What happened

After running into Tim and sending him on his way to Barbara, downstairs, Bruce headed upstairs himself. The knock on Dick's door went unanswered. But there was a rustling...Bruce knocked again, and then opened the door slowly. Carefully. The bedroom was empty. But the window was opened. Papers from the table in the corner had caught in the influx of wind, and were blowing across the room sporadically. That was what he had heard.

The door closed behind him as he walked through Dick's room and stopped at the open window. He listened a few seconds, heard nothing troubling, and then leaned carefully out the window. Checked swiftly for trouble. And found the tip of Dick's boot jutting from the rooftop ledge overhead. This is what came of letting him have a bedroom on the highest floor of the manor, he though to himself. Shedding his suit coat, he ducked out of the window, then followed the boy's path up to the roof. When he pulled himself up onto the roof and sat down nearby, Bruce took the time to stare out over the City.

It was not his home. There were parts of it that looked familiar -- Arkham, for example -- but this place was not Gotham. The thought occurred to him that it might be useless, what he was doing (what they all were doing). What was the point of fighting crime in a place where, by all reckonning, the city itself created the criminals? He scowled, and turned to Dick.

"Plans tonight?"

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Above-ground, the sun was sinking below the horizon. It was nearly time. After spending all afternoon at his computer with Barbara, Bruce finally stood up.

"I'm going to get Dick," Bruce said to Barbara, before stepping into the elevator. There was little hope that Robin -- no, Nightwing -- was in the manor, but it felt right to Bruce to go to look, himself. What had happened that sent Dick out on his own? The cold analysis in his mind suggested that he himself was probably the cause. There was much he did not know about the Dick Grayson in the City with him. But there were some things - core things - that Bruce knew were still there. He didn't hesitate to call on Dick for this outing to Arkham.

When Bruce started upstairs, however, a shadow cast on the floor from the library caught his attention. He stopped on the third step and narrowed his eyes. That was not a familiar silhouette. Silently, he stalked back down the stairs and across the room. Paused against the wall. Listened.

And then stepped into the room, blank expression plastered over his face. Under his skin, however, his muscles were coiled, ready for a fight. Who had come to the manor without his knowledge? And how much would it take to get them out again?

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There had been no reason to visit his business this afternoon - things were running well enough these days - and it was possible that he'd been taking too much of an interest in it in any event. There was still the playboy facade to maintain, and sometimes playboys laid in bed until 1 in the afternoon.

Idleness, however, was something that Bruce did not understand, and could never truly accomplish. He even thought of idleness in terms of accomplishment, as if it were some grand ideal he should strive towards. Ridiculous.

He was currently glaring at the screen in front of him, the screen that piped in articles of bad news after bad news. Harvey Dent, scarred from Jack Napier's acid attack. (True, it was different from what Bruce Wayne remembered, but enough to make him more than concerned.) Arkham Asylum and the trouble there. The spikes of crime at the docks, nearly constant now. Bruce frowned deeply.

There was a time to be alone in this type of work. And then there was a time for assistance. He picked up his phone.

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- vibrant green over blackness -
Burglary in progress

That is how it came across the screen during the night, which had been otherwise very quiet. Minutes later, Batman was there, beating the police, foiling the robbery. Nothing of value had been taken. Nothing that he had seen at first.

But as he threw the culprit towards the officer who broke the door down, the sound of tires on pavement -- the porch, he guessed, when he heard the chain link fence crash down -- drew his attention. There was time enough to hurl a magnetic tracker against the side of the van as it crashed through the back yard, through the neighboring back yard, and out onto the street one block over. There was also time to see the face of a child in the back window, as she was pulled down again.

The expression. He knew that expression. Recognized the would-be sound from her mouth as it made its silent 'O.'

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5:30 PM. The workday was over, and Bruce Wayne was sitting at the bar just down the street from the great tower that housed his corporate offices. The trial - and outcome - of Jack Napier's trial was still enraging him him. It was not hard to admit that the darkest part of him wanted The Joker dead, utterly and completely dead, so that Barbara Gordon never needed to think of him again. So that no one ever had to worry about him again. The darkest part of him whispered that he should see to it himself. Once and for all.

But justice was not his to mete out. He had never wanted it to be, truly, though sometimes he believed it would be much more expedient if it was. There had always been a great deal of separation between that darkest part and what he would allow himself to do. He did not slip. He did not lose control. He never would. Even the thought of it was soon quashed under logic and strict control. But sometimes...

Sometimes.

He did think about it.
It was a secret that Bruce Wayne would never tell.

Someone had come into the bar behind him. As Bruce lifted his scotch glass to drink, he casually glanced into the mirror behind the bar. The newcomer was Matt Murdock. The fingers that held the glass closed a fraction tighter, before Bruce plastered on a careless, slightly-tipsy smile. Affecting a voice that was just a few decibles louder than it should have been, he swiveled on his stool.

"Well, if it isn't Mr. Matt Murdock! I saw you at the trial. Why don't you join me for a drink?"

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Judge McRiley entered the court room and sat down. The room was eerily silent.

"Bailiff, enter the jury, please."

The group arrived in a single file line and filled in the seats. The judge remained quite for a good five minutes after everybody had settled in. He was gathering his strength for this. There was no telling which way the jury had voted. No way to know what they were thinking right now. And he wouldn't know until he called for his answer.

It had to be done. Putting it off would not make things better.

"Miss Forman, have you come to a decision?" He asked.

"We have, your honor." Said a slight blonde woman.

The judge motioned for the slip of paper. It was brought to him, and he read it. He wasn't sure if he was relieved or not. He passed the paper back.

"Please read it for the court."

She nodded. "On the count of malicious harassment we find the defendant guilty." She paused and went on. "On the count of assult, we find the defendant guilty. On the multiple counts of murder, we find the defendant guilty."

"Thank you."

"Sir? We have a recommendation."

"Go ahead."

"Given the light of the situation surrounding these crimes, and what we've seen in this court, we have deemed Jack Napier unfit for the public. We see him as severely mentally ill, and would request the court take that in stride with the sentancing."

"Thank you, Miss Forman, you may sit."

The judge, frankly, felt the same way himself. Jack Napier should not, in any case, ever, be allowed to commune with the populus. It wasn't right. There was too much danger in it, and in him.

"I don't think I need any time to think this over. I am ready for ruling now. Please stand, Jack Napier, and hear your fate." He waited for Jack to stand, and was surprised that there wasn't anything wild or scary going on. "Given the decision of the jury, and their recommendation, and given the state of this entire trial, I have to agree with the idea that you are completely mentally unfit. For anything. I cannot in good conscience send you to prison and hope that you get the help that you need. And that society needs for you. So. My ruling is this: Life imprisonment in Arkham Asylum with a strick rehabilitation program. I have no faith that you'll ever actually get help, but, we can hope."

The gavel banged. It was over.

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Door was running like hell again.

Those boots, laced up tightly, splashed in the murky water as her heart pounded and her ankle, which she'd twisted what seemed like hours back, throbbed viciously. She was certain that staccato rhythm must be audible to anyone or anything within fifty yards of her. Croup and Vandemar never ran; they always wore out their prey: slow, steady, then suddenly appearing just when you thought it was safe. Croup’s slick voice resonated through the tunnel:

"It’s quite all right, Lady Portico. You needn’t worry – for such a lovely girl, we shan’t make it hurt.

Much."

Panic seized her chest, squeezing down harder on a heart that was already strained from the exertion of running for she wasn’t sure quite how many miles. They were closer – still closer, that fox and that wolf. There was no way for them to have returned – she didn’t know how they could have returned. Much less did she know why they were after her.

Though that wasn’t quite true. It was clear why they were after her.

Revenge.

Croup and Vandemar were not the sort to split hairs about how their own evil natures led naturally to their own demises. No – if Croup and Vandemar were to fall, then those that pushed them – or even simply stepped out of the way to allow it – would certainly fall thrice as hard and ten times as bloodily.

In a moment of panic, Door wondered about whether Richard and the Marquis were safe.

But there was no time for that. She heard those onerous footsteps echoing through the tunnels (these accursed, doorless tunnels), until finally - finally - there was something. A long-forgotten door, not meant for use anymore. She’d never seen it before, but it didn’t matter, not for a moment did she hesitate, no; her hand was out, there was a whisper in her mind, and suddenly, like a breath, she was out.

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It had begun like any other trial. Smoothly. Calmly. The judge entered and the people silenced. The baliff called for everybody to stand, and they did so, respectably. They sat just as silently, just as calmly when the judge called for them to do so. Judge Scott McRiley presiding...

It was just as the judge was settling in that the first mishap occured.

Jack Napier stood up to introduce himself to the court. And to the audience of people attending. He did so with a flourish and a bout of laughter so nerve-wracking that it took Judge McRiley a good ten minutes to quiet everybody down again.

"That is the last we'll have of that, I hope." He stated, looking Jack directly in the eye as he spoke.

Little did the poor judge know that this was only a pre-cursor to the sorts of things that could go on in a trial like this. A trial against Jack Napier. Maybe the only truly insane genius The City had ever seen. The misguided fellow might actually mistake to think he'd be able to control The Joker.

Jack himself spent a good few moments blowing kisses at Harvey Dent while Judge McRiley tried to call for order and the beginning of the trial.

He looked out at the lawyers and nodded. "Prosecution? You may begin."

And then he sat back, ready to hear this fantastic case.

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It was the right decision.

When the couple were safely inside the car, Batman took the precious second and a half to find the kit in the back seat. There were bandages in there, tape, gauze.... Enough to get by with for now, for the brief minutes it would take to get them to the hospital. He tossed it at Mal, then slid into his seat and sent the Batmobile careening onto its path.

"Who did this?" Batman asked, his voice gritty and dark.

The City was shifting again, surprisingly. The road to the hospital felt much shorter, which was an unrequested blessing that the Dark Knight was grateful for. Sometimes this City had its good sides. Then again, if the City had kidnapped the beauty in his back seat as well, it probably had a reason for bringing her here, too. Dying in the street did not seem to be one of them.

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Mal had quit asking questions a long time back.

How a city this big managed to get by without a single wide wave comm unit, was anyone's guess- but everyone's guess would be about the same: not very well. People came, and people went. Every one of them looking for someone, and Mal was just one more long coat in the crowd.

All things considered, Mal had managed to land on his feet; no matter what time or place a body was in, folk still needed work done... and it was'nt always legal. He still wandered about every now and again: keeping an eye out for the ones he'd lost, but more and more of every day was taken up with the dirty details of getting by.

Taking a few boxes from one fella in a funny suit to another fella in a bad hat (without drawing the attention of the local lawmen) had landed him the bare basic welding gear, to start repairs on what was left of Serenity.

Getting that message out for Lucy had'nt gotten him a proper comm unit, but the pretty boy had been good to his word, and set Mal up with what passed for one in this place: a little short range unit to unit device.. It beeped from time to time when work turned up.

All in all, it was like things used to be, way back when.
Every time the sun went down, Mal got a little bit closer to how he once was.. he got a bit colder, and he got a bit meaner.

That's the way a body gets when it gets lonesome.

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As mild mannered citizen, Buffy Summers, the slayer had been completely remiss in her duties. She'd left Max completely in the dust and hadn't visited with her ex-boyfriend once. It wasn't that she hadn't meant to, but something about the City kept her too busy or occupied to do otherwise.

As the Slayer, it was business as usual. She took out vampires and big slimy demons on a regular basis. Perhaps the City would have been pleased to know that she'd even stopped an apocalypse since arriving here when a cult of Ragnoroth demon monks tried to summon the dead water god from the docks. Cult stopped, world saved (again) and no one would be the wiser.

Sometimes Buffy forgot about Sunnydale. It wasn't that she'd meant to, but things just felt so familiar in the City. It wasn't until she remembered her sister wasn't here and Giles wasn't around to train her or she was lacking Xander's moral support that she remembered this was a new world. Was this the after life, or was it something else? Buffy had her ideas but she really needed to meet with Max and then hadn't Angel mentioned a sorcerer...?

It was like the City was trying to keep her from figuring out its secrets.

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The dinner was over and it had, surprisingly, been a less than painful event. There'd been some awkwardness, but then, there was awkwardness at every family gathering, no matter how undisfuntional you actually were. So, perhaps this had been a success then.

"C'mon, Ace. Bedtime." Everyone was going home now and Max had said goodnight to the appropriate people. She was ready for bed herself. It'd felt like I long, long day, made even longer by being social for a better part of the evening.

Max patted her thigh, beckoning Ace over to the stairs where she was standing. He came over obediantly and pushed up to rest both front paws against her legs. The feeling was something of a reminder of how she really hadn't been spending enough time with him lately. They would have to go out for a walk the next day. Just her and Ace. The manor had expansive grounds, yes, but Max knew he was going to get bored of them eventually.

She reached down and petted him, scratching behind his ears and grinning.

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After the mostly-lighthearted banter and casual conversation at dinner, and once Alfred and Babs had distracted Jake and Oy by showing them the 'back yard', Bruce quietly explained the situation to Terry and Max, Dick and Helena.

"I cannot remember you."

The looks were incredulous. He held up a hand to forestall the anger and disbelief he saw there in those pairs of eyes across from him. "I know you. Some of you. Barbara Gordon - though not as she is now. Dick, of course, though..." He shook his head once at Dick. Something was different. Like static discharging between them in wide, vicious arches. Like the promise of blood on the boxing ring floor. "--Though there are some who I have no recollection of. Max, we met before I understand, but I do not recall it. Terry, you live in this place, but I cannot remember when I took you into my confidence. In fact, I remember nothing about what has happened since I arrived in the City, though I understand intimately what the City is -- at least, as well as anyone can -- and feel as if I have been here for some time."

This part was much harder. He did not admit easily to this sort of thing. But if he did not know, if he did not ask them, then danger increased for all of them. What villains lay in wait outside the Wayne Manor, ready to use the information that he did not have? No. He had to ask.

"I need your help. Tell me what I should know."

OOC: Backdated to the dinner

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It had been impossible to work. To study. To concentrate. To do anything of merit or use. He had barricaded himself at home in his bedroom and did trivial meaningless things. Pacing... Pull-ups... Even the times tables. Nothing could break the desire for Barbara Gordon, though he managed to retain some portion of control, enough to keep him from going outside and doing irreparable damage. He did this all throughout his day and through the night and all over again until he was close to delirious from lack of sleep. Eventually, he lost consiousness, slept, and woke to repeat the cycle.

Only this time when he woke, it was different. It wasn't gone. But it wasn't as intrusive. It was fading, this outrageous gift bestowed to Barbara. He raced to the Batcave, and indeed... the riots seemed to be lessening. The devout were losing their goddess. With relief, he leaned back and shoved the balls of his hands into his eye sockets, as if to drive the madness of the last few days out of his memory.

Desire was most decidedly marked in his book as a villian now.

Finally, he rose from his console and headed upstairs again. In less than forty minutes, he was dressed for business. The morning was breaking outside. He would return to his 9 to 5 job, try to plug holes in the breaking dam he was sure to find, and move forward from there.

The cold sweat, the clenching of his hands, the shortness of breath - it was all different this morning. His nightmares had never left him alone; he'd grown used to them, even embraced them over time. They kept him focused. They reminded him of his vow, of his 'crusade', of his necessary isolation. They helped to sever his desire for love, for family, for everything that every other normal person wanted. The Happily Ever After. The soulmate of common American lore. Those dreams - nightmares - of his parents. They were good. They hurt. But they were good. Utilitarian.

But this.

The dream that had lanced through him in the night, held him down, forced itself over and over him, drawing out the desire he never pursued farther than a casual dinner date or occasional outrageous playboy flirtation in the public eye, and playing it viciously in the theater of his mind, the dream that had left him shaking and panting nd sweating, engendering the want he'd wanted to forget forever, the dream had been so much different than his nightly visions. Sadistic were the twists of his minds, to place him as the father of children, to place him as the loving husband of a loving wife, to place him in a countryside cottage, surrounded by idyllic beauty, and most of all, love... It was enough to hunch his shoulders from pain.

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They walked the grounds at sunset.

Every so often, Bruce glanced to the side. Alfred always looked ahead, chin high, face impassive. The invitations had already been sent: You and a guest are cordially invited to Wayne Manor for a family dinner at 8 o'clock on Friday the 14th of April, 2006. Casual attire only. RSVP.

"You should have told me when you knew."

They'd already been over this. The fact that Bruce pressed the point again - a wholly unnecessary act - only demonstrated his irritation. There was nothing to be gained for it.

"My apologies, Master Bruce."

It was problemmatic for one such as Bruce to find himself in a place where he did not know every detail that went on under his roof. He was used to knowing everything; he depended on it. Apparently, however, Alfred had known about the additional guests living in Wayne Manor, and had chosen to keep it a secret. In further conversation, Bruce discovered that they'd been living there even longer than Bruce himself was aware. And they believed that Bruce had been there much longer than when he woke up in his bedroom, some weeks before.

He was also angry with himself, for not realizing that there had been other people in the house. He had certainly had enough time to figure it out on his own. The amount of time that it took him was unacceptable. Never mind that his guests had tried laying low; it was his home. He should have been aware. Bad things happened when he wasn't aware of everything around him. People got hurt. People died.

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Was it odd that Babs didn't like to send Bruce emails? She found her preferences to be a little ironic certainly. One would think that someone whose entire life practically revolved around the computer would be just find with shooting off an email to an old mentor. And she was, when she was writing strictly to Batman. But wanted Bruce, and she didn't always like to contact Bruce through email. It was impersonal. She liked to at least call. Especially since this wasn't strictly, strictly business. Yes, there was some involved, but she wanted to be able to ask him how he was doing and not have Batman answer.

So she'd wanted to call, and that's what she did. His cell phone was busy, but she took the risk of leaving a message like a normal person would, and then forced herself away from the computer and downstairs into her kitchen. She'd taken this day off from work to relax a bit and catch up on her 'other' work. She'd done the catching up bit. All files were updated and everything was running smoothly. Babs once again felt like she knew all there was to know about The City. Now all that was left was to wait for Bruce, and if he received her message he'd know to come around.

In the mean time, Babs was going to put on a cup of tea and read.

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Five-thirty-five. Bruce Wayne was in the elevator, going down.

So the City had seen fit to pull Arkham into the walls of itself.
The City had seen fit to pull Harvey Dent into itself as well.
There were kids running around in the Batcave.
Barbara Gordon was in a wheelchair.
He hadn't seen Dick yet.

His lips thinned. The small display of emotion was lost to all but the elevator doors.

Barbara was the key. Trust was almost impossible for him, but she had shown herself to be worthy of it the day of the explosions - the day Arkham appeared. He would go to her. Feel her out. See if she could be trusted to know that he had no idea who was with them that day in the Batcave. See if she knew anything about Harvey Dent in the City yet.

The muted ding of the elevator bell heralded the slide of the doors. Bruce stepped out, reaching for his cell phone as he did, and shouldered the door to the building open. It was doubtful that he had her number in his cell phone, but that was the first thing to check, just in case the City was being 'accomodating' again. He flipped through the Recent Dialed list, and was surprised to find 'Barbara Gordon' listed three entries back. When had he called her? Never. Not here, in the City. Have I? His steps mechanically took him out onto the sidewalk.

In that rare moment of distraction, he didn't watch where he was going. Purely by accident, he ran into ---

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Harvey Dent had yet to master the navigation of the City, but he had a sixth sense when it came to finding the bars where business folk went to unwind.
This one, nestled at the foot of the City Industries Tower, was unimaginatively named "the Foot of the Tower." It was largely decorated in flat black and mirrored surfaces, and filled with all sorts of important-looking people. Harvey walked up to the bar, ordered a scotch on the rocks, and found a seat where he could see the people coming and going. There had to be someone here he recognized.

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Bruce Wayne jerked awake. There was something in his mind, something foggy, but he couldn't place it. Rubbing his temples, he swung his legs over the side of his bed. Alfred was sleeping in the chair across from him. It seemed as if the man had literally fallen over into the cushioned furniture.

On silent feet, Bruce swung into a robe and then stepped to Alfred's side. His hand on the elderly butler's shoulder woke him well enough, but Bruce did not stay for apologies or explanations. The man owed him little, after all this time.

He knew he was not in Gotham. This place had captured him, locked him inside its great metropolis, and refused to let him go. He knew that he was needed. And he had the vaguest knowledge that some of the dark ones he hunted had somehow made it here as well.

But the rest... The rest was blank.

In its place, the sensation that he had to make something right pushed him toward his wardrobe. He dressed quickly. There was something he had to do. Something to fix.

But what?

Feeling confused (and hating the sensation), he headed Downstairs.

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