk.” he whispered.

Words failed Bruce. His gaze switched back and forth between PK and a security guard moving through the exhibition hall not even ten feet away from them. He knew there were others, too. He had seen them during his own wanderings through the hall.

PK though, seemed unconcerned by the security guard's presence. His audacity was taunting to Bruce, who felt his jaw clench and just barely managed to stop his hands from instinctively curling into fists. He concentrated on his breathing. 'In. Out. Repeat.' PK couldn’t possibly know that he was Batman. 'Keep control' he thought. Torn between the urge to ask what the local vigilante wanted and the urge to pretend not to know the guy, Bruce froze. PK’s presence alone spelled trouble. He had no reason to single Bruce Wayne out, much less to talk to him. Unless it was about the bombing last evening. Bruce swallowed. Maybe that was what this was about? Was the smaller vigilante here to ask questions from a witness? But if that was the case, why single him out here at the hotel? Why not ask him later, when he was alone?

“Hey,” PK interrupted his frantic thoughts “it’s cool. I’ll keep it short.”

Bruce tugged his self-control around himself like a shield. “I'm sorry, but who are you?”

He saw the other vigilante roll his eyes.

“Yeah, okay. I could have guessed we'd play it like this.”

Bruce started sweating.

“Listen,” PK went on hurriedly, his eyes flickering back and forth among the other visitors, “I don't really have time for this game. But I've got to tell you that you are in danger, man. Someone here's going to take a shot at you again; and after what happened the last time I figured I'll put a stop to it before things blow up. Literally. They're still washing blood off the street at Aurelio's.” He seemed to ponder this image.

Another shiver ran down Bruce’s spine. The nonchalant way PK spoke about the whole situation rubbed him wrong. At the same time, relief flushed through him. So, PK really had come to speak to Bruce Wayne.

“How do you know that?” Besides his general misgivings about the blonde’s attitude, he found himself curious. If the vigilante was right, and he was the intended target of last night’s attack, the information the other man had might help track down whoever had planted the bomb.

PK shrugged and grabbed a shrimp in peanut sauce. He plopped it into his mouth and mumbled around it: “I've got a source.”

Bruce couldn’t stop himself from frowning. “If there's a bombing going to take place here, we should notify the police and have the building evacuated.”

PK rolled his eyes again. He visibly suppressed a sigh. “I'm going to take care of it. Don't worry. I just need you to stay put and keep your head down. You think you can manage that while evacuating the building? Be my guest.” He waved a hand carelessly over his shoulder as he turned away and disappeared in the crowd.

Bruce felt his jaw clench. What should he do now? His first instinct was to follow the other vigilante, but evacuating the building might make more sense if there truly was a bomb hidden away here.

 

***

 

Hotel Hilton, Monday 12:35 p.m.

PK stuffed his boots into the backpack to the rest of his costume and chucked the whole thing into the next laundry chute. He’d have time to pick it up later. Then he shrugged his cape into position and sneaked down the hallway, towards the point of origin of the tachyon emission. One was highlighting the direction in his line of sight – a bright yellow brick road to follow. He hushed a girl from housekeeping who stumbled into him as she left a hotel room and gestured at her to keep going on her way. According to the GPS signal, he was closing in on the time traveler. He moved up to the corner of the hallway and carefully glanced around it. A large and very broad-shouldered guy was tinkering with something that looked like a box. The man hid it in a service cart of the hotel and pushed it forward. Before he arrived at PK’s hiding place, the vigilante stepped out into plain sight. He wasn’t overly worried, even though the guy was nearly twice his size, his head suspiciously close to the ceiling. And, PK noticed amused, he was wearing a disguise much like PK's own before he had changed back into costume.

“Sorry” he drawled “I got lost. You mind telling me where to find the next security guard?”

The time traveler looked at PK, seemed to consider him for all about half a second and pushed the cart to the side. His hand disappeared under his coat, probably in search of a gun. “Think you'd better search for a funeral assistant.”

Using all his strength, PK jumped forward and tried to tackle the guy to the ground. There was no grunt when he hit the other’s body. There was no movement either. In fact, it felt like running into a wall. A sharp pain flashed through PK’s shoulder as he fell to the ground himself. Shaking his head to clear it, he stared up at the guy who was now towering over him. He’d had to take a step back for balance but otherwise seemed unperturbed.

A droid. “Oh, you've got to be kidding me.”

“Too bad you're such a lightweight, Avenger.”

And the guy’s voice seemed familiar, too, now that he thought about it.

“Lightweight, maybe,” he acknowledged “but very stubborn, too.”

Future guy pulled a suitably futuristic gun out of a shoulder holster and pointed it at PK, who swung himself up, grabbed the extended arm, pushed his feet firmly into the floor and flipped the guy over his shoulder to the ground.

“And I know a thing or two about leverage.”

His opponent crashed on the ground. His ball cap flew off. The first thing that registered in PK’s mind was the bright red hair. The second thing that his eyes flickered to was an ugly tie. A really very ugly tie.  He hid the nervous swallow he had to take.

“Newton!” PK straightened his posture, knowing full well that even at his full height, Mr. Newton would dwarf him. “Great. You will stop this nonsense, right now!” he ordered with fake enthusiasm. In fact, he was certain that he would be ignored.

Newton got back up to his feet and shrugged.

“No can do. A job's a job, you know.” The Organizations hit-man seemed vaguely apologetic.

PK had to try again. “You know, you can't possibly win this. Not against me.” Although there was no way he’d win a hand-to-hand fight against Newton and they both knew it.

“I can try.”

“Statistics say it ain't happening, man.”

Newton bowed his head in acknowledgement of their recent fights, his eyes never leaving PK. “True. But a job is a job” he repeated.

PK raked a hand through his hair, wondering if this was something that he wouldn’t be able to talk his way out of. Newton was a droid. If he was under orders, then he simply couldn’t stop himself. And beside of that, PK reflected drily, Newton wasn’t exactly the brightest crayon in the batch. He did, however, work directly for the Organization’s mysterious leaders, which gave further credence to the mail Donald had received a while ago. 

“A job from whom? Who hired you for this?”

“Ain't telling. Bad for business.”

“Nonsense. Anyone hiring the Organization for a job knows you'll sell out to a higher bidder.”

This earned him a broad smile from the ginger-haired droid. “Okay. Yeah. But what ya gonna pay me?”

“I could let you leave here without any more trouble.”

Newton snorted. “As if you could stop me from leaving at all.”

PK offered him a sharp grin. “I figure the temporal stabilizer beacons I placed around the building will do a good job about it. At least until the time police gets here.”

Newton narrowed his eyes, but PK knew that he couldn’t call the bluff. The droid assassin wasn’t programmed to.

“You're bluffing.”

Well damn, PK thought. “Think I am?”

Newton leaned back to consider him. “I don't know anyways. Orders came down from the bosses. It doesn't matter to me who pays them.”

PK bit back a curse. That was probably true. And of course it would be too much to hope that Newton had been curious enough to find out for himself.

His frantic thoughts were interrupted by the fire alarm suddenly howling through the building. PK felt his eyes widening.

“Mr. Wayne just pulled the fire alarm” One reported through the communicator in his ear. “Obviously he felt that the security guard he spoke to didn’t pay him enough attention.”

PK didn’t acknowledge this. Instead, he raised his voice over the alarm and screamed: “So, you got employed to kill Bruce Wayne? Why him?”

Maybe he could at least get the droid to confirm his target.

Newton, who seemed obviously worried now that the alarm was blaring, played into his hands. “Everyone's got their time.” He said before adding: “And so do you!” The large droid jumped forward.

PK wasn’t fast enough to escape the large hand coming his way. He felt his arm twist painfully. A sharp crack echoed up his nerves, and he was smashed head-first into a wall. Another crack. This one was much closer to his brain. He felt his knees give in. Everything went black.

 

-

-

-

 

“PK!”

“PK!!!”

Consciousness returned sluggishly. A voice was ringing in his head. He couldn’t place it though. He felt sick, bile rising in the back of his throat.

“Don!”

His head was pounding and there was a shrill noise all around him. That wasn’t helping. He groaned and raised a shaking hand to his head. There was a large bump on it. He grimaced at the pain that erupted as he touched it.

“You need to get up. Now!” The voice was adamant.

Just to shut it up, PK groaned: “Why?”

“Mr. Newton is nearly at the exhibition hall!”

Struggling to sit up, PK used the wall as leverage to keep himself upright.

“Exhibi.... Give me a moment.”

An alarm, he recognized. There was an alarm ringing wherever he was. Where was he?

He forced his eyes open, but immediately regretted it as light drilled into his eyeballs. Carefully he squinted at the wallpaper in front of him.

“You don't have a moment.” the voice kept nagging. One, he remembered. The voice belonged to One. “The bomb can go off any moment now.”

Adrenaline surged through his body. “Bomb?” PK racked his brain trying to remember what had happened but his mind was still mushy.

“What happened?” He could always rely on One to tell him these things after all.

The A.I. did not disappoint. “You confronted Mr. Newton about his assassination attempt on Mr. Wayne. Then he proceeded to break your skull on the wall.”

PK struggled to his feet, one hand resting heavily on the wall. Beside it, he blearily noticed a smear of blood. He frowned, touching his head again. There was a dried crust there. He sighed. The blood was his.

Meanwhile, One continued with his status report. “According to the medical sensors in your suit, the radius in your left arm was broken and you suffered a miniscule skull fracture. The medical system is repairing the damage and your inherent fast healing is covering the superficial injuries.”

“Ow.”

There really was no other word to describe how he felt.

His partner seemed to have registered the comment as positive proof that he was going to survive and his voice became much calmer and snarkier. “You may however feel slightly disoriented for a moment. And to repeat myself: You need to move, hero.”

“Where to?”

“To the exhibition hall.” One repeated.

'Ah, yes. That’s right.' PK touched his hurting head again. He probably should have remembered that.

“To stop the time travelling assassin from activating his bomb.” 'Right,' he thought 'that, too.'

“Can you, please, turn off the alarm?” All this noise was stopping him from thinking clearly.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.” One commented drily “It’s a very useful tool in evacuating the building. You know: the one with a bomb in it.”

Resolutely, PK straightened his back. Okay, he’d have to work with it, then. His arm still hurt, too. But it was a dull, throbbing pain. He knew from experience that it would be gone in a few minutes. “Right.”

He let go of the wall and took a careful first step. Nearly faltering, he stumbled forward, but managed to catch himself from falling down without having to think about it. The bile in his mouth crawled higher. He swallowed it back. Vomiting on the floor was not an option right now.

Instead he took a deep breath. Felt the air stream into his lungs and out again. “I'm on my way.”

The next step was more of a coordinated fall forward. The one after that became more stable. Step by step he moved forwards, increasing his speed. After the first yards, he fell into a light jog, then, when he was reasonably certain that he wouldn’t crash head-first into the next wall, into a full run.

The closer he got to the exhibition hall, the more people he met who were fleeing the building. Good. They really were evacuating.

Pushing through a couple of hurrying hostesses into the exhibition hall, he felt mostly alright again. The pain in his head was gone, as was the feeling of disorientation. Not surprising, since head injuries took precedence in repair by the nanites that were part of Ducklair’s medical emergency system. He knew that the gash on his head would also have healed by know. His balance was back and, even though his left arm still felt less stable than usual, he knew he was back to fighting condition as he burst through the open doors.

“Where is he?”

PK’s eyes took in the chaos in the hall. There were surprisingly many people left. Most of them seemed to be vendors who didn’t want to leave their prototypes and research behind. Arguing with them were security guards who were busy sending people outside.

“Eleven o’clock. Near center column.” One directed.

PK's head snapped around.

“Gotcha.”

He moved his right wrist in a pre-programmed movement. The shield unfolded into mode 27. Now it was rectangular and nearly half his size. He walked forward, his gaze firmly set on Newton, an intent scowl on his face.

People ducked out of his way as they fled the hall.

“The fire department has reacted. ETA in two minutes.” One reported.

“Newton!”

The ginger-haired droid looked up from where he was fiddling with something at the column. His eyes narrowed and he stepped back from his work to get more space around himself. Then, he activated his cannon. As soon as it snapped out of his arm the people standing around him panicked. They screamed and ran, trying to put as much distance between themselves and the big guy with the gun as they could.

PK didn’t think about running. Instead, he pointed a dramatic finger at Newton: “Stop this, right now!”

He had to side-step the fleeing exhibition visitors in order to avoid being run over.

Newton shot in his direction and PK used his momentum to throw himself behind an exhibition booth. Something shattered above him. He pulled his own sidearm with his left hand and shot back blindly. He needed to get closer! So he vaulted over the stall, covering himself with the shield, which was immediately hit with a stream of energy bullets. They rained down on it, some of the energy bleeding off on the surrounding area. Slowly, PK walked forward, step by step making his way towards the center of the exhibition hall.

Aiming roughly, he returned fire into Newton’s direction, hoping to get a lucky hit in. All around him, he heard crashes, as booths were blasted apart. Splinters and finger food were flung through the air. Bystanders ducked behind stalls and flower arrangements, covering their heads with their arms. Vaguely, PK heard them scream but he had no attention to spare on them. They had chosen to stay behind. They would have to be fine by taking cover.

On his left, he noticed Bruce Wayne cowering behind an overturned solar power exhibit. The man from Gotham was using his own body to further shield a blonde woman who was wearing some kind of lab coat.

Darn, he needed to minimize the chances for ricochets! At once, he forwent his gun for the paralyzer built into his shield. If he could hit the droid with it before the assassin could create more chaos, so much the better. But Newton dodged, one handedly picking up a table and throwing it straight at PK. It crashed against his shield with bone-jarring force. The masked Avenger took a step back in order to find his footing and by the time he had pushed the broken pieces aside, Newton was already well on his way to the fire exit.

PK started to run after him as One's harried voice stopped him in his tracks: “The bomb! Check the bomb!”

Sliding to a stop on the polished tiles, PK looked uncertainly between the center column and the fire exit. There was really only one possible choice. Gnashing his teeth, he stood down. It wasn’t as if he could have followed Newton if the droid decided to make a time jump. So, he turned towards the column where he could make out the bomb hidden in a flower arrangement. He looked it over carefully. It was small, hardly bigger than a shoebox.

“Can you disable it?” he asked One.

“Open it up. There should be a ledge where you can pull it apart.”

PK crouched down next to the flower arrangement and lifted the bomb to the floor as he considered it.

“Are you sure? What if it explodes while I try?”

“What if it explodes while you procrastinate?”

“Touché. Here goes.”

He slowly moved a gloved finger around the outside of the box until he could feel a diminutive indentation. Pulling the top off from there he exposed the machinery inside.

“What now?” PK sat back on his heels.

“Let me see.”

Awkwardly, PK moved the shield so that the box sat in front of the in-built scanner.

After a second, One said: “Done.”

“Done? What, just like that?”

“Well, you better get it back here fast. I disabled the timer, everything else I'll have to do at the tower.”

PK swallowed nervously. “You want me to carry an armed bomb through the city?”

“You better not drop it.” One commented drily.

“God, I hate it when you try to be funny while I run the risk of getting killed.”

But despite his initial misgivings, he placed the top back on the box. As he stood back up he got a good look at his surroundings for the first time since the fighting started.

It was a scene of destruction. Exhibition booths lay in ruins, remains of the buffet were smeared all over the ground and the sad tatters of posters sank to the ground through wafts of thin acrid smoke. The charred remains of a chair fell to the ground as the security guard who had been hiding underneath it crawled out. The clatter echoed loudly through the otherwise eerily silent hall.

“Well, shit.” PK winced “This is going to look so bad on my resume, isn’t it?”

A group of fire fighters trouped into the hall.

“You’d better get out of there, hero.” One agreed. “I might be able to pull more information from the bomb’s build once I get to take a good look at it.”

Getting out sounded like a good idea right now. PK scanned the room for a fast way out, still mindful of the bomb in his hands. Unexpectedly his eyes fell on Bruce Wayne, who stood at the opposite side of the hall and stared back at him with a stony look on his face. PK winced again. Oh, yes. This was definitely going to look so bad.

The few exits he could immediately make out were milling with people. And he really didn’t want to go through them. It would kind of defeat the purpose of escaping. He raised his eyes, taking in the large skylight. An idea took shape in his head. Yes. It would work. There’d be even more damage to the building, but the place was wrecked anyway. It was definitely the fastest way out and back to the tower. And thereby it was the fastest way to get rid of the bomb that felt like a piece of hot coal in his hands.

He shifted the box into a one handed grip and used his right hand to lift the shield up. He carefully changed its alignment, until it settled on his right forearm, firmly clicking onto the connectors on his suit. Without further hesitation, he started running as fast as possible at one of the few still standing vendor carts. Using all of his strength, he jumped onto it and then further up into the air. With another pre-programmed snap of his wrist, the shield engaged into flight mode 6. The engines burned, lifting him further up into the air until he broke shield-first through the skylight and into the bright sunshine outside.

 

***

 

Hotel Hilton, Monday 13:05 p.m.

Bruce ducked down behind the solar panel exhibition he had visited earlier. He pushed Dr. Solfrid to the ground and tried to cover her as best as he could. Around them, chaos reigned. Somewhere not far off, PK was shooting at an unknown man, who was firing back with some sort of energy weapon. Carefully, Bruce lifted his head in order to peer in their direction, only to see one of PK’s shots hit another vendor stall, making it explode in a shower of wood splinters and shreds of colorful flyers. Hastily ducking back down, he remembered Mr. Gearloose’s earlier analysis and snorted.

“So much for temporal weapons.”

In front of him, Dr Solfrid shook in fright. She was covering her head with her arms and sobbed quietly. Why she hadn’t fled from the building as soon as Bruce had activated the fire alarm, he didn’t know. And she wasn’t the only one of the conference attendees who had hesitated to leave their work behind.

After what felt like an eternity, the sounds of fighting subsided. Keeping his head down for a little longer, Bruce listened carefully for other sounds before he slowly stood up from behind his cover. First, peeking carefully over the top, he searched the hall for the two fighters. The big guy who had been standing close to the center column of the hall was gone and the local vigilante was crouching there instead, staring intensely at something on the floor in front of him. From his position, Bruce couldn’t make out what it was.

He stood up and pulled the scientist to her feet. She teetered unsteadily and clung to his arm.

“It’s alright,” Bruce told her “you need to leave now. Go.”

“But, but what about you?” Her hair was in a fray.

“I’ll be fine”, he assured her while giving her a soft shove towards the door. “Go.”

As he watched her making her way out, he noticed the small vigilante standing up, too. He was holding a plain packet the size of a shoebox in his hands. The white shield was leaning at the column behind him.

Bruce silently cursed. Even without checking personally, he was fairly certain that the box was yet another bomb. So, the warning to him had been real. If only the other vigilante wouldn’t have delivered it in such a careless manner. Maybe he would have taken the guy more seriously then. This would mean that the big man he had seen previously was the bomber. Still, there had to have been a better way to solve this than to have a shoot-out in the middle of the conference!

He had done his fair share of public damages himself as Batman, but somehow, this situation seemed more extreme. Although – he hesitated as an unsettling thought came to him – what if he only felt like this because this time he was a bystander himself?

He watched PK take in the situation in the exhibition hall, a faint look of surprise on his pale face as if he was only now noticing all the destruction he had created. Purposefully ignoring the thoughts running through his mind, Bruce began to make his way over to him. He was surprised to feel not so much angry as appalled by the way PK had chosen to deal with the situation.

“This is going to look so bad on my resume, isn't it?” PK’s voice carried through the hall.

Bruce saw the vigilante nod as if he had received an answer. And at that moment, Bruce had an epiphany.  PK, he suddenly understood, was not alone in this. Internally, he berated himself. The journalist had warned him that the vigilante had accomplices. And one of them must be in radio contact with him right now. A fact that made the whole situation more complicated. Whatever Bruce was going to say to him – and he honestly wasn’t sure what he was going to say - there would still be one partner at the loose. A wildcard that Bruce wouldn’t be able to keep in sight or in control.

A group of fire fighters entered the hall. Their voices drew Bruce’s attention for a second and when he returned his eyes to PK, the vigilante was already moving. He used a ruined exhibit to propel himself high up into the air and it was only when the white shield on his right arm changed its form minutely that Bruce understood that he was about to witness another incredible piece of technology at work. Before PK could start falling back to the ground, the shield fired a jet stream of hot air, blasting dust, ash and shreds of paper into the air and lifting PK further up. Bruce reacted purely by instinct. He raised his arms again and covered his head as PK hit the skylight of the exhibition hall at breathtaking speed. An earthshattering crash preceded a shower of glass shards that rained down into the hall. They pattered to the ground like icy raindrops. The people still in the hall ran towards the exits, bent forward to shield their faces from the sharp glass.

Only when he was reasonably sure that the most had fallen down, Bruce walked forward until he was standing right underneath the large hole that now blossomed in the skylight. Beyond it shone the bright blue summer sky.

‘As far as getaways go, this was cool’, he reflected.

And he would love to take a look at that shield PK carried around. Its capabilities were deeply unsettling but just as deeply intriguing. In all his years working with top-of-the-line technology, he had never seen anything like it.

He turned away from the hole in the skylight, just in time to see the first SWAT officers enter the exhibition hall, securing the area and leading the last traumatized attendees outside. Bruce himself was swiftly escorted out through the hotel's main entrance. A police woman led him to a group of ambulances, where an overweight paramedic checked a small cut on his head. It was nothing serious. Bruce hadn’t even noticed it before. Possibly from the falling glass shards, he thought.

He tried to wave the paramedic off: “It's fine. It's nothing.”

The paramedic was not to be deterred. “If it's nothing, it'll only take a minute to clean.”

“There are others that you should look at first.”

“Which I could do a lot earlier, if you would stop stalling.”

Bruce smiled bemused. He sat back as the paramedic cleaned the cut and applied a simple band-aid. It really only took two minutes. Once he had finished, the paramedic pointed him to an area on the parking lot where hotel staff was passing out blankets and water bottles to the evacuated people.

“You go sit down over there. Drink something. The police will want to question you.”

Bruce nodded and got up to make space for a woman who had an ugly bruise forming on her face.

He took in the police men securing the area, the fire fighters clearing the ruined exhibition hall, the ambulance cars and the injured people. They were everywhere. Sitting on the ground and on make-shift chairs. Drinking straight from bottles of water and shivering underneath shock blankets.

It was, Bruce reflected, very much like the relief actions after the attack on Aurelio’s.

Nothing like what had happened in the Narrows, of course. But, he shook the encroaching memory away, that should hardly be the measure of things.

 

[to be continued]

 

 

Chapter Text

Chapter 7: I know I'm running Circles

 

Ducklair Tower, 151^st floor, later that day

PK slouched in his chair. He listlessly spun around, pushing his feet against the floor to keep the momentum up.

One’s facial icon floated up to him in his globe. “Cheer up, old cape.”

PK acknowledged him with a grunt.

The globe floated around him, the A.I. was obviously uncertain of what to say to cheer him up.

“Angus is going to milk this for all it's worth.” PK finally muttered.

“It wasn't that bad.”

“One!” PK straightened in his seat. “I destroyed half the hotel!”

“Now that is an exaggeration. It was only the main hall.”

PK slummed down again and One continued hastily: “Mr. Newton holds a lot of responsibility, too.”

Rubbing a hand over his face tiredly, the hero sighed.

“And you have destroyed much more expensive things.”

PK stared at his partner, unbelievingly at first, then he chuckled. “Oh, thanks. That's very helpful there, One. Really makes me feel better.”

An uncomfortable silence fell over them.

“And people got hurt. A lot of people.” PK finally continued.

“But not one serious injury among it. Just cuts and bruises.” One floated closer until his globe bumped encouragingly into PK’s shoulder. “Come on. Cheer up.”

PK sighed once more, but mostly for show. He was already feeling better. Firmly pushing the memory of the screams from his mind, he concentrated on the more positive results of his latest encounter with the time-travelling robotic mercenary.

“You're right. We had worse.”

He got up and walked over to the scanner.

“Have you made progress on the bomb?”

One floated up beside him. “Depends what you consider progress. The bomb itself was built with current materials, but it includes several parts that definitely originated in the 23^rd century. It would be impossible to find them now.”

“Okay”, PK nodded. “So what? He brought parts with him and then assembled the bomb here?”

“That seems likely.”

“Why not just bring the whole thing with him?”

“Maybe it would have been too dangerous. See here –“

A free floating holographic blueprint of some exotic piece of technology materialized in the air in front of them. PK had no idea what it was, but he memorized it anyway. Who knew when that knowledge would come in handy?

“This is the detonator”, One continued, “and this“, he pulled up another hologram beside it “is an additional arming module that contains a highly explosive liquid gas.”

PK leaned forward curiously.

“What does it do?”

One frowned at the hologram. “As far as the molecular analysis could discern, it acts as amplifier to the other, more conventional explosive materials used. It is also extremely volatile when exposed to high energy surroundings as they occur during temporal shifts.”

PK frowned, too. “If it was dangerous to bring it here, why bring it at all? A normal bomb would have gotten the job done.”

“But not as efficiently. Also, it seems as if the liquid dissipates without trace after igniting. Which means it wouldn't have left behind traces for the police to find.”

PK stared at the bright blue numbers floating beside the hologram. He tried to visualize what they represented and he didn’t like what he saw.

“With this, you'd only need a handful of C4 to level the whole tower.” He said in awe. It was thrilling. And very frightening. “It's a perfect weapon.”

“I'm sure, Everett would agree.” One lifted an eyebrow.

That pulled PK out of his reverie. He blinked and shook his head. A heavy feeling settled in his stomach.

“Yeah”, he breathed. “Yeah, he would.”

The machinery on the floor hummed and clicked.

Finally, PK broke the ensuing silence.

“So, any idea yet why the Organization wants to kill Wayne?”

“I thought it might have to do with his side job as a masked vigilante. But recent news from Gotham made me wonder.”

“Why? What recent news?”

One’s holographic face turned inside his globe and floated up to the large screen wall taking up one side of the floor. Once there, he called up a rough dozen online newspaper articles. PK joined him to study them. One name caught his interest at once.

“Harvey Dent-”, he pointed at an article, “does he have anything to do with the Dent Act?”

“Yes”, One agreed. “Harvey Dent was the District attorney in Gotham City until his untimely death a few weeks ago.”

“How did he die?”

“According to public opinion”, One said drily, “he was killed by the Batman.”

PK returned the dry look. “Public opinion says I'm a supervillain. So, what really happened?”

“I am not sure.”

“You don't know?” PK asked incredulously.

“I just haven't found the right database to tap into yet.” One justified himself.

PK grinned at him teasingly. “Maybe you've finally found the limit to your snooping abilities.”

“If I can find an Evronian battle ship in the orbit of Venus, I am more than able to find the truth about Harvey Dent's death. In fact, I already have a theory. I just don't have a way to prove it.”

PK lifted his hands in a placating gesture. “Care to share your theory?”

Three pictures appeared in the center of the screen wall, positioned in a triangle. One of them was a newspaper article about Bruce Wayne featuring a close-up picture of the man himself, the second image showed an injured Harvey Dent, lying in a hospital bed, his face heavily bandaged. The last picture was a mug shot of a man of undiscernible age, greasy paint half washed of his face, his mouth scarred into a fixed leering grin.

PK instinctively drew back.

“What's that? Some nightmare version of Quackerjack?” He pointed at the picture of the Horror-Clown.

“A surprisingly good guess.” One highlighted the picture in question by surrounding it with a line of bright green and making it stand out from the other two.

“This is a serial killer known as the 'Joker'-”, he went on to explain, “highly psychotic. His proclaimed goal was to force the people of Gotham City to show their true evil minds. In order to achieve this, he placed bombs on two kidnapped ferries. One filled with harmless citizens, the other with convicted felons. In order to survive, they had to press a button that would activate the bomb on the respective other ship.”

PK studied the picture in silence.

“You're kidding.” He finally offered.

“I am not. For what it's worth, his plan backfired when neither ferry exploded, as the people on both ships had decided not to become murderers.” Then he added more quietly: „In some cases – again.”

PK snorted. “Didn't plan for that, did he?”

“I am reasonably certain that the possibility had never crossed his mind.”

PK shook his head. “What happened to him then? He was arrested. And then?” he nodded once to the picture, which had obviously been taken in police custody.

“He was. Police found him hanging upside down from a skyscraper. That picture was taken during an earlier arrest though, at the end of which half a dozen police officers died in an explosion that facilitated the Joker's escape from custody.”

PK shuddered. “Nasty bugger. And I thought we had all the nuts here. What does that lunatic have to do with the other two?” He waved his hand vaguely at the other pictures.

“A few days before that event, District Attorney Dent was heavily injured in an explosion.”

PK winced as One highlighted Dent's picture just as he had done previously with the Joker's.

One continued relentlessly: “The fire ate its way through most of his skin and flesh. In the aftermath of this injury, Mr. Dent, according to his nurses, suffered a deep depression.”

“Does any of this have a good ending?”

“I'm afraid not.”

“How do they all fit together?”

“Now that is where it gets interesting.”

PK perked up.

“You see”, One continued, “Harvey Dent was a good acquaintance of Bruce Wayne. And the Joker had a private vendetta with Batman, going so far as to threaten to kill people each day until Batman revealed his secret identity to the public.”

PK’s eyes were drawn to the now highlighted picture of Bruce Wayne. And he committed everything he heard to memory.

“Then the Joker attacked a fundraiser Bruce Wayne had organized for the benefit of Harvey Dent.”

PK frowned but kept on listening attentively.

“He even went so far as to pursue Mr. Dent through the whole city, after Dent had been taken into police custody.”

“What is this leading up to?”

One sighed. “Bear with me. Now then, Mr. Dent disappeared without a trace only to be found again in the remains of a building that had been destroyed in an explosion. The same explosion that destroyed his face. Interestingly a similar explosion occurred at the same time, which killed Mr. Dent’s girlfriend.”

“I really don't like this story.” PK rubbed a hand over his tired face, trying to block it all out for a moment in order to gather his thoughts. “You think that the Joker orchestrated the explosions. Do you? To get to Batman? That would only work if he knew that Bruce Wayne was Batman.”

“Yes”, One agreed, “that is exactly what I think. Because shortly after Dent's hospitalization the hospital he was staying at was also blown up by a bomb.”

PK gestured at him to stop. “Okay, I get it. I can see the pattern. But why does everyone think Batman killed Dent?”

One frowned. “That is something I can only extrapolate. Mr. Dent died the same night as the ferry incident.”

“How?”

“He fell off a building together with Batman.”

There was a short silence as PK contemplated this and remembered Bruce’s uneven walk.

“How do people arrive at the idea that Batman killed him?”

“Apparently, there was a witness. A police commissioner, no less. He reported seeing Batman push Dent off the building.”

PK snorted. “I call bullshit. If that really happened, then Batman wanted him to see it. And that doesn't make sense. Does he even have anything to gain from it?”

“Well”, One hesitated slightly, “after his death, Mr. Dent became an even bigger celebrity than he had been before. A true shining light of hope for Gotham City. It gave the Dent Act the push it needed to be implemented, effectively lowering crime rates throughout Gotham by more than 50 percent.”

“He was framed.” PK stated firmly.

“Batman?”

“And he isn't putting it right”, PK continued deep in thought, “because of the good that came from it.”

“How do you know that?” One looked at him expectantly, “I can see no logical argument that would lead to this result.”

PK raked a hand through his hair. “It's a hunch, One.”

One raised a sardonic eyebrow. “You biologicals and your hunches.”

“Do you think that he got injured at that time?” PK studied the picture of Bruce Wayne.

“Injured? Who?”

“Wayne. He injured his leg. His walk is off.”

“Yes, I’m certain that falling off a building is a far more sensible reason for an injury like that than, let’s say, a skiing accident.”

PK ignored his partner’s snarky comment. Instead, he felt himself pulled in by the three pictures in front of him. He clapped his hands decisively.

“Right. We are going to help him.”

“Help him?” One sounded taken aback.

“Wayne. Batman. He needs some positive karma. And some good publicity maybe.” He added drily.

The look that his partner gave him told PK in no uncertain terms that the A.I. thought he was doing something stupid again. “Should I even bother to point out that it's a bad idea for you to interfere? Maybe he doesn't want you getting involved in his affairs.”

PK ignored the objection. “That man obviously doesn't know what he needs.”

 

---

 

The Plaza Hotel, Monday August 13^th, 05:10 pm

 

Bruce opened the door to his hotel suite, stepped inside, shed his jacket and closed the door behind him in one swift movement. He threw the jacket over the back of a chair and loosened his tie as he walked towards the desk where his laptop was waiting for him.

He sank down into the chair in front of it. While he waited for it to wake up, his thoughts went back to the events of the day.  

Someone was trying to kill him. And that someone was perfectly willing to sacrifice innocent bystanders as long as Bruce himself was among the victims. He hadn’t been able to get a good look at the bomber, a fact that still angered him. So, he had nothing to go on, aside of a vague impression of a tall and broad-shouldered man. A man, who used weapons that where definitely not run of the mill guns from the streets. In fact, the energy blasts the attacker had shot had had more than a passing resemblance to the ones, PK’s gun had shot. This was worth a thought. Both men had sported fantastical weapons that felt as if they would better belong into a science-fiction movie tan into reality. Was there a connection here, maybe? And PK's shield… Now, that was a piece of amazing technology! There had to be a way he could figure out who developed it. Technology like that didn’t just appear. People tended to talk about others who were working on things like that. The science community was a close-knit group. Bruce was certain that he just had to ask the right people the right questions in order to find clues. And once he knew who had developed the technology behind the shield, he could probably trace the thing back to its current user. It seemed to be a working prototype after all. Nothing like this shield had gone into mass production or appeared in any military projects. He would know.

He logged into Wayne Enterprises mainframe where he set up an automatic search for anything relating to energy weapons and shape-changing materials. Then he chose two high quality pictures featuring PK with his shield from the internet and mailed them to Lucius Fox, along with a short rundown of abilities he witnessed during the fight, asking Fox if he had ever heard about anyone developing something like it.

Once he had gotten this problem off his mind, he called Wayne manor. It took a while before Alfred answered the phone.

“Hello, Alfred.”

“Sir?” The old butler didn’t sound surprised to hear from him. But there was a clear sense of relief in his voice.

“I need you to go to the cellar and get my old case out for me. You know, the one where I used to keep my old chemistry sets in.”

Silence.

“That would be the black one, in the cupboard under the stairs, wouldn't it, Sir?”

Bruce smiled remembering the big black box stashed away in a secure compartment right underneath the cave's emergency escape. “Yes, Alfred. That's the one.”

“Very well, Sir. Might I inquire what you need it for?”

Bruce thought he could detect a faint trace of hope in his butler’s voice. “I just need something that's in it.” He hesitated briefly before adding: “You know what? Just send the whole thing to the hotel. I'll sort through it here.”

Alfred didn’t hesitate at all. “As you wish, Sir. But if I may ask, was the sudden interest in your chemistry sets triggered by the recent events at the conference?”

Bruce closed his eyes briefly. Of course. The fight at the hotel must have been all over the news already. And with him being here, Alfred was sure to monitor them. No wonder the old butler had been worried.

“All these scientific achievements have inspired me to try my hand on some old ideas.” There, that should be enough to ensure that Alfred knew that he was alright and doing something about the situation.

His admission was followed by a long silence at the other end of the phone line.

Finally, Alfred answered: “I see. Very well, Sir. I will send the box to you at the first possibility.”

Bruce understood this to mean that it would be at his hotel the next evening at the latest.

“Thank you, Alfred.”

“I'd ask you to be careful –“

“Alfred.”

“Of course, I know that would be too much to ask. At least take care not to accidentally burn yourself, yes?”

Bruce smiled wistfully, thankful for the words that weren’t said. “I will. I promise.”

With this, he ended the call, satisfied that he would have better equipment soon. He placed his mobile on the desk right next to his laptop. The screen still showed the browser page with pictures of the local vigilante. Bruce stared at them for a moment, then, abruptly, got up.

No more sitting around. He was not going to wait for the next attack to catch him unaware. Better to get a start on his investigation as long as the traces at the last attack side were still fresh. His feet carried him into the bedroom of the hotel suite, and before his brain had properly realized what he was doing his hand was laying on the wardrobe door behind which his costume was hidden. He took a deep breath. He had done this before last night. It would be alright, he told himself. And it was time that he took a better look at the scene of the fight. Maybe he could track the bomber down by traces left behind. Or maybe PK, he thought drily.

Determined he opened the wardrobe in order to prepare his costume for later. It wasn’t time yet. The Hilton would still be crawling with police and CSI. But once it became dark, once most of the official investigators had moved off, his chance would be there. And he planned on using it.

 

---

 

Ducklair Tower’s lobby, Monday August 13^th, 9:14 pm

Donald lounged in one of the large easy chairs that took up space in the sitting area of Ducklair Tower’s lobby. He was alone, the night porter having taken a bathroom break, after asking him to hold the fort for a moment. Passing cars threw their headlights in through the window and created a stroboscopic effect on the ceiling. One of Donald’s legs dangled over an arm of the easy chair, while his head lolled on the soft back. The large potted plants in the lobby had gained shadowy twins on the walls. The lights of the elevator’s button panels glowed in a happy green.

Pressing his phone to his ear, Donald rolled his eyes at the female voice coming from it.

“It wasn't my fault. Keep telling you. The dude just started shooting.”

On the other end of the phone call, Lyla Lay sighed. “Couldn't you corner him in a less populated place?”

“In the Hilton?” Donald snorted. “Not likely. There were people crawling around everywhere. That conference is attracting way more guests than I'd have thought possible.”

“It is a very interesting topic.”

“And future-oriented. Yeah, I got that.”

“Ah? Your friend already told you that, didn’t he?”

Donald suppressed a smile and feigned not to know that she was referring to One. Lyla had never met the A.I. of Ducklair Tower in person and Donald thought it was much better to keep it this way.

“Who?”

“Never mind.” Lyla sounded bemused, but Donald knew that she wouldn’t pressure him on this point if he didn’t want to tell her. And he really did not want to.

“Wasn't there something you wanted to talk to me about this morning?” Lyla asked instead.

Donald pushed himself up into a half sitting position.

“Yeah.” He confirmed. “Well, actually I wanted to ask you if you'd heard about the Organization moving around these parts. But that's more or less answered itself by now.”

Lyla’s laugh tickled in his ear. “You could say that.”

“Have there been agents of the time police around, too?”

“No, only me.”

“No one else has been in contact?”

“I'm afraid not. Why do you ask?”

Donald much preferred talking to Lyla in person than over the phone. She had lied to him before and he knew that she would do it again if she was under orders.

“Nothing. Just wondered.”

After a moment of silence, he offered: “Someone's been jumping in and out a lot over the last days.”

“Yes, I noticed the tachyon traces, too.”

“And you didn't report it in?”

Lyla sighed. “Of course I did.”

“Ah.”

“Yes.” She sounded serious.

“And no one's getting involved?” He wanted to make sure if he had understood her meaning right.

“Not right now. I've been ordered to stay put. We aren't sure yet what the purpose of the incursion is.”

Donald couldn’t stop the snort that escaped.

“But we are working on it.” Lyla continued.

“Great.” He wondered if he should tell her that he had a very good idea of what the purpose was: to kill Bruce Wayne. But he decided against it. Best not to, until he was certain where Lyla and hence the time police stood in all this. After the last time, he wouldn’t trust them again so easily. Not when they had been prepared to sacrifice half the city in order to uphold a horrible timeline.

“Excuse me if I don't actually appreciate it.” He said instead.

To her credit, Lyla sounded tired. “I know what you are thinking. But there's nothing I can do.”

“Orders are orders.” Donald repeated Newton’s words.

“Yes. They are.”

The night porter came back into the lobby. The lights switched on automatically above him, lightening up his path across the floor. He didn’t speak but nodded thankfully at Donald. Then, he sat back down behind the reception desk and Donald slipped down deeper into the cushions, until everything but his foot disappeared from view of any possible passersby.

“I'll keep you posted on anything I hear.” Lyla promised.

“I wish I could believe you.”

“I haven't been ordered yet to not pass information to you. This isn't like last time.” Now she sounded exasperated.

“Let's hope not. That was a mess.”

His mind brought up the memory of the destruction that was meant to happen to his city when the experimental reactor in the energy research center exploded.  Which it hadn't done. Thanks to a member of the same Organization that was placing bombs in his city right now, ironically enough. One had shown him some simulations of possible outcomes after he and the Raider had changed the timeline. The memory of those possibilities still haunted him in his dreams.

He heard something clatter on Lyla’s side of the conversation. It sounded like she was moving dishes around.

“Are you home already?”

She hummed in agreement. “It's way past nine. Why? Where are you?”

Before he could answer, someone cuffed Donald on the head from above. He nearly fell out of the easy chair in shock.

His phone clattered to the ground. And he was crouching in a fighting stance, his gaze latched on to the shadowy figure lurking behind the chair he had sat in moments ago.

“What are ye doing here, this time o' night?”

Uncle Scrooge.

Donald breathed, consciously calming his heartbeat down to its regular steady beat.

He picked his phone back up. Luckily, One had constructed it to withstand far worse damage than a short drop like that. Lyla was calling his name. She sounded distressed.

“Hey, Uncle Scrooge.” He lifted the phone to his ear. “It's okay, Lyla. Need to go. Call you later.”

Not waiting for an answer, he ended the call.

“What are you doing here?” He turned to his uncle.

“Searchin fer ye, o’course.”

Scrooge moved forward and the lights of a passing car lightened up his features. The bruise on his neck and throat had grown and turned into an alarming shade of yellowish green. Donald knew that this was a sign of healing, but he still couldn’t stop wincing. He rubbed his own neck in empathy.

Of course, his uncle picked up on it.

“Tis fine.” The old man sat down in a chair opposite the one Donald had been lounging in.

“Yeah, I know. Still- looks bad.”

Rather than answering, Scrooge pointed his cane at the chair behind Donald. “Sit down.”

Ominous, Donald thought. He slowly sat down and held the phone in both hands.

“Oooookay. Why?”

Scrooge’s gaze fell to the phone in Donald's hands. Donald gripped it a bit harder.

“Ah wanted tae talk tae ye.”

“So, you tracked me down all the way here? At this time? Must be important.”

Uncle Scrooge shrugged. He nodded over Donald’s shoulder at the night porter: “Ye've no reason bein’ here this time o’ day.”

Donald threw the porter a glare. Traitor, he thought.

Then, he turned his attention back to his uncle.

“What's it about then?”

Scrooge sighed and settled himself back in the chair. Obviously, he was there to stay for a while. Donald had a bad feeling about where this was going.

“Daisy and you.”

Oh yeah, Donald thought, definitely not a discussion he wanted to have.

 

---

 

Hotel Hilton, Monday August 13^th, 10:16 pm

Batman crouched in the dark exhibition hall of the Hotel Hilton. Glass shards crunched underneath his boots. Right above him moonlight streamed in through the remains of the previously grand skylight. The dark knight moved his gloved hands intently over the ground but aside of some burn marks left by the energy weapons used here this afternoon, there were no clues left.

He rose, deep in thought. The hotel was quiet around him. It felt empty. But he knew that guests had returned to other parts of the building and so had the employees. He had overheard two of them discussing a firm that would come in tomorrow morning to clear the remaining glass from the hall. Things were moving fast. He got the feeling that the people around here were used to cleaning up after altercations like this. The singlemindedness with which they shrugged off the violence and started to rebuild was slightly unsettling and not an attitude he would have expected to find in this place.

Careful not to make any noise, he crossed the hall into the great lobby of the hotel. There were two night porters sitting behind the reception desk. But they seemed to be absorbed in something on their computers. No one else was around. He considered the angles of the surveillance cameras before moving further down the hall towards the stairs, hiding himself in the shadows all the way.

He was certain that the police would have taken all the video footage from noon but if it had been erased afterwards was uncertain. And even if that was the case, he was confident that he would be able to find remains on the servers. Ergo, it was worth checking. He was very curious to see what PK had been up to after their talk at the buffet. And where had the large man with the bomb come from? Where had he gone to?

He recalled the hotel’s floorplan and made his way to the central security office. Thankfully, he had taken the time this afternoon to hack into the database of the Department of Buildings to research the hotel. It had given him a good idea of where the security cameras would most likely be installed.  Using a portable EMP device, he disabled them one after the other. He hid from the security guards who moved up the hallway, arguing about what could have made the cameras break down this time, and slipped into the security office unnoticed.

“It's probably just a problem with the wiring. Damn PK nearly brought down the whole building again.”

Batman scowled. It was, at least, a good cover-up for his own activities tonight. He moved to a computer and pulled up the surveillance footage from the afternoon. It was still there. He breathed a sigh of relief. That made things much easier. It didn’t take him long to find the footage of PK taking a running jump down the stairs into the main lobby and bursting into the exhibition hall. He checked on a map, which camera was where, then pulled up the footage from the camera PK must have passed before that.

He watched the other vigilante run down a hallway on the second floor. He went back further, to PK bumping into a corner with his shoulder and swaying. Another camera further back and he saw PK staggering through a hallway, his hand held out to the wall to keep himself from falling over his own feet. The small man looked as if he had been in a recent fight. It must have happened after their talk at the buffet. Had he engaged the bomber? Curious now, Batman called up the camera that came even before that, but to his surprise there was no footage left.

A sudden rush of adrenaline burst through his body. He felt electrified as more and more footage disappeared in front of his eyes. Someone was deleting it! He bit back a curse, pulled the keyboard towards himself and started hammering on the keys. But it was no use. Whoever was on the other side, they sure knew their way around the network.

Within half a minute every recorded security footage on the server was gone. Permanently. Batman tried to recreate one, only to find that it had been overwritten with nonsense data. He scowled even more as he leaned back and stared at the screen. He had never seen a hacker move that fast. Whoever it was, they were good. Very good. And the timing seemed too perfect to be coincidental. He had no doubt that the same fate would befall the police’s copy of the footage.

“Clever.” He mumbled to himself.

But there were other ways for him to find information. He turned around on his heel, his cape flaring out behind him, and left the room.

After a bit of trial and error, he managed to find the camera that had recorded the last footage. It was a good thing that he had such an eye for detail that he had noticed the room numbers shown in the clip. Carefully backtracking in the direction he thought PK must have come from, he finally found a dark red stain on a wall a few steps away. He stared at it from up close and sniffed at it - dried blood.

Down in the hall PK hadn't seemed injured. His movements had been fluent and graceful during the fight. But Bruce remembered a reddish tint in pale blonde hair. Could this be a blood sample from PK? Or was it from whomever he had fought here previously to running back to the hall? It might also be from some other hotel guest, but the chance for that was comparatively low. He pulled a sample kit from a pouch on his belt and dapped at the dried blood with a cotton swab. Placing the swab carefully back in its plastic casing, he wondered where he could find a laboratory to analyze the blood sample on short notice. Maybe it would be easier to wait for Alfred's package to arrive first. His butler would send it with priority after all.

 

---

 

Plaza Hotel, Bruce Wayne's suite, a short time later

PK was hanging upside down in front of the glass façade of the Plaza Hotel. A thin cable secured him to a safety rig on the roof. Far underneath him cars moved on the illuminated boulevards of Downtown. He stared at his own reflection in the mirrored glass only inches away from his face. A summer breeze tickled in his nose and he had to hold in a sneeze.

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” One’s voice sounded dubiously in his ear.

PK shrugged as best as he could in his current position. “Yeah?”

He pulled an unmarked spray can out of his right thigh holster and readied himself to spray its contents onto the glass in front of him.

“You could have gone in through the door.”

“There’re cameras everywhere in the hallway.” He sprayed and watched as the glass melted away.

“I could have switched them off.” One argued.

A small hole appeared in the glass and rapidly grew in size.

“That would have just gotten security on our track.”

“You could have gotten in undercover.”

PK nodded once and put the spray can back into his holster

“Too much trouble for this.”

With his right hand he pushed a button that disconnected the wire from his belt. He fell forward, landed on his left hand and used the momentum to swing his body forward through the now large hole in the window into the hotel suite. For a moment, he precariously balanced on one hand before he twisted into a roll forward. Feeling the carpeted floor between his shoulder blades, he came up into a crouch in one fluid movement. Another breeze touched his neck as it blew in through the now open window front.

“I'll be in and out faster this way.”

“I thought you liked dressing up for undercover work.” One pointed out.

PK checked his surroundings.

“Camera's clear.” One informed him.

Only after that did PK chance to stand up and stretch his arms. His neck cracked. There was no point in telling One that he had desperately wanted to try this ever since he had first seen the room with the invitingly large windows. He dropped his arms and shook them loose. Besides, after the talk with Scrooge he desperately needed to burn off some energy. He wandered through the hotel suite, taking in the pieces of Wayne's belongings lying around. His fingers brushed absently over the jacket slung over the back of a chair. A laptop lay on top of a desk. PK cocked his head.

“You just want to see me in a skirt.”

He opened the laptop.

“I've already had the pleasure”, One answered drily. “thank you. I particularly liked the dark blue one you wore when you pretended to be a realtor.”

The laptop screen showed a log-in screen. PK wondered if he should hack it, but decided against it for now.

“That's a very nice one” he nodded. “I like it, too.”

He pulled the white orb that was the Exotransformer shield from his wrist and placed it next to the laptop. Then, he used a USB cable to connect the laptop to the shield.

“Establishing uplink.”

Once that was done, he turned away from the laptop. His gaze traveled through the suite.

“I'm merely pointing out that it is very untypical for you not to grasp on a chance to dress up. You seem very fond of it.”

PK smiled. “I'm saving my new dress for the right date. If you were a piece of superhero technology, where would you hide?”

“How would I know?” One asked derisively. “What kind of date?”

“Dunno. I figured what with you being a piece of technology playing superhero, you could relate.”

PK had the uncanny feeling that One was rolling his non-existent eyes at him.

“In a wardrobe?” the A.I. guessed, “There are not that many places for hiding things in a hotel suite are there? I can't believe your Miss Daisy would be very appreciative of having you appear to a date in a dress. Neither would Miss Lay.”

“You listened in on Uncle Scrooge and me, didn’t you?” PK snorted. “Never mind. Of course you did.”

One did not sound repentant at all: “It was impossible not to.”

Walking through the suite, PK randomly opened cupboards and closed them again. In the bathroom, he took a moment to scan through the creams and shampoos that the hotel supplied to its guests.

“I'm not getting into a dress-up competition with the girls.” He left the bathroom and entered the bedroom. His eyes scanned the room. He took in the unused bed.

“Maybe I'm keeping it for you.” He added mischievously.

One snorted. “Why thank you. Is it lovely?”

PK grinned broadly.  “Well yes. Absolutely.” His fingers grasped the wardrobe's doors. He pulled them open in anticipation and his eyes fell on the big suitcase Wayne had been lugging around since the airport.

“And here we go.”

“You found it?”

PK reached forward into the wardrobe and pulled the suitcase out. It was surprisingly light.

“Sure did. Now, let's see if there's anything left.”

He put the suitcase on the floor and opened it.

“He probably took a lot of things with him.” One commented through the communicator in PK’s ear. “But even a small hint towards the technology base of his equipment will be helpful to extrapolate on his abilities. And to speculate on his reasons for being here.”

PK rifled through the empty suitcase.

“I know. Don't nag. We talked about it.”

His fingers touched a latch. Grinning triumphantly, he pulled open a secret compartment.

“Ta-dah!”

“What?” One asked. “What's in it?”

PK grinned broadly at his partner's open curiosity. Then he took a better look into the compartment and frowned in disappointment.

“Nothing much. Just replacement ammo.”

Some gas cartridges the size of his thumb, a throwing hook and half a dozen stylized metallic bats with sharpened edges. He pushed his gloved hands around in the compartment, trying to find something more in it.

“Ammunition?”

“Shuriken type.” PK clarified.

“Nothing interesting?” One was clearly disappointed as well.

“A few gas cartridges. Darkwing would have a field day.” PK sat back Indian style. Holding one cartridge in his hand, he peered at it closely.

“I'd hoped for a bit more. But bring it to the tower anyway. At least, I should be able to find out where it was fabricated.”

PK dropped his hand.

“He’s really traveling light. Maybe he didn’t plan on running around in costume. Where is he now?”

“On his way back from the Hilton”, One reported. “He just appeared on CCTV of Ancona International.”

Four blocks away.

“Two minutes?” PK estimated.

“Probably less.”

The Avenger got to his feet. He put the gas cartridge into a pocket on his belt.

“How far are you with the laptop?”

He closed the suitcase and carefully placed it back in the wardrobe.

“I've nearly finished copying the hard drive. I'll have to sift through the data later.”

PK nodded. “Okay.”

He stepped back into the suite’s main room and walked towards the desk where the laptop was whirring. He stopped in front of it and rested his hand on the connection cable.

“Say when.”

“20 seconds.”

PK mentally counted down the seconds and knew that he was running out of time.

“Bat status?”

“No idea.” One answered.

Now worried, PK asked: “Satellite coverage?”

“I didn't think we'd need it. You should still have a minute.”

PK swallowed passed a lump in his throat. There was a slight metallic taste on his tongue.

“I don't think so”, he cautioned. “Hurry up.”

“Are you having a hunch?” One sounded disbelieving.

Some more seconds ticked by. They dragged like hours.

Finally, One said: “When.”

Immediately, PK ripped the USB cable out with far more force than needed. The plug crumbled in his fist as he stuffed it roughly into his pocket.

He was already moving through the room to the hole in the window as he plugged the shield onto the connectors on his right wrist. Twisting it, he felt its small clamps lock into place.

“I'm on my way back.”

His eyes easily found the thin wire swaying in the wind outside. He reached out and pulled it towards himself, connecting the wire to the rig on his belt. After that he reached for the spray can in his holster again.

He jumped out through the hole without hesitation, felt gravity take hold and strained his muscles to hold his position stable. Then, he turned the spray nozzle once and sprayed generously at the hotel’s window front.

A grin stretched over his features as he watched the spray slowly solidify into glass.

“That's an awesome invention.” He commented.

“Too bad you can't tell Gyro that.”

Humming in agreement, PK put the spray can away and grasped the wire holding him up with both hands.

“In and out in ten minutes. And you were worried.”

He spent a few seconds watching the glass solidify and suddenly felt movement behind him. His eyes widened. Instinctively, he tried to twist around. But he was too slow. Pain exploded in his lower back as two heavy boots rammed right into him. He lost his grip on the wire.

In his ear, One said something in answer, but the words were lost in the shattering of the window pane as PK was pushed forcefully through the not yet fully solid glass. He landed on his side. Gasping desperately for air, he wrapped his arms around his midsection.

His back felt as if it had splintered into a dozen parts.

He vaguely recognized that this was good. No pain would have been much worse.

Laboriously he rolled onto his back and gasped as another pang of burning heat shot through his back.

Light flashed in front of his face. His nervous system was overloading. He tried to lie still and take stock of his injuries, but everything felt fuzzy.

A choked sound echoed in the room and he blearily recognized it as his own voice.

He moved his arm over the floor. Glass shards tinkled.

A cold breeze caressed over the sensitive skin of his face.

Cars honked.

The tramway rattled by on 27^th.

Exhaust fumes mixed with the faint sweet smell of the orchids growing in the Hilton's roof garden.

Something large moved next to him.

A heavy body dropped to the floor. Glass shards crunched under heavy boots.

PK felt his feet twitch. His arms - a shiver ran down his spine.

Adrenaline pushed through nerves and straining muscles.

A heavy step vibrated through the floor.

Sensor readings flickered in and out of his eye sight. IFF went haywire.

He felt more than saw another person move and instincts took over.

Jumping straight up from lying on the floor, he was in a fighting stance before his eyesight cleared. Fists curled and brought up in a defensive strike position. He blinked at the shadowy form looming in front of him. Black. Ridiculously large. Cape. Pointed ears. Ah shit.

Batman growled. “What are you doing here?”

If he was taken aback from PK's fast recovery he didn’t show it.

The guy had one hell of a poker face. The cowl must come in handy there.

“Just passing by.”

Silence stretched.

PK knew that Batman didn’t believe a word. He wouldn’t have either.

“Are you in the habit of kicking people through windows?” He tried to shift the conversation onto another topic.

“Sometimes.”

That didn’t sound reassuring. Still, PK slowly relaxed out of the fighting stance. Carefully watching Batman's reaction, he lifted his hands in the universal sign of peace. He didn’t want to get into a fight. And he did kind of get caught going through the other's proverbial underwear dresser. He cringed and silently resolved to be faster next time.

He noticed Batman relax minutely, too.

“You should have thought better about doing this.” The dark vigilante growled. His eyes narrowed behind the cowl.

PK pushed a bright smile on his face that felt horribly fake to himself. “You’d be surprised how many people tell me that.”

The scowl underneath Batman’s mask only got worse. PK lifted his hands a bit higher and took a small step backwards.

“It's okay”, he stuttered. “I get it. I get it. Yeesh.”

The tingling in his limbs grew weaker. He checked the status report projected into his line of sight through the smart lens in his right eye. Just a few more moments. He just needed to stall for a few more precious moments. He'd learned the hard way not to throw himself off skyscrapers while his body was still in regeneration. One ought to be proud of him for that.

Batman was eerily silent. He just stared, unmoving. PK was vaguely aware of a small cut under his own mask that he had probably gotten from being pushed through the window and that he was certain had already healed over.

Trying to shift Batman’s attention away from his healing scrapes, he said: “Should have asked first before coming to visit. My bad. I always forget about that.”

“Yes”, Batman growled, “I heard trespassing was a particular hobby of yours.”

PK blinked surprised. He felt his smile becoming real.

“I hate to interrupt the play date”, One whispered to him and PK was wholeheartedly thankful that the earbud was still in his ear instead of on the floor somewhere, “but do you need a distraction now?”

PK felt his lips twitch. Batman’s eyes narrowed even further. They seemed to be glowing in the dark. That was a nice trick, PK reflected.

“Actually, I kind of got lost.” He said. “Just wanted to use your phone. Hope you don't mind.”

“My phone?” The growl this time was definitely more pronounced and promising violence in his near future.

PK blinked. “Oops. Sorry.”

He could see Batman having an internal argument with himself. Then, the man finally acquiesced: “Why do you think this is my place?”

PK rolled his eyes and let his hands sink down until he was holding them up more for appearances sake.

“You’ve got to admit, it's a strange coincidence; you coming here from Gotham City, right as Mr. Wayne comes visiting, too. So, I checked some information online. With Wayne Enterprises. And GCPD. It's not rocket science.”

Batman seemed to ponder this. Glass shards tinkled as he moved his weight from one foot to the other.

“Your partner is very thorough.” He finally said.

PK froze.

“A distraction it is.” One said in his ear. “Coming right up.”

“Yes”, PK answered carefully. “Yes, he is.”

“It wasn't that difficult to figure out either. You talk a lot.”

PK shrugged trying to appear unconcerned. “Another one of my weaknesses.”

“Makes one wonder how you came this far.”

PK felt the smile returning to his face. Banter, he could do. It was much better than fighting, even though his muscles were still itching to release all that coiled-up energy. He reminded himself that Batman was not the opponent here.

Instead he sniggered. “Dumb luck, blind chance and very sexy dresses.”

Somehow, Batman managed to look taken aback, even with the cowl.

 

---

 

Bruce stared at the small vigilante in front of him.

‘Dresses’, he thought. ‘What the hell?’

Belatedly he noticed that PK was at an easy rest now, balanced for fast movement. He shouldn't be in such a good condition after the kick and crash through the window pane. And hadn’t that been a surprise? Bruce had fully expected to bounce him against the safety glass and had been surprised when it had given way so easily. Also, the smaller man got up way too fast to be normal. Bruce was at a loss. Maybe he was on some sort of drug. It would explain his lack of pain at the attack.

Suddenly, the fire alarm went off, startling him from his contemplation.

He was only disoriented for half a second, but it was enough to allow PK to move.

Before Batman could react, the smaller vigilante had dashed right past him. He was nothing but a blur of black and red as he threw himself straight out of the hole in the window.

Batman lounged after him, his fingertips brushing the cape, but PK twisted in mid-air and escaped his grasp. ‘Like trying to catch a cat’, Batman thought.

And the next thing he knew was PK's cape disappearing from his sight.

He cursed. One quick step took him to the window himself. He could just make out a black blotch moving through the air.

Without further thinking, Batman jumped out of the window. Using a grappling hook to keep himself airborne, he changed his trajectory so that he followed the black blot flickering in and out between the lights of the skyscrapers around them.

He landed on a roof top, immediately sprinted across it, always keeping one eye on the moving vigilante. The small man was crouching on a white shield, using it as some kind of surfboard in the air. Batman was truly surprised. Where had it come from? PK hadn't had it on him during the confrontation in the hotel suite. The speed of that thing was startling. Batman could barely keep up as the shield hurtled through the canyons of streets. He jumped from roof top to roof top, using his cape to sail between them when the distance was too big.

Internally, he berated himself for being too slow. He should have expected a distraction. After all, he had already discerned that PK had a very tech savvy partner at his beck and call. The fire alarm was such a classic example for a distraction, too.

He watched PK speed out towards the darker parts of town. The few lights around him told Batman that they had entered the port area of Duckburgh. He was losing height. Soon, he realized, it would become impossible to follow further. Unlike PK’s shield, which was obviously designed for powered flight, his own cape only allowed for gliding. The smaller the buildings became, the less height he had to work with. The air currents between the buildings changed, too, as the streets got wider and they crossed a motorway turnpike. If he was going to stop the other vigilante, he had to do so soon.

As he touched down on another roof, he took a moment before jumping off again to pull out his gun. Taking careful aim, he breathed out, steadied his shooting hand with the other and pulled the trigger. A thin wire shot out and twirled around PKs right boot.

A loud curse echoed through the air. It would have made a sailor blush. The blonde vigilante stumbled on his shield and lost his balance for a second. The shield lost height. It sped straight towards the ground. Not wanting to have PK crash down from this height, Batman let go of the wire before throwing himself off the building. PK pulled the shield up at the last second before he hit the concrete of the street below. The shield seemed to falter. It came to a sudden stop without a sound. For a moment, PK seemed to float in the air before he fell the last feet to the ground, landing in a crouch. The shield folded into a similar but slightly smaller shape and settled safely on his right arm. His cape bellowed around him, his small form seeming to drown in it.

“Damn.” Batman stared in awe at the landing maneuver he had just witnessed. He had no doubt that the other man had done it a hundred times before. This neat blend of balance and instinctive movements could only be achieved through extensive training.

Batman pulled his cape into a steeper glide. His landing might not be quite as smooth, but he knew he could do it, too, as he had done it before. He remembered gliding over the Narrows as Scarecrow's poison gas filled the streets below. This was nothing in comparison. He gritted his teeth, preparing for impact.

Still, the moment his feet touched the ground, he got a jolt that nearly brought him to his knees.

He caught himself at a run. His cape folded out of the gliders shape into its smooth substance again and he slowed to a fast pace, closing the distance to PK, who was waiting for him.

All around them were deserted warehouses. Fork lifts and cranes painted the scenery of the docklands.

PK nodded at him. “That was pretty cool.”

“We are going to have a talk.”

PK screwed up his nose in distaste. “If we must.” He had a long suffering look on his face.

At that moment, Batman heard the sound of a car’s engine howling up. He hesitated. ‘What now?’

PK turned in surprise as the headlights of an armored truck threw him into sharp relief. He lifted the shield so that it covered half of his body but stood frozen in the middle of the street.

A truck howled towards him.

Batman squinted into its blinding headlights, PK's form outlined like a small black shadow in them.

“Get down!”

He jumped forward, grasped PK around the waist and pulled him forcefully to the side. The smaller man let out an indignant sound. As the van passed them, its left wheels lifting off the ground as it swerved, Batman was vaguely aware of PK twisting around in his arms. They crashed to the ground in a tangle of arms, legs and capes. A loud crash echoed through the night. It took a moment to sort himself out from PK and when he had finally succeeded, Batman stared at the van. It stuck like glue to the wall of a warehouse.

It was a bullion van, he recognized as he squinted at the logo on the side.

Beside him, PK was staggering to his feet. “What the hell, man?”

He had a gun in his left hand but aimed at nothing specifically. It was a futuristic looking thing. Batman had no doubt that it shot something that was not standard bullets.

The van’s back doors opened with a loud creaking sound and two men fell out. They looked decidedly not like security men. Their black overalls were rumbled. Their ski masks pulled haphazardly over their faces. Both pointed assault rifles at the two vigilantes’.

Batman felt a headache coming. “Seriously?” he asked aloud.

PK blinked at the two men. He cocked his head as if listening to something. Then, he bit his lip, changed his gun into his other hand and pushed it back into the holster on his right leg. “They stole the van down at First State bank.” He hesitated and looked up questioningly.

Batman bit back a sigh. He stared down at PK.

The two robbers stopped twenty feet from them, still pointing their weapons.  

“Hey! Lunatic! You get over here, now!”

One of them shook his rifle threateningly.

PK looked over at them and a dark smile grew on his face.

“Sure thing, man”, he called back and lifted his hands in a mocking gesture. The shield was still firmly attached to his right arm. “Kinda didn't see you there.” He stepped forward into the light of a street lamp. “Sorry.”

Even from behind, Batman could hear he grin in the blondes voice. The robbers took a defensive step back.

“Fuck!” The left one called. “It’s PK!”

Then he pulled the trigger.

The rifle must have been set on automatic because shots fired out rapidly and riddled the street with bullets. They echoed loudly through the silent night. Batman ducked instinctively down behind a nearby fork lift. His eyes scanned the street for PK. But the other vigilante was nowhere to be seen. Having watched the guy move, though, he had a hunch – and looked up just in time to see the small figure falling from the dark sky to land right between the two robbers.

They screamed in panic, both trying to flee.

Batman decided to use the distraction. He closed the distance and knocked one of the robbers out by grabbing onto the rifle and ramming it back into the guy’s chin. He twisted around to the other one, just in time to see PK deliver a perfect round house kick to the man’s chest. He went down with a grunt.

PK touched his hand to his ear. “There should be a third one”, he reported.

Batman tried to gauge the information, but the other vigilante had no reason to lie to him about this. They both looked around. Not seeing anyone else, Batman peered into the van’s driver’s side window. He could just make out a limp figure lying there. The front part of the van was crushed in. Blood covered the cracked windshield.

He tasted bale rising up in his throat. Taking a deep breath, he turned away from the grisly sight only to find the street empty.

He scanned the buildings around himself and then the sky. But there was no trace of PK.

In a sudden fit of anger, Batman smashed his fist into the side of the van. The hollow sound was the only sign of life around him.

 

[to be continued]

Chapter Text

Chapter 8: „But I can't quit”

 

 

Ducklair Tower, 151^st floor, Tuesday 8:14 am

 

 

“That went well.” One’s dry comment hovered in the air as PK hid his face behind a cup of coffee, holding it up protectively between himself and the screening wall. It offered a small if not perfect shield against the Channel 00 Morning News shown there.

 

He sat slumped down in a comfy chair, his ruffled hair falling into his eyes. Slowly, he peered up through his bangs at the TV stream.

 

“Oh, shut up.”

 

“You should have –”

 

“If you want to say 'I told you so'”, PK interrupted his friend, “then just get it over with.”

 

One didn't even hesitate: “I told you so.”

 

“Yes, yes, I know. But really?” PK waved one hand aimlessly at the screens in front of them. “How could I have known that talking to him would turn into this?”

 

One’s holographic projection turned in his bubble so that his line of sight followed PK’s to the screen. The hero took an angry bite from a donut. He chewed furiously. Swallowed. Then he added: “Why did you let Angus get his claws in this?”

 

“It’s not my fault.” One shot back. But PK was beyond caring.

 

“You were supposed to make sure that all cameras were off.”

 

“So, there was one I missed…”

 

“You're supposed to be the brightest AI on the planet. How did you miss it?”

 

“It wasn’t networked!” Now, One sounded truly offended. “Why didn’t you see it when you were there?”

 

“I was busy not being run over by a truck.” For a moment, PK held on to the anger in his chest, but it evaporated as fast as it had come up. The last shred of anger left him in a sigh and he slumped further down in his chair.

 

“Never mind”, he waved it off. “Neither of us is at fault. It was just bad luck.”

 

But, of course, One couldn’t let it go that easily. “If you had turned towards the Business district as I suggested –”

 

PK shrugged. “I thought the harbor would work.” He took a swallow from his cup, downing the last dregs of coffee, before he leaned forward with the cup grasped tightly between his hands.

 

“But this?” He stared up at the video where Angus was ranting viciously into the camera, commentating on a video feed that showed himself and Batman taking down armed robbers in front of the pitiful remains of an armored van.

 

“And thus”, Angus voice echoed from the screen, “as you can clearly see, the newest arrival in our city assisted the masked menace in spreading further wanton destruction, resulting in one more unnecessary death. When will the citizens of this city finally wake up and recognize that they become complicit in these atrocities as they allow these masked lunatics free reign?”

 

PK let his head drop to his chest. “This is a mess.”

 

“Indeed.” One agreed drily.

 

“He’s going to kill me.”

 

“He might try.”

 

PK waved a tired hand at the screen. “Turn it off.”

 

The video was instantly replaced with diagrams showing the tower’s energy distribution and internal climate controls.

 

“So, what do we do now?” PK wondered.

 

“What did you try to achieve in the first place?”

 

He shrugged. “With talking to him?”

 

“After being caught red-handed in his hotel room?”

 

“I wasn’t going to fight him. And it seemed like a viable alternative. Guess it wasn’t.”

 

From the corner of his eye he saw One roll his eyes at him. “No kidding, hero.”

 

PK ruffled a hand through his hair. It felt liberating, giving in to the urge. “At first I thought, I might lose him over open water if I reached the port. But then he forced me down first. Cool shot, by the way. And I thought talking sounded really good. From what you’ve told me about the stuff that happened in Gotham, it just looked as if he could use some good experiences with other heroes.”

 

“And he’d get them by hanging out with you?” One sounded exasperated.

 

PK shrugged again. “It was a hunch. I just went with it.”

 

“Have you seen the things we got involved in lately?”

 

“There's no need to rub it in”, PK snarled back, “so, it didn't work. We'll have to think of a way to make it up to him.”

 

“What if he doesn't want any more contact with you?”

 

PK stared at his partner in silence, then he waved at the screen again, as if the answer was self-explanatory.

 

“One! He caught me going through his things. He’ll want to talk to me. The question is if I’ll get out of that conversation in one piece.”

 

“Maybe it would be better if you kept your distance…”

 

“No. Someone from the future is trying to kill him. And there is nothing he can do to save himself, because he doesn’t know anything about it. So, it’ll be up to us to protect him.”

 

“I could watch him from here.” One countered.

 

PK grimaced. “But I’ll have to be close so I can respond fast enough. And it might be helpful if he knew what he was up against.”

 

“So, you’re going to do - what?” One seemed incredulous. “Meet up with him again? And tell him about an organization of time traveling villains that has been hired to assassinate him on behalf of an - as of yet - unknown entity? I’m sure that will go over well.”

 

PK closed his eyes in thought. One was right. He knew that of course, but still…

 

“It seems like the right thing to do, though.”

 

When he opened his eyes again, he noticed One raising an eyebrow in disbelief, so he added:

“After everything he's been through, it's just not right to push him around as if he’s some inexperienced newbie. He deserves to understand what is happening to him. Even if he'll hate me for it.”

 

He placed his cup on a computer interface from where a cleaning robot immediately swiped it away.

 

“I'm going to go to work now. Keep me updated, will you?”

 

He turned away and walked towards the elevator, straightening his civilian clothes as he went. One was curiously silent behind him. But just as Donald reached for the call button, he heard the AI give a quiet snort behind him.

 

“You biologicals. Always so complicated.”

 

 

 

***

 

 

 

Plaza Hotel, Tuesday, at the same time

 

 

Bruce sat on a couch and watched the morning news. Chanel 00. Finally, the weather forecast came on and he set the TV to mute. Then, he put the remote down with more force than necessary, before dragging both hands over his head and flattening his hair against his skull.

 

A cold anger simmered inside of him. He hadn't felt something like this in a long time. It was joined by an all-consuming feeling of resignation and tiredness. For a fleeting moment, he wished that he could go out on a run, or - better yet - a martial arts training. It would help him get rid of all the thoughts clogging up his brain.

 

An alarm rang from his phone and he got up with a sigh. He needed to get ready for a new day. Even if his night had offered no sleep, Bruce Wayne needed to be seen attending the conference.

 

Thankfully the hotel staff had been desperately apologetic when Mr. Wayne returned from a club late last night to find the window pane in his suite shattered and the room open to the chilly night air. He had immediately been issued a new suite, which, albeit not quite as big as the old one, was very nice.

 

He held, of course, no hope that the management would figure out how exactly the unbreakable glass had been broken. Bruce had noticed the resigned looks on the receptionists’ faces with interest. Somehow, he felt certain that the hotel management, as well as the duo of hastily called in police detectives, had a rather good idea of who was responsible for vandalizing the suite. And although no one involved voiced their beliefs aloud, Bruce was certain that they were right.

 

He pulled his jacket on and stepped into his shoes. While doing the shoelaces, he couldn’t stop his thoughts from returning to his meeting with PK last night. The spray that the local vigilante had used to recreate the glass surface from the outside had been nothing short of amazing. It had rebuilt the glass structure layer by layer, as witnessed by the fact that they had both so easily broken through it into the suite. He had planned to push the other vigilante back into the suite through the hole he had made to enter, maybe stun him with the kick, and had been thoroughly surprised when, instead, they had both smashed through a thin layer of glass.

 

After returning to the hotel as Bruce Wayne, he had surreptitiously picked up some shards to study them later. Their structure made up by dozens of thin layers upon each other. These single layers of glass could be seen on the edges, but had otherwise merged into a piece of glass undistinguishable from any other piece of window pane. No matter how much Bruce had thought about it last night, he just couldn’t understand how it worked.

 

“Where the hell does he get these gadgets from?” He wondered while staring at the shards that were lying innocently on his couch table. Then, he shook his head and left the hotel suite, pulling the door closed behind him and walking off to the elevator.

 

And what about the other events of last night?

 

Obviously, he had been right about PK having a partner. Checking the hotel's mainframe last night, he had not only found the traces of an outside hacker activating the fire alarm, but also clues that his notebook’s hard drive had been copied. That discovery worried him deeply. Of course, he had immediately changed all his passwords. He had even sent a short notice to Lucius Fox, just in case the hacker used the notebook's MAC address to access Wayne Enterprises mainframe. If the man was as good as Bruce feared, it was a definitive possibility.

 

So, had PK gotten what he had come for? What was it that he had searched for in the first place? Bruce pondered these questions while he stood in the elevator and watched the floor numbers count down.

 

Involuntary his thoughts turned to PK’s partner again who obviously had access to the police' mobile network. Another worrying fact. Whoever this mysterious hacker was, he obviously excelled at gaining network access. Clearly, he had been the one to inform PK of the robbery the men in the van had been involved in.

 

The elevator reached the ground floor and the doors slid open. Bruce stepped into the hotel's lobby and headed straight for the VIP parking lot, where he knew his rented limo would be waiting.

 

Walking through the spacious room, his gaze fell on the black globe of a security camera hanging in a corner. A small red light blinked in it.

 

He hesitated. An uneasy idea bloomed in his mind. He took a deep breath.

 

Of course. There were so many cameras these days. They were literally everywhere. PK's partner could simply access the CCTV. He had proven to be nearly unstoppable. Bruce felt a cold sweat run down his spine as he stepped out of the hotel. Suddenly, he felt watched.

 

‘It's alright’, he told himself. If Bruce Wayne didn't deviate from his normal movements, there was no need to watch him continuously. And whoever PK's partner was, he couldn't possibly watch a man every single minute of every day. He would just have to be careful about the cameras when he was in costume from now on.

 

“Mr. Wayne?” The limo driver greeted him with a regal nod.

 

Bruce studied the man. He was large and wore an expensive suit. The same driver as yesterday. He smiled and nodded back.

 

“To the conference again, Sir?”

 

“Yes. Thank you, Leo.”

 

“No problem, Sir.”

 

The driver opened the door for Bruce who lowered himself into the cushions. Behind him the door closed and all sounds from the busy city outside were suddenly cut off. Silence filled the otherwise empty car. As the limo started moving, Bruce began drumming his fingers restlessly on the seat next to his.

 

The question remained: what could PK have gained from searching his rooms?

 

He had taken the data from the notebook. The distraction had worked. He had managed to get past Batman. He was damn good at what he did. Bruce could readily admit that. He was not at all certain that he could have caught up to PK if the smaller vigilante had had more of a head-start.

 

And then, there was the matter of the video footage Channel 00 had shown this morning. It had obviously been taken by a surveillance camera. But the video was suspiciously missing certain parts, like the one where the van nearly ran them both over. As if it had been specifically edited to make it look as if PK and Batman had been attacking the armored van of their own volition.

 

And why hadn’t PK's tech-savvy partner erased the footage before it could be obtained by the news? Bruce imagined that it may have been possible that the footage had simply been missed, but that seemed unlikely.

 

So, could this mean that PK himself had orchestrated the whole situation to catch Batman on video? And then send the whole thing on to the news himself? What for? It made no sense.

 

Bruce felt a headache coming on.

 

Why would PK want to hurt Batman? His reputation was so bad by now that this hardly meant anything to him. In fact, according to everything he had heard lately, PK's own reputation probably suffered more through this video than Batman's did.

 

His thoughts were beginning to run in circles.

 

Tiredly he rubbed his hands over his eyes.

 

“Great. Another costumed idiot to drive me crazy.”

 

 

 

***

 

 

 

Ducklair Tower, offices of Channel 00, Tuesday 9:30 am

 

Donald made his way through the cubicles that were the news offices of Channel 00. Carefully, he pushed the post cart in front of him, stopping at the different desks to deliver letters and to receive new envelopes in return. Sorting a thin brown package into the box marked “in-house” he reached Lyla’s desk. She looked up at him. A single strand of blonde hair fell from her pony tail.

 

“Hey, Donald.” Lyla smiled, obviously happy to see him.

 

“Hey.”

 

He stepped to the other side of her desk, out of sight of the other people milling around the office.

 

“Do you have a moment?”

 

Lyla looked momentarily surprised, but joined him, leaning onto the desk with her hip and crossing her arms over her chest.

 

“Sure.” She consulted her watch. “But I need to head out soon.” She looked at him inquiringly. “What’s up?”

 

“Have you heard anything new about the assassination attempts on Mr. Wayne?”

 

She hushed him and threw a furtive glance around the office. “Keep it down!”

 

But she seemed to consider her answer and admitted: “I was ordered to only observe the situation for now.”

 

“What? That’s all? ‘Observe the situation’?”

 

Lyla brushed the loose strand of hair back behind her ear. She seemed nervous, which didn’t bode well in Donald’s opinion. “I think they want to see how it plays out. Whether you’re able to deal with it yourself.”

 

Donald couldn’t stop the snort that escaped him. “How nice of them.”

 

“Don’t be angry”, Lyla sighed, “you know that changing time is a dangerous undertaking. And I know that they are tracking the Organization’s movements. You aren’t alone in this.”

 

Donald wished that he could believe her, but their track record wasn’t the best recently. Some of his doubts must have shown on his face, because Lyla hurried to add: “We know that the hit on Bruce Wayne is to be executed between July this year and early 2014.”

 

“That’s oddly precise.” Donald frowned.

 

“But not unusual for this kind of thing.”

 

He shook his head. “That’s not what I meant. How did your people get that information?”

 

“We have informants, Don.” Lyla checked something over her shoulder.

 

Donald followed her gaze. Camera 9 was walking towards them.

 

“And right now, they are trying to find out who hired the Organization for this.” Lyla continued.

 

He wanted to trust her information, but a small part in his mind still worried that she could be withholding something important again. Nodding his head, he deliberately pushed the thought aside.

 

“Okay”, he said, just as Camera 9 reached them. “You’ll tell me when you hear more, right?”

 

“Of course.”

 

For a second, Camera 9 looked curious but then his features relaxed into the calm disinterest that was his standard reaction nowadays. He greeted Donald with a short nod and then turned to Lyla: “Are you ready?”

 

“Yes.” She picked up her bag and slung it over her shoulder. “Let’s go.”

 

Donald leaned back on the desk as he watched the two leave the office side by side.

 

 

 

***

 

 

 

Hotel Hilton, auditorium, Tuesday, 10:05 am

 

“Cold fusion - energy, generated by the interaction of hydrogen and various metals. It might be nickel. It might be palladium.” Gyro Gearloose’ voice floated through the auditorium. Bruce settled into his seat. The room was stuffed to the brim with people: scientists, businessmen and journalists of every type bustled about. Murmurs quieted down slowly.

 

Bruce leaned back and relaxed. It was an interesting topic, but there were more pressing concerns on his mind. He placed his phone on the table in front of him. It would record the presentation, just in case he missed something due to being preoccupied. Lucius would never let him live that down.

 

“Basically, what happens is this: Hydrogen is introduced to a piece of metal and a reaction occurs that can create excess heat.”

 

Bruce found his thoughts drifting off from the proceedings. What could he do about the bomber? He still had no idea who it was, who was gunning for him. He tried to list possible enemies that would go this far. He had made a lot of enemies as Batman, but the bombs were clearly meant for Bruce Wayne. So, who had Bruce angered recently? Immediately, a leering face came to his mind. Scars; clown paint half washed off... His thoughts shied away.

 

“Some type of nuclear mechanism takes place. The interesting thing is that no radioactive materials are used in cold fusion. No dangerous radiation! And no radioactive waste!”

 

Bruce suppressed a shudder and concentrated on safer topics. He hadn’t recognized the large man in the exhibition hall - wouldn’t have noticed him at all, if PK hadn’t made a scene. Bruce guessed that he owed the other vigilante a favor for that.

 

He tried to recreate a picture of the bomber in his mind. The man had been tall; broad-shouldered; wearing a ballcap that had thrown his features into shadow. But underneath it, Bruce was left with the impression of pale skin. Northern type then? He frowned, seemed to remember short red hair peeking out from under the black ballcap. Caucasian; European look. Maybe Irish? He hesitated. It seemed too simple to jump from ‘red hair’ to ‘Irish’. He couldn’t allow himself to fall into the trap of stereotyping.

 

“Cold fusion energy generators don't need to be connected to an electrical power grid. The small units are portable and can be used at any location.”

 

And the man might not even be directly affiliated to someone Bruce knew. More likely, he was someone hired to kill him. But hired by whom? Bruce didn’t know. Annoyed, he broke off that train of thought and concentrated on the other person involved. PK had known that the bomber was there. Hadn’t he shouted something at the man when he’d barged into the exhibition hall? Bruce frowned trying to remember step by step what had occurred there yesterday. Yes, he was certain; PK had called out to the man. And then, the man had turned around towards him. What was it that the blonde vigilante had shouted? Bruce breathed in deep, centering himself, wishing that he had paid more attention and pictured the situation as precisely in his mind as he could. A name. Had it been a name? He felt his frown deepen, Gearloose’ voice washed over him, droning on about the economical advantages of cold fusion energy. Yes, he suddenly felt certain. It had been a name.

 

“We need to take steps, of course. It is still a long way until we will have fully mastered the technology.”

 

Bruce eyes snapped open. A name! What had it been? He couldn’t remember. He bit the inside of his lip in frustration. But PK had known. He had known the bomber. By name.

 

“The incident at the Duckburg Center for Energy Research has shown that we need to put more strength into making the cold fusion devices we develop as safe as possible.”

 

There was only one way to go then, Bruce recognized. He’d have to question the other vigilante. And this time he’d make certain that the other wouldn’t be able to escape the conversation.

 

“They need to be made non-polluting.”

 

But how could he track him down? The last time had been pure chance, he knew. If PK had been just a little bit faster with searching his hotel suite, they would never have met.

 

“They need to be made high-powered enough to substitute our current energy generators.”

 

He had a good clue at hand though. The blood sample he had taken in the hotel was still in his pocket right now. He hadn’t dared leaving it in his suite today, fearing that it might ‘disappear’ just as the video footage had done.

 

“Think about it: computers, cell phones, other electrical devices operating continuously for decades without needing a recharge.”

 

Bruce picked up his phone and typed a search query.

 

“Drones that can stay in the air for months and could carry TV and telephone repeaters like satellites do now.”

 

He scrolled through the results.

 

“Food factories. Digging engines. Desalinization units. Improved extraction of metals from ore.”

 

There, perfect.

 

“Untold medical applications.”

 

He smiled at the address of Duckburg’s forensic institute. It wouldn’t take him long to analyze the blood and if PK’s DNA was on record anywhere, Bruce would find him.

 

He startled as the people around him stood up from their seats, applauding loudly. Obviously, he had missed the end of Gyro Gearloose’ speech. Hastily, he stood up and joined the clapping.

 

 

 

***

 

 

 

Hotel Hilton, entry hall, Tuesday, 11:32 am

 

Donald stepped into the entrance hall of the Hotel Hilton. Briefly, he marveled at the many people milling around. He scanned the crowds for Bruce Wayne. On the way over he had decided that it would be easiest to hang around the guy as Donald. Since Wayne had already developed a rapport with him, he would have no reason to suspect that he was being watched.

 

While still searching, Donald heard the distinctive drawl of Angus closing in on him. He cursed silently and dodged out of sight of the bad-tempered journalist. Until now, he had managed to go through the day without having to meet the man and he’d be damned if he couldn’t manage a few hours more. Ducking down behind a large potted palm, he listened as Angus complained to his camera man. Camera 5, Donald noticed absently.

 

“As if we couldn’t do the interview before all the lectures started! These rich guys don’t give a shit about us working people, I tell you!”

 

Camera 5 nodded amiably. “Seemed to me you got along alright with Mr. Wayne.”

 

“Bah,” Angus waved the comment away as if it was a straggly mutt “he agreed. So, what? Doesn’t mean anything. We should just be happy that he’s here in the first place. There’s some mileage in that.”

 

“Better than the usual suspects.”

 

“Old McDuck’s always good for a publicity stunt. So’s Rockerduck. But our new face comes with baggage. Let’s see if we can get some news from all out east out of him.” A silent snigger resonated in Angus’ voice.

 

Donald shuddered and started to follow the duo, making sure that they didn’t notice him shadowing them.

 

They walked towards the elevators. He hurried to catch up, when a well-known voice called out his name and a hand grasped onto him. Instincts kicked in immediately and Donald had to consciously stop himself from breaking John Rockerduck’s arm. He gnashed his teeth.

 

“What? I’m in a hurry!”

 

“So, I can see.” Rockerduck smiled thinly and lifted a questioning eyebrow at him.

 

Donald took a deep breath and watched Angus step into an elevator.

 

 “I just wanted to ask…” The billionaire trailed off, seemingly uncertain how to continue.

 

“What?” Donald watched the elevator doors close. The number display showed that it was going up.

 

“Well”, Rockerduck hesitated again, “I haven’t seen your uncle here today. And I wondered… if he was going to attend at all.”

 

Donald threw him a shrewd look.

 

“Are you worried?”

 

Rockerduck snorted. “Hardly.” He looked away to watch the other visitors pottering around. “But he isn’t the youngest anymore. And it was rather obvious that he was injured during the bombing at the steakhouse.”

 

Donald suppressed a smile. “He’s fine”, he assured the billionaire. “I’m sure he’ll be here sometime today. “

 

Rockerduck hummed non-committally. “Maybe I should get on making a few deals then, before the old man interferes again.”

 

“Sounds like a plan.”

 

The elevator stopped on the third floor.

 

Rockerduck turned away.

 

“What’s on the third floor?”

 

The sudden question stopped the billionaire from leaving. He turned a faint look of surprise at Donald.

 

“I mean right now?” Donald clarified.

 

“Aside of the hotel rooms?” Rockerduck frowned. “There’s a large seminar room where the news agencies have set up.” He waved his hands in an encompassing movement. “You know; their equipment. And there are some rooms blocked for interviews and such.”

 

Donald smiled, noticing the careful way the other was watching him.

 

With a quick ‘thank you’ he turned towards the stairs and ran up, taking two steps at the time.

 

 

[to be continued]

Chapter Text

Conference center, a short time later, POV Bruce

 

“So, Wayne Enterprise plans to enter the energy market?”

Bruce bit back a smile. So far, the interview followed predictable lines.

He answered easily: “We’re looking at further developments in different areas. Yes, renewable energy is among that. But I really couldn’t say yet, when or to what extent we’ll get involved.”

Angus Fangus nodded. Really, Bruce thought, it was hardly more than an impolite jerk of his head. “And what do you think about the proceedings so far? I understand that it is unusual for you to take part in such a conference yourself.”

The journalist was obviously trying to prompt a more personal answer. Bruce deflected it easily. “A first step in any new enterprise is to get acquainted with the topic yourself. How would I be able to make value decisions, if I had no idea what people talked about?” He felt his smile grow. “Of course, I came to first get an overview of the field before any further decisions were made.”

The journalist’s eyes narrowed and Bruce added quickly: “And I can assure you that the conference has fulfilled all of my expectations thus far. It has been an experience.”

Fangus hummed. “You could say that.” A cold smirk was visible on his face for a moment. It was gone so fast that Bruce was uncertain if he had really seen it. “Weren’t you involved in the bombing at a local restaurant some time ago?”

Bruce felt his own smile freeze. He breathed deep through his nose, trying not to glower at the man in front of him. “Yes, I was. But as you can see, I came out of it unharmed.”

“Good for you”, Fagus nodded. “Many other people did not.”

Bruce blinked and gritted his teeth. Incredible that the journalist was brazen enough to ask questions like that. But then, he should have expected it. This was the same journalist he had watched besmirching Batman and PK in the morning news.

“Have there been any new developments on that case?” Fangus prompted with a thin smile on his face.

Bruce took another fortifying breath. “You tell me. At this point you’d probably know more than me about it.”

Angus Fangus hummed again, this time in obvious agreement, before smoothly changing the topic.

“What is your stance on vigilantism?”

Bruce startled. “I’m sorry?”

“Mr. Wayne, you come from Gotham City, yes?” It was obviously a rhetoric question, and yet, Bruce found himself nodding. “A city that has recently become famous for being the home of a man who dresses up as a giant bat and engages the local riff-raff on the street.” A slimy grin clawed its way on to Fangus’ face. “A vigilante, by any sense of the definition. So, as a citizen of Gotham City, what is your stance on that?”

Bruce smiled to hide his relief. For a second he had been worried that the journalist could have somehow made the connection between him and Batman, too. As the Avenger had so eloquently pointed out to him last night: It was not rocket science.

“I can understand the appeal a masked savior figure can have for some people”, Bruce said, knowing exactly what the journalist wanted to hear, “but we would do well to remember that vigilantism is against the law. We live in a country where the courts decide about guilt and punishment, not self-styled judges.”

Fangus grin turned sharp as steel and Bruce saw the attack coming right as he understood that he had offered an opening.

“So, is it an accident, you think, that Batman makes his debut in our city at the same time you are here to visit this ‘conference’?” The man was good at his work, Bruce had to acknowledge. His social skills obviously needed work, but Angus Fangus had an obvious talent to go for the right questions and to make the right connections on the fly.

He watched the journalist make quotation marks with his fingers around the word as if to illustrate what exactly he thought of that excuse. Bruce bit back a curse. He fought to stay calm but found himself fidgeting in his seat. This interview had to end. Fast.

“Accidents like that happen, Mr. Fangus.” He offered. “And I am hardly in a position to say why all these events transpire around the conference.”

His eyes flickered through the room, searching for an excuse to end the interview.

“Are you saying that Batman’s appearance and the bombings are somehow connected?”

Bruce closed his eyes for a second and sighed: “I really wouldn’t know, would I?”

When he opened his eyes, he noticed Donald Duck standing a few steps away to the side, leaning onto a wall and speaking rapidly into his phone. That man was on his phone a lot, Bruce reflected. He caught Donald’s eye and the blonde gave him a smile and a wave.

“Come off, you’d have an opinion at least.” Fangus pushed.

“It seems to me, that you already have one of your own.” Bruce offered back, now obviously annoyed.

He watched Fangus leaning back in his seat, considering him. “I think that PK has found himself a new side-kick. As if his usual accomplices aren’t weird enough.”

They stared at each other for a moment.

Then, Bruce pressed his lips together. “I think this interview is over.”

Fangus snorted. It was not a pretty sound. “If you think so.” He rolled his eyes and motioned to his cameraman.

The man gave a thumb-up before turning away and busying himself with his equipment.

Bruce stood up and stretched, fully intending to walk over to Donald and put as much distance between himself and the Kiwi journalist as possible. A he passed him though, the man caught his arm.

“You’d do well to remember this, Mr. Wayne”, Fangus said, “PK brings nothing but trouble for anyone close to him.  And he’s bound to go after the bomber.”

Bruce stared at him. “What are you implying?”

“I’m implying that you are the one connecting piece between these bombings.” The journalist looked much more serious now than he did during the interview. It was unsettling. “And that, maybe, you’d have a personal interest in figuring out who’s out to get you. See, I respect that.”

And somehow, Bruce suddenly felt that the man was speaking out of personal experience now. He began to wonder about the history there. Certainly, there had to be one.

“But I’m telling you, it’s a bad idea”, Angus continued. “Getting caught in the cross-fire.”

Bruce forced himself to shrug. “I wouldn’t know where to start to be honest.”

Fangus stared at him silently. His dark eyes burned on Bruce’ face for a heartbeat. Bruce noticed the thin scars that crisscrossed over the journalists face. Finally, Fangus continued: “There’s a warehouse at the end of Noonan pier. Peeling blue paint. That’s where I’d start.” He grined sharply, “But maybe, you’re much cleverer than me. Right?”

With that, he let go of Bruce arm.

Feeling unsettled, Bruce countered: “Why are you telling me that?”

Fangus shrugged. “It’s a place PK is known to hang out in. If you want to ask him questions, feel free to do so. But you better remember this: it never turns out good if you do.”

He turned back to his camera man.

Bruce turned away, too. Donald Duck was still standing at the same place as before, patiently waiting for him. As Bruce walked over to him, he couldn’t stop considering the journalists words.

 

***

 

Conference center, 3^rd floor interview rooms, at the same time.

 

A heavy feeling settled in Donald’s stomach as he listened to One reporting on the latest results of his surveillance campaign.

“And you’re certain that it was Newton? Absolutely certain?” He asked, desperate to hear One say that it was a joke. Even though he knew deep inside that the result wouldn’t change, no matter how often he repeated the question.

“As certain as I can be”, One answered. “The camera angle was bad. I’d never have noticed it if not for those new cameras I ordered for C&O Managements. Which points at…”

Donald interrupted him. “Someone who knew where all the cameras were. Until a change came about due to their own actions. Time traveler. Okay. Newton?”

“Tall. Big. Ginger. Suit with raincoat.”

“Newton.” Donald cursed passionately. “What did he have to talk about with Angus?”

He concentrated back on the journalist, who was currently interviewing Wayne on the other side of the room.

“No idea. I might have been able to tell you, but that man is an old-fashioned thick-head.”

Donald couldn’t stop the small smile that made itself at home on his face. “Not everyone has a smart phone. Maybe you should just send him one, so you’d have one to hack into.”

“I did”, One admitted obviously annoyed. “He thought it was a trap and gave it to that mobster living in the apartment next to his.”

Donald burst out into chuckles.

“Can we concentrate back on the fact that the time-traveling assassin passed unknown information to the journalist who is currently interviewing the target of said assassin?”

“Spoil-sport.” Donald still grinned, but he started to think about the implications. “There is not much I can do about it right now.” He finally offered. Wayne caught his eye. The man looked desperate for his conversation with Angus to end. It was a feeling Donald knew only too well from personal experience. So, he waved a hand to show that he had also noticed Wayne.

“I’ll see if maybe Wayne noticed something strange”, he said to One. Then quickly amended: “Well, stranger than usual.” After all, Angus was now involved. “Maybe he’s being manipulated into doing something stupid.” It wouldn’t be the first time someone had used Angus like that after all. The journalist was clever and tenacious as a bulldog, but once you sat him on the track of a story he had the tendency to develop tunnel vision.

Donald watched as Wayne stood up.

“Seems, the interview is over. See you later.”

“Be careful, old cape.”

Without taking his eyes off the man from Gotham, Donald stuffed his phone into his jeans pocket. He noticed Angus exchanging some last words with Wayne. There was a peculiar look on the visiting man’s face that Don found he didn’t like at all. He moved to interrupt, but before he could take more than two steps into their direction, Wayne disengaged from Angus and continued his way towards him.

Behind the man’s shoulder, Don saw Angus’ gaze following Wayne shrewdly.

“Smells like problems all around.” Don mumbled to himself.

Then, he pasted a bright smile on his face and hoped that it didn’t look as fake as it felt.

“Hey”, he greeted Wayne, who smiled back.

“Good to meet you again.” The Gotham millionaire looked at him curiously. “What brings you here?”

Don shrugged. “This and that.” He averted his eyes for a moment to appear insecure. Then, he added in a quiet voice: “Wanted to see what this conference was all about. Lots of stuff on the TV about it recently.” He peeked up to watch Wayne’s face.

The man was smiling down at him and looked to be honestly happy to see him. Maybe, he had bought the lie.

Wayne nodded. “It’s really interesting.” Then, an undecipherable look appeared on his face. “Aside of the fight yesterday.”

Donald smiled back. “I guess, yeah. Aside of that.”

“I need a bit of air.”

They fell into step easily on their way out.

“Did you see what happened to the hall downstairs?”

Don nodded: “Yeah. I took a look”, he lied.

Wayne looksed unsettled. “Do these things happen often around here?”

Don stuffed his fists into his sweat jacket. It had seen better times. It was becoming threadbare around the wrists and had been bleached out by the summer sun of many years.

“More often than some people would like.”

Wayne hummed as if in thought. Don peeked up at him. After a moment, he offered: “PK doesn’t mean anything by it.”

Wayne nodded, his immediate acceptance surprising Donald. “I know. That’s what’s bothering me.”

They looked at the group waiting in front of the lift and took the stairs in silent mutual understanding. 

When they arrived on the ground floor, Wayne asked: “How’s your uncle?”

“Good. Lots of people today, who’re worried about him, it seems.”

Wayne looked at him questioningly. And Donald tried to rid himself of the small smile that was lingering on his face. Instead he shrugged but the comment he had readied got stuck in his throat.

His eyes were drawn to the figure entering the hotel lobby through the main entrance and he felt himself freeze up. All his muscles locked up. He stood still as if someone had nailed his boots to the ground. Blond hair bounced. Her smart dress accentuated her figure perfectly. She wore flat shoes mirroring the color of the ribbon in her hair.

He closed his eyes for a moment in sharp shock. When he opened them, Daisy was right in front of him.

How had she gotten there so fast?

His brain had turned into a lump of ice.

Daisy’s voice rang out through the lobby. All other sounds died. “What the hell, do you think you’re doing?”

 

***

 

Hotel Hilton, lobby, a short time later

 

“What did I do, now?”

Bruce watched Donald reel back, the confrontation unfolding between the small blond and the beautiful woman in a flowery summer dress. Donald Duck looked stunned.

The woman put her hands onto her hips and loomed spectacularly, even though she was not much taller than the younger Mr Duck. She narrowed her eyes and hissed: “As if you don’t know, buster!”

Donald Duck frowned. “I really don’t -”

“Why exactly do I have to hear from Uncle Scrooge about that new harlot of yours?”, the woman interrupted him harshly. She slurred the word “uncle” until it sounded more like “unca”.

Bruce looked at Donald and felt his eyebrows rise.

“What?” The small blond gaped at her.

She crossed her arms and tapped her foot, her nose in the air.

“Daisy, I swear -”

“Stuff it!” She interrupted him again.

So, Bruce thought, this was the “on-and-off fiancé” She was a beautiful woman if maybe a bit short tempered, confronting someone in public like this.

The woman sneered: “So, who is the lucky girl?”

Bruce followed the accusation back and forth, feeling a bit like watching a tennis match.

Donald frowned. “No one”, he threw his hand up, as if to illustrate to ludicrousness of it. “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you.” His voice became louder towards the end. His temper was obviously rising, too.

Bruce took a careful step back, trying to withdraw from the oncoming fight.

“So, what you’re saying is, that Unca Scrooge is lying? Yes?”

“What? No, but -”

“Aha! So, who is this Lyla then, that he keeps talking about?”

“Lyla is a friend.” Donald barked back, then added as an afterthought: “and we aren’t dating.” Right at the same time, she screamed: “So, you admit it then!”

They stared at each other in suddenly icy silence, both breathing hard, both red in the face. Fists clenched. Bruce looked around the hall, noticing how everyone else in the hotel lobby was staring at the unfolding drama. He felt horribly embarrassed.

Finally, the woman turned away from them, her nose demonstratively up in the air again.

“Fine. See, if I care.”

“Daisy, please.”

She immediately rounded back on Donald, pointing a finger right into his face. “I thought there was a chance for us left, you know?”

Bruce saw Donald Duck jerk his head back, icy blue eyes narrowed, and the pale face looked immediately angry again.

“What? Like all the other times? Whenever it suits your fancy and Gladstone becomes to much of a bore?”

This was getting really ugly. Bruce didn’t want to listen to it any longer. He noticed angry tears in the woman’s eyes, and a curiously detached look that passed over Donald’s face, before the man blinked and there was only pure anger left.

“At least he doesn’t leave me standing in the rain for hours on end without bothering to call!” The woman shot out, a single tear running down her cheek.

“Good!” Donald screamed.

She threw her arms up in a violent gesture. “Fine!”

Donald mirrored the movement. “You deserve that. Go be happy!” He pointed to the exit and turned his back on her.

Bruce watched the woman’s arms drop down as she stared at the back of Donald’s head in contemplative silence. Then, she muttered: “You bastard.” Turned on her heel and stormed out.

Embarrassed, Bruce shifted his weight from one foot to the other, watched the doors close behind the woman and shifted his attention back to watch Donald Duck breath heavily. The small blonde’s shoulders relaxed as soon as the woman was gone.

He turned back around. His blue eyes were closed. He seemed to take a few more calming breaths. When he opened his eyes, he didn’t look angry at all. Only tired and sad. He ruffled his hair at the back of his head, looked at the doors as if deep in thought, then offered an apology to Bruce.

“Sorry.”

Taken aback by the sudden mood swing, Bruce blinked. What brought that on?

“I’m sorry you had to witness that.” Donald clarified.

Bruce studied him carefully. Was it possible that Donald had raised the woman’s anger on purpose? He certainly seemed suspiciously calm now. Bruce frowned. That idea felt wrong somehow. He dismissed it.

“She’s not usually so...” Donald hesitated. Then, he corrected himself: “No, let’s be honest. Daisy’s got quite a temper. So do I. This -” he waved a hand indicating himself and the doors through with the woman had left, “- this is what we do.”

Bruce’ gaze followed the movement back to the exit.

“It’s not my place to say, but -”

Donald interrupted him with a crooked smile: “The real irony here is that Lyla really is just a friend.”

Uncertain what to say to that, Bruce reached for the one thing that still needed clarification: “And Gladstone?”

“A cousin.”

Bruce blinked, trying to understand this constellation. “She’s dating your cousin now?”

Donald shrugged. “On-and-off.”

 “on-and-off like you two are ‘on-and-off’ engaged?”

“You got it.”

“That doesn’t seem like a healthy relationship.” Bruce thought, that may have been the understatement of the year. But he didn’t feel save to say anything else.

“You tell me.”

Donald had started walking towards the exit again. And Bruce had to hurry to catch up.

 

 

 

 

Conference center, in front of the Hotel Hilton, POV Don

 

Donald wasn’t really surprised that Daisy had confronted him in public like this. What he found he couldn’t believe was that Scrooge had tattled to her about his wild ideas regarding Lyla. Escalating the fight like this, hadn’t been easy, but he had had a good reason for breaking up with Daisy in the first place – and it was still a good reason.

As long as the planet was still in danger of being invaded by the Evronians and as long as he was still the only real defender of Earth, being in a relationship with her would only put Daisy in danger.

No, he thought, she was much better off without him right now. No matter how much it hurt him to admit that, she was much safer being around Gladstone than him.

It was the sensible decision to make. That didn’t mean it didn’t hurt, though.

He tried to remember all the reasons he’d had for breaking up with her, strengthening his resolve again. What a martyr I make, he thought drily. He suppressed a snort but couldn’t stop the sad smile that crawled onto his face.

From beside him, Wayne offered quietly: “There was this woman I liked...”

Donald found himself looking up at him in surprise.

“We knew each other from childhood, but she fell in love with another of my friends.”

Donald thought for a moment. But nothing to say came to mind. Finally, he settled on: “I’m sorry”

The smile on Wayne’s face was sad. “She died a few months ago.”

“God, I’m really, really sorry. We don’t need to talk -”

Donald desperately wanted to end this topic of conversation before it went any further, but Wayne interrupted him with a wave of his hand. He stopped walking, forcing Donald to come to a stop, too.

“No”, Wane said, “we don’t. I guess, what I actually wanted to say is...” He contemplated for a moment. “… we don’t choose who we fall in love in. And we don’t choose the circumstances or how it develops. Sometimes there are… things...situations and events beyond our control, that...” he trailed off obviously not knowing how to continue.

Donald easily finished the sentence for him: “-make life miserable?”

He watched Wayne smile down sadly. The man seemed at a loss of what else to say.

“Yeah. Time’s a bitch, sometimes. I guess,” Donald continued, “all we can do is keep going and hope that things will turn out fine in the end. Whatever ‘fine’ might be.”

He looked up at Wayne’s face and only then noticed the man’s surprised gaze. He looked as if he wanted to say something but before he could, another woman’s voice called out his name.

Donald had to forcefully bite back a sudden grin, as he heard the cold but professional voice coming towards them. He’d already wondered when she would appear.

Turning around he watched the dark-skinned woman walk up to them. Everything about her, from the professional two-piece suit to the sunglasses on her nose, screamed Federal Agent. She flashed her badge at them and kept her attention firmly on the man from Gotham city.

“Mr. Wayne? Special Agent Mary-Ann Flagstarr. I have a few questions for you.”

 

***

 

The woman’s voice calling out his name, made Bruce turn away from the serious conversation. He immediately recognized her style and pecked her as a federal agent of some sort. There was a very special type of appearance and manner attached to them that he would recognize everywhere. The agent’s gaze flickered to Donald for a second and she seemed to scowl, but then her face evened out so fast, Bruce felt he should congratulate her on it.

She flashed her badge in his face and he blinked at it. She kept it up just long enough to give him a good look. It seemed legit.

Bruce raised an eyebrow, uncertain what the FBI may want to talk to him about. “Agent Flagstarr”, he acknowledged her, “what brings you here?”

“I’m investigating the bombing at Aurelio’s Steakhouse.” Her tone of voice was brisk and to the point. But her gaze momentarily flickered over to Donald again, as if cataloguing his face. Bruce followed her gaze and saw Donald smiling amiably. The agent’s gaze turned into a glower.

“And you’d be Donald Duck then, yes?” She demanded more than asked. “Mr McDuck’s nephew?”

“Yes, that’s me.”

The agent’s gaze travelled between them for a second. Her face mirrored skepticism. “What a surprise to find you two here together.” Then, after a short pause, she added: “But it saves me the trip to your house, I guess.”

Her voice sounded cold and detached. Bruce noticed Donald take an involuntary step back. He felt himself bristle in defiance for his new friend, when he saw a ghost of a smile flit over the agent’s face.

“How exactly may we be of help in your investigation, Agent?” Bruce asked, mood cooled down considerably.

The agent turned her face towards him and pushed the sunglasses up into her hair.

“Did you notice anything out of the ordinary before the explosion?”

 

Bruce shook his head. “No. Can’t say that I did.”

Next to him, he saw Donald nod in agreement.

The agent didn’t even bother to take notes. “Why were you at Aurelio’s in the first place?”

And Bruce found himself frowning. “Mr McDuck invited me for dinner.”

Beside him Donald spoke up: “My uncle knew his old man from way back when.”

Maybe he had imagined the agent’s gaze flickering down to Donald’s face. It looked as if she never turned her head, anyway.

“I don’t know, how we can help you”, Donald tagged on.

“Why are you in Duckburg?”

“Attending the conference?” Bruce felt himself get irritated. He threw a quick nod to the hotel entry behind them.

The agent’s frown deepened. “Why?”

“Because of future business venues.” Bruce imagined that he could feel Donald’s gaze resting on him, too. As if the other man was watching him closely. “Listen, Agent, maybe you should talk to Mr McDuck. He’s the owner of – “

“Rest assured,” she interrupted him, “I already spoke to Scrooge McDuck this morning.” She let her glasses slid back down onto her nose and smiled the smile of a well-fed predator. “I’m certain you won’t try to leave town for now. I’ll get back to you.”

And with this parting shot she turned around and marched off towards a suspiciously official looking black sedan parked on the street.

 

***

 

Donald kept staring up at Wayne’s face and marveled at the offended look he saw there. It was the same special look, that people always got after meeting Mary-Ann for the first time. A chuckle escaped him before he could reign it in. The sound was enough to draw Wayne’s attention.

“What the hell was that?” The man from Gotham sounded entirely put-out.

Donald grinned. “Special Agent Mary-Ann Flagstarr.” Then, remembering that he wasn’t supposed to have met her before, he quickly added: “Who has quite a chip on her shoulder, I guess.”

Wayne shook his head as if to clear it.

 

“Don’t worry,” Donald clapped the guy on the arm, “at least, someone is taking the investigation seriously.” He rigorously dragged all thoughts away from how much One would derail that investigation to ensure that Mary-Ann didn’t actually find anything of value. “Do you want to go for dinner again” he offered instead. “Without any problems this time, I hope.”

For a moment, Wayne looked as if he might agree, but then he seemed to remember something. “I’m sorry”, the man from Gotham said predictably, “but I have something else planned for tonight.”

Donald allowed his smile to fall, and it is only partly for show.

“Maybe tomorrow”, Wayne offered, “it’s the final day of the conference. I’m sure no one will mind if I leave the closing party early.”

Donald forced the smile back on his face. He knew it looked empty, but he found he didn’t care.  “Yeah, okay. Sounds great.”

Internally, though, he sighed. So, the situation was derailing further. Figures. But maybe, if he followed the guy closely enough, he’d be able to minimize the trouble that Angus had planned. Right?

He watched Wayne get into his borrowed limo after having exchanged their farewells. As the car drew away into traffic, he finally allowed the frown to appear on his face, that had wanted to crawl out for the past half hour. His thoughts still focused on the man from Gotham, he pulled out his phone to call One.

“What’s up with Mary-Ann?” he asked as soon as the line connected.

One immediately sounded defensive. “You wanted to involve her.”

“Her temper was worse than during that thing with Fairfax.”

“I believe, your uncle was short with her. It seems he hasn’t forgotten the destruction of his oil-drilling platform. He pointed it out rather emphatically to her.”

Don grimaced. “Right. Will you –“

“Make sure she doesn’t find anything?” One completed the sentence. “Of course. Although, I doubt that this will help her mood.”

“Can’t be helped.”

“You sound distracted. What’s up hero?”

Don pondered on how to answer that. “I’m not sure. I think, Wayne’s planning something. And our friend Angus is involved in it.”

He imagined One taking the time to blink. “Do you think it has to do with whatever Mr. Newton spoke to Angus about?”

Donald felt very certain that it did, but instead he said: “Doesn’t matter. We can’t afford to ignore it either way, can we?” Then, after a short pause, he added:  “Prepare that satellite coverage for tonight. Something tells me, that we will need it.”

 

***

 

Duckburgh Docklands, at night

 

Batman breathed. Underneath the salty taste of sea, there waited the oily dust of industrialized work. He crouched on top of a warehouse not far of the harbor. The last remnants of work died off under his feet, as the evening shift went home and made way for a diminished night shift. Lights shut down. Trucks moved out. In the distance, container transporters signaled their horn as they left the harbor for the open bay.

 

His eyes focused on a non-descript warehouse opposite his perch. It was medium sized, and the last workers had left an hour ago. Nothing about it seemed out of the ordinary. Everything from the dumpsters in front, to the company name on top, was normal. The whole set-up seemed incredibly suspicious to Bruce. He had checked the address three times. But this was it. This was the place Fangus had pointed him to. Behind his mask, Batman scowled.

 

What was it about warehouses, that made them such a preferred hiding place for people?

 

Or was the information wrong? There was a good chance for that to be true. Considering the unreliable source… Bruce shoved the doubt aside. There was only one way to find out. With a last look around, he jumped off the roof’s edge. His cape snapped open, and he landed on the other building after only a few seconds in the air.

 

He couched low. Listening into the night. Still, no movement, no sound. Carefully, he moved forwards to the roof-access door.

 

He kept close to the walls on his way downstairs, until he stood on the leeway running around the main storage area. Crates were stacked high underneath him. The warehouse looked vacated. Bruce felt a chill crawl down his spine. His gaze flickered up to a corner, where an old CCCTV camera was screwed to the ceiling. Its cables were ripped out, hanging in the air. This was too easy. Way too easy.

 

Bruce felt like a mouse that entered the trap. But he had come this far, and he was curious to see how it would play out. So, he connected a cable to the railing and flipped over it. Letting himself down to the ground he quickly checked the area again. Still, no other person around. Only the emergency lights above the entry doors flickered in the dark. No sounds, aside of his boots landing on concrete ground.

 

Somehow, he knew that he would be paying dearly for his curiosity.

 

He inched towards a pile of crates, dug a Batarang underneath a lid and heaved. It gave way with the loud metallic clang of breaking nails.

 

He pushed the filling material aside, night vision glasses showing some form underneath it. His hand closed around some type of rifle. He carefully pulled it out, using his second hand to steady the barrel. He hefted the weapon up. Turned it this way and that.

 

What the hell was this? He’d never seen something like this outside of Lucius Fox’ secret development plans. Maybe, some kind of energy weapon? There seemed to be a something missing. Probably ammunition storage. There didn’t seem to be a magazine attached. His gaze travelled over the other crates. Each looking exactly the same as the one he had opened. This didn’t look like a prototype. He checked the weapon again. The display in his helmet lightening up the contours until production details became visible. Batman bit back a curse. This looked like a mass production.

 

His cape swept around in a sudden rush of air. Blue lightning flickered at the edge of his vision. The  smell of ozone crept up his nostrils. Batman dropped the unusable weapon in his hands and spun around, just in time for an instinctive part of his brain to register movement around him.

 

Surrounded!

 

He snarled.

 

Where had these people come from? A part of his mind tittered. The larger part, though, went into defense. A good dozen people surrounded him. All were armed with the same weapons he had just examined. Energy crackled in the rifles. Black armor formed hard edges underneath long coats. Piercings gleamed and wildly colored hair flashed underneath beanies and hats.

 

These people looked more like a group of punks playing special forces than a professional unit. And still, Bruce noted the way they moved and coordinated. And he recognized easily, that they were used to working together.

 

How did they get so close without him noticing?

 

He raised his hands. The woman opposite him snarled and pulled the trigger. He saw her finger move as if in slow motion and he threw himself to the side. Above him a window shattered. Glass rained down in miniscule shards, falling like ice crystals over the scene. Voices screamed. Riffles changed aim.

 

Batman crashed his shoulder into one attacker, pushed him to the ground and came rolling back to his feet. He looked up. PK sat crouched on top of a pile of crates, right above the place Bruce had previously stood in. The large white shield on his right wrist seemed to power down and changed its form slightly.

 

As the small blond man straightened up, his grin became visible in the emergency lighting. It was a frightening grimace. His voice rang loudly through the building.

 

“Hey guys, did I miss the party?”

 

 

***

 

Duckburgh Docklands, at night

 

PK grinned even though he didn’t feel like it. But it was important to keep up a certain image, he reflected as he vaulted off the pile of crates and ducked around a corner just as a wooden transport crate exploded into shards behind him.

 

Angry voices followed his way through the room. He punched a face here, kicked a shin there and fired his own pulse weapon at the attackers. At some point he lost sight of Batman. But surely, the guy knew how to fight his way through this? Not getting shot was kind of self-explanatory after all.

 

As more and more crates exploded into a fine wooden dust, and the clouds of it made him cough, he began to get worried. There were just so many of the rogues around. He had expected Newton to be here, not that he’d have to take on a whole squad of raiders!

 

He dodged a woman`s combat boot to his face by ducking low and shouldered her out of the way. She fell over, destroying yet another crate on her way down. PK dodged around a corner and threw his arm out. The Shield detached. It flew in a straight line towards a group of raiders, forcing them to fall to the ground and curse loudly. Then, the shield changed formation and returned to him like a boomerang. He jumped up, stretched out his arm, and felt the connectors click back into place. As he landed, his gaze fell on a looming dark figure at the opposite side of the room. Batman was involved in a vicious hand-to-hand fight with an equally large raider, who kept blocking his punches and returning them with equal strength. It looked like a particularly lethal dance.

 

Then, like an unexpected punch line sneaking up, Newton stepped out behind the two fighters. PK blinked. Newton lifted his arm.

 

“Watch out!” PK threw his own arm out, the targeting system in his vision latching onto Newton just as the large red-head pulled the trigger on his own gun.

 

Batman seemed to turn around in slow motion. The green light of a stunner hit him straight in the chest. PK watched helplessly as the shield detached from his arm and Batman sank backwards to the ground. He looked like a puppet whose strings had been cut.

 

From one moment to the next, time seemed to speed up again. Newton threw himself forward. The shield sped past above his head and embedded itself in the warehouse wall with a slicing sound. PK was in motion and all around him the raiders started to dematerialize. He was only six steps away from Newton as the droid looked up, threw him a sly smile and dematerialized too, taking Bruce Wayne along with him.

 

PK cursed.

 

“Out”, One’s voice urged in his ear. “Get out! Now! The police are on the way.”

 

Barely able to keep his adrenaline under control, PK ripped the shield out of the wall and fled to the building’s roof. He heard the sirens closing in on the warehouse. With a snap of his wrist, the exo-transformer shifted into flight mode and PK threw himself over the ledge. The wind whipped caught violently in his hair as he sped away over the night-clad city.

 

“One! One!”  PK was vaguely aware that he was hyperventilating. It had been a while since he had last felt panic rising like this.

 

“Breathe”, the voice of his partner ordered calmly. “In and Out.”

 

He breathed in. Hesitated. Then, breathed out.

 

“And again. In and Out.”

 

“I –“, PK swallowed bile rising. He tried again. “I’m coming back to the tower. They’re gone. They took Wayne.”

 

“Why –“

 

“I don’t know! Okay?” He threw up his arms in desperation and nearly toppled off the shield. Steadying himself at the last moment he closed his eyes. Calm down, he told himself. You are not helpful like this. He consciously took another moment to clear his thoughts. When he opened his eyes, he felt the beginnings of an idea settle in his mind.

 

“Listen”, he told One, “I need you to prepare a suit for me. I’m calling Lyla in. We’ll have to follow them. And I’m certain she knows where they went.”

 

“The time agency was watching out for the organization”, One agreed. “Which suit?”

 

PK waved vaguely. “Something that’ll do. No camouflage. But a bit more firepower would be nice. Surprise me.”

 

“You know how much I love to do that.”

 

One ended the call before PK could begin have form doubts about this.

 

Instead of worrying what his partner would come up with, PK pulled out Donald’s phone. Flicking through the contacts, he called Lyla. She answered after the third ring. He heard the sound of a television behind her.

 

“Hey. It’s late”, she said instead of a greeting.

 

“I need you to come to the tower, now.”

 

Lyla’s voice hesitated. “What’s up? You sound strange.”

 

“Remember when I told you about the Organization planning something? And you said not to worry too much, because the agency was keeping an eye on them?”

 

 Now, he heard her sigh. “What did they do?” She sounded more resigned than worried.

 

“Well, consider for a moment, if a Superhero get’s kidnapped. Would that be considered a breach of the timeline?”

 

“A Superhero?”

 

“Batman. They took Batman. I was there. Got into a fight, but Newton was faster.”

 

“The guy from Gotham City?”

 

“Yes! That one!” PK scratched a hand through his hair, the nervous habit manifesting before he could stop himself. Annoyed he forced the hand down again. “Can you please stop asking questions now, and start moving?”

 

“I already am. Let me at least get dressed. I’ll meet you at the tower in half an hour.”

 

PK felt his teeth gnash. But he swallowed the comment that was threatening to slip out of his mouth. In the end, he reminded himself, this was the thing about time travel. It really didn’t matter how much time they wasted now, as long as they arrived at the right moment.

 

“Okay.” He acknowledged. “See you there.”

 

As he raced around Bellamy-Tower his gaze fell on his contact list. Maybe he should call in more help? Urk would be interested. The native warrior from a parallel dimension had a very strong moral compass and would not ignore a call for help. PK shifted the phone in his hands. His gaze fell on another entry: “Everett”. He froze.

This number… as far as he knew, he was the only person in the world, who had this number. It belonged to the mobile phone Everett had taken with him to the monastery in Dhasam Buhl.

 

PK closed his eyes. Breathed out. Ignored the lump in his throat and put the phone back into his pocket. No, he decided, with all the chaos going on right now, the last thing they’d need was for the genius inventor to get involved. It wasn’t that he didn’t like Everett. On a personal level, PK got along just fine with him, but… to put it nicely, the further away Everett Ducklair stayed from time travel, the better. For PK’s own sanity, for the world and quite possibly also, for the existence of time itself.

 

To be continued