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Chapter Text

Well I saw Gotham By Gaslight a few days ago, and it's my new favorite Batman movie. So I'm starting up a little series of ones-shots, loosely connected, revolving around steampunk Batman and his friends. Most of it will focus on the relationship between him and his three new wards, eventual sidekicks. One of my favorite parts of the movie! And how fortuitous I got my muse triggered just after Batman's 80^th birthday.

Disclaimer: I own nothing!

“Mu-nick,” Tim rolled the word around, testing the limited phonetics of his recently expanding vocabulary. He traced his finger across the page, marking each city as he tried to read their names. “Zerick, boudapist, stokehome-”

“SHIT!”

Tim looked up from his seat next to the wall, making sure one of his brothers hadn't killed the other. The large room in the basement of Wayne Manor had once been a massive wine cellar; left by some previous Wayne who'd had a passion for distillery. You could still smell it, even after the current Wayne sold off most of the hoard of drinks and moved the rest to smaller cellars. In it's place he'd created one of the most well equipped gymnasiums in the state, and probably the largest to be privately owned. With a considerably wider range of weaponry than any other too.

Inside the ropes of a large fighting ring, Dick leaned heavily on his quarterstaff, rubbing one foot. “Damn it Jason! This ain’t no real fight!”

The red-headed boy smirked as he bounced his own staff in one hand. “What's the matter Dickie? Fancy living got you going soft already?”

Dick turned away as he kept balancing on one foot. “Don't start talkin yourself up too quick. Fightin here in a ring ain't all that different from the street, let your guard down for one minute an you'll feel the hur-”

Grinning from ear to ear, Jason chose that moment to jump forward and deliver the final blow to his brothers exposed backside.

And an instant before his blow hit, Dick pivoted on his supposedly injured foot, jabbing his own staff into his opponents stomach. Jason went down in mid-leap, wide eyed and making an unusual wheezing noise as all the air went out of him and his staff rolled away.

“Well, I think that shows who's going soft,” Dick smirked. “Or maybe not, you was always too quick to go jumping into rat-pits without looking.”

Tim turned back to his book, not overly concerned about his brothers hurting each other. Just a few days ago he'd also knocked Jason flat, and accidentally given him a black-eye, when he saw an opening and took it without thinking. He'd been ready to go running to get Mr. Pennyworth to call a doctor, but when Jason got back up he was so proud he'd nearly knocked his younger brother over patting him on the back.

Jason looked a lot less happy this time, as he struggled to sit and rubbed his sore stomach. “Laugh while you can Dickie. But how bout we try it bare-handed next, see if you ain't afraid to go dirtying those clean nails.”

“You two might want to put some work into your studying too,” Tim had just wandered down from the library a few minutes ago, where he'd spent most of the night. “Professor Nygma is coming by for lessons tomorrow.”

“Aw we can learn all that stuff later,” Jason, whose interest in education began and ended with literature, brushed the idea away. “More important we learn all this chinamen fighting Mr. Wayne uses!”

“Why's that important?”

“So we'll be ready when we go out with The Bat,” Jason said as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “You know, clean up the streets and all that.”

“I not so sure Mr. Wayne is going to let us do that,” Tim shook his head. “The whole point of taking us in was to get us out of Gotham.”

“Maybe we don't ask permission,” Jason shrugged nonchalantly. “It's not like he got anyone's leave to go making himself the law. Besides,” he looped his foot under the staff and kicked it up into his hand. “I don't know about you, but I got a few scores I never settled. Few crooks out there that shouldn't be walking around anymore.”

“Not sure I'd put it that way, but he's got a point Tim,” Dick nodded. “We all ended up on the street cause of men like the ones Mr. Wayne goes after. Maybe if we can give him a little help, a few less kids end up like we were.”

“I'd like to help,” Tim insisted. “But how much can kids like us do? I don't even know how Mr. Wayne does it.” The boy glanced worryingly at the clock. “Honest, there's a lot of nights I worry he ain’t gonna make it back come morning!”

“Don't sweat it Timmy,” Jason put an arm around his little brother. “Big Bill Dusk went up against The Bat and never even got a hit on him. And he took out The Ripper, he was as bloodthirsty as they come! Ain't no-one out there gonna get one over on him!”

“Well said master Jason!” The three boys looked up in surprise, noticing the Wayne butler standing in the doorway for the first time. “But before you three can tackle the rogues of Gotham, there will be an arithmetic tutor here tomorrow. And you had best be getting to bed about now if you are going to meet that challenge.”

“Before Mr. Wayne get's back,” Dick looked toward the late hour of the clock. “He's going out again tonight, ain't he?”

For a moment the Mr. Pennyworth looked like he couldn't decide how he should reply, then he nodded curtly. “Yes, he will be out on a case, one which should take up most of the night. Although 'ain’t' is not actually a soldier in the army of the queen's English.”

“What's it this time,” Jason asked, trying to sound nonchalant. “That fancy birdman? Another ladykiller?”

“Nothing so lethal,” the butler assured them. “Merely a string of unusual robberies. The police have no leads.”

“Unusual how?” Tim asked.

“I believe master Bruce mentioned a suspicion that it was a chap who was skilled in impersonation.”

Jason cocked his head. “You mean, he dresses up as people.?”

“And copies their faces, to exact detail.”

That brought the three boys up short a second, before the red head asked. “How?”

“I haven't the foggiest idea,” The englishman turned, motioning the boys to follow. “I'm sure he can fill you in on all the skulky details; though good marks on arithmetic would smooth that along.”

“Alright, you ain- don't have to coddle us.” Dick placed his staff back in it's rack on the wall, as he an the other boys followed the manservant out of the room. “See you tomorrow mister Pennyworth.”

“Alfred,” he corrected gently. Both of their new guardians insisted on establishing a first name basis with them, but the boys weren't quite ready for that. “And a good nights sleep to all of you.”

With a few grumbles about bed times and the morning's promise of schooling, mostly from Jason, the three wards retired for the evening. Still half amazed by the newfound luxuries fate had given them they each dipped into the baths Mr. Pennyworth had drawn, powdered their teeth, and climbed into large, warm beds. Dick and Jason were both asleep within a half hour, their rooms still and quiet as they snored away the exertions of their training. Tim slept a bit more fretfully.

With his door cracked open, the youngest boy lapsed in and out of wakefulness several times; until the early hours of the morning when he at last heard the heavy footsteps he'd been waiting for. Nestling farther under the soft covers, he closed his eyes and feigned sleep as Mr. Wayne quietly swung his door open to peer at him. Tim wasn't sure if the others knew, but Mr. Wayne had made a habit of checking in on them all whenever he came back from his adventures at night. Sometimes the youngest boy couldn't sleep at all till he'd been by.

Well there's the start. I don't have the deepest familiarity with Batman lore, so you'll have to tell me if I got their personalities right. Not sure how many shots this will go on or how frequently I'll update;my muse is kind of unreliable.

It helps it you REVIEW!!! I might also except prompt ideas!

Chapter Text

I don't think I've ever got a second chapter up this fast. Of course, it's shorter than my other works.

Disclaimer: I own nothing!

Life was always fairly free and loose on the street. You didn't plan more than a couple days ahead (surviving the day you were in was hard enough) and you didn't follow a very tight schedule. If you were late for a meeting because you had to take the long way to avoid some coppers on patrol, it was unavoidable. If you found some decent grub, you ate it onsite before someone else took a liking to it.

Wayne Manor wasn't like the street.

For one thing, when something was scheduled at a certain time, you were expected to be there. And swiping food when no one was looking was frowned upon. There were meals for that; which not only had to be at a certain time and place, but couldn't start until everyone was there.

Bruce Wayne was the last to make it down to breakfast this particular morning. He was only a few minutes late, but it seemed like an eternity for his three wards. It took all they had not to dig into the platters of bacon and eggs; common portions in the Manor that would have been a feast on Gotham's streets.

Looking like he just thrown on his waist coat, Mr. Wayne strode into the room with a smile and friendly nod ready for them all. These couldn't hide the dark rings under his eyes, or the stifled yawns.

“Must have only got an hour or two of shut-eye,” Jason whispered to Tim, only to get a glare and a quiet shush for his troubles.

Their guardians breakfast was a bit more restrained. A few strips of bacon accompanied an omelet that had as much vegetable as it did egg. Following his tea he washed the meal down with a strange drink, made by Mr. Pennyworth to an exact recipe. It looked like thick pea soup that had almost spoiled. Mr. Wayne had a cup of it every day, and explained it only as a “drink for health” which he'd gotten from some eastern monks.

The boys had a running dare to try it, but none of them had worked up the courage yet.

“I was sorry to leave you all so abruptly last night,” Mr. Wayne said as they all began digging in. “Some business came up.”

“Was it a robbery?” For some reason Mr. Wayne seemed reluctant to talk about anything to do with The Bat to them, but Tim couldn't help himself.

Mr. Wayne looked up warily, as he cut into his omelet “A kidnapping,” he finally said. “The details are somewhat private for the victims involved.”

“Id ou fnd hm,” Jason asked around a mouthful of bacon.

Mr. Wayne's brow furrowed, his mind still foggy with sleep. “Ah, um, yes, they were caught. No one was injured seriously.”

“A good show then,” Mr. Pennyworth pushed his way through the swinging kitchen doors with a fresh platter of bacon. “Speaking of shows, I believe you mentioned something about taking the boys to the baseball field this weekend. A nice activity for you all to do together.” He looked pointedly at his employer.

“Yes,” Mr. Wayne picked up on the cue. “I believe I'll be free this Saturday, and the Metropolis Monarchs will be in town to play the Knights. It should be a go-,” A yawn escaped him. “Good matchup.”

“So you follow the league a lot,” Dick asked as Mr. Pennyworth returned to the kitchen.

The millionaire shook his head absentmindedly. “I haven't seen any sign of League activity since I got back to the States.” He noticed their confused expressions. “Oh, you mean . . . I don't really follow teams outside of Gotham, no.”

“Well I'd love to go,” Dick answered “We've never gotten to go to a ball game before.”

“He means we never paid to get into a game,” Jason commented.

No reply came.

Bruce Wayne sat with head down, hands in his lap. Still as a statue, except for the rise and fall of his broad chest.

“Must have been a chase,” Dick mused quietly. “To get him so worn out.”

“You'd think the crooks would learn,” Jason chuckled.

Mr. Pennyworth pushed his way through the door with a fresh teapot, and didn't look at all surprised. He quietly refilled his employers cup and departed on soft feet.

With a sly grin, Jason jumped from his seat and scampered quietly over to the fire place. Cold ashes from the night before lay inside, and the boy surveyed it till he spotted a small thin stick that had survived. He ran it lightly over his palm and nodded with satisfaction at the faint grey line it left, brandishing it as he turned and crept toward their sleeping guardian.

“Jason,” Dick hissed quietly. “You idiot, what are you doing!”

“I was just thinkin to myself the other day, Mr. Wayne would look pretty smart with a mustache,” the boy sniggered. “And what crook wouldn't turn and run at the sight of mutton chops.”

“I don't think Mr. Wayne would agree,” Tim cautioned, even as he fought down a smile.

Jason crept up as quietly as he ever had on the cobblestones of Gotham. Kicking his shoes off he climbed up onto the polished table, and leaned in toward the sleeping millionaire. He almost made it, when his foot brushed against the empty tea cup and it clinked slightly

In an instant Mr. Wayne was awake; his head started upright and his hand shot up to grab Jason's outstretched arm by the wrist. He shook his head gently, blinking several times, and only then seemed to notice the young ward in his iron grip. He gently plucked the ash stick out of the boys grip, fixing him with just a fraction of his powerful glare.

The boy smiled in a sheepish and resigned way. “So do I go cut my own switch, or does Mr. Pennyworth do that for us too?”

Practicing my character writing here.

REVIEW!!! I might also except prompt ideas!

Chapter Text

Disclaimer: I own nothing!

There were a couple suits standing at the door, ready to open it for the gala's guests. Must be some rule that the quality couldn't touch doorknobs themselves unless they were solid gold.

Mr. Wayne handed his coat over to another servant, and strolled into the room, nodding discretely at Jason to stay at his side. This was his first time coming out with Mr. Wayne to one of these society shindigs. Well, there was that Wayne industries charity ball, but he'd had Dick and Tim with him then. He wasn't too worried though; he'd survived the Narrows gangs after all, no one here could be worse then them.

“Bruce, fashionably late as always,” a man detached himself from the crowd, and went right up to them, grabbing Mr. Wayne's hand and pumping it like an old friend. He had a thin mustache, and a smile that was a little greasy. But their was something in his eyes that didn't match; anger, or maybe fear.

“Harvey,” Mr. Wayne nodded stonily and took his hand back. “I'm glad to see you found time away from the D.A.'s office to join in the festivities.” He didn't sound that glad, until he put a hand on Jason's shoulder. “And may I present my ward, Jason Todd.”

So this was the tosser who tried to nail Mr. Wayne as The Ripper, and send him away to Blackgate. Jason padded one hand into his pocket, where his knife would have been if Mr. Pennyworth hadn't checked him before they left. On the street, when someone tried to stick you, you stuck them right back. Among the quality, you it seemed you still had to shake hands and smile when you met at dinner. This might be the only time when he preferred the street.

Mr. Dent was all smiles for a guy who'd tried to put a friend of his in the pen for life. “A pleasure to meet you young man. And while I have you two, there's someone here you simply must meet.” The man was talking fast, as if trying to stop them from getting away. He was like a guy who'd tumbled down a hill, and was trying to crawl back to the top. He gestured toward the middle of the room; at a grey haired man, with a girl at his side that who's hair was so blond it was almost white. “A mister Joseph Wilson.”

Mr. Wayne's expression gave in a bit, slipping into actual interest. “Wilson? That name does sound familiar.”

“He gained some notoriety during the war, as an officer in the Confederate cavalry. One of general Stuart's right-hand men apparently. These days he's engaged in some obscure foreign businesses, but has really made a name for himself as a sportsmen. A real charmer when he want's to be but apparently has a reputation for being a, eh, “scoundrel-gentleman” if you know what I mean.” Dent gave him a big smile and a wink, like they were sharing some inside joke, but Mr. Wayne wasn't warming up to him. But it must have been some society rule, because he led the attorney lead them over.

Joseph Wilson didn't look like your average Gotham blue-blood. He was a big man, almost as tall as Mr. Wayne, though not quite as broad. His nose had a crook that looked like it had been broken at least once and not set right, and he met everyone in the room with a smile that looked like it was always about to turn into a sneer. Jason saw him shake hands with someone ahead from them, and noticed the man squirm slightly and draw his hand back quickly. Apparently this Wilson was one of those buggers who liked to get one on people as soon as they met.

“Let me introduce you,” Mr. Dent ushered them forward before either could protest. “Joseph Wilson,” he called as the other man turned toward them. “Meet Bruce Wayne.”

“Ah, the famous prince of Gotham,” the man's voice dripped honey. “This is a rare pleasure sir.” But his smile faltered as they shook, and Mr. Wayne grip met his with equal firmness. They held hands for a moment too long, until southerner gave up with as much pride as he could muster.

Jason smirked a little more than high-standards probably allowed.

“May I also introduce my daughter,” Mr. Wilson gestured toward the girl at his side. “Rose Wilson.”

“Young lady,” Mr. Wayne casually doffed his hat with a smile that could charm a harpy. “And may I introduce my young ward, Jason Todd.”

The girl extended a hand. “Delighted, I'm sure.” She had an air about her that Jason had seen of girls before; one that said she could be as friendly as a kitten if she liked you, but mean as an alley cat if you crossed her.

“Pleasure's mine,” he put on his best posh manners, taking her hand and bending over it a little, just like Mr. Pennyworth instructed, remembering not to kiss it like they always showed in pennydramas. “And welcome to Gotham.” There was something very familiar about her, maybe the hair? She squinted at him slightly, like she recognized him too.

Meanwhile, the adults were talking.

“Have you ever been to Gotham before Wr. Wilson,” Mr. Wayne asked?

“Oh, a few times over the years,” the old soldier replied. “My businesses take me here and there quite often. My last visit to Gotham was about eight months ago, the first time Rose here got to come.”

“Yes,” the girl was still smiling, but something bitter crept into her tone. “It was wonderful to finally visit this great city, it's such a lively place.”

Suddenly, Jason remembered where he'd seen that hair before, and he had to force his mouth back closed.

“HEY,” he was a little louder than he meant to be. “Isn't that Mr. Fox?” He pointed over at the Wayne Industries inventor he'd spotted talking to someone on the opposite side of the room.

“It is indeed,” Mr. Wayne replied in a questioning tone.

“Well lets go talk to him,” Jason grabbed him by the hand and tugged him away, which probably wasn't proper etiquette. “I wanted to hear more about that phantom scale you were saying he made the other night.”

“Phantoscope,” his guardian corrected.

“Yah that thing, I wanted to hear more about it!”

A phantoscope turned out to be a machine for making moving pictures, and couldn't be used in a séance, as Jason had hoped. He had to spend the next half hour paying attention during a lot of gizmo talk that little Timmy probably could've understood better than him, but he figured it was worth it.

But unfortunately that wasn't the end, as he found out later when the other blue-bloods left them alone at their table for a few minutes. He had put Mr. Wilson and his daughter out of mind, and was eating his way through “hors d'oeuvres,” which was a thing where the rich apparently had so much food in one meal they started with a poor mans portion and worked their way up.

“So, Jason,” Mr. Wayne suddenly asked. “You seemed a little tense earlier. And something tells me it isn't just the fancy company?”

The boy weight his options carefully, glanced up at his guardian, who spent his spare time worming the truth out of loons and cutthroats, and decided to play straight “Well, it's that girl you see,” he drummed his fingers on the table, lowering his gaze to the table.

Bruce gave the boy his full attention, genuinely curious about where this was going. He managed to limit his visible reaction to a lifting of an eyebrow.

“I think I might have robbed her.”

Bruce's expression went flat, and only his rigid self-discipline kept him from making an outburst that would draw the whole rooms attention. “What?”

“Back when I was on the street, yah know,” Jason reassured him hurriedly. “Eight month back, like she said. Sometimes posh kids would go slum it in the Narrows; see how exciting it was to be poor as dirt. I just gave em the full Gotham experience.” He raised his hands and shrugged. “I probably did em a favor, scared em back home before they ran into someone real nasty.”

Bruce suppressed a groan, kneading fingers between his eyebrows. It was tempting to say something about this being an example of the unforeseen but fitting consequences of the criminal lifestyle, but he decided against it. Jason was moving on from his past, slowly but surely, and some heavy-handed lecturing wasn't likely to speed things up.

“Do you think she might recognize you,” he asked evenly.

“Don't think so,” he shook his head. “It was dark, and I was a lot dirtier back then. Wore my hair longer too.”

“I suppose it wouldn’t seem very likely,” Bruce said hopefully. “And you might actually be mistaken, and it was some other poor girl.”

“Don't feel too sorry for her,” Jason insisted, indicating to a scare on the back of his hand. “The doxy bit me so hard she drew blood! You can get all kinds of pox from just a little cut in the Narrows.”

Mr. Wayne didn't look impressed. “What did you take from her?”

“A gold necklace,” Jason shrugged. “She should'a known better than to wear it dallying on the street anyway. And it fed us for two weeks, which is more important than anything she was gonna do with it.” He smiled as a thought occurred to him. “Hey, you could just let me buy her a new one. Your pocket money would probably cover it!”

Bruce resisted the urge to toll his eyes. “I don't think we could come up with a pretense that didn't seem odd.”

“Maybe we just avoid the Wilson's then, whenever they're in town,” Jason shrugged.

“Bruce,” the man himself suddenly materialized out of the crowd. Thumping the millionaire on the back a little too hard. “If you can send your boy home, some of use gents were going to retire to the billiards room after the party. Found ourselves in the mood for some more, eh, active entertainment.” He kept his hand on Mr. Wayne's shoulder a little too long, like a street challenge.

Mr. Wayne shrugged him off. “Tempting, but I have already made plans for a private commitment after this.”

“Ah, I've heard a few rumors about your private engagements,” Mr. Wilson winked and laughed heartily. “Please, don't allow me to ruin your evening!”

In fact, Mr. Wayne had invited Miss Kyle for dinner at the townhouse they were staying in, after she returned from her trip to Bludhaven. The boys eagerly asked her for a few private performances, and it was expected she would stay the night. Bruce had to excuse himself early, however, when a masked and sword wielding assassin tried to kill a city judge. The Bat managed to save the judge's life, but the assassin got away.

Couldn't quite make up my mind about the perspective for this one. But tell me what you thought!

Chapter Text

First update in a while, hopefully the next one comes sooner. I'm trying something new with a longer chapter with more of a plot, to see if that will work for future updates.

Disclaimer: I own nothing!

Tim tugged nervously at his tie, half wishing he could have come by himself, as a steady stream of high society types carefully inserted themselves in to talk to Mr. Wayne, like some well practiced dance. Tim could feel gazes sweeping over his guardian from all across the room; the prince of Gotham, recent adopted guardian of three orphans, who still hadn't quite put to bed the accusations made against him. Maybe he would have been better off going to the races with his brothers and Mr. Pennyworth, but this had sounded like such a fun time when he heard about it. The Gotham University Symposium of the Sciences was supposed to be the a meeting of some of the greatest minds in the city, and he'd wanted to see it. And being a benefactor of the university (as he was with about half of all Gotham) their guardian could get an invitation on command.

"It really is a pleasure that you could come Mr. Wayne," said a Mr. Nyles, one of the deans of the university. "and I hope your little ward here seriously considers attending our great university in a few years." He was a friendly enough person, but he seemed a bit, well the polite term was pompous.

"I was somewhat surprised that they decided to go ahead with symposium, actually," Mr. Wayne let his concern show. "In light of . . . recent events."

By "recent events" he was referring to the sudden emergence of a new criminal in Gotham. An anonymous villain, whom the press were deeming the Riddle Man.

No one knew who the man was, or what he wanted. His crimes hadn't even been that heinous at first, just a string of high profile robberies. Several masterpieces had been stolen from the Gotham Museum of Art, and roughly a ton of gold bullion from the Gotham National Bank. What was strange about this thief was that he left riddles everywhere he went. At the museum he left a series of clues as to where the pieces had been stashed after their theft, and at the bank he challenged the authorities to deduce how he'd cracked a safe and walked out with the gold during daylight hours.

The boys had been keeping up with the news with interest, and pestering Mr. Wayne about any leads he might have.

But the Riddle Man's most recent attacks had been different. A man in Crest Hill had been kidnapped during the night and left on a ledge several stories above the ground, with a complicated locking mechanism blocking the window that was his only way back inside. Another had been abducted and placed in a locked room; and challenged to try and escape, through various potentially lethal tasks. Both men had been recovered alive in the end, but their harrowing experiences had the city in a fervor. And the only thing they had in common, was that they were both board members of Gotham University.

The Bat had been out most nights for a week now, hunting the man. Last night Mr. Wayne hadn't even made it back to the house, but checked into this very hotel in the early hours of the morning and slept until Mr. Pennyworth brought Tim at noon.

"Hmph," Mr. Nyles waved a hand derisively, brushing off his concerns. "Yes, the papers do seem to be making this newest crackpot into the next Ripper. But I wouldn't be concerned. These degenerates might run around playing outlaw in the alleys at night, but one of them could never be so foolish as to try something here. We're practically in the heart of Burnley, where folk know how to be civilized."

"Actually, I was under the impression that the culprit most likely came from one of the upper classes," Mr. Wayne insisted. "His attack at the museum and his abductions of the two board members suggest a higher education."

"Well, I'm not going to play detective myself," the man harrumphed "Still, can't let these criminal types disrupt the daily life of this city. Now if you will excuse me, I believe my wife has the right idea," he gestured across the room to a fancy hatted woman perusing the buffet table.

Finally free of the man, Mr. Wayne allowed himself a yawn. "The cities elite don't seem to be very disturbed by the recent trouble," he raised an eyebrow almost jokingly at his ward. "How very admirable of them."

Tim almost said something about how growing up with too much money made people as soft in the head as it did in the body, then he remembered who he was talking to. "They're probably right though," he whispered quietly to his guardian. "About the Riddle Man not coming here. Dick and Jason didn't take us into Burnley a lot, and not for very long. Too many cops paroling all the time, and if you ain-don't have some good duds and the right, walk you stand out pretty easily." Again, he tugged at the tie, then realized he was fidgeting and stood up a little straighter.

"Nervous," Mr. Wayne raised his eyebrows and spoke quietly. "There's no need to be."

"A lot of the kids here were studying latin when my biggest education was learning to pot an easy mark," Tim shook his head. "I'm gonna make myself look like a Skinner's End Johnny, I just know it!"

"If it helps, I don't think anyone here has ever been to Skinner's End to know a local if they saw one," his guardian tried to make light of his worries. "And your teacher's tell me you're making very swift progress in catching up in your own studies. If I were a betting man, I think I'd match your mind against any other boy in this room."

"You wouldn't be alone Mr. Wayne," a man approached them from the side. "And I should know, having taught most of the them."

Tim couldn't stop the smile that broke out over his face, as he greeted one of his favorite people in Gotham. "Hello Mr. Nygma."

Edward Nygma was widely recognized as one of the brightest minds in the city. Though he came from a humble family of bookkeepers, his relentless intelligence had seen him become Gotham Universities foremost mathematician, and a favorite tutor for many of Gotham's elite families. Mr. Wayne had hired him for the private education of his new wards, on the recommendation of their mutual acquaintance Mr. Fox.

The man could be described as animated, with an almost childlike energy behind even his simple movements. He was dressed particularly flamboyantly today, (sometimes when Jason was in the library reading Poe, Tim would join him and just browse anything he picked off the shelves; the dictionary was one of his favorites) in a bright green suit with a black bowler hat sitting at a jaunty angle.

"It's nice to see you professor," Mr. Wayne shook his hand with a smile. "I am sorry I haven't been able to meet with you personally very often, my business demands much of my time you understand."

"Of course, of course," Mr. Nygma brushed off his apology. "And with no offense, I'm not sure your boys' progress would be better for it anyway," he leaned toward Tim. "Indulge me, will you lad? The north Atlantic bird known as the great auk lays a single egg every year. It takes three years for an infant auk to reach reproductive age, and also breed. Now two thousand auks were hunted from St. Kilda island this year; leaving two hundred and eighty two healthy adults, half of them female. A further sixty-two auks are hunted every year after, and they die naturally at the age of fourteen. How many birds will the island have in twenty years?"

Tim scratched his head. "Isn't the great auk extinct?"

"Correct sir," Mr. Nygma doffed his hat and bowed theatrically to the boy. "You are officially in my top tier of students. And the answer, if you wanted it, is two thousand one hundred and eighty nine."

"Sharp as always Mr. Nygma," Mr. Wayne nodded. "I hear you're going to be the master of ceremonies for this event."

"Yes, a true pleasure," but the smile turned down on Mr. Nygma's lips. "A most gracious consolation prize, from the university board."

Mr. Wayne smiled sympathetically. "I was sorry to hear about the board's decision to pass you over for the position of executive vice president."

"That is good of you Mr. Wayne," the professor smiled sadly. "Though I can hardly say the board's choice was a surprise."

Mr. Wayne nodded, apologetically. "Dr. Long does has had a long-standing tenure as-"

"Let us not insist on politely false ignorance, Mr. Wayne," Professor Nygma shook his head. "The good doctor's qualifications are more in the area of family connections, not in intellectual prowess."

"The importance of such associations does seem to be unfortunately prevalent in our city, I'll grant you," Mr. Wayne agreed. "Though I am sure that with time your excellent work will be recog-,"

"I have already given years of such service to the schools of Gotham," the man's voice was hard, his face a bitter sneer. "And only seen lesser minds elevated above me as a reward." He looked down at Tim. "Tell me young master, what person would you say this describes?

Who's steps fall off the clear marked path

Who wears no hat in snow or rain

Who spends his pockets dry of cash

Who, for a scornful beauty, longs in vain?"

"Um," Tim considered it for a moment. "A blind man?"

Professor Nygma smiled humorlessly. "A good guess. The answer I was looking for was a fool."

Mr. Wayne was about to say something, when the other man waved his hand dismissively "But, it is discourteous of me to pile my own troubles onto you worthy gentlemen. Please, go and enjoy yourselves," with a tip of his hat he departed into the crowd. "I have a few last minute things to prepare before this little show starts."

Tim shifted awkwardly on his feet, feeling he should have thought of something reassuring to say. A quick glance up at his guardian, and he saw the man's face was thoughtful and narrow eyed, following Mr. Nygma across the room until another high society couple came up to them.

For the next half hour there was little time for his thoughts to focus on anything other than not embarrassing himself in conversation. It was significantly easier when they talked to someone who was in attendance because they actually knew something about the topics to be discussed, and Tim felt himself being drawn in rather than playing a part. Unfortunately, that was the minority in the room.

A welcome break came when the start of the symposium drew near and the guests began taking their seats; and the others at their table left to graze the buffet one last time. "Looks like the first topic is some new kind of locomotive their making in Austria," Tim looked over their bulletin. "Did you see any trains like that when you were in Europe?"

His guardian didn't reply, but with chin rested in one palm stared absentmindedly at a vase of flowers in the center of the table."

"Mr. Wayne?"

"Hmm?" The man looked up, off-guard, as if he'd forgotten anyone else was at the table.

"Did you see the locomotive engines in Europe?"

"Oh, a few," Mr. Wayne shook his head, kneading his eyebrows. "I'm sorry Tim, I'm afraid I'm a little preoccupied today."

Tim looked around, before leaning in to whisper. "Your thinking about the Riddle Man, aren't you!"

Mr. Wayne grimaced. "Mr. Nygma's own riddles did bring it to mind, yes. But it's nothing you should concern yourself with."

Tim looked down at his hands for a moment, before looking up shyly back at his guardian. "You know, one of the things Mr. Nygma says in his lectures is that vocalizing the equation can help you stumble on the answer."

Mr. Wayne looked at him appraisingly for a moment, smiled just a bit, then rested his gaze on the table in front of him and turned grim again. "His motus operandi seems to have changed," he explained. "The first times he struck, at the Gotham Bank and the museum of natural history, seemed to be focusing on . . . theatrics, on showing off his intelligence But then he launched his abduction of Dr. Hoffman, which could have killed the man. And the room he imprisoned Dr. Quinn in; it might not have done any physically harm, but the tests set for him to escape seemed designed to mentally torture him."

"That is what we have confirmed," Mr. Wayne continued. "But just yesterday, I was informed by Mr. Fox that one of his projects has gone missing from the Wayne Laboratory. A dispersilator he calls it, designed to release vaporous chemicals into the air of a large room. It's being developed for a variety of industrial uses, such as curing meat or tanning leather on a large scale. Fox suspects it was theft."

Tim cocked his head, try to think of a criminal application. "What would the Riddle Man want with that?"

"I don't know," Mr. Wayne shook his head. "I don't even have any proof the Riddle Man did it; but my instincts tell me the timing is too coincidental." He leaned forward, chin resting on his hands. "And now this riddle master has changed the game again; he sent the Gotham police a letter last night, which I believe describes something he hasn't done yet!"

Tim caught himself leaning forward a little, curiosity overcoming his usual fear. "What did it say?"

Still gazing absently ahead, the detective recited the lines he'd memorized by now.

Tireless I work, with a sculptures eyes

But the achievements of others mark my gain

With patience, and the trust it buys

With gentle words I make minds bend

And ask for no reward or prize

But to see light in the eyes of younger men

But when all I'm fed is scorn and spite,

Then discontent becomes my guide

And the great who think themselves so high

Will be measured against the rejects mind

"I can't make sense of it," Mr. Wayne shook his head. "Other than the obvious that he's going to strike again, and that once more the target will be one of the cities elite. Though maybe several of them this time."

"The police have no leads?" Tim would honestly have been rather surprised if they did.

"No," the detective shook his head. "They still seem to be scrutinizing the cities usual gangs and criminals. But I don't see how any of them could be capable of this; let alone why they would want to go after the university."

"Maybe it's someone who used to be in the school." Tim said thoughtfully. "The riddle kinda sounds like a teacher."

When no reply came, he looked up. Mr. Wayne was pale faced and wide eye'd, he looked like a madman with a knife had just stepped out in front of him on the street. Then he straightened, and began scanning the room, eyes moving this way and that as they searched for something they didn't find. "Tim," he said slowly and evenly. "We need to head back to the townhouse."

"What?"

"I'm afraid something has come up," Mr. Wayne had already risen and pushed in his chair. "Come along, now!"

Tim tried to keep the disappointment from his face as he moved to follow. And it looked like the Symposium was just about to start too, with Mr. Nygma stepping up to the podium at the opposite end of the room. Sighing, he turned away and followed Mr. Wayne to the door. Then he noticed the tension in the man's shoulders, the quickness of his stride, and the tight clench of his fist; and the truth hit him like a run-away horse.

Tim quickened his pace, jogging to keep up with his guardian. "He's here, isn't he?" the boy whispered. "The Riddle Man."

Mr. Wayne looked down at him, and after a moments pause he nodded. "If I'm right, he's here, and he's about to strike again." Ignoring the startled valet he took his own coat directly off the rack, then strode through the hurriedly opened door with his ward in tow. Without looking back he plowed through the crowded foyer, shouldering patrons aside with only the barest hint of politeness as he marched right out the front door.

""CAB," Mr. Wayne bellowed down the street, a dollar visible in his waving hand. Tim reached up to tug his coat.

"Didn't you have luggage?"

"Never mind that," Mr. Wayne ushered him into the brougham cab that pulled up, and handed the driver a generous bill while he gave him the address of the Wayne townhouse. "As quick as you can my good man," he instructed before turning back to the building.

Tim leaned out of the un-shuddered window. "You're not coming?"

Glancing warily at the driver, Mr. Wayne leaned in close to whisper to him. "I'm going to stay and take care of things." He said calmly. "I have my spare equipment up in the room, I'll be fine."

"By yourself, against the riddle man?" Tim would rather he called the police, or waited to track the man down after he struck.

"Don't worry about it." His guardian shook his head. "Just get back to Alfred and your brothers and wait for me." And before Tim could respond, he nodded to the driver, who snapped his reigns and sent them rolling off as Mr. Wayne strode back into the hotel.

Tim leaned out the window, watching as his guardian disappeared into the building. He slumped with a sigh, wishing there was something he could do to help, and trying not to wonder what heinous plan the Riddle Man could have for his newest attack.

And as he was gazing aimlessly out the window, something caught his eye. What was that? Leaning out further, his sharp eyes caught sight of something in the alleyway behind the hotel. A team of musclemen, who looked like they'd be more comfortable in the Narrows than in Burnley, were hauling something down the steps of the hotel cellar. It was a wide, heavy looking device; a wide metal drum topped with pipes and valves.

He only caught a gimps of it, but he knew what it had to be. The dispersilator! Did Mr. Wayne know? Surely the device was going to play some part in the Riddle Man's attack. If he didn't know, he had to be warned!

Looking at the driver, who's gaze was focused on the road as they sped away, he stood on the seat to swing one leg out the window, and wobbled precariously as he moved the other out after it. He meant to lower himself down onto the footstand, and from there he could just jump onto the street. It shouldn't hurt too much; just tuck and roll, like Dick always says. But then he hesitated as his gaze fell on the rear wheels, which seemed to be rolling much faster now that he was on the outside; and his grip slipped.

He didn't have time to tuck and roll. Instead he hit the cobblestones on his side, and was left sprawling on the road in a gasp of pain. He struggled into an upright position, and became aware of the fact that by some miracle the cab wheel had missed him. The driver kept going, apparently having missed the fact he'd lost his charge, and Tim staggared to his feet under the curious gaze of several onlookers.

With no explanation other than a loud "pardon" he began limping as quick as he could back toward the hotel, brushing dirt off of his waistcoat as he thought about what he should do.

Mr. Wayne might already have figure out who the Riddle Man, but he'd have to search for the device. Maybe if Tim could get to him in time, then The Bat could stop it before anyone was hurt. Another thought struck him; what if someone saw him talk to The Bat, that might make people ask questions. But he'd could deal with that after he found the man.

He was staggering up the hotel stairs now, and had nearly reached the door when it was suddenly thrown open and he was hit by a wave of fleeing patrons. Tim scrambled to avoid being hit by a large bellied man putting up an impressive speed, and then dodge around a shrieking woman clutching her child to her. As it forced it's way out the door, the mob put up many cries of "POLICE" and "MURDER" setting of even more panic in the streets below.

Too late, Tim thought glumly.

After forcing his way through the crowd he reached the hotel lobby. Aside from more guests beginning to evacuate their rooms upstairs, it was now empty except for several staff furiously arguing by the closed doors dining hall. "Never in my years-," one was saying to another, when Tim hurried over and tugged on his coat. "Sir, what is going on?"

The man pushed him away, the normal annoyance of adults being interrupted by children mixed with real, genuine fear on his face. "Off with you boy!" he shouted. "Get out the door quickly now! This whole establishment is being assaulted by a lunatic."

"I don't understand," Tim gave his best innocent-scarred-child impression, which was very easy under the circumstances. He attempted to get around the men and to the door, not sure if his guardian could have managed to reach the dinning room by now. "I must get inside, um, my fathers in there!"

"Then my prayers are with him," One of the other men pulled Tim back from the door, shaking his head. "One of the boffins in there has gone mad. He's killed two men, and had declared he'll kill everyone in the room if even one person gets in or out!"

Tim shook his head, trying to force away the feeling of faintness that was suddenly threatening to overtake him. It wasn't possible, surely their pleasant afternoon couldn't have degenerated so quickly into a killing spree?

"Shove off, if you know what's good for you," the first man pushed him away, as they resumed their argument. Tim obediently turned and ran; but instead of following the stream of fleeing guests out the front door, he forced his way against the tide as he raced up the stairs. On the third floor he squeezed his around a whole family trying to escape while saving their, luggage and reached the room Mr. Wayne had stayed in.

It was locked, and after a pounding the door a few times Tim plucked a hair pin out of his pocket and reached up to jiggle it into the key hole. A few skillful twists, and the door swung open.

The room inside was empty, with one of Mr. Wayne's suitcases left propped open on the bed. Damnation! He'd missed his guardian; and God only knew what the man planned to do about all this.

Tim slumped against the wall and sat down, kneading his fists against his forehead. What do I do now?

In spite og himself, he heard professor Nygma's voice in his head. Identify all the variables, and you can solve the whole problem one step at a time. What were the variables here? The Riddle Man, whom he couldn't get to. His guardian, whom he couldn't find!

The machine!

In an instant Tim was on his feet again, running back down to the first floor. If the dispersilator was important to the attack, then the simplest solution was to destroy it. It must still be in the cellar, being was too big to lifted up any of the stairs indoors, even by the musclemen the Riddle Man had with him.

And as Tim reached the first floor, that thought brought him up short. One of them had probably been left to guard it! He couldn't simply run down the stairs.

He turned then, circling around the stairs to keep out of sight of the staff still arguing outside the dinning hall. He crept behind a beam and checked to make sure their backs were turned, and then on silent feet he darted towards the kitchen door.

He was running through the room before he thought to check if there was anyone their to stop him. Ducking behind low counter when he spotted the staff all gathered around another door, this one leading to the dinning hall.

They had piled up crates and furniture to block the door, but one of the cooks had climbed up to peer through the little window into the hall. "Black as an ink stain," the man was narrating to his companions. "And he came out of nowhere."

"What's the looney doing?" one asked.

"Just standing there with his finger on the button, the same one that killed the other two," came the reply. "Now their talking, I think he's asking The Bat riddles!"

Tim wanted to cry. Mr. Wayne was already in the room, and trapped with a man who would kill him without a second thought! God have mercy!

There! In one corner he spotted what he was looking for. A dumbwaiter sat open in one corner, and if it was anything like the one in Wayne Manor, it would lead down to the cellar.

With one last glance at the spectators, he ran across the room, jumped up to grab the edge, and hauled himself into the narrow lift, closing the door. The platform wobbled a bit under his weight, but it held, and he began pulling on the rope, lowering the mechanism down with unsteady jerks.

He concentrated on pulling the rope, trying not to think about anything else. He hadn't thought about how dark the lift would be, or expected the musty rotten smell of it. Just like living on the streets again. Before long his arms began to ache and burn as he heaved on the rope again and again. He had to be careful to sit straight, or his back would scrape against the side. His nice waistcoat still caught on something sharp, and tore in several places, but he didn't stop. He gasped loudly, trying to breath in the dusty air, and tried to ignore the traitorous thought that he should have stayed in the cab.

Then with a thump the platform reached the bottom of the lift, and he realized he'd come level with the next door without noticing. Oh jubilation, he muscled up, a smile picking the poshest word he could think of.

With a gentle push, Tim slowly opened the dumbwaiter, wincing at the faint creak of it's hinges. The only thing in view was a long rack of wine bottles. Shifting in place he carefully jumped down to the floor, landing lightly on his feet. He crept through the cellar as cautiously as he ever had through the Narrows in the dark of night. He moved slowly, peering around corners to make sure of no lurkers before moving on. Tim listened carefully, expecting to here the whirl and wheeze of a moving machine at any moment. The quiet probably meant it hadn't been activated yet, and that should have been comforting; but Tim thought the silence was somehow oppressive, adding to the claustrophobia of the dank, dark cellar. He'd really been reading Poe a bit too much.

He was so tense with anticipation that when he finally peered around a corner and spied the machine, he nearly jumped out of his skin. It squatted on a pallets, silent and still. A single guard stood by the thing, his back to the shelves Tim was hiding behind, smoking a cigar.

Alright, Tim thought to himself. I've found the thing, now what? He didn't like his chances of taking down the muscle bound guard my himself. Get the police, he told thought. At least a few of them had to have reached the hotel by now.

And then with an ominous click, a green light atop the machine began to glow. With a curse the thug threw away his cigar and grasped a metal bar on the things side. With grunts and groans he began pushing the lever up and down, awakening the machine with a whirl and a hum.

Too Late!

Tim looked around desperately, looking for some weapon he could attack the man with. He'd taken on grown men before on the streets (though he'd always had Dick and Jason with him, and even then they tended to avoid men the size of this thug). But the only weapon he saw was a broom sitting against the racks of wine bottles between him an-

Ah ha

He threw his shoulder against the rack, kicking his legs against the ground as he pushed with all his might. With a creek the shelves teetered, the wine bottles clinked as they rocked in their slots. But the boy couldn't seem to push it far enough, and as the rack wobbled it threatened to come back on top of him.

Desperately, Tim grasped at a nearby crate of onions, and with strength born of desperation heaved it e few feet toward the rack. He snatched up the broom and jammed the end of it under the lowest shelf, pushing the pole down so it caught on the crate. Give me a lever big enough and I'll move the world, Tim remembered a quote out of the Manor's history books; and throwing all his wait upon it he gave a cry of relief as the shelf finally tipped beyond the point of stability, and came tumbling down upon the thug.

The result was just as satisfying as Tim could have hoped. The shelf toppled with a thunderous crash and a chorus of shattering glass, knocking the man flat. It caught one corner of the machine, which was crushed under it. With a crack a pair of rivets burst from it's sides to bounce off the shelves around, and the open seams leaked trails of white steam.

Panting for breath, Tim surveyed his handiwork. Whatever danger the machine had held, the threat was almost certainly neutralized. That man wasn't getting back up soon (Tim had to force down the worrying thought that he might have accidentally killed him), and the device likely couldn't run with it's controls bent and dented. Wine of every kind was pouring out of broken bottles, covering the floor in multicolored puddles. This would probably end up being a very expensive rescue for the hotel, but Tim had no intention of taking credit for it in any case.

With the adrenaline draining out of him, Tim shuffled toward the first staircase he could find. It turned out to be the main cellar door leading out to the alley way, but he was more than ready to be out of this building entirely. The boy blinked against the bright daylight as he pushed the door open, finding the bitter but familiar smells of a Gotham alleyway to actually be comforting.

But a cart still sat waiting in the alleyway, it's driver engaged in a heated argument with a policeman. "Cordoning off the entire building," the copper was saying, when both the men noticed the cellar door creeping open. Tim darted back behind it, wondering how he was going to explain all this, when some kind of explosion went off in the dining hall above him.

It wasn't a very powerful explosion, and rather than a loud crack the sound was a dull thump. The cart driver took this as an opportunity; dipping a hand into his pocket he brought it back out with a brass knuckle slipped on an laid the policeman out with a right hook. A back door burst open above Tim, and pillars of black smoke spilled out. A man came running out, coughing heavily. "Now cough damnation he's right cough behind me!"

Tim knew that voice, and his mouth went slack, as the pieces all fell into place. A teacher. No, no it couldn't be!

Not the same professor who turn a mathematical equation into a joke even Jason could get. Not the man who never grew impatient, even when a student simply couldn't find the answer he wanted.

And the same man who had a score to settle with the Gotham University board, the man who was a close personal friend of Mr Fox, and so might o about the secret projects of Wayne Enterprises. Tim knew he was right, even before he could see the professor through the crack in the door. He still didn't want to believe it.

As he watched, Mr. Nygma hopped tentatively over the fallen lawman, and climbed into the cart." Damned costumed bedlamite," he shouted. "We'll have to leave the others, and make our escape forthwith!"

I should do something, Tim thought. If he gets away he'll strike again, and now he has a grudge against the Bat!But he didn't know what he could do now, or even if he could bring himself to directly confront the man.

But before either Tim or the villianous professor could act, an odd bat-shaped boomerang came spinning through the air to strike the driver, knocking him to the cobblestones. There was a rustle of heavy fabric from the door above, and in one leap the Bat landed on top of the cart, and seized his surprised prey by the lapels.

"I'm afraid the Gotham Police would like a moment of your time Mr. Nygma," There was more gravel to Mr. Wayne's voice than normal; ever since Miss Kyle had figured out his identity, he made more of an effort to hide it.

"Damn you," Nygma spat at him. "You'll regret this you self-righteous quack! Good help me you'll regre-"

He was cut off by a single blow from the Bat's right hand, and he laid the professor gently on the back of the chart. The vigilante jumped down, and appeared about to call for the police, when his sharp eyes spied the cracked open cellar door, and his ward inside.

"TIM!?"

The boy sheepishly stumbled out into the alley. "Sorry Mr. Wayne."

The masked man took in the boy's disheveled appearance and the open cellar door, and Tim could almost see the clockwork click together in his mind. "I told you to get out of here!"

"T-the the dispersilator," Tim hurried to explain. "I saw them loading it, and I tried to warn you; but, but you were already gone and . . ."

"You disabled the machine then," Mr. Wayne wasn't really asking.

"YOU THERE," a policeman on the street had spotted them, an advanced with his club. "Hold there, and do not mov-"

Before he had even stepped into the alley, Mr. Wayne snatched Tim up inside his cloak; and with the snap whirl of his grappling hook they were rising up to the rooftops. Tim would have expected the rush of wind and the empty air beneath his feet to be terrifying; but he felt safer here, in his guardians grip, than he had all afternoon.

Mr. Pennyworth blew gently on the steaming cup of hot chocolate, and set it down on the lampstand. "Here you are Master Tim, fresh ground with just a dab of milk."

Leaning forward from where he'd been sagging in the cushy armchair, Tim picked it up and sipped it cautiously, mumbling his thanks.

"So, is Mr. Wayne gonna make you a bat suit himself," Jason grinned as he leaned against the arm rest on his other side. "Or does he have a special tailor on the roll for those?"

"Shove it," his younger brother replied. "You wouldn't be jokin if you'd been the one who was almost trapped in a room with a maniac."

"Would too," his brother grinned. "But seriously little Timmy, you might have a future in this crime fightin business."

"Jason might be a pain," Dick elbowed the red head in the ribs, "but he ain't wrong this time. We've been meanin to talk to Mr. Wayne soon, about us doing somethin to help the Bat. You thought about joinin us?"

"I don't think I want to," Tim shook his head. "I didn't even actually fight anybody; I just snuck around like a rat back on the street again."

"Still sounds like a lot more fun than I would imagine at one of those boffin laudydaus," Jason said. "Maybe I should go with you to the next symphanium."

"Symposium."

"Whatever," the boy shrugged. "Still can't believe professor Nygma turned barmy! Always said though, there was somethin wrong with him."

"Yah never did," Dick retorted, and before their bickering could continue there was a knock at the door. Mr. Wayne entered, his face tired and worried, but it had a genuine smile when he saw them all. "Boys," he nodded. "Give me a moment alone with Tim, would you?"

"Shall I put some tea in the kettle for you sir?" Alfred asked as he followed Jason and Dick out.

"That would be wonderful Alfred," the man nodded. "But be sure to take your time about it."

With the room now empty except for the two of them, Mr Wayne grabbed another chair and pulled it over to sit directly across from his ward. "Are you alright Tim?"

"Yay," the boy put down his hot chocolate. "I ain't-do not have anything more than a few crapes and bruises." He felt anxious and wanted to fidget. He knew he'd helped, but he'd also disobeyed a direct order from his guardian. He tried to gage Mr. Wayne's mood, but the man was as expressive as a gargoyle.

"Did, did you square things up with the coppers then?" Mr. Wayne had gone right out again after he dropped Tim at the townhouse, to make sure there were no loose ends with the Riddle Man case.

"I don't exactly have debriefings at Gotham Central," his lips might have twitched into a slight smile. "But I have confirmed that the police have Nygma safely in custody, and ample evidence to bring him to trial presently."

Tim almost didn't want to ask. "What happened when you went after him?"

His guardian was silent for a moment, before answering. "Immediately after we left, Nygma announced to the room about the dispersilator in the cellar and that he was able to trigger it with a small wired transmission he'd fitted to the speaker's podium. Having informed everyone that they were being held hostage, and would all be killed if even one tried to escape, he declared he would let them all go if any of the other university board present could solve a series of riddles he'd devised."

Mr. Wayne leaned back in his chair. "That was what ultimately drove the man, he wanted to humiliate the people he believed had wronged him, and prove his own superior intelligence in front of them all. He had smaller samples of the gas attached beneath the board members seats, and had activated two of them when they failed to give the right answers, by he time I arrived. With the doors all locked, I came in rather violently through one of the windows."

Tim had seen The Bat make an entrance, and could well imagine. "So you fought Nygma?"

"No exactly," Mr. Wayne shook his head. "I couldn't go near him while he had his finger on the button; so I had to challenged him to his own game, and started answering his riddles. My appearance was not a factor he'd counted on in crafting his plan, and he was disor-"

"You mean, you figured them all?" Tim knew Mr. Wayne was a smart man, but that was surprising.

"Yes," his guardian replied simply, and without a bit of boast in his tone. "Some took a minute or two, but it seemed to be more of a challenge than Nygma had been expecting. He grew angry, and I began to think I could lure him away from the podium. But I was overconfident," he shook his head. "And when Nygma reached his limit, he pushed the button instead. Thankfully, by this time, you had already dealt with the dispersilator. With no other resource, he activated a smoke bomb under his podium, and made his attempt to escape."

Tim nodded, and finally had to ask, "So how many people did prof . . . how many people were killed."

"I have some rather good news actually," Mr. Wayne said. "There were no fatalities."

Tim looked up in surprise. "But, but, the gas?"

"It was never actually deadly. Analysis by the police have determined it was actually a strong sedative that induced a state of very convincing unconsciousness. Nygma simply used the threat of it to keep a grip on his victims, and felt the terror of the experience was an appropriate punishment."

Tim sighed, a part of him relieved, in spite of everything. "I knew Mr. Nygma wasn't no murderer."

"Maybe not," Mr. Wayne was looking off to the side, gazing at nothing in particular as he frowned in thought. "But he is a troubled man. Even if no one died, people were hurt by his actions. When someone decides that inflicting unneeded pain is acceptable . . . all too often it's only a matter of time until they go even further." The man was quiet for a moment, before looking back up at his ward and trying a smile.

"I want you to know Tim, that I'm no angry with you," the man reassured. "Though I do expect you to listen better in the future, you showed better judgement then I did tonight,"

Tim looked up in surprise. "How?"

"Had that gas actually been a poison," his guardian explained. "It would have killed everyone in that room before I could have stopped it." He shook his head. "I had already deduced that the machine would be used to attack the symposium somehow, but I decided not to follow that lead. I was focused solely on confronting Nygma, and assumed that would bring the surest end to the danger. Your method was better."

Tim shook his head. "I only knew to go after the machine cause I happened to see it, I just got lucky."

"No," Mr. Wayne insisted. "You acted on your luck; there are many people who would not go that far, particularly in Gotham."

Tim shrugged. "It didn't matter in the end, no one was actually in danger."

"I would have been paralyzed by that gas also," Mr. Wayne countered. "Not only would Nygma have escaped to possibly continue his descent into crime; but when the police arrived, I would have been exposed as the Bat."

Tim jolted in alarm, he hadn't considered that!
"So whatever you think you accomplished tonight," the man continued. "I'm personally very grateful.

"Thanks Mr. Wayne," The boy sank a little further into the chair, rubbing a palm to one eye. "Can I go to bed now?"

So how obvious is it that this was my first time trying to write riddles? Since Gotham By Gaslight seems to take a new but still recognizable take on a lot of it's characters, I thought it would be fine to tweek the Riddler's backstory a bit; something I plan to do with more of the classic villains coming up. Please tell me what you think in REVIEWS!

Chapter Text

 This stories not quite dead yet!      

The organ pipes whistled their same nonsensical tune, and the crowd broke out into applause as the loinclothed strongman heaved the weighted bar high into the air. Dick squeezed around a father with his son on his shoulders, and past a drunk heckler as he pushed through the spectators. A discarded bag of peanuts crunched under his feet, and he was pushed aside as a jaunting car sped through the crowd, carrying three clowns and pulled by a zebra.

He had really missed the circus.

It had been almost two years since he had left Haley's Circus; and though it had occasionally returned to Gotham, this was the first time he'd come back. It was lucky he'd thought of an excuse to get out of the manor, and that no one else was in a mood to go to the Gotham Museum of Art. Mr. Wayne seemed to trust him to be out by himself for a while; Dick hoped he wouldn't be too disappointed when he found out the truth, but he didn't want anyone else to come along.

He had to do this one himself.

He stalked through the crowd, trying to look like any johnny-sightseer, even as he searched for a specific face. He passed by old friends with his hat worn low over his eyes, hoping not to be recognized. He left the crowds behind as he skulked past the rows of tents to the wagons beyond, darting from one patch of shadows to another until he finally spied what he'd been looking for. The paint on the old circus wagon was chipped and faded; all except the large smiling face of a clown. It was identical to the face decorating all the circus’ fliers and promotions; and was probably repainted with love and care each year.

A light shone inside, and Dick darted across the trampled grass to rush through the door.

A tall, rake thin man stood at a mirror on the far side, spreading white makeup over his face as he practiced lines.

“By grinning, he's winning the favor of all. 

What pleasant diversions to see and recall. 

No matter what circus may come to our town, 

I find that the part I like best is the clown!”

The door banged shut behind Dick, and the man called without turning round. “Bobby, have you found your flaming cravat yet?”

“That ain't my style Jerry,” Dick replied, as his old friend dropped his brush and whirled around in surprise. “If I got any flame near those high-wires, the whole big-top would go up!”

“Well slap me blue and hang me by my garters!” Jerome had always tried to come up with the most ridiculous phrases possible, to complete his clownish persona. “Little Dickie Grayson!” In a couple strides he had crossed the room grabbed Dick up into a bone-crushing hug. “Boy you look like you stepped right out of yesteryear and back into my boxcar.” The man set him down, and with one hand measured how the boy's forehead now came up to his waist. “Course ya did sprout up a bit.”

“Hiya Jerry,” Dick smiled from ear to ear. “How've the crowds been?”

“Oh the best Dick, the best!” The man spread his arms, pantomiming the same motions he often made when speaking to an audience. “The men laugh like fiends, the children listen in rapture, the ladies hang on every word; a man couldn't ask for better!”

“Glad to hear it,” Dick sat down on a painted trunk, leaning against a large wardrobe full of clownish attire. “You and the Old Man still knockin heads?”

“Oh, you know Haley,” Jerome pulled up a stool next to him. “ Rehearsal he says, stick to the script he says; safety this and that he says. Me, I'm a man of spontaneity. Haley's a great performer, but he still doesn't get how fortune favors the bold. What people really want is to see someone take the risks they’re too yellow too; we still ain't had a show that got more applause then my little bear racing stunt in Milwaukee!”

“Hey,” I think my parents got a more hellraising ovation after their performance in Pittsburg,” It had been a long time since he’d allowed himself to think of those better days.

The clown’s grin dimmed a little, as if the memory saddened him. “I do recall they had to twist Halley’s arm to get him to rubber stamp that as well.”

“Some people never change Jerry, and you're one of them,” Dick could have just sat back and reminisced for hours, but he forced himself back down the path he started. “I'm afraid I can't stay and talk though. I'm here on some business.”

“If you're looking to do some bootlegging, we ain't got that any more,” Jerome grinned. “Margaret the Bearded Lady got hitched and settled down in St. Louis.”

“No Jerry, it's about my parents.”

That took the funny air out of even the old clown. “Ah,” Jerome stumbled for what to say. “And why would you want to go digging up bones like that?”

Dick was silent for a moment; staring straight ahead, but not seeing the man in front of him. “I still see them, Jerry, in my sleep sometimes. I was standin there, on the high trapeze, when they fell. I saw my mom looking up at me. I saw . .” He couldn't bring himself to finish. “Some nights I hear it to, hear how they screamed.” He raised a dirty sleeve to wipe at one eye. “I gotta put it to bed Jerry. And that means gettin justice!”

Jerome was silent for a moment, looking down as he scraped the toes of one shoe over a crack in the floorboards. “I always figured that's why you ran off and stayed in Gotham. Thinkin you'd get back at that Zucco one day. I was sure you'd gotten yourself killed.” He looked the boy in the eye. “That's what'll happen if you go down this road Dick. No one crosses a man like Zucco and lives to tell!”

“No Jerry,” Dick took a deep breath. “I left the Circus, cause I don't think Zucco was the one who did it.”

There was silence again, as Jerome opened and closed his mouth several times before saying, “You lost me Dickie.”

“Or maybe he was the reason, but it wasn't him who did the deed,” Dick insisted. “They all said Zucco's goons must have slipped in before the show to bust the equipment after we checked it. But you know what the Big Top is like before a show; busy as Gotham Plaza. And Haley always rode us about lookin out for any Johnny-come-early sneakin in for free; there's no way anyone outside of the Circus could have gotten in and up those high poles without someone spottin them!”

Jerome leaned back against the wall, picking up a razor blade from his  mirror and fiddling with it thoughtfully in one hand. “I don't know Dickie, you'd be surprised what kinda sneaky cats they got in some of them city gangs.”

“I know all about the gangs, Jerry,” Dick insisted. “I spent a few years learnin. And I tell you there's no way it could have been done!”

Jerome sighed in exasperation, running both hands through his hair and muttering about 'hard-necked kids' before looking Dick in the face again. “I wish you wouldn't do this Dickie. I know I'm gonna regret this!”

The boy leaned in closer, looking over the clown with an extra critical gaze. “Do you know somethin Jerry?”

The man slumped, defeated. “Alright; but call me Pilate, cause the blood aint gonna be on my hands!” He scooted his stool a little closer, glancing about before he spoke quietly. “Do you remember Joey Skeevers, one of Haley's watchmen?”

“Yah,” Dick leaned in close in anticipation. “Kinda slow red haired guy, built like a draft-horse!”

“You're too young to remember, but he came from Gotham,” Jerome explained. “Always heard he had family in the gangs, that he joined up just ahead of an indictment. Every time we stop in Gotham; he gets Haley to let one of his cousins come in and help with set up, to earn some extra drinking money. Jack Skeevers is his name, and he was here just yesterday when we was pitchin tents.”

It had been a while, but Dick still remembered every detail of that day. Including the musclebound watchmen who usually helped set up the big top. “And he was there, in the big-top just a few hours before opening; I know he was!”

The clown shook his head, disappointed by what he saw on the boy's face. But he didn't try to stop him. “Well, when he was talkin with Joey the other day, I heard him say he hangs at a place in Skinner's End called Tom's Tavern.”

Dick was already out of his seat. “I know the place, right in the heart of the gang's territory!” He stalked toward the door. “Well I'll pay him a little visit tonight, see what's to see.”

“Don't go Dickie,” Jerome didn't even get up from his seat. “They'll find your body under the docks come morning!”

Dick stopped with his hand on the doorknob. “Don't suppose you'd come with me, would yah Jerry. I know you're not one for a fight, but Haley always said you got a knack for talkin your way in and out of anything.”

“No boy,” the clown shook his head. “I'll stick my head in a bear's mouth, but I ain't got the stones to face them butchers in the gangs. Besides,” he smiled weakly. “My first show starts in fifteen minutes!”

“That's always the way with you Jerry,” Dick smiled. “I think I only ever seen one man obsess over somethin the way you do your shows.”

“Well I'll tell you the truth boy,” Jerome leaned back again, crossing one long leg over the other. “My act is all I'm ever gonna be. I wasn't ever good at much except getting people to stop and look, I never had much luck with women, not much interest either; and I like kids, but never really imagined havin any of my own. So when I'm gone, my act is gonna be all that's left of me, yah understand? The people who remember my show are how I'm gonna live on, so I always try to give em a show they'll never forget.”

He leaned forward, grinning ear to ear. “I told that same spiel to a railyard johnny I shared a boxcar with, once back before I joined Haley's. He said, 'aint it kinda sad livin like that, only havin one thing that keeps yah going?' But I told him what I tell you; aint nobody in this world happier than the man what knows his calling, who knows exactly what he was put on this earth to do!”

Dick smiled sadly. “I think I had that once Jerry, with my parents and the highwires. But that's gone now.” He nodded to the clown. “See yah in the funny papers.” With a squeal of hinges, he walked back out and disappeared into the circus crowd.

Skinner's End hadn't changed, and Dick hoped he hadn't either, at least not enough to be noticed.

He didn’t take the straight route to Tom’s, but slunk through the back alleys. Sometimes it was safer to be in among the rakes than outside of them. And he still remembered how to move through the lanes. Never let your guard down. Never be in a spot where you can be cornered. Never look em in the eye.

Luckily everyone else in Skinner’s End seemed to have something better to do that night, and he was soon crouched behind a barrel in an alley, staring across the street at Tom’s Tavern.

The place didn’t look like much; its faded bricks riddled with cracks and its windows in sore need of a good wash. The block letter sign didn’t even have any shine to it. It was a busy joint though; with a steady stream of johns and mary’s going in and out. They were happy enough to be there, if the music that came wafting out of the place when the door opened was any indication. And a few toughs were dressed a little too dandy for an honest man from the narrows to afford. Money was definitely changing hands.

Dick hung in the shelter of the alleyway, mulling over how he was going to go about it. He couldn’t very well just walk into Tom’s and ask to see this Jack; Zucco’s gang would be sure to have some muscle there at all times. He needed to corner the man somewhere private; so he either had to wait here, or devise a way to flush the ma-

Just as he was rolling that thought over in his head, a commotion erupted from the doorway to Tom’s. A bald man with a ruddy face, and a surprisingly clean white apron stretched across his broad belly, came stomping out, half dragging a smaller red headed man behind him. “No johnny beggars here,” the man, who was probably Tom, roared. “Stay out, until yer ready to settle yer tab!”

With a heave he half threw the redhead off the front step and into the street. The smaller man wasn’t too insensible with drink yet, so he did manage to stop himself from falling over. Dick instantly recognized the spitty image of old Joey Skeevers; the beedy, sunken eyes, and pale sweaty skin.

JACK

The boy couldn’t believe his luck. Here he was, trying to figure out how he would get in and out of the gang den alive, and his prey just dropped right into his lap. This must have been how Mr. Wayne felt, whenever he nabbed a dodger. 

Jack reached down to pluck up a shapeless hat he’d dropped in the streets, the passersby he’d disturbed already turning to go about their way. Just another bit of street trash, on a street that was more trashy than most. 

To Dick though, he might as well have been the most important man in the city.

Jack began hobbling away from the tavern, and Dick sprang to his feet. After coming to find the man, the tension that had been coiling in him like a spring was starting to come out. He pushed rudely through a passing couple as he hurried to follow, suddenly nervous that he might somehow lose the man. He hadn’t quite worked out how he was going to confront the Jack; but one way or another, he was going to force him to confess. And once he was in the goal, it’d be Zucco next.

With a slow, bent shuffle, Jack turned off the street into an alley moaning piteously to himself as he squeezed through stacks of crates that partially blocked the entrance. After that he slipped from the boy's view.

Confident the man was too hard done to be looking out for trouble, Dick dropped his act and outright ran to the alley. His light feet were totally silent as he stopped at the entrance, and made his way through the stacked crates.

He found his mark in the alley. Jack hadn't seen him, but he’d stopped along one wall. He must have been relieving himself. Dick would just wait for him to finish, and then-

He was so focused on the man he was following, that he let his guard slip, and never noticed the thugs coming up behind him. A strong jerk to the collar of his jacket sent him stumbling backwards, to land in a pair of arms. Before he could think to find his feet, something cold and sharp was pressed against his neck.

“Well, well,” a thin, reedy voice with an Italian accent. “What an odd little pettirosso to be fluttering around the back alleys. Suppose he’s a friend of signore Tom?”

Dick managed to turn his head up to gape at the man holding him; who grinned back evilly even as he pressed the knife a little harder. On the street you learned to tell when a threat was empty or not. This one wasn’t.

“Don’t think so,” a taller man with brass knuckles shook his head. “Ain’t got the look of respectability all of Tom’s clients have.”

“Okay,” the three of them turned to look when Jack spoke up. “You’ve got the boy, and that’s what we agreed on. My part is over; it’s not my business anyway!”

“Si signore, the knife wielding man waved a hand casually. “Scappare off back to your circus cousins, and remember this was all just a whiskey nightmare. Best not to speak of it!”

The man nodded, his sweating face even paler than usual as his eyes went from the gang thugs to Dick for a moment. “Sorry kid,” he mumbled, before turning to hurry out onto the street. “It’s all that clown’s fault,” he muttered under his breath. “He shoulda settled you himself.”

All Dick could do was watch him go, as the thugs hauled him away. The knife wasn’t at his throat anymore, but he could tell from the grip on either arm that there was no point in struggling. No point in calling for help either, not in this part of the End.

They dragged him down the alley, up to a door in the back of Toms. They didn’t bother putting a bag over his head, like they did in all the penny serials. It didn’t matter if a dead man found your hidihole. The hinges of the door whined as it was heaved open; and as they passed through it slammed shut with a heavy, inescapable bang.

It took Dick a minute to adjust his eyes to the windowless room, lit by only a single oil lantern. “So here’s our ankle-biten prowler,” a voice called from the other side of the brite blur. “Ain't a bird much worth catchin, I gotta say.”

A heavy hand shoved the boy forward. He toppled into a desk, knocking an empty bottle forward as he fell to his knees against it. “Quite the brave little robin, to be swoopin down on the hawks.”

And Dick finally recognized the man seated behind the desk, his face lit not just by the oil lamp, but also an expensive looking cigare. His nice pressed suit might have allowed him to pass for a Burnley boy, but a Skinner’s Ender would be able to spot the hard, savage gleam in the eye that marked a professional killer. And even a  schoolboy would notice the straight scares where knife blades had marred the man’s face.

Antonio Zucco, the Boss of the back alleys.

“So,” the man sneered down at him. “You’re the last little Grayson we missed at Haley’s. Courteous of you to drop in and let us finish the job.”

A cold, throbbing anger suddenly poured into Dick’s veins, and he hauled himself to his feet.He wasn’t about to be seen losing his nerve, not to this bastard. “Zucco,” he spat the name out with all the venom he could muster. “You remember my face you bastard?”

“Oh, I remember you well enough,” the man said casually, like they’d met at a picnic years ago. “I had a front row seat that night, and I spotted you up on that crowsnest, or whatever you call it, when your parents did their act.” He paused, letting out an indifferent puff of cigar smoke. “Course I wasn’t really payin attention to yah after their big finish; your parents really stole the show. Most have taken days to mop up what was left; of course when you’ve got the lions right there it was probably easier t-”

With a furious scream Dick lunged across the table, scrambling over top of it to tackle the man. He reached out with desparate rage to latch his fingers around the murderers throat, not caring if he ever got out of there alive as long as he was able to put an end to the man who murdered his family.

His hands never found their mark though. Faster than he could react a fist came crashing into his nose like a brick, and the poor boy was all but blinded by pain as he flew backward, cracking his head on the wooden floor as he landed.

“Man, are you ever a mad little dog,” the mob boss only laughed at him as he struggled to rise. “I really couldn’t believe it when he said you were comin to try and hunt us down, like a little Don Quixote against actual giants. Not really sure what I did to deserve a grudge like that?

Dick sat up, only to be grabbed roughly by one of the johnnys and hauled to his feet. A knife was held almost casually at his throat.  “Want me to drop him in an alley boss,” the man rumbled. 

“I don’t know Sam,” Zucco walked around the desk to leer at the boy. “After little Dickie here worked so hard, I think he deserves something a bit more special. Let's take him on a stroll down to Dixie.”

Nodding, the other tough turned to open a door on squealing hinges. Dick was half dragged through to the top of a flight of worn stairs, leading down into a musty cellar lined with bottles and barrels.

“That Tom out front is actually Tom III you see,” Zucco explained, leading the way as they descended the stairs. “This Tavern’s been here since before the Mexican War, and the family ain’t ever been what you’d call upstanding citizens. More poor souls have passed through the bottom of this place, and never returned, than the Gotham morgue.”

The toughs lifted Dick by his arms, and pulled him along after the boss. Even though his room was lower than the last one it had better light, coming in from small windows at street level outside. He heaved his arms desperately, hoping he might break free and escape that way. No such luck. They walked down the length of the cellar, coming to a second door at the far end. The mob boss gave Dick a cruel grin before opening it.

The next room was nothing more than a cave, the walls all naked rock. At first the muscle men had to duck to walk into it, but then it suddenly opened up. The ceiling above them was broken by a single pipe, an exposed piece of the sewer, spreading a slow trickle of water into the large hole in front of them; where the ground gave way to a steep drop.

“Used to be called the Road to Dixie,” Zucco went on, gesturing to the dark water more than a dozen feet below. “Tom the 1st used to have a deal with slave catchers comin up from the south, snatchin any darkie they caught without freedom papers. And maybe a few who did have em.” he flicked his cigarette down into the hole, the faint light from it playing off the rocks until it landed with a ptsss in the water. “This tunnel went down and out to a place dockside, where they’d smuggle em into ships. After the war he got a bit of more wholesome smuggling out of it, before the sea flooded in somewhere. Now it’s just a hole filled with water,” he grinned at Dick. ‘Still useful for gettin rid of the garbage.``

And without further warning the toughs hefted Dick up and threw him over the side.

The boy cried out in terror; taken off guard by how much the fall shocked him. He’d grown up on a flying trapeze, it shouldn’t have scared him that much. But the freefall into the dark, empty space was so paralyzing, he couldn’t even get a thought together until it was already over.

Dick knew how a person was supposed to hit the water; feet first, back straight. He couldn’t have gotten ready if he wanted to, and so he slammed against the top with his whole right side slapping almost flat against the surface. The strike of the water was worse than most punches he’d taken, and a moment after the breath was knocked from him it came rushing into his mouth. The cold, suffocating water was all around him, and he had to bite down hard on the inside of his cheek, force himself not to scream because it would let more down his throat. He kicked wildly, with no idea how deep the pit was, or how quickly he was sinking. He was so disoriented from fear and water, that it took him a few moments to realize he’d actually broken the surface again. With a silent prayer he finally gulped a desperate breath into his burning lungs.

“You know, I saw the papes started using a new cute little line for when the gangs drown a man,” Zucco’s mocking voice called down from above, all friendly and casual. “They say they’re ‘sleepin with the fishes.’ That’s what I’d recommend, just let yourself take it easy for a few minutes, and it’ll all be over quick.”

Below him Dick struggled frantically, kicking with all his might and desperately striking the water. He’d never learned to swim properly, and even as he managed to keep himself above water, every second felt like he was sinking. “ZUCCO,” he shouted back up, hurling all the hate and rage he could put into the words. “YOU MURDERING BASTARD!”

“I hear this hole is still connected to the ocean,” one of the other thugs spoke up, drawing some chuckles. “He keeps spalshin like that, maybe some big fish will come along and invite him down below!”

“I’LL KILL YOU,” the boy was sobbing as much as he was yelling. “I’LL MAKE YOU PAY!”

“You won’t make it out of that pit,” the ganglord poked his neck over the edge, and the door behind him was drug open. “You should have chosen your enemies more carefully, kid,” the man grinned like the devil himself. “And picked better friends.” And then he was gone, and with a thundering bang the door to the gang's private morgue closed.

Dick screamed, the vilest curses he could think of, shouted with hate at the man who’d murdered his parents. He beat the water savagely, as if it were the door standing between them. 

His cries were only interrupted when he managed to splash water into his own mouth. Choking, his frantic splashing slowed for just an instant, and faster than he could react his head nearly sank beneath the water. With a shock, the rage in him was suddenly overwhelmed with panic. Kicking and stroking he got his head back above water, gasping for air.

Dick knew how to tread water well enough, having been dunked in Gotham’s rivers more than once. But he’d never learned to swim properly. He suddenly realized that he’d been thrashing his arm and legs so hard that they were already starting to tire. The water seemed to be trying to hold him still, the weight of it dragging against every move he made. And the cold had gotten through his clothes, and was now seeping into his skin. His broken nose was starting to ache horribly.

His feet kicked in vain, trying to find a bottom that wasn’t there. In desperation he kicked himself toward the side of the hole’s walls. Having to work harder to stay afloat when there wasn’t room to kick, he pawed his way along the edge, looking for something, anything, to hold on to.

It was an actual shock when he found a grip. He latched on and clung to it like a lifeline, sobbing in relief as his feet found purchase below the water too.

Panting, and catching his breath, Dick was finally able to take a moment to get a good look at his surroundings. In the faint light of the tunnel, he now realized there was a rotted bit of old ladder mostly submerged under the water. Glancing up, he could see the top end of it still hanging just below the top of the hole, its lowest rung some ten feet above him. 

Far out of reach.

Dick shivered, the reprieve from a quick death not doing anything to stop his growing despair. The bit of ladder might be keeping him above water for now, but the cold was already starting to numb his limbs, and the vile salty drink would worsen his thirst when it came. He had to get out, or suffer a slow death.

And the only way out, was up.

He could see the dents and gashes where the ladder had previously been nailed all the way up the rock, before being cut out by the gangs years ago. The ten foot gap between might as well have been the length to the moon, for as much chance as a man would have of jumping up to reach it. 

In the whole gap there was no hand hold that would be fit to climb, even for a boy who’d received a rough education in home robbery. There was just a single wooden strut, sticking out from the wall halfway between the two pieces of ladder. It would be impossible to reach though, and even if he did it’d be no easier to reach the top.

Any  man who wanted to escape this pit would have to fly.

For a long moment, Dick hung on in the dark water, mentally judging the distance. It wouldn’t be an impossible move; he’d seen his mother and father make it farther. But usually from a proper trapeze stand, not from a narrow rung just off the ground. And he’d certainly never made such a jump even under good conditions. But he had to try. If he didn’t he’d die down here; he could already feel the cold start to seep into his bones, adding to the exhaustion he felt. If he didn’t act soon he would be trapped in this place forever, his corps likely never to be found.

Zucco would get away.

And his brothers would be left alone.

And then, as he was hanging there trying to make up his mind, something strong and sinuous brushed against his leg. Quick as a jack-in-the-box he was out of the water; both feet perched unsteadily on the top rung just a few inches above the surface. He starred down with fresh terror at the drink, trying to spot anything that might be alive down there. He thought of the great toothy fish that could have gotten into the cave from the sea, coming back time and again to grow fat off of the poor souls left here by the gangs.

Well, Dick thought. That decides it!

Slowly, keeping his feet as steady as he could on top of the rung, he stood up, and gauged the distance to the wooden post over his head. He could make it, he was sure he could. This was the hardest kind of jump there was, straight up from the ground, without so much as a rope or spring to help him. At least if he missed, the landing would be soft. Assuming he didn’t land inside a pair of jaws.

Dick took off his jacket; soaked through, it was heavy as a rock. His hat and waistcoat too, for good measure. 

Standing with knees bent, Dick took a long moment to breathe deeply, calming himself. When you were on the wires you didn’t want to have any thoughts, you just gave yourself over to instinct. But in the moments just before you jumped, you wanted to think of something calming. He thought back to memories of happier times. His earliest memories, being fascinated as his parents flew through the air. The bright colors and strange sounds of the circus. Old man Haley’s booming voice starting off the show. Jerome sending the crowd roaring with a bellybuster joke.

Those were the old ones, some almost faded. But now he had some new ones.

Watching Jason and his cocky smile talk himself right out of a fix, only to jump right back into one. Seeing Tim, a kid half his age, explaining the trick to picking locks. Both his brothers showing up to bust him out of a paddy wagon. Waking up for the first time in years in a clean, warm bed, to Mr. Pennyworth’s smiling face. Mr. Wayne, and the comforting touch of his strong hand on Dick’s shoulder. They were all up there right now, waiting for him.

He just had to get out of this pit. 

Bending at the knees, Dick jumped with all his might.

He did it perfectly, raising his knees to tuck them up against his chin, somersaulting once before he was within reach of the wooden strut

And his hands latched tight around the post. Just like on the trapez, Dick couldn’t take a moment to gather himself. Hesitating was what would kill you. Instead, he bent hard at the waist, straining muscles most men never used to swing his whole body up. He remembered instinctively how to clutch the piece of wood just right; tight enough to be firm, but loose enough that his hands would spin around it. This was no smooth fly bar though; the corners of the wood tore painfully at his hands, a pain he forced down with his fear and doubt. 

He must make it to the top. 

He would make it to the top.

After several times round, at just the right moment in the curve of his swing, he let go. Like a flying robin he shot up into the air, spinning only once before he was suddenly level with the pieces of ladder.

In all the wild and dangerous routines Dick had ever done, no matter what you always came at a catch bar with it straight in front of you. That wasn’t possible going up the sheer wall of the pit, so only his lightning reflexes saved him as he managed to hook just one leg around the bottom wrung of the ladder. 

The jolt of that one knee arresting his fall back down was a damning pain; but he managed to take it as he bit down savagly on his lip. Forcing himself to move, he reached up and grabbed the next rung, hauling himself up. He had done it! If he wasn’t out of breath, he would have laughed out loud. That joy was cut short though; as soon as his other leg made it onto the ladder, he felt the rotting wood give under his weight. Scrambling like a cat that fell into a water barrel, he made it up the steps two at a time. As soon as his hand landed on the top wrung the whole thing sagged, buckled, and finally fell. With the Lord’s help he managed to get both hands on the edge of the pit, and landed against the bare wall as the ladder fell out beneath him. It plummeted into the water far below, with a splash that seemed to thunder in the cave.

Kicking and clawing, Dick pushed strained muscles to haul himself up and finally, mercifully, made it over the top. He collapsed on the solid ground, wheezing like a horse ridden to lather. Lying on his back he stared up at the ceiling, the tautness of his muscles finally relaxing like a loosed spring. He’d done it, he was alive. 

He was alive!

Part of him expected the door to swing open, and the thugs to come barging in to investigate the splash. And he knew in the state he was in he’d have no chance against them, and he’d be going back into the pit. But no one came, and after a long moment Dick managed to sit up, then after another moment, stagger to his feet. Putting his ear to the door, listening as hard as he could for even the faintest sound coming through the thick oak, he fished into his trousers for his pick, an old ladies hair pin. 

Jason and Tim had always been better at pick-locking than he had, but the devil take him if he was going to spend one more minute in this cold little hell. He stuck the pin into the lock as delicately as he could, going slow and steady to feel for the tumblers. For several moments he worked at it in vain, not finding the resistance he was looking for; then a thought occurred to him. He turned the door knob, pushed, and it lurched open.

The bastards had been so confident he was going to drown, they hadn’t even thought to lock the door.

Thanking heaven for small miracles, Dick put his shoulder into the door and pushed it open. The squeal of the hinges sounded as loud as a bugle call to him, and as soon as the gap was big enough he dashed through, racing to the corner of the cellar to hide behind a barrel. He peaked out to scan the room, relieved beyond words to see that there was no one about at that moment. The lantern was out in the stairway at the far wall, and the steady hubbub of voices and music was coming from the room above. Which was just fine with Dick.

Jumping onto the barrel, he scrambled up to reach for the small windows set at the level of the street outside. Working open the latch, he pulled hard to force the warped and settled old wood open. His cut hands cried in pain and left bloody marks all over the window; but he still heaved it loose and scrambled out into the fading light of day.

As soon as his feet touched the mud of the alleyway he was gone, set off like a bullet through the busy streets. He barged through passers by without so much as a by-your-leave, bowling over any who got in his way as he ran like a hare from the hounds. His mad pace and his half-drowned appearance drew looks even here in the worst part of Skinner’s End, but the poor folks decided it wasn’t their business to stop him to ask about his.

He must have been five blocks away when he finally skidded to a halt in an alley, and collapsed between two piles of rubbish.

For the first time he noticed how very dry his throat was, even as the bitter taste of salt water lingered in his mouth. His broken nose hurt like hell.

He put his head in his hands, shoulder shaking with sobs he wouldn’t let come out.

He’d failed.

He’d finally faced down his parents' killers, and what had he done? Not just fail to stop them, he’d almost died at the hands of the gangs; and his brother’s and Mr. Wayne would never have known what became of him.

The panic was finally starting to leak out of him, and rage was firing his blood again. Rage at Zucco, and now at himself too. Every fiber of his being wanted to march right back in, wrap his hands around Zucco’s neck, and squeeze the life out of him. 

But he couldn’t. He had no chance against the gang, and deep down he knew it. As tough as he’d become on the streets, as smart as he thought he was, he was just a kid. And trying to fix it himself would just get him killed.

Dick forced himself to his feet. Fighting the urge to cry in his frustration, he stepped out into the street and set off for the better part of town.

 It was time to do what he should have done in the first place.

“Angry isn’t the word!” Mr. Wayne was barely speaking up, but there was still more force behind his words than most people could put in a punch. “It’s only by God’s grace that you weren’t killed tonight!”

The man stood in his large study in the townhouse, looming over his young ward as he was backlit by the fireplace. Dick looked at the ground. He hated that he’d been dumb enough to try what he had; he hated that he had to admit to failing to Mr. Wayne and Pennyworth. And he hated that he didn’t have the nerve to look the man in the eye.

“It was indeed a very foolish thing to do, Master Dick,” Alfred said, as he tossed bloodied sloths into the fire. He’d dabbed the cuts on Dick’s hands clean with stinging alcohol. The disappointment in his voice was hidden better than his employers, but not well enough. “It is one thing to put oneself in danger to help another when suddenly faced with an emergency; it is quite another to intentionally jump into a bear pit with no one else the wiser as to where to find you!” To the boys it had seemed that Mr. Pennyworth never ran out of patience. It looked like he’d finally reached his limit.

The young man’s sudden reappearance couldn’t have given them more of a fright if he’d tried. Filthy, soaked to the bone, and still bleeding from his cuts, he’d looked half dead when he finally climbed through the townhouse's back window. He’d barely made it through Burnley without the coppers nabbing him on principle. It was hard to say who had been more frightened by the look of him; his brothers, or their guardians. Then he’d confessed to what he’d been doing, and after a moment of shock the other two boys had been left in the sitting room, as he was taken into the study to receive the third degree.

Mr. Wayne had made him describe every detail of his misadventure, even asked him to repeat certain things multiple times. Mr. Pennyworth got busy cleaning the boy up as best he could, his gentle, sure hands even managing to reset his broken nose without too much pain. Dick wanted nothing more than to fall into his bed and cry. But he’d done this to himself, and he was at least going to take what was coming like a man.

It would be the only thing he didn’t fail at tonight.

After a long moment, Mr. Wayne turned away, pacing toward the window to look out in the direction of Skinner's End. “You didn’t uncover enough evidence to put Zucco away. I’m not doubting anything you say; but with only your own testimony, we wouldn’t be able to overcome the phony alibis that the gangs will be able to produce for themselves. He’ll get away if I were to try and take him tonight.”

“Perhaps it’s for the best,” Alfred said. “Vengeance does not always serve true justice. Sometimes it is better to let the past be buried, and bury the pain with it.”

The tears were coming from Dick’s eyes now, his gaze resolutely stuck to the floor, even as he clenched his fists until his dirty knuckles were white.

Mr. Wayne was silent for a long moment, then nodded to himself, as if he’d struck on a thought. Then, surprisingly, he picked up the paper from this desk and cracked it open, looking for something. “Go tell the boys to get dressed Alfred,” he ordered, putting the newspaper back down. “There’s a production of Siegfried being premiered at the Gotham City Opera house in little more than an hour, and we’ll just have time to make the opening.”

Dick stared at the man in bewilderment, but the butler merely raised a sardonic eyebrow. “I take it Wagner’s masterpiece is going to help us flush the culprits?”

“The Batman will have to get the police involved in this,” Mr. Wayne said. “But no one can connect Dick Grayson the street urchin to Richard the ward of Bruce Wayne. You recall I reserved a private box at the back of the theater, which becomes so dark once the program starts no one will be able to notice if the occupants got up and left. And the opera is more than three hours long. We just have to make a fashionably conspicuous arrival, and then make sure we’re back in our seats before curtain call.”

“I’ll brush off the theater jackets,” Alfred nodded. “I assume I’ll be taking the carriage behind the opera to meet you with your work clothes,” as he had taken to to calling the Bat accouterments. 

“And Dick’s street clothes,” the boy looked up in surprise at Mr. Wayne. “He’ll be coming with me.”

“Master Wayne,” Dick was surprised again, when Alfred took a sharp tone with his employer that he’d never used in front of the boys. It was one that would have gotten any other butler in the sacked. “I think Dick has been through quite enough danger for one night, he doesn’t need another bout with Mr. Zucco or his gang.”

“I won’t be able to take Zucco in one night,” Mr. Wayne clarified. “But I need Dick to help me flush out the real culprit behind this, before he runs.”

If Dick had been staring at his guardian in surprise before, he was slack jawed now. “Who?”

With a Cheshire Cat grin plastered over his painted face, Jerome Valeska strutted out of the big top and into the smaller make-ready tent behind it. There was a lightness in his step that was normally only found in gentlemen disposed with liquor, or on the purest snuff tobacco. He was almost oblivious to the other performers pushing past him to make their cue. He could still feel the stifling heat of the tent, hear the roar of laughter at his every joke and action; as more than a hundred people hung on his every word.

To be the star of the show, it was the best feeling in the world. 

“Hey, Jerry,” Tito the Tiny, the dwarf lion tamer, waddled up, adjusting his herculean armored costume. “There’s someone in your wagon needs to talk to you, says it’s urgent!”

“Agh, not now you runty roughneck,” the clown waved him away. “I ain't leavin the tent. If the crowd calls for an encore, and after the way I worked on em tonight I bet my bloodred bootstraps they will, I am not going to disappoint!”

“Do as you will,” the miniature tamer started coiling up his whips. “But he said to tell you it was about ‘fishing in Skinner’s End,’ whatever that means?”

In one instant the very being of the man seemed to change. The mirth seemed to evaporate off him, his shoulders sagging like a puppet with its strings cut. The clown couldn’t bring himself to smile.

“Jerry?” Tito looked him up and down. “You okay?” The man was well known among the circus staff for his fickle moods; but even by his standards it was a striking transformation.

“Yes,” the man mumbled. “Yes, it’s nothing. I will take care of it, and get back to the show.”

“You don’t have to-,” but the clown was already walking out of the tent, paying nothing and no one any mind.

Jerome found his relief a very bitter thing indeed; mixed with a sadness that nearly undid him. The boy hadn’t deserved this. It was bad luck, damnable bad luck. If only the child had been able to leave the dead buried. But Jerome refused to feel guilt over what had been done. It wasn’t his fault in the end, it was all the others who were to blame. Zucco, the gangs, the damn Graysons. It hadn’t been good, but it had been necessary!

The man was so determined to pin the blame, that he’d actually managed to work himself up to anger, by the time he swung the door of his wagon open. “I told you not to come until morning!”

“Sorry, Jerry,” Dick said from a stool across the room. “I didn’t know you were expecting company.”

“Dick!?” The clown’s jaw went slack. “Dick, you’re alive!”

“Looks that way,” it was a struggle for the boy to keep his face even. “The dock johnnys down on Skinner’s End are good, but they aint good enough to catch a Grayson.”

“Yes, the grayson’s always were the best, ” Jerome finally closed the door behind him. “Everyone said so,” Lowering his voice he walked over to the boy. “But did you find him, Jack Skeever’s I mean,” The man was afraid he might be coming off as too nervous; but, under the circumstances, that probably wouldn’t be suspicious.

“Yah,” Dick didn’t give much away. “Found him boozing in Tom’s, just like you figured. Bit of bad luck though; I wasn’t the only one looking for trouble, and Zuuco’s gang pinched me before i could corner him.”

“Stars and garters!” Jerome ran a hand over his forehead. “How in the Lord’s name did you get out?”

“The gangs like to throw people in holes, leave 'em to rot,” the boy said simply, like it was no surprise in Gotham. “But they didn’t figure what a star of the big top could do!”

“Well I hope you at least got some sense scared into you boy,” the clown was deadly serious. “Give up this scheme of yours; nabbin Zucco aint worth your head being taken off your shoulders!”

“I can’t Jerry,” the boy insisted. “The people who killed my parents are gonna pay for it. All of them!”

“Damn it Dick,” the clown cursed him. “You’re a fool I tell yah. Them cutthroats ain't gonna let you get away a second time, and now they know you’re comin!”

“But that’s the sticky thing about it Jerry,” Dick stepped off the stool, looking the clown straight in the eye. “Them gang toughs, they already knew I was comin.” He wasn’t trying to hide his glare anymore. “They was waitin for me. Some canary let em know I was on their trail.”

“I,” the clown started to sweat just a little. “I think you might be shooting blanks there Dick. Ain’t no one in the circus would have ratted you out to the gangs!”

“That’s the other thing,” the boy took a step toward him. “There was only one person who even knew I was here!”

The clown finally flinched. It was just for a second; but the boy saw it, and they both knew it.

“Now see here!” Valeska still tried to deny it. “If you’re gonna be spinnin tales an-”

“Why, Jerry?” As hard as the boy tried, a quiver got into his voice. “Why’d you help the gangs; why’d you try an kill me!?”

“Don’t be asking those kind of fool questions boy,” the older man was suddenly angry. “I ain't got to answer no accusations from a snotnosed little whelp like yo-”

“WHY,” the boy yelled in a hoarse cry?

All at once, any challenge the clown had seemed to drain out of him, and he sagged like a loose scarecrow. Teetering, he took an unsteady step back, and dropped onto a stool in the corner.

“God damn those olive eating Itie bastards,” the clown slammed one fist on the dresser desk next to him. “Ain’t ashamed to do any dirty work, but they won’t get it done properly!”

Dick had imagined a few reasons the clown might have been in league with the gangs; maybe old debts or his own past in crime. When he realized at that  moment what the man meant, he felt his blood run cold. “It was you,” he breathed, not quite believing it. “You hired the gangs; you killed my parents!”

“You’re goin mad Dickie, you’re off your rocker,” Jerome protested, even as he ran a hand through his dyed hair, and he sweated like a pig. And he immediately follow that with a finger point and, “You’ll never find proof!”

“Why?” The question held as much disbelief as it did accusation.

“It was right after Pittsburg,” the clown blurted out. It was a shock that he answered so easily, but the answer spilled from him like a weight he’d been holding for years.

“Pittsburg?” Dick was genuinely confused. “You mean the Pittsbutg show we did before Gotham? That went off smooth as can be, Mom and dad’s show was the hit of the night!”

“Well it wasn’t supposed to be!” Jerome shouted back at him, fists clenched.

Dick’s eyes widened, as the last pieces fell into place. What could have driven old Jerry crazy; what was the one thing he loved enough to kill a man for?

“You were supposed to be the show stopper,” the memories were coming back to him now, moments he’d never suspected; they’d been so insignificant at the time. “you always had been, for at least a year. And then my parents . . .” he remembered the spectacular show they’d pulled off in Pittsburg, and Haley’s announcement they were going to be the new grand finale. But that couldn’t have been it; surely there was more to it!

“The fliers,” Jerome looked up at him, hands on his head, a look almost like a sad madness in his eyes. “A score of years I’ve been working with Haley’s; in all that time the fliers had a clown on them. That’s what the people came for. Then after Pittsburg, it became a tightrope walker.”  He said it with such hurt, as if he were revealing a horrible betrayal.

“So you had my parents killed . . . because they were stealin your show.” Dick’s voice was almost un-expressive, as he tried to comprehend this. He had thought he was ready to hear whatever sinister motive had been behind his parents murder. He thought he was ready for the shock of whatever bloodthirsty, evil reason it could be. He hadn’t been ready to find out his parents died for something insignificant.

“I got no more weaknesses than any johny you meet on the street has; any man would kill to have what he loves,” the clown sounded like he was trying to convince himself as much as the boy. “It was a mistake, I know it was a mistake, you have to believe me!”

“That was it,” Dick snarled at him. “That’s the whole secret. You hired Zucco’s gang to off my parents because they stole your limelight!”

Jerome leaned heavy on the dresser, running a hand over his heavily sweating forehead, as he tried to keep his calm. It had all gone to pot, everything! After two years of thinking he’d buried the Graysons, now Dick had to go and dig their bones up again. He had to think of a way to set things right before he lost everything. But it was plain there wasn’t a cat’s chance in a chinamen’s restaurant that the boy was ever going to be quiet about it.

A part of him realized his hand was just touching his personal razor; not some dime store blade but a proper barber’s knife he’d won in a card game years ago. His hand closed around it, clenching it tightly. His mind had already had a thought he wouldn’t allow it to finish.

“Please, please Dick,” he practically begged the boy. “We all have our moments of madness, when our senses leave us. It can happen to any man, a bad day is all it takes. That doesn’t make him a villain.”

“I don’t buy that Jerry,” Dick spat at him. “And I don’t think the cops will either.”

“No need to be gettin the police involved, we’ll settle this between us, in the family. That’s what we are, after all, right? Us in the circus, family! We can figure a way to set this right, trust me!”

Dick smiled, without a hint of actual mirth. “As jokes go, that’s one of your worst!”

With a shout, the clown bolted up and brandished his razor blade. No use trying to reason with the boy, there was nothing left but to get out safely. If the Dick wouldn't stay quiet, then he’d have to be-

The wagon’s wardrobe burst open, and a dark shape knocked him aside before he could reach the boy. The clown found himself pinned against the wall, a gloved hand wrapped around his throat with an iron grip. 

Jerome had heard of the Batman, of course. He’d read about him in penny papers as far away as Atlanta; just as awed by the stories as everyone else, even if he felt a touch of envy at a true show stealer. Of course the stories must have been exaggerated. They had to be.

Now, looking the Bat in the face, for it could only be him, the clown was struck dumb. The cowl covered everything except the piercing eyes, that seemed to be gazing into his soul and judging it; and the strong chin set in a contemptful scowl. It was as if the reaper himself had suddenly appeared to claim his soul for the underworld. And the fear that fired his blood at the sight was somehow as thrilling as a cheering crowd. The greatest perils always made a man feel alive.

That was all he had time to think, as the Bat did not even take the time to spare him a comment before striking the side of his head in a single, efficient blow, dropping him to the ground like a sack of potatoes.

“That’s enough of that now,” a voice called mildly. Jerome could barely make out two men coming out from behind the bed curtain. There was Haley, fists clenched white as he sneered down at his old friend with a seething rage. The other man wore the unmistakable outfit of the Gotham police; and the last thing the clown knew before he passed out, was that he was caught.

With a sharp whistle from the Bulldog, a pair of coppers entered the wagon. With little thought and no fanfare they manacled the clown, but left him to lie. The patty wagon would draw up next to them shortly.

Dick’s gaze didn’t leave the prone clown. Part of him still imagined his makeup covered face was going to be pulled off like a mask, to expose someone else beneath. But it was the same man. The same man who used to be able to make the whole crew of the circus laugh till they cried, had paid for his parents to be murdered in cold blood. After all this time, it was good old Jerry.

His melancholy was interrupted by a pair of strong arms wrapping around him. Old Haley held him a bone-crushing hug, one big hand patting his shoulder. “My boy,” he said. “My boy, I’m so sorry!”

The circus master couldn’t have been more surprised when Dick had shown up in his tent a half hour earlier. It must have seemed like he’d popped back up from the dead, almost more shocking than the Batman at his side. 

He’d flatly denied anyone in his circus could have been capable of this as the police arrived, summoned by the Bat. Then, as they started to convince him, he became so enraged he’d been ready to bite lead bars. Dick had seen the old man in such moods more than once; but now, as he held him, he saw a new one.

He’d thought Haley made of too stern of stuff to ever cry.

“You’ll come back,” the man said as he finally released him. “You’ll come back to the old crew, and we’ll keep you safe.”

“Sorry Mr. Haley,” Dick replied. “But I can’t just go back to that.” He managed to give him a half smile. “I done set down roots,” as they used to say of all the circus folk who settled down.

Off to the side, the cop and the Bat were settling details. “. . . not the proper way, to my mind,” Bullock griped. “But we have more than enough for an arrest, with the boy there to testify at the trial-”

“I think young Mr. Grayson has had enough pain for the moment,” the Batman said firmly, as if he could command the policeman. “His part in all this is over.”

The policeman waivered. “We really do need a more proper witness for the trial . . .” but he looked at Dick sympathetically even as he said it. The young ward began inching toward his guardian.

“The boy’s been through enough sir,” the bat insisted. “You have more than enough to put Mr. Veleska behind bars, and I’ll supply you with evidence against Zucco and his gang soon.” Mr. Wayne rested his strong hand on Dick’s shoulder. “And I’ll see to it that he gets home safe.”

“Uh, I’m afraid not sir,” the policeman hesitated, then gathered himself, and looked the Bat straight in the eye with a bluff that no one really believed. “Our, eh, there’s one more piece of business we need to settle.”

“Of course,” the masked man met his gaze confidently. “Consider it settled.”

His coat had barely rustled before his smoke grenade hit the floor, and the small room of the wagon was filled with stinging sulfur. Dick staggered back, but before he could even think of what to do an iron grip grabbed him under the arm, and he was pulled off of his feet.

With a thud Mr. Wayne sprang onto the dresser, then from there hurled himself up to smash through the hatch on the wagon's roof.

Dick couldn’t help but shout as they landed on the grass outside the wagon; and a pale-faced copper turned to cock his gun at them. Another smoke cloud appeared as if from nowhere, and the man’s bullet found no target as it sailed through where the Bat had just been standing.

The man just had time to cock his pistol again before a meaty hand battered it away. “DAMNATION!” Haley bellowed as he stumbled coughing out of the wagon. “DON’T SHOOT INTO THE CAMP YOU SLACK-JAWED IDJUT!”

At a roar from the Bulldog the small swarm of remaining bobbies fanned out among the wagons and tents, trying to flush their prey. But as far as a man could tell, the Bat had flown off into the night.

Several minutes later, a good shot from Mr. Wayne’s grappling pistol brought him up to land on the roof of a warehouse on the edge of the fairgrounds. Dick let go of his belt to land nimbly on the slanted roof, keeping his feet as he slid smoothly down to a flat strip on its edge. He’d get used to this roof hopping yet.

“What happened?” He demanded as Mr. Wayne landed next to him. “I thought you had a deal with the chief!”

“I did,” the man replied frankly. “But the police still aren’t convinced of my good intentions. Or maybe they just don’t like a vigilante stepping on their toes. You might not have had time to see it, but in addition to the two officers Bullock arrived with, a dozen more had appeared around the wagon while we were inside. They just couldn’t help themselves trying.” He pulled a pocket watch out of his coat, its small hands and numbers lined with glowing paint, to be seen even high above the street lights. “We still have the better part of an hour before the show ends. We’ll make it in plenty of time.”

Suddenly taken aback by how quickly it had all finished, Dick looked out at the lights of the circus stretched out beneath them. The distance felt like it marked how far he was from his old life. “So Jerry’ll go to jail; and that’ll be the end of it.”

“Zucco will go to ground,” Mr. Wayne went on. “It may take me some time to flush him out. But I will, and when I do he will be caught up in this,” he turned to look down at Dick, his voice softening a little. “Your parents will have justice.”

“That was it,” Dick mumbled, staring at his shoes. “I always thought . . .” he swallowed hard. “It wasn’t even for nothin. My parents hadn’t ever done anything to Jerry, he didn’t even really hate ‘em. And he still had ‘em killed.” Wetness was starting to gather at the corner of his eyes. “There wasn’t no reason! ”

“Hm,” the Batman gazed out over the circus, then after a moment of thought, turned back to his ward. “This is the real reason I brought you along tonight,” he explained. “Why I thought it would be important for you to be there to see it. It’s something that Alfred, for all his wisdom, still doesn’t understand. The man who killed my parents was never brought to justice; and it ate me up for years.” The Batman’s eyes had never looked so soft. “I had hoped this would be enough to spare you that. I take it that it didn’t work.”

“It-it did, honest,” Dick protested. Now he had even managed to make Mr. Wayne feel like a failure; after he had cracked a case Dick hadn’t even seen, and finished it tso neatly. It had been easy for him , far better than Dick’s own sorry attempt. “I am grateful, I-”

“But you’re not satisfied.” Mr. Wayne stated firmly. He looked off toward the circus again, then back to his ward. “I’ve told you about how my parents were killed, but did I ever tell you why?”

“N-no,” Dick sniffed, forcing himself to meet the man’s gaze, even though he didn’t want to. He hated that Mr. Wayne would see him cry.

“It’s something that took me a long time to figure out myself,” the gruff tone of the Bat had slipped, Mr. Wayne’s true voice seeming out of place coming from the masked hero. “Why they were killed. What great evil could be behind it. What greater purpose it must have served. There were even times, dark times, when I found myself wondering if somehow they had deserved it. If I had deserved it.”

The tears were flowing freely down Dick’s face now, but he managed not to look away.

“It took a long time, before I finally accepted the truth,” Mr. Wayne said gravely. “The reason my parents were killed, is because they ran into a man with a gun, who decided he needed their money. And that was it.”

Dick choked on a lump in his throat. “And my parents?”

Mr. Wayne opened his mouth, hesitated, and after a moment, he slowly pulled the cowl back from his face. “Your parents were killed, because of another man’s sickness,” he said. “And there was no good reason for it. It isn’t fair, and you’ll never be able to make it fair.”

“But you do!” the boy insisted. “You find the crooks and you set it right. Isn’t that the whole point?”

Mr. Wayne shook his head, his eyes as sad as Dick had ever seen them. “Justice isn’t about undoing what was done, that’s not possible. But if the criminals are brought to answer, then the pain they have caused will never be visited on anyone again..” He reached out to rest a hand on the boy's shoulder. “That is all we can hope for; and maybe, it’ll be enough.”

Dick finally looked away, back to the lights and colors of the circus. He'd always wondered if he’d ever go back some day. Now he knew he wouldn’t. “I don’t think it will be.”

The prison guard was a young man, at least a decade younger than the man in the cell. And he was new to the job, the monotony of his rounds still bothering him. So he tried to liven things up by picking on the newest prisoner.

“So, you’re the tosser everyone in Gotham is talking about. The Circus Killer?” he peered through the bars. “You don’t look like much.”

Elbows resting on his knees, Jerome Valeska looked up at the younger man. For once, the clown didn’t seem eager to have an audience. He looked back down.

“AY, mind a guard when he talks to ya,” the man struck his baton between the cell bars. “Yah might think you’re a real evil, having a family of six killed-”

A family of three, the clown shook his head at the accuracy of Gotham Newspapers. And I didn’t even get the boy. 

“But there’s cove’s in here who’ve done in twice that many,” the guard went on. “And they didn’t pay the skinners to do it for them.”

Jerome forced himself not to reply. If he didn’t humor the simpleton, he’d probably grow bored and leave.

“You’re a real silent fella aren’t you,” the guard complained. “Can’t see why the papers are making such a big deal about yah. To read the headlines, you’d think you were the next Ripper. I suppose a killer clown is even scarier than a killer cop.”

It took everything he had not to look up. Headlines?

“Just enjoy the front page while you can,” the guard was running out of tricks to try and get a rise out of him. “Some other looney will probably be on there in a fortnight. The Bat’s grabbin so many turks from the street, you’d already have a bunk mate iffin you were in for something other than murder.”

The clown put his head in his hands again, closing his eyes. The Bat. More than Haley’s contempt, more than Dick’s betrayal; the cold gray eyes of the Bat had stuck with him, plagued him in his fitful sleep the night before. Jerome had always prided himself on his boldness, that there was no risk he wouldn’t take for the right reward. But he would rather juggled flaming axes than face that man again.

And having to admit to that fear, made the prospect seem absolutely thrilling.

“You go on and get your beauty sleep now,” the guard had loitered as long as he could. “Want to look good for your arraignment tomorrow.” With one last whack of his baton against the bars, he strolled off; obnoxious whistling a circus tune.

With a sigh, the former clown lay down on the bunk of his cell, counting cracks in the ceiling for the fourteenth time. This was going to be the death of him. He’d never been one to stay still; fame never found a man who sat on his ass. He couldn’t stay here.

He wouldn’t stay here. Not for long. these walls might keep in the knuckle dragging swine of the streets, but they wouldn’t undo a man like him. He would perform again.

In the meantime, at least he could take some comfort in the knowledge that his most recent trick was not likely to be forgotten anytime soon.

The front page, afterall; how many other performers could boast the same?

In case you couldn’t tell, Jerome Valeska is supposed to be the Joker. If he doesn’t quite fit it’s because he isn’t supposed to be there yet; this is the origin of the man who will become the Joker one day, if I can ever speed up my writing. He’s based heavily off of one of my favorite versions of the Joker, Jerome Valeska of the show Gotham. Like him, Jerry will fall into a life of theatrical crime, partly because of the attraction of the showmanship of it, the fame and notoriety. 

I hope you liked Dick’s time to shine; I tried my best to reconcile his traditional backstory with the Gaslight verse. I also tried to give him a personality as distinct as the one I have given his brothers. He ended up taking more and more of a beating than I first intended, both emotionally and physically. At least it’s helping him bond with Bruce. 

Hopefully the next update won’t take so long, please Review!