Batman: Huntress and the Hunted - Part 1

Foreword

This story was written and takes place shortly after DC's No Man's Land mega-series. The events in No Man's Land depicted Gotham City literally shaken to its foundations by a massive earthquake. The story mainly focused on the aftermath of that event, especially its effects on the various characters in the Batman family and rogue's gallery. I highly recommend Greg Rucka's novelization of the series (also titled No Man's Land) if you're unfamiliar with the story.

Unlike my other stories, this is strictly mainstream, PG-rated fiction. It was my first attempt at a fanfic, and I haven't really revised it since I first wrote it about two or three years ago, so go easy on me, gang. It's also unfinished. If there's enough interest, I will consider providing a conclusion at a later date.

Part 1

Gotham City. Near midnight, on a cold evening in February. A dark, caped figure moved silently in the frigid moonlight, swinging from building to building at the end of a thin, taut line of rope. As the dark shape swung and leapt, lithely and skillfully, from rooftop to rooftop, its movements revealed long, dark hair and decidedly feminine curves.

The vigilante known as the Huntress moved deftly through the night. She sized up the gap from the roof she now ran across to the next one on the other side of a narrow alley, then leapt across it easily. The exertion kept her warm. Her black spandex full-body costume, with its violet gloves, mask, thigh-high boots, and utility belt, clung to her shapely, athletic body like a second skin. A dark violet cape flapped behind her in the cold winter air, producing the only sound she made as she moved towards the warehouse district, near Gotham’s docks. The only break from her black and violet color scheme took the shape of a small gold cross that hung just below her throat.

The Huntress paused at the top of an old, five-storey office tower, mostly abandoned to squatters and rats now, and studied the street below. It was almost empty, save for a couple of drunks rummaging through a trash bin in a nearby alley, and two streetwalkers, shivering in the pale yellow glow from a streetlight.

The Huntress shook her head in disgust. It never failed—the hookers would start to ply their trade in one spot, residents and businesspeople would complain, and then the police would harass them until they moved on to another neighborhood and the cycle repeated itself. Unless they moved to a street no one gave a damn about, like this one. Then the cops left them alone, for the most part. The problem was, the girls made themselves more vulnerable than usual, since there was no one nearby to scare off a sicko looking for more than just sex. A sicko like the one who’d killed three working girls in the last two weeks.

All three murdered prostitutes had been working the sparsely populated streets of the warehouse district. The Huntress had decided to spend the evening patrolling the area, keeping an eye on the hookers and their johns. In a perfect world, the Huntress thought, these women would never have to sell their bodies—and their self-respect—to earn a livelihood. The world wasn’t perfect, of course—nowhere near—but it might be a little better if someone gave a damn about these women. Especially someone like her.

An hour later, she’d completed her eighth circuit of the area. She’d watched three tricks—from a distance—all “normal” business transactions that ended without incident. She did her best not to think about the acts taking place in those cars parked briefly in dark alleyways, tried not to think about how she wished she could expunge the whole sordid business from the city. But she couldn’t think of the streetwalkers as criminals, only as victims. And as much as she would have enjoyed attacking the johns, she knew she’d only succeed in reducing the women’s income, which would only lead to assaults by their pimps. She had taken down more than a few pimps in her time patrolling the streets, but they seemed to crawl out of the woodwork, scooping up the girls abandoned by their incarcerated or hospitalized competitors.

“Some nights, I wonder why I bother...” the Huntress murmured.

Her head turned as she watched a black van pull to the curb, next to a hooker shivering in a red leather mini-skirt and fishnet stockings. Something about the van caught her attention. Perhaps it was the spattering of mud that seemed to strategically obscure the license plate. Perhaps it was the lack of windows and other distinguishing features. Or maybe it was just the Huntress’ surprise at this working girl’s ignorance of one of her profession’s basic rules of survival: “Never get in a van”. But that’s exactly what she was doing.

The Huntress swung down to a nearby warehouse roof. She leapt across the narrow gaps to adjacent warehouse rooftops, following the van as it pulled away from the curb and drove three blocks to a dark, empty alleyway. The crime-fighter deftly and quietly maneuvered down a fire escape until she came to rest a few yards above and in front of the parked, quiet vehicle. Suddenly, the van rocked to the passenger side violently. She heard a muffled female cry, distinctly unlike those a woman makes in the throes of passion, even when it’s faked.

The Huntress quickly raised her right arm and aimed the mini-crossbow she wore around her forearm at the driver’s side window. She shot a single arrow, thick as her finger, which pierced the glass with a quiet tinkling sound. Seconds later, the driver’s side door opened. Clouds of tear gas billowed out, followed by a dark, coughing, stumbling figure. The Huntress’ dark brown eyes, fully accustomed to the dim light, could make out the dull glint of a knife blade in the man’s right hand. Something black and viscous covered it.

“Bastard!” the Huntress snarled as she leapt towards the would-be killer. He turned towards the sound, but too slowly. The Huntress’ boots caught him full in the chest. He fell backwards, dropping the knife; the vigilante tucked and rolled as she bounced off of him. She gracefully landed on her feet and turned to face her adversary.

She could make out a burly, bearded man in a baseball cap, down ski jacket, and baggy jeans as he scrambled to his feet. His mouth twisted into a cross between a nasty smile and a sneer when he realized his attacker was a woman. His right hand reached into his coat towards his left side.

“Oh, no you don’t,” the dark-clad vigilante declared. She stepped forward and caught the man’s right forearm with her left hand before he could draw out whatever weapon he carried. Simultaneously, her right hand cocked back and she delivered sharp blow with the base of her palm to the man’s bearded chin.

As he back-pedaled from the blow, the Huntress swung his right arm up, out of his coat, and harmlessly over his head, revealing a low-caliber revolver. She grabbed his right elbow with her left hand, applied opposing pressure with her right hand, and gave his wrist a sharp twist, making him drop the pistol. Before he could recover, she drove her right knee hard into his groin

“GHAAAAHHH!!” he groaned as he fell to his knees. The Huntress delivered a roundhouse kick with her right leg to his head, and the man fell over on his side, unconscious. She extracted a tough plastic strip from her belt and used it to bind his wrists behind his back.

The Huntress then swung around and turned her attention to the van. The passenger side door had opened, and the prostitute she’d seen climb in before sat on the ground beside the van, coughing, eyes streaming, and clutching her right bicep. Her left hand glistened black where the dim lights from the street shone on it.

“Let me have a look at that,” the Huntress said softly as she knelt down beside the woman. The streetwalker’s eyes, still tearing from the gas, went wide with fear at the sight of the masked, dark-costumed vigilante in front of her.

“Relax. I’m here to help,” the Huntress said reassuringly.

Beneath the woman’s heavily applied makeup and permed blonde hair, the crime-fighter could see the prostitute was, in fact, just a girl—about the same age as most of the students she taught at Gotham Central High, in her daytime identity of Helena Bertinelli. Dear God, she thought, I swear these girls get younger every year... The Huntress swallowed her anger and tenderly pulled the girl’s hand away from her injured bicep. She reached into a back pouch of her utility belt for some medical gauze to apply to the wound.

“It’s not that bad,” the Huntress told the girl. “But it might require a couple of stitches. We should get you to a hospital.”

“No!” the girl spoke for the first time, between coughs. “I can’t...”

The Huntress adopted a harder tone, one Helena Bertinelli often used to settle down an unruly class. “You need medical attention, and you’re going to get it. You’re also going to talk to the police.”

“No way! No police!” the girl blurted out, wide-eyed, shaking her head.

“Yes way,” the Huntress insisted, her voice quiet but firm, as she applied pressure to the girl’s wound. “That sick bastard has killed at least three other working girls. He almost got you tonight. Do you want him to keep going? To come back and finish the job he started on you?”

The girl glanced uncertainly at her still-unconscious attacker. She looked back at the vigilante, her eyes still uncertain.

The Huntress decided to take her silence for tacit agreement. “Good. I’ll need to call the police, and an ambulance...”

“They’re on their way,” a deep baritone declared from the shadows.

The Huntress’ muscles tensed, then relaxed, but only slightly. Had she not recognized the voice, the Huntress would have turned immediately and fired arrows from her mini-crossbow at the dark figure that loomed behind her. Not that her shots would have found their mark, she thought ruefully, much as she might enjoy the prospect of hearing that creepy voice cry out in pain. His deep, cold baritone sounded like ice, slowly grating against rock. If glaciers could speak, the Huntress decided, they’d sound like that.

The young hooker’s eyes widened in terror. “It’s okay,” the Huntress reassured her. “He won’t hurt you. You know,” she continued, turning her head slightly to speak over her shoulder to the tall, dark figure, “I really hate it when you creep up on me like that.”

Silence greeted her comment. Typical, the Huntress thought.

“Is...is...that...is that really...” the injured streetwalker stammered, her wide blue eyes unable to look away from the grim, quiet shadow as the Huntress helped her to her feet.

“Yes, that’s the Batman,” the Huntress answered the girl’s unfinished question. “By the way, not that you’ll remember, but I’m the Huntress. You know, the one who just saved your butt?”

Still the girl’s eyes couldn’t move from the dark figure in the shadows. The Huntress sighed and rolled her eyes slightly.

“C’mon, honey, let’s go get you fixed up,” the heroine said in a resigned tone as she began to lead the girl towards the entrance of the alley. She could hear sirens in the distance, heading their way.

“Huntress.” He spoke the name as a command, and she obeyed, though she hated herself for doing so. She stopped and turned back towards him.

“The police will want this,” the Dark Knight said, one gloved hand emerging from beneath his shadowy cape, holding out a plastic bag containing the bloodied knife.

The Huntress took the bag from the Batman’s gloved hand. “Thanks,” she said reluctantly. She supposed she should have bagged the evidence herself, but she had been preoccupied with the safety of the victim. She always felt so...inadequate around him. She supposed that was the desired effect. No wonder you usually work alone, big guy... She turned again to lead the girl out of the alley.

“And Huntress.”

She rolled her eyes and turned back towards him. Here it comes, she thought. The lecture on the fifteen different ways I screwed up. How I went too hard on the perp. How I don’t belong in “his” town...

“Good work,” he said flatly, and vanished into the darkness, leaving the Huntress staring, open-mouthed, at where he had been.

A half-hour later, the Huntress finished talking to the police and climbed to the rooftops once again. She disliked dealing with the cops, although she had come to recognize its necessity. They treated her with open disdain, as though at any moment they’d decide she should be the one locked up, not the perp she’d just handed to them on a platter. Tonight had been especially bad, as she’d noticed they treated the hookers the same way; she couldn’t help feeling insulted, but also angry that the streetwalkers—whom the Huntress considered victims—had earned the cops’ contempt. Their world-weary, cynical attitude towards the girl she’d rescued had particularly galled her.

“This’ll never make it to court, you realize,” the detective on the scene had told her. “And even if it does, she’ll never make her story stick.”

“Because she’s a woman?” the Huntress had asked, pointedly.

“Because she’s a hooker!” the detective had said.

“She’s the victim of a crime. She’s a human being with rights,” she’d answered him.

“Yeah. Whatever...” the detective had responded with a shrug.

Sometimes this job really sucks, she thought as she paused, crouching on a warehouse roof to watch the street below. And yet...

And Huntress? Good work.

The heroine allowed herself a slight smile, and shook her raven-black locks in disbelief as she looked watched the last squad cars leave the scene.

The Batman. It always came back to him. He’d been on her back ever since she first showed up in “his” town. He constantly criticized her, admonished her, upbraided her, and generally acted like a colossal, class-A jerk. He’d almost gotten her killed during No Man’s Land, the period after the freak earthquake when a largely ruined Gotham City had been abandoned by all levels of government and left to its own devices. And yet.

And yet he’d invited her to join his exclusive superhero club, the Justice League of America. And yet he constantly asked—no, ordered, demanded, he didn’t ask anyone for anything—her assistance on various cases. And yet he’d pulled her butt out of the fire more than once. Like when that nutbar General Eiling had planted his brain inside the indestructible, super-powerful body of the ridiculously-named Shaggy Man. Eiling had caught her, was about to crush her head like a grape, but Batman had saved her.

She wanted his approval. She hated herself for it, but she couldn’t help it. It was his town. She could have moved back to New York City and operated there, but she stayed in Gotham. She told herself it was because she could make more of a difference here, because she knew people here, had grown up here, but in moments of true introspection, when she searched her soul for the truth, she knew the real reason she stayed.

She had even changed her modus operandi to suit him. She had finally foresworn the use of lethal force, had scaled down the level of violence she used, all because he said it had to be so. Because she wanted his respect.

Not that I’ll ever get it, she thought. She straightened, stretched her strong, lithe arms and legs for a moment, and prepared to continue her nightly patrol, when she noticed a large, dark shape on the edge of her peripheral vision.

“What was the girl’s story?” the familiar baritone asked.

“I thought I told you I that I hate it when you do that,” the Huntress responded as she turned around.

There he stood, a dark, still shadow against the night sky. His black scalloped cape flowed over his broad shoulders and down to the ground, covering the dark gray costume beneath, revealing only a hint of the black bat symbol on his powerful chest. The eye slits of his mask reflected the city’s ambient light, yet didn’t show his eyes. She hypothesized that he wore some sort of high-tech, protective infra-red lenses that made his eyes look that way, but it still gave her the creeps. She supposed that was the desired effect. His cowl covered all of his face except for his strong, square jaw and a thin, grim slash of a mouth, which seemed frozen—hard, cold, pitiless. The stylized bat ears atop his cowl added to his demonic appearance. Looking at him sometimes made her shiver.

After a pause, the Batman surprised her for the second time that night, this time by actually responding to something she said.

“Commissioner Gordon hated it too,” he stated flatly. She almost thought she saw a faint smile on those thin, cruel lips. Almost.

“That’s probably why you do it,” the Huntress told him. “You like getting under people’s skin, don’t you?”

Silence.

So much for the evening’s witty repartee, the Huntress thought.

“The girl’s story,” she went on, finally answering his initial question, “is the usual one. Abusive father—when he’s around. She ran away from home, lived in squats, found a new boyfriend who turned out to be a pimp...you know the drill.”

The Huntress heard the cynical hardness in her voice, the same tone she’d heard in the voice of the cops, and shuddered slightly. Is this what Gotham does to you? she wondered. And why am bothering with the world-weary act in front of him?

A few months ago—in the middle of the No Man’s Land period, or NML, as the locals called it—the Batman had revealed his knowledge of her true identity. The fact that he knew her real name wasn’t what bothered her. It was that he knew the other side of her soul—the Helena Bertinelli who, despite the money she’d inherited from her mafia don father, spent her days teaching at a tough, gang-ridden inner-city school, giving of herself to try to keep her students from becoming the criminals her alter ego punished at night.

She sighed and shook her head. “I...recommended a shelter to her. Gave her the name of a social worker I know who hasn’t burned out completely. Told her about a couple of programs to get underage girls off the street.” She shrugged. “I didn’t know what else to do.”

“You did all you could,” the Dark Knight told her.

She stared at him, frowning while her dark eyes widened behind her mask. Three surprises in one night, she thought; that last comment was...kind, for him...

“I’ve been watching you,” the Batman continued, as if he hadn’t made that fact obvious. “I’m...satisfied with your progress. You might be cut out for this type of work after all.”

The Huntress fought to contain her astonishment. Words like that from the Batman...well, for him, it was high praise, as if he’d plastered billboards across Gotham City with The Huntress Rocks! The praise meant more to her than she cared to admit, especially to him, and she struggled to keep her voice neutral when at last she spoke.

“Well. Thank you,” she said, then decided that a pointed remark seemed necessary. “I was wondering when you’d notice that I wasn’t a complete idiot.”

“Don’t get cocky,” he responded harshly. “You get complacent about your performance out here, you’ll wind up dead.”

Now that’s the Batman I know and hate, the Huntress thought. What bothered her the most was that he was almost always right.

His powerful shoulders relaxed a little, and his features softened slightly. “I have something I want you to do.”

“You always have something you want me to...”

“This is different,” he stated, cutting her off. He turned away from her slightly, and his voice sounded just a little...uncomfortable. “It involves your…civilian identity.”

“What about it?” she asked sharply.

The Batman’s tall, dark frame soundlessly turned back towards her. “I want you to protect someone. But not as the Huntress. As Helena Bertinelli.”

The Huntress was taken aback by the unusual request. He’d never asked her to perform any crime-fighting or detective work in her civilian identity before. And the tone of his voice—he was asking her, not ordering her as she usually did. Or at least, he didn’t seem to be implying that she’d monumentally disappoint him by turning him down.

“You...want me to be someone’s bodyguard?” she asked dubiously.

“Essentially.”

The Huntress shook her head. “You know I have a day job. I can’t just...”

“This shouldn’t interfere with that. No more than your usual nocturnal activities do,” he finished pointedly.

“Even if I do agree to do this—which I haven't—wouldn’t that put my identity at risk?”

“You’re a woman teacher at an inner-city school,” the Batman answered easily, obviously prepared for her objection. “People wouldn’t be surprised to learn that you’ve studied self-defence. Just as long as you’re not too flashy when the time comes. And the subject is not to know you’re there to protect him.”

The Huntress decided to ask the obvious question. “Who is it you want me to protect?”

“Bruce Wayne.”

The Huntress’ dark brown eyes widened slightly behind her mask. “The billionaire?” she asked.

“Hh.” The Batman grunted his confirmation.

“Why?” the Huntress asked, shaking her head slightly.

“Wayne’s received some death threats recently,” he explained in his flat baritone.

“So? Don’t rich and famous people like him get those all the time?” the Huntress asked as she crossed her arms.

“Of course. But careful analysis of these ones indicates...a determined mind. Deranged, but determined. Someone holding a grudge.”

The Huntress shrugged. “So round up all his ex-girlfriends,” she said sarcastically. “Or would that take too long?” she added in a sharp tone. Like almost everyone else in Gotham City, the Huntress had become quite familiar with the reputation of billionaire playboy Bruce Wayne.

The Batman paused, staring at her coldly, then continued as if she hadn’t spoken at all.

“The threats contain key phrases that make it clear the would-be killer wants Wayne’s death to be public. ‘All of Gotham will see...’, ‘The world will witness...’, and so on. It’s my conviction that the murder attempt, when it occurs, will happen at some public event Wayne attends. By escorting him to those events, you can be perfectly placed to protect him from attack.”

“Escort...” the Huntress said as the Batman’s intent slowly dawned on her. Her eyes went wide and her mouth opened in shock. “Sweet Jesus!” she exclaimed. “You want me to date him?!?”

The Batman stared at her stonily. “It would be the easiest way for you to be in his immediate proximity at public events.”

“I don’t even know the man!” she objected.

“An introduction can be arranged,” the Batman responded smoothly.

“And he’ll want to take little old me out for a night on the town, just like that.”

The Huntress got the distinct impression that the Batman’s eyes were—uncharacteristically—giving her shapely, athletic body, in its form-fitting costume, a typically-male once-over.

“Definitely,” he responded flatly.

The Huntress felt her cheeks getting warmer beneath her dark purple mask. She hoped the darkness prevented him from seeing her blushing like one of the teenage schoolgirls she taught. It wasn’t the anticipation of Wayne’s attention that made her feel embarrassed; it was the Batman’s. She’d never thought of him in a sexual way, much as he’d never seemed to even notice that she was a woman, let alone cut her any slack because of it. That indifference to her gender was one of the few things she liked about him. But now, just for a moment, he hadn’t been indifferent; he’d noticed her femininity and seemed to approve of it. It made her...uncomfortable. She shook her head slightly, trying to clear it, and looked away from him.

“Uh...look,” she said, holding her right hand up and open, “I’m not sure I’d feel comfortable with this...I mean, the man has a reputation.”

“I’m sure you can handle whatever situation might arise.”

The Huntress turned back towards him, spreading her arms. “Oh, sure, if he makes a move on me, I can throw him through a window. But somehow, I don’t think that’ll earn me a second date!” The Batman only stared at her, his silence conveying his dismissal of the pessimistic scenario she’d just presented. The Huntress sighed. “Besides, doesn’t he already have bodyguards?”

“They’re not prepared for the sort of threat we’re facing here,” the Dark Knight answered ominously.

The Huntress paused to consider that. Her dark eyes narrowed. “You think it’s one of your enemies,” she hypothesized.

His silence confirmed her deduction.

“Which one?” she asked.

“It’s too early to tell,” he answered.

The Huntress closed her eyes for a moment. “Great,” she murmured. Then she looked at him, staring hard into those empty white eye-slits. She sometimes wondered if there was really anyone human in there. She thought over the Batman’s proposition and laughed derisively. “This is ridiculous. Here I am tonight, collaring a scumbag who kills hookers, probably the most defenceless people in this town, and now you want me to baby-sit some billionaire because the Mad Hatter wants to whack him!”

“The Hatter is in Arkham Asylum. I checked,” the Batman responded.

The Huntress threw her arms in the air. “Oh, good, that’s one down, only two dozen other costumed whackos to worry about.”

He stared at her silently for a moment before speaking. “An innocent man’s life is in danger. Will you help?”

The Huntress raised an eyebrow. “He’s not that innocent,” she said under her breath.

“WILL. YOU. HELP?” the Batman growled as he leaned towards her.

The Huntress instinctively leaned away from him and swallowed. Then she took a deep breath and sighed. “All right. All right!” she said, throwing up her hands.

Now that he had the Huntress’ assent, the Batman gave her a rapid briefing in a tone that was all business. “This Saturday, there’ll be a ceremony to mark the opening of the new Martha Wayne Community Centre,”

“I know,” the Huntress said, “It’s four blocks from my school.”

“Wayne will be there. Make sure you are as well.”

“And somehow, in that huge crowd, he’ll notice me.” the Huntress was still dubious of that prospect.

“The crowd won’t be that large. The Mayor, city councillors, local community leaders. Helena Bertinelli qualifies as one of the latter.”

“How nice,” the Huntress responded with a trace of sarcasm.

The Batman ignored it. “Don’t dress provocatively...”

“I wasn’t about to.”

“Good. Wayne prefers women who dress attractively, but with class. Wear a skirt or dress, not pants. Wear your hair loose, not tied back. Use makeup, but don’t over-do it.”

The Huntress looked at the Batman incredulously, with an amused half-smile on her lips. “Gee, mom...does he have a favorite perfume?” she asked sarcastically.

The Batman thought a moment. “Eternity,” he answered.

The Huntress’ eyes rolled heavenward. “You’ve thought of everything, haven’t you?”

“Don’t I always?”

She thought he might be joking, but he’d spoken in that same dark, creepy voice he used all the time, so she couldn’t be certain.

The tall, dark, shadowy form in front of her moved to the edge of the roof, conveying his opinion that the briefing had ended. But he stopped and said one more thing.

“And Huntress.”

“What?”

She swore she could see the tug of a smile on those grim lips. “Don’t let him get too far on the first date,” he said, then leapt into the darkness before she could tell him off.

That Saturday, Helena Bertinelli looked around the inside of the new Martha Wayne Community Center’s gymnasium in appreciation and approval. The old community centre, two blocks away, had been a decaying ruin before the quake finally, mercifully, did it in. In the time since NML had ended, the central Gotham community she taught in had been slowly rebuilding, but without any available recreation centers, the young people of the area—her students among them—had taken to hanging out on the streets. In Gotham City, there was no way that could turn out to be a good thing.

And Bruce Wayne had made the building possible. Though the local media seemed more interested in his love life, most residents of Gotham City could name several charities and several public buildings that had benefited from Wayne Foundation grants. His large, generous donation to ensure the completion of this particular project had come through when public funding had faltered and the Community Center appeared doomed. The board of directors had wanted to name the building after him in return for his largesse; he refused, but accepted when some bright light had suggested naming it after his mother, another philanthropist.

And Helena had come to its ceremonial opening to somehow meet the billionaire, charm him, and end up as his date for as long as it took to catch whoever was threatening him. It wasn’t exactly the sort of iron-clad plan she was used to getting from the Batman.

She’d gone through at least a half-dozen changes of clothing before settling on her current attire. She’d rejected her “teacher clothes” immediately as too mediocre, unlikely to earn the attention of a billionaire accustomed to movie stars and runway models. She had eventually decided on a dark burgundy jacket and matching knee-length skirt that she thought flattered her olive skin. She’d adorned her legs with black patent-leather pumps and dark pantyhose. Her long, thick black hair hung loose about her shoulders and down her back. She wore makeup appropriate for a business function—a little mascara and eye shadow, burgundy lipstick that complimented her outfit, and just a hint of blush on her cheeks. Her black blouse had the top two buttons undone, revealing the gold cross she always wore around her neck, and just a hint of cleavage. And she’d dabbed Calvin Klein’s Eternity for Women on her neck and behind her ears.

She looked like an attractive, professional businesswoman. But she couldn’t help feeling an awkward, embarrassing kinship with the working girls she’d been protecting two nights before. After all, she, too, had dressed to attract the attention of a man. She almost never did it, wasn’t used to it, and didn’t like it. She felt sure that this was another one of the Batman’s tests she had to pass, albeit a bizarre one.

“Helena, how nice to see you here!”

She turned at the sound of the deep bass voice she heard in church every Sunday morning and smiled, glad to see a familiar face amongst all the local dignitaries. “Father Jones. Nice to see you too,” she said as she extended her hand to the burly African-American priest.

“This is a great day, Helena. A great day!” The priest’s dark eyes shone with enthusiasm behind his silver-rimmed glasses. Father Jones possessed a zeal, and an optimism, that was infectious. It never failed to lift Helena’s spirits, and reinforced her own faith.

She nodded in agreement. “I know my students could really benefit from having a place like this around.”

“Of course,” the middle-aged priest agreed. “But it isn’t just a community centre, Helena. It’s a symbol, a sign that Gotham is rebuilding and that our community’s included in that. That’s important.”

Once again, Helena nodded in agreement. “Like restoring St. Michael’s,” she added with a gentle smile, referring to Father Jones’ own parish church. St. Michael’s had been badly damaged in the quake, but its repairs were nearing completion under the priest’s eager supervision. Bruce Wayne had contributed to that project as well, as had Helena herself. Diverting some of the mob money her parents had left her to the church could never erase the stain of the money’s origin, but it was better than spending it on herself.

Suddenly, a discernible ripple of diverted attention spread through the crowd from the south entrance to the gymnasium. The crowd of local politicians, press, clergy, community workers and residents turned their heads towards the doors. Two burly men in dark suits had entered first—bodyguards, no doubt, Helena thought. Then the man himself came in.

Bruce Wayne entered the gymnasium, accompanied by an entourage of about a half-dozen well-dressed men and women. He stopped every few steps, warmly greeting someone in the crowd by name, shook hands, and moved on. He was conservatively attired in a red tie, white shirt, and a dark blue suit—probably custom tailored, had to be, the way it fit, well, he could afford it, couldn’t he, Helena thought. The crowd reacted to him as if he were royalty—which, in a way, he was.

As Bruce Wayne moved closer to where she stood, Helena cast an appraising eye over Gotham’s favorite son. He was tall—taller than his bodyguards, if that’s what they were, and broad-shouldered—he obviously worked out; he looked like he didn’t need bodyguards. He was a few years older than her, but still considered young in business circles. His dark, slightly wavy black hair was perfectly groomed and parted on the left, and he was clean-shaven, revealing a strong, square jaw. He had a straight, aquiline nose. His piercing blue eyes seemed to take in everything going on around him while also focusing, like lasers, on whoever had his attention in any particular moment. Well, he’s easy on the eyes, I’ll give him that much, Helena conceded.

Then his teeth flashed in response to something a woman in business attire, standing only a few yards from Helena, was saying to him, and Helena saw—no, experienced—the Wayne smile. It was broad, open, engaging; it charmed, even seduced whoever he bestowed it on. The smile said, I’m the most wonderful person you’ve ever met, and because you made me smile, you’re wonderful too. It was perfect. Too perfect—too smooth, too slick, too practiced. That’s when Helena knew, in her heart, in her soul, in her bones—the way she knew, in the dark of the Gotham night, that a deal was about to go down, or someone was about to get killed—that Bruce Wayne was a complete and utter phony.

Then he was standing right in front of her.

“Well,” he said through that charming smile, looking directly at her, “I thought I was at a movie premiere for a moment!”

His blue eyes took just a little too long to give Helena the customary male once-over she’d grown used to but had never liked. In spite of her modest, business-like attire, his intense, licentious gaze made her feel like she’d worn a bikini.

Ick. Ick, ick, ick. Helena thought in response to his smarmy come-on line and lascivious stare. And Batman wants me to date this troglodyte?

“Bill,” Wayne said, warmly greeting Father Jones and shaking his hand, “aren’t you going to introduce us?”

“Of course, Bruce,” the priest responded with a knowing smile and cocked eyebrow. “This is Helena Bertinelli, a member of my congregation. Helena, Bruce Wayne.”

“Charmed,” Wayne said, smiling, offering Helena his hand.

“Mr. Wayne,” Helena said smoothly as she shook his hand. He shook it firmly, but not too firmly; a perfect handshake. And phony, Helena thought once again. She noticed Wayne looking at the cross around her neck, then caught his eyes as they stole a glance at her left hand. His smile seemed to broaden slightly.

No, I’m not married, to Christ or anyone else, you transparent reptile…

“And…you’re a fashion model who’s taken an interest in community affairs?” Wayne said in his light baritone, his voice as smooth and as charming as his smile.

People around them laughed politely. Everyone in Gotham knew of Wayne’s eye for the ladies. It figured that he’d zero in on the most attractive woman at the event and try to charm the pants off of her.

Helena’s smile became even more forced. “I teach at Gotham Central High, Mr. Wayne,” Helena said, somewhat officiously.

“Really? How wonderful!” Wayne responded, his eyebrows raised in mild surprise. “Well, if I’d had more teachers who looked like you, I might have paid more attention!” the billionaire joked.

The crowd chuckled again. Sexist pig, Helena thought.

“Somehow, I doubt that you would have paid attention to the lesson, Mr. Wayne,” she commented, just politely enough to sound like she was ribbing him good-naturedly. She was supposed to get him interested, after all.

Wayne raised an eyebrow, then laughed softly and nodded. “I suspect you’re right, Ms. Bertinelli…” He frowned slightly. “…Bertinelli…now why is that name familiar? Lucius?” Wayne looked sideways at the distinguished African-American man standing at his right.

Helena saw Lucius Fox, CEO of Wayne Enterprises, glance at her, slightly embarrassed, and cough softly. He knows, Helena thought, steeling herself. Someone in a crowd always knows. Oh, THOSE Bertinellis. And then everyone would treat her differently, walking on eggshells, as if she still had mob connections.

But Wayne snapped his fingers before Lucius could say anything, startling her. “One Day at a Time!” he declared, smiling at Helena.

“I beg your pardon?” she asked, responding to the apparent non sequitur.

“Valerie Bertinelli. The actress. Lovely woman. Married, unfortunately…some rock star, I think. Any relation?”

“Uh, no…”

Lucius Fox gently pressed Wayne’s elbow. “Bruce, I think the mayor is here…”

“Ah. Well, I guess we’re about to begin. Very nice to have met you, Ms. Bertinelli.”

With that, Wayne turned and walked, his entourage in tow, towards the platform at the North end of the gym. Halfway there, he turned his head and cast what he no doubt thought was a seductive glance at Helena.

Snake, she thought in response. Then she realized that she’d failed; Wayne had moved on, not even asking for her phone number. She closed her eyes, exhaled, and her shoulders sagged slightly. Great. Another opportunity for the Dark Knight to give me a tongue-lashing, she thought.

Then the speeches started. The mayor spoke first, followed by some other community leaders; Helena politely tried to pay attention, though she was distracted by trying to think of how she’d explain herself to the Batman. Finally, Bruce Wayne stood up to address the crowd, greeted by warm applause. Helena remembered that she was supposed to be working and began to watch the crowd for threats.

Wayne’s brief speech, like those before it, contained the usual lame jokes and platitudes that reminded Helena of why she stayed away from these sorts of ceremonial events. But there was one moment at the end that surprised her, just slightly.

“…and you do my family a great honor by naming this building after the best woman I have ever known. My mother…” Wayne paused for a moment to collect himself, and the entire crowd was briefly reminded of how the billionaire’s parents had lost their lives on Gotham’s streets. “My mother had a great interest in philanthropy, as great as my father’s in medicine. It’s appropriate to name this new community center after her, then, since she’s the one who taught me the importance of giving back to the community. I think she'd be embarrassed that it's named after her, but happy that it's here.”

Polite applause broke out. Then Bruce Wayne's features seemed to harden.

“It's though projects like this that we'll reclaim Gotham City. All of us, rich and poor, black and white, Asian and Latino, “Ogees” and “Deezees”—we'll take back our city. We'll make it work…and we'll make it ours. Thank you.”

The applause was more than just polite when Wayne finished. He might be wealthy, he might live a carefree lifestyle most people in the room either envied or disapproved of—perhaps a little of both—but he was one of them, a Gothamite. He could have lived anywhere he wanted to, but he lived here. Even Helena applauded enthusiastically—not for the man, she told herself, but for the sentiment.

Yet she had a strange sensation, a feeling akin to deja vu—she’d never met Wayne before today, but at the end of his speech, when she witnessed the uncharacteristic hardness in his voice and face...it seemed very familiar to her. She felt as though they’d met somewhere before. But she couldn’t place where, not for the life of her.

The ceremony ended soon after Bruce Wayne’s speech. The crowd started to break up and make towards the exits, Helena dejectedly going with them, until she heard her name being called.

“Ms. Bertinelli?” a rich, light baritone asked from behind her. Helena turned around and found herself looking at the suave, handsome billionaire.

“Oh. Mr. Wayne,” she said hesitantly, surprised that he’d bothered to talk to her again.

“Do you like opera?” Wayne asked nonchalantly.

Helena blinked. “Um...yes, I do...I’m Italian. ”

“Excellent!” Wayne declared, that perfect smile she was starting to hate returning to his lips. “Carreras is performing Don Giovanni tonight at the Gotham City Opera House. Are you going?”

“No, I...”

“Well, you are now,” he said effusively, flashing that brilliant smile again. “The, ah, young lady who was originally going to accompany me had to pass—I think she had to go to Nice for a photo shoot or something. My assistant will obtain the necessary details from you,” Wayne went on hurriedly, pointing to a woman in his entourage. The assistant, bespectacled, svelte, her brown hair in a bun, had—in a smooth, well-practiced movement—already pulled out a notepad. “I’ll have a car pick you up...say, sevenish?”

“Uh…all right,” Helena agreed, more a little dazed by Wayne’s brisk, breezy manner.

“See you tonight!” He said with a quick wave. He was already half-way to the door, but still managed to greet well-wishers on his way out.

“Ms. Bertinelli?” Wayne’s assistant prompted.

“Um...what?” Helena said, still trying to comprehend exactly what had just happened.

“Your address and phone number, please.”

Helena blurted out the information automatically, as though talking to a government clerk—for that was exactly what the woman reminded her of—before she realized what she was doing. Then the woman was gone, hurrying after the other members of Wayne’s entourage.

Helena looked around and spotted Father Jones, smiling slyly at her. Helena spread her hands and asked, “What the hell just happened?”

“You have a date,” the priest answered, his eyes twinkling, “with Gotham’s most eligible bachelor.”

Helena glanced towards the door Wayne had just exited, then back at her friend. “I don’t believe this...”

“Now, don’t you worry, Helena,” the priest assured her in a fatherly tone, perceiving, if misinterpreting, her surprise. “Wayne has a reputation, as I’m sure you know, but whenever I’ve seen him with a young woman, he always behaves like a perfect gentleman. You have a nice time. Just…don’t get carried away,” he cautioned her gently.

Helena looked at the priest’s dark eyes, saw the shrewd concern there, and smiled. “I will. I mean, I won’t. I mean…you know what I mean.”

Father Jones smiled and chuckled gently. “You’ll be able to tell your grandkids about this,” he said.

If I live that long, Helena added silently, remembering that a member of the Batman’s rogue’s gallery had a bead on the billionaire, and she was about to step into the line of fire.

As the lights dimmed and the orchestra began playing the overture to Don Giovanni that night, Helena Bertinelli sat back and let the music wash over her. She took a deep breath and brushed a strand of her jet-black hair away from her face. Then she let her hands settle on top of the folds her modest black crepe dress made in her lap. She did her best to relax, and wondered just what the hell she was doing there.

“Have you heard Carreras sing before?” Bruce Wayne asked, his lips whispering the question alarmingly close to her ear. She leaned away from him, just slightly.

“Not in person,” Helena responded politely. “Only on CD.”

“Then you’re in for a treat,” Wayne said with a smile, then sat back to enjoy the music himself.

It was the smile that did it, Helena decided. That charming grin, slightly broader on one side of his face than the other, showing his perfect white teeth. That smile seemed to declare to the world at large, and especially to whatever woman he was with, that Bruce Wayne was from a higher plane of existence, that the gods had formed him personally and given him as a gift to the world of mere mortals, and aren’t you privileged to be in his presence.

Helena wanted to drive her fist right through that perfect, insufferably smug smile and scatter his perfect teeth all over the perfect God-damned carpet. She was perfectly capable of doing it; as the Huntress, Helena meted out such punishment—and worse—on a regular basis. But instead, she took another deep breath and tried to focus, once again, on the music.

How the hell did I end up here? Helena asked herself again. It had been the Batman’s idea, of course, but she could still hardly believe that she’d somehow caught the billionaire playboy’s eye and had wound up accompanying him to the opera.

Like everyone else in Gotham City and millions more outside of it, she had watched Bruce Wayne from afar. You couldn’t open a Gotham newspaper’s business section without reading about Wayne Enterprise’s newest acquisition, or WayneTech’s latest high-tech gadget that was going to make everyone’s life better. You couldn’t flip past a local newscast without seeing some clip of Bruce Wayne opening a new hospital wing, or closing a business deal, or meeting with politicians from both parties, who always seemed to be currying his favor. And you couldn’t read a gossip column—not that Helena ever bothered with those…well, okay, every now and then—without some mention of the starlet, or model, or heiress who’d accompanied him to the latest hot spot.

Tomorrow, she realized, she might be the one mentioned in the gossip column. But probably not by name; she was just a schoolteacher, after all. “Unknown Woman” the Gotham City Gazette would probably call her; she didn’t know whether she’d feel relieved or insulted. Probably the former; she’d reserve the latter response for whatever that rag, the Gotham Sun, would deem her: “sultry brunette”, probably, or worse.

Helena noticed her shoulders had started to tense up—not for the first time that night—and she tried once again to relax. She had started seething as soon as she saw Wayne in the limo when he came to pick her up at her apartment building. Once again, he’d eyed her in such a way that her modest, high-cut, ankle-length black crepe dress felt like lacy lingerie. His conversation consisted of empty compliments and not-so-subtle double-entendres that she supposed most women mistook for charm. And through it all, he kept endowing that snake-oil salesman’s smile on her.

“So you’re a schoolteacher,” he’d said earlier, in the limo in the way here.

“That’s right. Science and Math,” she’d responded neutrally.

He’d smiled and raised one dark eyebrow rakishly. “If I’m naughty, do I get to stay after class?” She’d nearly kicked him out of the limo. While it was in motion.

If he makes a move on me, she thought, I’ll break his legs. It’d be easier to guard him if he’s in the hospital anyway…

She couldn’t help comparing him to Don Giovanni, the rakish figure at the center of the opera. Another love ‘em and leave ‘em kind of guy. It’s probably his favorite opera. And he probably thinks Giovanni’s the God-damned hero...

Wayne started slightly in the seat beside her. He reached to his left hip and glanced at a pager, thankfully set to silent vibrating mode.

“Damn,” Wayne whispered. “Sorry. Business. Shouldn’t take long,” he apologized to Helena on his way out.

Don’t hurry back, she thought. She considered following him, but the Batman had said that the attack would be public, and the Opera House lobby was abandoned at the moment.

As he left, she briefly saw that hardness to his features that looked so familiar, but she just couldn’t place.

Once he had exited the balcony and checked the hall, ensuring it was empty, Wayne pulled a tiny ear-and-mouthpiece cell phone from his breast pocket and held it to the side of his head.

“Oracle. Report.” he said, his voice assuming the hard, lower timbre of his alter ego, the Batman.

“One of my sources just confirmed your suspicions,” the former Batgirl and information broker to the hero community answered.

“When?”

“Beginning of Act Two.”

“Figures. I’m on it,” Wayne said as he began pulling off his black bowtie.

“Of course you are. Oracle out.”

Helena watched the act end, then walked out to the lobby during the intermission. She glanced around idly, looking for Wayne, then shrugged and returned to her seat.

He probably spotted some blonde in another balcony, Helena thought, not minding the possibility at all. She should have been more agitated, she knew, but she couldn’t help feeling that she was wasting her time. All night, she’d been watching the crowd for threats and hadn’t seen anything more dangerous than a couple of rich divorcees who looked like they wanted to kill her more than him. She’d overheard his bodyguards complaining that he disappeared like this on a regular basis—usually into the waiting arms of a woman.

She relaxed into her seat as the lights dimmed and the curtain rose.

As the second act started, five figures entered the lobby of the opera house carrying musical instrument cases. They were obviously late, if they played with the orchestra. They didn’t, and they were right on schedule.

They approached the box office, dropped their cases to the floor, and pulled out several semi-automatic weapons.

The three ticket-sellers working the booth looked at the approaching men and gasped. The lone security guard began to reach for his gun.

“Don’t,” the hard, gravelly voice of the man in the middle of the group—obviously the leader—cautioned him. The security guard recognized the disfigured face that had turned towards him and swallowed hard. He raised both his hands.

“Smart,” the leader commented. “Load up, boys,” he ordered his henchmen.

The ticket-sellers meekly stepped away from their stations as the four henchmen entered the box office. Tonight’s performance wasn’t just a regular opera. It was also a charity event, raising money—a lot of it, it turned out—for the Gotham City Renewal Fund, organized by city leaders, the Wayne Foundation in particular, in the aftermath of No Man’s Land. An obvious target for Gotham’s criminal element.

The gunmen quickly gathered up the night’s proceeds and walked out of the box office.

“What do we do with ‘em, boss?” one asked their leader, leveling his weapon at the nervous ticket-sellers. His twin brother, standing beside him, followed suit, and both criminals looked expectantly at their leader.

Ting. A sound like a small bell rang out as a silver coin flipped through the air.

Smack. Two-Face slapped the coin onto the back of his hand.

“Good side. Leave ‘em be.”

The five men turned to leave when suddenly the lights in the lobby went out.

“What the...” one of the thieves said in the dark.

“Aw, crap,” Two-Face growled. “Every freakin’ time...”

A sound like wings unfurling echoed in the dark, cavernous lobby. Something darker than the inky blackness surrounding the criminals descended, like a bird of prey, into their midst.

“It’s...” Thud.

“...the...” Whump.

“…Bat...” Smack.

“...man!” Crunch.

“No shit,” Two-Face snarled at his no-longer conscious henchmen, squinting into the darkness, waving his pistol at a target he couldn’t see.

Whizz-whizz-whizz-clank!

“GHAHHH!!” Two-Face exclaimed as a bat-a-rang knocked the pistol from his hand.

“Harvey.” Coldly, flatly, the all-too familiar baritone addressed his former friend and long-time foe.

“How’d you know, Bats?” Two-Face demanded of his one-time ally. “I mean, Two Gentleman of Verona’s at the Gotham Playhouse next week...”

“Too obvious, even for you, Harvey. But the second Gotham City Opera House, hosting the Renewal Fund’s second fund-raising event of the year, on the 22nd of February? I knew you couldn’t resist.”

“Yeah, but you forgot something...” Two-Face declared, his disfigured mouth twisting into a smile in the dark.

“Did I?”

“Yeah—I always carry two guns!” Two-Face reached into his jacket and pulled out a Colt .45. He fired two shots in the direction of the Batman’s voice.

Then he waited. Two-Face could hear the opera music wafting in from the concert hall. Seconds ticked by. He began to fidget in the darkness.

“Bats? Don’t tell me I finally managed toooOOOUUUUFFFF!!!!” Two Face groaned as a large, hard fist connected solidly with his solar plexus. The gun flew from his hand as he collapsed onto the floor.

The new Gotham City Opera House possessed state-of-the art acoustics. Sounds from the lobby, even sounds as loud as a gunshot, did not penetrate into the performance hall. And the lobby itself, with its domed roof, had some interesting, if unintended, acoustic features. For example, a person could stand in one particular spot in the lobby and speak, but their voice would appear to originate from several yards away. As Bruce Wayne, who’d sat on the committee that had reviewed and approved the Opera House’s architectural design, knew quite well.

“Not this time, Harvey,” the Batman said quietly.

But Harvey was unconscious, and past caring. The Batman looked at him through his night-vision lenses and sighed heavily. Of all his foes, the one he never took any satisfaction from taking down was Harvey Dent.

“My apologies once again, Ms. Bertinelli,” Bruce Wayne whispered to the lovely, dark-haired woman seated in his private balcony. “Did I miss anything?”

Two magnificent arias and a beautiful duet, you moron, she thought, but restrained herself. “Nothing important,” she whispered through clenched teeth.

If Helena had bothered to glance at Wayne, she would have seen the same hard, stern expression that she was sure she’d seen somewhere before. And she would have discerned that no matter how hard he tried for the rest of the night, Bruce Wayne could no longer focus on the opera.

As he accompanied Helena home, sitting across from her in the expansive seating area in the back of the limousine, Wayne maintained a thoughtful silence.

Helena was more than happy to return the favor. But she had a job to do, and couldn’t do it unless she got another date with this man, no matter how much she despised him. She sighed and tried to make conversation.

“Did your...business matter turn out all right?”

“Hmmm? Oh. That. Yes, that went fine,” Wayne answered flatly.

Helena frowned slightly. “You just seemed...distracted by it.”

Wayne glanced at her. Then that smile came back, just for a moment, and she hated him again.

“I’m sorry, Helena. The business matter involved...an old friend. In an unpleasant way.”

“I guess your business deals must cost you friends every now and then,” Helena said.

“Sometimes.”

“I’m sure you can always buy more,” Helena murmured, then realized, with horror, that she’d spoken aloud. Damn! Should have known I couldn’t keep it bottled up all evening. I’ve blown it completely. I’ve let him down again, which he’ll no doubt rub in when…

Wayne rose an eyebrow in response to the cold tone and cutting remark. “I don’t treat people like commodities, Helena,” he said gently, but with a slight edge in his voice.

“I’m…sorry, Mr. Wayne. It’s just, living and working in central Gotham like I do, surrounded by gangs, and drugs, and…”

Wayne held up a hand and gave her a half smile. “I understand. I’d hoped that maybe I could take you away from that, if only for one night.”

“Well…I appreciate that,” Helena said, relaxing slightly. Good recovery, girl…

“And it’s not like I haven’t heard remarks like that before. Still…you could make it up to me, if you want,” he said, narrowing his eyes slightly.

Helena swallowed. “How, exactly?” she asked, dubiously. Is he going to proposition me? Ugh! How do I turn this slug down without driving him off? She smiled slightly when she realized that women had probably been asking themselves that about men for centuries.

Wayne seemed to interpret her smile as encouragement. He smiled warmly. “Two things. First, call me Bruce. Second…join me for dinner.”

Helena relaxed. Best to look like you’re giving it some thought, she decided. She paused, then nodded, smiling slightly. “All right…Bruce.”

His enthused smile turned her stomach. Well, at least I won’t have to make excuses to the Batman.

Wayne pulled a slim, elegant digital planner from his breast pocket and studied its display screen for a moment. “How about…Tuesday evening? Six-thirty? I know a nice Italian place. And now that I know a nice Italian girl…”

Helena laughed politely at the latest in an evening-long parade of smarmy jokes. “I think I could make myself available,” she responded, trying to sound non-committal.

Experienced at this game, Wayne responded to her answer with an amused smile. “I’m glad to hear that, Helena,” he said smoothly.

She kept her lips frozen in a closed-mouth smile. Hearing him use her first name made her feel…unclean, somehow. Batman owes me for this. Big time.

“Mr. Wayne?” the chauffeur announced over the intercom as the limo smoothly came to a halt. “We’ve arrived at Ms. Bertinelli’s residence.”

“Already?” Wayne said with a tone of slight disappointment, obviously placed there for Helena’s benefit. Like so much about him, she reflected, it was affected and phony.

“Well. Thank you for a lovely evening, Mist…er…Bruce,” Helena said mechanically, the thin smile still plastered to her face.

“You were the loveliest thing about it, Helena,” Wayne responded, grinning as he took her hand, held it up to his lips, and kissed it.

Good God. Do men still do that? she wondered.

“Well. Good night,” Helena said stonily as the chauffer opened her door. She exited the limousine, said good night to the driver, and walked towards the door of her apartment building, telling herself that she wouldn’t scream until she was well within the confines of her own apartment.

As she closed the door to her apartment behind her, Helena threw her coat on her sofa, kicked off her black pumps, and reached behind her to pull down the zipper of her black crepe dress. She peeled it from her athletic frame quickly, with exasperated movements. She stood in the middle of her apartment for several moments, clad only in a black lace bra and matching panties, pondering what to do next.

What a colossal waste of time, she thought. Her aggravation with the phony playboy, and her constant surveillance of the crowd for non-existent threats, had prevented her from properly enjoying a magnificent operatic performance; the thought only increased her anger at Bruce Wayne, and at herself for accepting his ludicrous offer, and at the Batman for orchestrating the whole thing.

“If I have to keep going out with that…that…oily Lothario, I’ll probably end up killing him myself…” she muttered. Absent-mindedly, her right hand gently touched a cluster of small, round white scars on her abdomen and chest. They were reminders of her near-fatal encounter with the Joker during No Man’s Land. She looked down at her body, realized what she was doing, and shuddered at the memory the marks brought back.

Imagine what Bruce Wayne would think of the half-dozen bullet scars on your torso, Helena thought, then immediately wished the idea hadn’t occurred to her. Bruce Wayne seeing me naked… she scowled and tried to push the image from her head. Ugh.

She glanced down the hall towards her bathroom. A long soak in the tub tempted her with the possibility of washing away the memory of a wasted evening, along with that…unclean feeling being around Wayne had given her. But it would still be an evening wasted, unless...

She glanced to her right, at the clock in her kitchen. The hand had not yet reached midnight. A slight, some would say cruel, smile came to her lips. The night beckoned; it could still be salvaged.

Helena strode purposefully into her bedroom. She undid the clasp of her bra and pulled it from her chest, then pulled off her panties. Nude, she opened her closet, pushed her regular clothes aside, and opened a secret panel on the closet’s rear wall. She reached into the secret compartment at the back of the closet, pulled a black and purple costume from its hanger, and began her transformation into the urban vigilante known as the Huntress.

A few minutes later, the Huntress leapt from a high rooftop. She grabbed a flagpole as she fell, swung upwards again, and landed gracefully on the high ledge that ran along the 20th floor of the Thompson Building. She smiled slightly; it was one of her favorite maneuvers, difficult and risky, yet she always accomplished it flawlessly.

Since her parents’ death at the hands of a mafia assassin, the Huntress had trained and disciplined herself to patrol the night, capture criminals, and protect the innocent. She’d turned her back on her organized-crime upbringing, struggling to bring some meaning to her parents’ deaths—meaning their lives had lacked. She pushed herself to her limits and beyond, danced dangerously on the thin line that separated heroine from vigilante, and had nearly lost her life more than once.

That didn’t mean she couldn’t have a little fun every now and then.

She flung a line and grappling hook around a stone gargoyle atop a building across the street and jumped, her dark form arcing across the night sky and landing softly, perfectly, atop the roof of the Davenport Hotel. Her breath, pleasantly deepened by the exertion, clouded the air around her face, but she didn’t feel the cold. As much as she enjoyed teaching, watching young minds take shape under her direction, this was her greatest love, the time when she felt most alive.

Across a back alley from the hotel, two stories lower, was the roof of the old Gotham Savings and Loan office tower. She ran towards it, knowing she’d have to tuck and roll acrobatically to absorb the impact of her leap. This she did, her execution flawless, as it was every night. The precision demanded of her patrol route required total concentration, and ensured that she didn’t have to think about Bruce Wayne, or about…

“Huntress.”

…the Batman.

There he was, right in front of her, an unmoving shadow in the dark night, square jaw set like steel.

“Follow me,” he ordered in that deep, toneless voice, and she obeyed, as much as she would have liked, just once, to tell him to go stuff it. She told herself it was because she knew he’d lead her to a more productive evening of crime-fighting—something more challenging and rewarding than just breaking up muggings and stopping street fights. Not that those weren’t satisfying, but with the Batman, the prey came bigger made a more satisfying thud when it inevitably fell.

If she’d exerted herself to her limits before, she pushed beyond them now. The Batman moved with astonishing quickness and agility for a man his size, and almost silently as well. Sometimes, just for a second, she’d lose him, then glimpse the pale line of his jaw, turned slightly back towards her as if to ask if she was coming or not, and she’d resume her pursuit. Keeping up with him always taxed her abilities to their fullest, and she enjoyed that, not that she’d ever admit it to him. Not that he’d care.

A few minutes later, she found herself on top of a warehouse roof down in the Gotham docks, not far from the warehouse district she’d been patrolling recently. Batman’s gloved hand pointed briefly to a ship in the harbor. She noted the Cyrillic lettering on its side that indicated Slavic origins—probably Russian—but couldn’t discern the name.

The Batman led her down a ladder at the side of the warehouse to a dark alleyway. Using the shadows, they silently worked their way towards the large flats that stevedores had unloaded from the ship earlier that night. The dockside was empty now, save for a couple of men who paced aimlessly through the crates, smoking and carrying semi-automatic weapons.

The Batman stood behind a large crate and studied the other ones silently. The Huntress joined him, and quietly, instinctively prepared her mini-crossbow for action. Then he crept towards a particular flat of crates that caught his interest. The Huntress followed, careful not to make a sound and alert the guards.

Kneeling beside the flat of wooden crates, the Batman extracted a knife from his utility belt and began to carefully pry open the side of one box. The Huntress held her breath as he quietly worked the box open, keeping her eyes and ears alert for an approaching guard.

Finally the box opened with a quiet pop. The Batman glanced at the Huntress; she looked towards the guards, saw them continuing their bored, oblivious pacing, and shook her head. The Batman carefully reached a gloved hand inside the box he’d opened. He pulled something out—the Huntress couldn’t see it, and was too busy on lookout duty anyway. A quiet grunt told her that he’d seen what he needed to see. Cautiously, they moved through the darkness, working their way back towards the alley.

She followed his shadowy form up to the roof of the warehouse they’d left earlier. The Batman approached the edge of the roof and crouched. The Huntress joined him there, crouching at his right. She noticed that they were virtually on top of the crates he’d investigated, and their bored guards. Perfect pouncing position, she thought alliteratively.

The Batman’s gloved hand, with its spiked forearm, reached out to her from beneath his dark cape. She held out her hand, and he dropped a bullet into it. The Huntress examined it carefully. High-caliber, she noted, and with a special coating on the tip. Armor-piercing. Cop-killers, they were called on the street. Illegal in this state and most others, except for the gun-crazy ones. So that’s what this was about.

“What now?” she whispered.

“We wait,” his deep baritone growled softly in the darkness.

“And when the buyer of these nasty little things shows up, we kick his ass,” the Huntress concluded.

“Overly colorful, but accurate,” the Batman replied.

“Who is it?” she asked softly.

“Not sure. That’s why you’re here. Backup.”

The Huntress nodded slightly, understanding what he hadn’t said. Normally, I’d handle this on my own, he implied; but since I don’t know who or how many I’m up against, you get to tag along. The Huntress shifted her weight to keep her legs from cramping and settled in for what she assumed would be a long, silent wait.

“So,” the Batman asked quietly, his eyes watching the dock below them, “how did things go with Wayne?”

It seemed the Batman—uncharacteristically—wanted to make conversation. No, she corrected herself, he wants a report, not idle chit-chat.

“Surprisingly well,” she answered in a soft whisper. “Noticed me at the opening ceremony, as you predicted. Asked me out. Went to the opera—quite good, by the way. Made a good enough impression to get asked out for dinner.”

“Notice anything?”

“Besides his leering once-overs and tired double-entendres? No. No perceivable threats.”

“Hnnhh. Killer probably wants him to sweat.”

“He seems oblivious to any danger,” the Huntress commented, then added under her breath, “among other things.”

“That’s why I don’t want you to let him know you’re protecting him. I don’t want to give him a reason to avoid you. He might not take the threats seriously, but I do.”

“Does he take anything seriously?”

The Batman shifted his cowled head slightly towards her. When he spoke, he almost sounded amused.

“You don’t like him,” he said.

“What was your first clue, Sherlock? You know, for a detective, you can be awfully slow on the uptake sometimes.”

“Hh.”

The Huntress couldn’t decide if he’d laughed, expressed disgust, or had simply belched. “Don’t worry,” she whispered, “I’ll keep Ritchie Rich safe and sound.”

“See that you do.”

His gloved hand suddenly emerged from beneath his cape, indicating to her to hold still and silent, as two vehicles approached the docked ship. A black limousine pulled up beside it first, followed by a black van. The limousine’s back door opened, and a short, rotund, almost ridiculous figure waddled out, followed by two tall, powerful-looking henchmen. The man wasn’t completely ridiculous, though, because the respect his criminal connections and intellect commanded in Gotham’s underworld prevented anyone—especially the Batman—from underestimating the man.

“Hnnhh. Penguin,” the Dark Knight muttered, recognizing his old foe, and watching two more of his hired thugs emerge from the van.

The Huntress wondered what the Penguin would want with such a deadly cargo. The bird-obsessed criminal tried to avoid using deadly force for his thefts and other schemes. Then she remembered that the Penguin often acted as a middleman for others, buying and selling contraband at a profit. He’d turn around and sell these armor-piercing bullets to someone else in Gotham City’s underworld, who’d put them to deadly use. It made him an accessory to murder in her eyes, and in Batman’s as well, she had no doubt. She’d enjoy taking the little twerp down.

Anticipating the Huntress’ enthusiasm, the Batman kept his hand raised, holding her back. “Wait until all the players are in place,” he cautioned her in a low whisper.

As if on cue, a tall, swarthy man walked down the gangway from the Russian freighter, followed by two more guards toting semi-automatic rifles.

“Dmitri, my old chum,” the Huntress could hear the Penguin effusively greet his counterpart. “How good to see you! How was the voyage? Rough this time of year, eh? I should imagine so, waugh, waugh! You have the, ah, merchandise?”

“Da,” his taciturn opposite said with a nod.

“Well, let’s see, lad, let’s see! Waugh, waugh!” the Penguin said with a flourish of his stubby arms, and barking his strange, quacking laugh.

The seller of the ammunition gestured at the crates Batman had examined earlier. He nodded at one of his men, who pulled a box off the flat, dropped it at the Penguin’s feet, and pried it open. He picked out a small box of bullets and held it open for the little man to examine.

“Ah…delightful little baubles…yes indeed!” the Penguin declared with a broad smile. He signalled for one of his men to approach with a briefcase—no doubt containing his cash payment for the merchandise.

The Batman’s body tensed. “Flash and bash,” he murmured.

The Huntress smiled. Robin—the latest one, Tim Drake—had come up with that name for this particular tactic. It amused her to hear him use it, even if it was an efficient and easy-to-remember title. She shut her eyes and covered them with her forearm.

The Batman tossed a small, circular object into the midst of the men below. It bounced twice with a quiet clunk before it came to rest about two yards from the Penguin. The men stared at it, naturally curious.

“Waugh!” the Penguin exclaimed in panic.

Then the world seemed to explode in a blast of light as the flash grenade detonated. The men shut their eyes against the brightness, but too late; the brilliant flash rendered them practically blind.

“NOW!” the Batman commanded, and the Huntress leapt from the roof without looking, having already planned her path. She landed on top of a large, metal container, then jumped again, bouncing off of the top of some wooden crates before leaping down onto two of the blinded men as they yelled in panic. She took out the first with a hard right jab to the jaw. The second received a face-full of violet boot and also went down.

Batman had followed suit, landing to the Huntress’ left. He drove his right elbow into one man’s belly, then hit him square in the face with the back of his right fist. Another thug, blinking hard, leveled a rifle at the sound of his colleague’s cries of pain. Batman deftly crouched beneath the line of fire as the man shot blind. He missed his fallen colleague and the crouching Dark Knight. The Batman’s powerful frame then exploded upwards, knocking the rifle barrel skyward with his right hand and driving his left palm into the gunman’s jaw.

The Huntress ducked and rolled, evading weapons aimed in the same blind, desperate fashion. She somersaulted into a handstand, striking two more gunmen in the face with her boots. She let her momentum carry her to her feet and directly behind the Russian smuggler. A rabbit punch to the kidneys, then a hard, open-handed chop to the side of his neck took him down.

The Batman grabbed another gunman’s weapon. He held it fast, pointed harmlessly upwards, as he took out a second thug with a swift kick to the jaw. He ducked below a desperate, blind punch from the crook whose weapon he held, then took him down by rotating the gun, driving the rifle butt into the man’s temple.

The Huntress had run out of foes, save for the dapper little man who stared about himself blindly, waving an umbrella, his breathing heavy from panic. She frowned angrily at the Penguin, and stepped towards him.

“Oswald Cobblepot,” she snarled, grabbing the lapels of his dark, pin-striped coat. “You wretched little vulture,” she said as she lifted the Penguin off the ground.

“Waugh! Unhand me, young lady! I have rights!” the Penguin shouted as he swung his umbrella upwards.

“I’m not a cop, you little creep, and...” the Huntress paused in mid-sentence. The tip of the Penguin’s umbrella now pointed directly at her temple.

Whizz-whizz-clang-POW!!

The bat-a-rang knocked the umbrella out of the Penguin’s grasp and away from the Huntress’ head just as it fired a small-caliber bullet. The Huntress looked at Batman in surprise, then turned back to glare angrily at the Penguin, who squirmed violently in her grasp.

“Why, you little scumwad,” she growled at her sharp-nosed captive through clenched teeth, “I’ll...”

“HUNTRESS. DROP HIM. NOW.”

She paused for a moment, just to display some measure of independence, before complying with the Batman’s harshly-delivered command. The Penguin dropped to the concrete with a soft thump.

“Waugh! Brutality, I tell you! I’ll not have it, I will not!”

“PENGUIN,” the Batman snarled, looming above the little man, “try any more little surprises like that, and you’ll have to get that umbrella surgically removed.” Visibly cowed, the Penguin trembled a little, still partially blinded, beneath the Batman’s threatening stance. “I’m disappointed in you, Oswald,” the Batman continued in what was—for him—a more civil tone. “Trading in jewels and artifacts is one thing. But munitions...especially these...that’s quite another.”

“Waugh...what can I say, sir...times are hard, money is tight...I have to diversify...”

The Huntress, still seething, heard sirens approaching. She decided to do something useful, and went about securing the thugs, binding their wrists, while Batman interrogated the Penguin. She could have left, but she knew she’d be catching an earful from the Batman about this latest incident. She wanted to get it over with, so she stayed. At least she knew he wouldn’t pin her ears back in front of the police. It wasn’t his style.

Several minutes later, Detective Renee Montoya and the uniformed cops who had accompanied her had the last of the smugglers, and the Penguin and his thugs, in custody. She turned to address the dark figure waiting, still as a statue, in the shadows by the warehouse.

“Good work tonight, Bats,” the detective said. Unlike her former partner, Harvey Bullock, Montoya belonged to a younger generation of Gothamites who felt like they’d grown up in the shadow of the Bat. She had fewer reservations about working with him than the older cops did.

“Hh,” the Batman grunted in agreement. “Don’t like the thought of those ending up on the street.”

“Me neither,” Montoya agreed. “Any leads on who Cobblepot was going to sell them to?”

“Not yet. He was reticent on that topic. But I’ll keep on it.”

Montoya nodded. “So will we.” She then glanced coldly at the smaller, slimmer shadow standing beside and behind the Batman. “You keeping that one in line?” she asked, loud enough for the Huntress to hear, which the detective had clearly intended.

“This was her collar too,” the Batman responded without looking in the Huntress’ direction.

Detective Montoya stared at the Batman for a few moments. “Okay,” she said, but cast one more hard look at the Huntress. Then she walked back to her car.

The Batman turned and faced the Huntress, his tall, dark form blending with the darkness of the alley, making her feel surrounded by his presence. She stood still, not looking at him, arms crossed, eyes cast downwards, shoulders tense. He stared at her silently for several minutes.

She glanced at him briefly. “Thanks,” she muttered, “for...sticking up for me with her. You didn’t have to, but it...meant a lot.”

No response. Not a sound, not a move. He didn’t even seem to be breathing. In the darkness, she couldn’t even see his only exposed features, his jawline and mouth. Just those opaque eyes, eerily glaring at her, unblinking.

She exhaled and shook her head. “All right, look, I screwed up, okay? I...lost my temper, and it nearly got me killed. And you saved my butt. Again. Thanks. Sorry.” She sighed. “It won’t happen again.”

She could just hear him exhale, almost like a sigh. “You keep saying that,” he said, his tone cold but cutting. He turned away from her, leaving her looking at his sharp profile.

“God, why are you so...you just...” she sputtered, her hands spread and shaking in front of her. “...you, you, you don’t let up, and, nothing I do is good enough, and...you don’t...Christ, you never get angry! You never lose it! You just don’t understand!”

He turned towards her so quickly, leaned towards her so suddenly, that she took a step backwards. “Oh, I understand,” he growled through clenched teeth, “I understand all too well. I know all about that beast that’s living in your gut, the one that makes you train harder than any athlete, the one that won’t let you rest, the one that pushes you out into the night. I know how it snarls and writhes, demanding to be set free, so it can punish the predators, make the streets run red with their blood.”

The Huntress swallowed, hard. She’d never seen him like this, had never seen him angry, not really. She actually felt her hands trembling.

“I know all about it,” he stated in a low murmur. He straightened away from her, placing a lid back on the boiling cauldron of rage he’d just revealed. She saw him take a deep breath. “But we’re not animals,” he declared in a cold, hard tone. “It’s what sets us apart from them. That beast...must be kept under control. On a leash. Your rage, your anger—it’s a weapon. Control it. Or the enemy will find a way to turn it against you. And it will destroy you.”

The Huntress stared at the Batman, her dark eyes wide. He’d never spoken to her like this before—hell, he’d never strung together this many words in her presence before. She didn’t know how to respond. His words, harshly spoken, had rung true, and the truth had burned away all her posturing and bravado. She felt…naked, exposed. He’d gazed into her heart, into her soul. And he’d seen...a reflection of his own, she suddenly realized.

“My God,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper, “...how do you do it?”

His cowled head tilted back slightly, as if he was looking at her for the first time. He stared at her for what seemed like hours. When he spoke, his voice sounded…gentler than it had before. For him, anyway.

“Every night...is a struggle,” he said quietly. “It takes discipline. Self-examination. Focus. Determination. You make it through one patrol. Then the cycle begins again.”

“You...make it sound like an addiction,” she said warily.

“Hh. Perhaps it is, in a way,” he murmured, his tone philosophical.

He stood still, staring at her, waiting. The Huntress took several deep breaths, struggling to say what she needed to. Her mouth opened, then closed, then opened again.

“Teach me,” she said finally. “Please. I don’t want to die out here. But I can’t give it up. Teach me.”

He stood silently for some time. “It won’t be easy. Far from it,” he warned her.

“I know. But I’m ready,” she said fervently.

Again, the Batman paused to study her. “Perhaps,” he said coldly. “I’ll consider your request. In the meantime, continue protecting Wayne. I’ll check in with you on Tuesday night.”

His tone had a dismissive quality to it. She turned to go.

“Huntress.”

She turned back to face him. He hadn’t moved. His tall, dark form dominated the alley.

“Don’t let me down again,” he ordered, then stepped back to be enveloped by the shadows.

After a few minutes, the Huntress climbed to the roof and leapt away into the night.

Watching her leave, the Batman murmured, “Helena...you have no idea how long I’ve waited for you to ask me that.”

The Huntress made her way to central Gotham, moving skillfully across the rooftops, but without her usual fervor. She swung to the roof of her apartment building, then surreptitiously entered her flat. Once inside, she stripped out of her costume and entered her bathroom. She turned the water on in her shower, stepped inside, and sat, arms wrapped around her knees, on its tiled floor. She stayed there for a very long time, letting the warm water wash over her body.

Tomorrow was Sunday. She slept until well past noon.

The next day, the Batman went over the details of the previous night’s raid. He analyzed the evidence and the statements gathered by himself and the police, but couldn’t determine who would have been lined up to buy the armor-piercing bullets.

He met Detective Montoya in a nearly-empty parkade just after sundown. She confirmed that the police were just as stymied. The Penguin asserted that he’d bought the ammunition purely for speculation, then refused to quack any more until his attorney arrived.

The Batman wasn’t convinced of the Penguin’s claim. The diminutive criminal had a mind as sharp as his peculiar nose, and that nose had a keen ability to sniff out profits from illegal ventures.

“The Penguin would never have purchased such risky contraband unless he’d had a buyer all lined up,” the Batman asserted.

“I agree, Bats, but we’re not getting any further with him. Maybe if we release him, you could have a friendly chat with the little jerk,” Montoya suggested.

“No. We go back too far. He knows my methods almost as well as I know his. He knows there are certain lines I don’t cross.”

Montoya fell silent for a moment, considering other possibilities. “Maybe your friend could be more convincing,” she suggested, glancing at the Dark Knight sideways.

The Batman, mildly surprised, didn’t respond immediately. Gordon had hand-picked Montoya, risen her from the ranks of beat cops, and had trained her in his methods: go by the book; bend the rules from time to time, when justified, but never break them. For her to overcome her aversion, shared by all but the most extreme of Gotham’s cops, to the Huntress and her affinity for violence, indicated a strong, more deeply-held aversion to the ammunition. They called the bullets ‘cop-killers’ on the street. That, the Batman supposed, made Montoya’s suggestion understandable. But not acceptable.

“No,” he responded. “I’ve been making efforts to put her on a straighter path, with some success. I won’t jeopardize that. I suggest we pursue other lines of inquiry.”

“Okay, Bats,” Montoya said with a nod, walking away. She’d worked with the Batman often enough to know he wasn’t long on good-byes.

Soon afterwards, the Batman had returned to the Batcave and placed a call to Oracle over a secured line.

“What do you need, Bruce?” Like Montoya, Barbara Gordon knew the Dark Knight well enough to cater to his preference to avoid small talk, even polite greetings, and get right to business. She pulled her red hair back into a pony-tail, adjusted her glasses, and got set to go to work.

The Batman pulled the dark cowl back from his face and over his head, letting it hang from the back of his neck, atop his black, scalloped cape. He ran gloved fingers through his black hair and glanced at Barbara Gordon’s image in the viewscreen.

“Information,” Bruce Wayne responded dryly to Barbara’s query, but in the Batman’s lower, colder timbre.

The Batman had never even told Barbara’s father his true identity (although if pressed, as Robin had done once, the Batman would have said that as a cop, it made life easier for Commissioner Gordon if he didn’t know). But he had revealed that Batman and Bruce Wayne were the same person to Barbara Gordon, his daughter, during her career as Batgirl, before the Joker had put a bullet in her spine and confined her to a wheelchair for life. There were, perhaps, only a half-dozen other people on the planet he’d entrusted with that knowledge.

Helena Bertinelli, obviously, wasn’t one of them.

Barbara half-smiled at Bruce’s answer, recognizing, as few could, his version of a joke. “Information. Hm. Could you be more vague?” she replied sarcastically.

“The raid on the docks last night. Penguin must have had a buyer lined up for that ammunition, but he’s not talking.”

“I thought you’d be curious about that. I don’t suppose the Penguin volunteered the information to the police?” she asked.

“Hnnhh. What do you think?” Bruce asked rhetorically, a frustrated half-smile on his thin lips.

Barbara, ensconced in her apartment high in Gotham’s clock tower, surrounded by her computers, glanced at the image on the viewscreen in front of her. This was her favorite image of Bruce/Batman. With the costume on, but the cowl pulled back, the two distinct personas seemed to merge. Even his voice and mannerisms, when he assumed this half-and-half appearance, combined elements of each man. He seems whole when he’s like this, Barbara reflected.

“I’ll put my people on it,” she said. “I’ve had a few of them keeping their ears to the ground on this already. I’m also doing a search of the Penguin’s known aliases and corresponding bank accounts; maybe the buyer made a down-payment, and we can trace it.”

“Hh,” Bruce responded with a curt nod, conveying his approval. “I’ll pursue some leads on my own, but quietly. Instruct your people to do the same. We have nothing on the buyer at this point. I’m hoping he’ll try to find another source, and we can catch him red-handed. I don’t want to scare him off.”

“Gotcha. Say, speaking of that raid…”

“Hmm?”

“Or more precisely, your assistant during it…” Barbara’s suddenly icy demeanor conveyed her opinion of the Huntress, one she shared with most of the cops in Gotham.

“What about her?” Bruce shot back with an edge to his voice.

Barbara recognized that sound. He’d resumed full “Bat-mode”, despite the absent cowl, and he’d used his I-know-what-I’m-doing-don’t-you-dare-question-my-judgment voice. But Barbara Gordon thought of herself and Bruce Wayne as part of a loose sort of family, which included Tim, Dick, Alfred, and the new Batgirl, Cassandra, with James Gordon as father figure to all of them. From early on in her career as Batgirl, she’d come to think of Bruce as a sort of stern, know-it-all big brother. She figured that gave her some leeway, and that assumption had proven correct in the past.

“One of my agents works at the opera, and happened to tell me the name of your date last night.”

She paused, waiting for a reaction. His silence proved as telling as anything he might have said.

“I know it’s probably none of my business, Bruce, but...”

“Correct. It isn’t.” He said sharply.

She sighed. She hated when he got like this, even if she’d been the one to bring it on. But she wasn’t about to stop now...

“Helena Bertinelli?” she snapped back at him. “At least tell me she doesn’t know you’re Batman!”

“She doesn’t. Not yet,” he said flatly.

Barbara’s green eyes widened behind her glasses. “Not yet?!? Bruce, what the hell are you doing?!? She’s a loose cannon, you know that...”

“With all due respect, Oracle, I know her a lot better than you do,” he growled into the viewscreen. “And I’ll thank you not to question my judgment—professional, personal, or otherwise. Especially when yours is clouded.”

“What the hell does that mean!?!”

Bruce paused a moment, hesitant to continue, but well aware Barbara wouldn’t let him off the hook. “She can do what you can’t, what you want to do most, Barbara...dance across the rooftops. Fight the enemy in person.”

Barbara stared, dumbfounded, at the viewscreen. She felt as if he’d slapped her. “How dare you...” she whispered.

After several moments passed, Bruce spoke again, his tone softer. “Barbara. I know her methods have been extreme, too extreme, in the past. But she’s bringing that under control, and I’m helping her do it. She could be a valuable ally. She has been...at times. And if I don’t try to reach out to her...”

“I know,” Barbara said softly. “It just isn’t fair...” She paused. Bruce waited patiently on the other end of the line. “That lunatic...he crippled me, he killed my step-mother, and the Huntress...”

And the Huntress survived the Joker’s attack on her; she walked away…eventually, Bruce finished for her, silently. “Have you considered,” he said softly, “how much courage it must have taken for her to return to the streets after that?”

Barbara was quiet for a long time. Bruce waited patiently.

“I still don’t like her,” she finally said.

“I’m not asking you to. I’m asking you to trust me, Barbara.”

She sighed. “Haven’t I always?”

Bruce’s lips curled slightly at the edges. “I appreciate your trust, Barbara...and your concern.”

Barbara nodded, but felt it necessary to add one more thing. “Dick won’t like this at all, you know.”

“I’ll worry about that,” Bruce responded, his tone hardening.

Barbara took a deep breath. “I’ll contact you as soon as I have anything,” she said flatly.

“Good night, Oracle,” he said as he closed the link.

Bruce Wayne crossed his arms and glanced about the gloomy cavern. Aside from a few soft screeches the resident bats made, the cave was quiet. He kept expecting Alfred to appear at any moment to present a hot meal and a cutting remark, which Bruce would pretend to ignore. But Alfred had gone, leaving Wayne’s employ around the same time Jim Gordon had retired. Tim Drake was busy with school, and things had been…a little tense with his teenaged partner lately. As for Nightwing…Bruce let out an exasperated sigh. Then he smiled derisively. The only time this cave doesn’t seem too quiet is when Dick comes by for a visit, he thought. Then the Dark Knight admonished himself for wasting time wool-gathering, replaced his cowl, and went back to work.

Helena had returned home after Monday’s classes to a phone message on her answering machine. Bruce Wayne’s assistant—one of them, anyway—had called to inform her that Mr. Wayne would meet her at the restaurant, but he would send a limousine to pick her up at her apartment. A few minutes later, her phone rang. A UPS delivery man arrived at her apartment a few minutes later with a large bouquet of flowers—red roses, white carnations, complimented by baby’s breath and greens, artfully arranged, with a note attached: Looking forward to Tuesday night – Bruce.

Okay, Helena thought, he’s a sexist, arrogant, womanizing slug. But he’s a sexist, arrogant, womanizing slug who sends flowers.

Tuesday night, at six-thirty on the dot, a black limo pulled up to Helena’s apartment building. She recognized the driver from the night at the opera. She sat in the back as the limo headed downtown. She wore a dark red evening dress, half-length, with a matching short jacket, the top cut just low enough to reveal a hint of décolletage below the gold cross at her throat. She wondered how effective the Batman thought she’d be in a battle wearing a dress and high heels, but she knew she could manage. She wondered for a moment if she’d over-dressed, then relaxed, deciding that when Bruce Wayne ate Italian, he didn’t mean Pizza Hut.

She was right about that. The “nice Italian place” turned out to be Michelino’s, only one of the most exclusive restaurants in Gotham City. Reservations usually had to be made a month in advance. But for Bruce Wayne, Helena was sure, an exception could be made. Unless, of course, he’d already made the reservation a month ago, and she just happened to be the flavor-of-the-week he expected to fill the opposite chair. Either scenario would not have surprised her.

Helena entered the restaurant’s main dining room, decorated with friezes on high, terra-cotta walls, behind the maitre’d and surreptitiously examined the other patrons, eyeing potential threats, finding no obvious ones. The restaurant was crowded, even for a Tuesday night, and filled with what appeared to be Gotham’s elite. She knew she couldn’t rule out the restaurant’s staff, either, and took the time she had, sitting on her own before Wayne arrived, to study them, as well as mentally mapping out potential escape routes. Yeah, I’m one fun date, she thought, still doubtful that this was anything more than a wild goose chase. Still, she trusted the Batman’s instincts. Even if he didn’t trust hers.

Wayne arrived, stylishly attired in a charcoal-grey pinstripe suit, pale grey shirt, and yellow paisley tie. He greeted her warmly, flashing that perfect smile she distrusted, and briefly clasping her hand in his. Helena’s mind registered the many eyes that turned their way; she watched for any glance that appeared particularly envious or spiteful, but saw none—unless she counted the jealous darts several pairs of female eyes directed at her.

She and Wayne talked through dinner, pleasantly if superficially…about his business dealings, in which she did her best to feign interest; about Italy—had she been there? Once. He’d travelled there several times, of course, usually on business, sometimes on—other matters, he said vaguely with a rakish smile.

Yes, brag about your other dalliances, that’ll impress me, Helena thought, then chastised herself, remembering her faux pas on Saturday night in the limo. She had to keep Wayne on a string until the threat had been dealt with. She scanned the restaurant once again, for the umpteenth time that night, while Wayne prattled on about skiing conditions in the Italian alps and bemoaned the country’s lack of good golf courses.

Shortly after the main course, Wayne commented, “If you don’t mind my saying so, Helena, you seem distracted this evening.”

“Hmmm?” she responded, confirming his observation. She smiled abashedly. “Sorry, it’s just…it’s the first time I’ve been here, and I usually can’t afford to eat in places like this,” she said, silently congratulating herself on a skillful recovery.

Wayne nodded, a slight smile coming to his lips. “I see. Still, it’s not as if dining in an establishment like this is completely out of the realm of your experience, is it?”

“I beg your pardon?” Helena said, a chill creeping into her voice, and up her spine as well.

“Your family. The Bertinellis.”

Helena looked at him sideways. “But at the ceremony, you didn’t know…”

Wayne shrugged slightly. “I didn’t want to embarrass you. My family’s lived in Gotham a long time, Helena. I know everyone in Gotham society, including those with…Old World connections, shall we say?” he finished with a slight smile at his clever euphemism.

Helena blushed slightly, and silently cursed herself for it, but she always reacted that way when confronted about her family.

“I’m not part of that world, not anymore,” she asserted.

Again, Wayne nodded sagely. “Somehow, I don’t think you’d be teaching quadratic equations to inner-city kids if you were,” he said, then smiled gently.

Helena exhaled and relaxed a little. “I never know how someone’s going to react, when they make the connection,” she said quietly.

“To tell the truth, it’s what interested me in you—in a way.”

Helena regarded Wayne quizzically. “How so?”

“We grew up in similar environments, you and I. Lives of privilege. I thought it gave us…something in common,” he answered, with a shrewd look in his eye. “That, and our mutual interest in improving Gotham City, each in our own way.”

Helena looked at Bruce Wayne as if for the first time. Here she’d been dismissing him as a lightweight, and now he seemed…almost insightful. Was this the real man, she wondered, hidden behind that phony smile he wore like a mask? Why hide himself like that? What would have happened that would make him conceal himself… Then she remembered.

“There’s another thing we have in common,” she said, caution and curiosity mixing in her voice.

“What’s that?” Wayne asked brightly, with a slight smile.

“Our parents,” Helena answered, and saw any sign of amusement disappear from Wayne’s face. But she couldn’t resist pressing on. “Mine were murdered, right in front of me, just like…”

Wayne’s smile had vanished, replaced by that hardening of his features she’d noticed previously. “The death of my parents isn’t a topic for discussion,” he said in a harsh, cold voice. “And I wouldn’t go comparing your parents with mine, if I were you.”

The sudden change in his demeanor made Helena feel as though she’d been slapped. But her anger at him evaporated as she remembered her main reason for being there. Then she got angry with herself. Damn. Damn, damn, damn. Typical, Bertinelli; this is just what the Batman was talking about…you always push things too far…

“Would you care for dessert? Coffee?” Wayne asked abruptly.

“No, I… Bruce, I’m sorry…”

“Fine,” Wayne said with a nod, and signalled for the waiter to bring the check.

They left the restaurant quickly after that. Riding silently in the limousine with him a few minutes later, Helena desperately tried to come up with a way to smooth over yet another faux pas and ensure that she could stay close to Wayne, as the Batman had ordered. As he’d demanded. As he’d warned her…

Don’t let me down again.

She considered her options. She could say nothing and hope for the best. She could try to engage Wayne in light banter, pretend the misunderstanding had never happened. Or she could be direct and honest—well, mostly—with him. As soon as it occurred to her, she knew she’d take the third approach. It suited her. She took a deep breath and plunged in.

“Bruce. I’m sorry,” she said, her voice even. “I shouldn’t have pried like that. I’ve been known to…push things too far, too fast, sometimes.”

She waited. A few minutes went by. He looked at her, his blue eyes intense, studying her. Then the corners of his mouth turned up slightly and she felt the tension ease.

“Well,” he said, “then that’s something else we have in common.”

She laughed softly, mostly out of relief, and he did the same. They sat quietly for several moments. Then he glanced at her thoughtfully.

“It’s hard for me…for a man in my position…to trust anyone, Helena,” he said, his voice even but quiet. “It’s hard to let someone in. It takes time. That trust…it has to be earned.”

Helena nodded. That she understood, all too well. Yet another thing we have in common, she thought. At six, Helena had been kidnapped. Her parents had ransomed her back. She didn’t remember much about the incident…she didn’t want to. But it had changed her. She’d been a happy, outgoing child before then. Afterwards, she withdrew, became quiet, introverted…distrustful of the world around her, and of the people in it. She hadn’t really changed much since.

Wayne’s dark eyebrows knit together into a slight frown. “Are you a patient person, Helena?”

Her full lips formed an embarrassed half-smile as her dark eyes glanced out of the limousine’s smoked glass windows. “Not usually,” she said.

Wayne’s blue eyes locked onto hers when she looked at him again. “Could you be patient with me?”

Helena took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “I’ll try,” she answered.

“Thank you,” Wayne said with a slight smile.

They rode in silence for awhile.

“I’m going to ask you a strange question,” Wayne finally said to her.

“Go ahead,” Helena said with a slight smile.

“Are you…comfortable on ice skates?”

She narrowed her dark brown eyes and gazed at him through her lashes. “Why?” she asked slyly.

“Fair’s fair,” Wayne said, holding up his index finger and smiling slightly. “Answer my question first.”

“I…may have taken a few figure skating lessons when I was a little girl. Why?” she repeated, more firmly, but with a slight grin.

“Well, the Gotham Winter Carnival begins on Friday night, with…”

“…with a concert and ice skating at the Civic Square,” she finished.

Wayne opened his hands, palms upward. “What do you say? There’s a hot dog stand. I could buy you dinner too.”

Helena couldn’t help laughing. This sounded more like her kind of date—not that she went out on many. And for the invitation to come from the pampered society playboy… well, it was unexpected, to say the least.

And also very public. Exposed. She couldn’t take the chance that he’d go with someone else and left unprotected. She nodded and tried to look pleased.

As she rode the elevator back to her apartment a little later, she couldn’t help feeling a little ashamed of herself. She still didn’t care for Bruce Wayne very much. And yet, she’d glimpsed behind that mask he wore, just a little. She’d made a connection, however tenuous. He’d spoken of trust, but she was deceiving him. She was only going out with him to protect him from physical danger; but he needed protection from her as well, from an altogether different type of danger she posed.

“I supposed it’s worth it,” she murmured, uncertainly, as she closed the door of her apartment. At least she knew of one sure way to put all of this out of her mind for a while. She started to pull off her clothing and headed towards her bedroom, with its closet and the secret compartment.

As she pulled on her Huntress costume, she remembered that Batman had told her he’d check in with her tonight. Suddenly she paused.

How did he know I’d be seeing Wayne tonight? she wondered. She didn’t remember telling him when she’d be seeing Wayne for dinner. Then she shrugged and continued to get dressed. He always seems to know everything, she thought. I must have mentioned it to him.

Just as she was about to leave, she noticed her answering machine light blinking. She pressed the play button and heard a deep baritone mutter, “Corner of Finlay and Seventh. Eleven o’clock.”

She checked the clock in her kitchen. She had fifteen minutes to cover as many city blocks. She smiled. “No problem, big guy.”

Finlay Street and Seventh Avenue intersected at the older, seedier, mostly abandoned end of Gotham’s North side. The Huntress perched atop a streetlight, her dark violet cape swaying slightly in a cold winter breeze, her breath steaming as it left her nostrils, watching the low, nearby rooftops for the dark shape of the Batman.

Her attention was drawn back to the street below her by the smooth, powerful hum of a souped-up automobile engine. A sleek black sports car with dark tinted glass smoothly turned around a corner a block away, then pulled up underneath the streetlight the Huntress had chosen to wait upon. The passenger side door opened.

“Right on time...” the Huntress murmured. She slid down the lamp post and hopped into what the original Robin had named the Batmobile; Batman just called it “the car”. She glanced briefly at the Batman’s stern, hard profile and fastened her seatbelt.

“Glad you brought the car,” she commented, rubbing her gloved hands as the Batman put the vehicle back into gear. “It’s cold out there tonight.”

“Hnnhh,” the Batman intoned in response.

Well, I’m certainly not hanging out with him for the scintillating conversation, the Huntress thought. Suddenly, spending an evening with Bruce Wayne didn’t seem like such a bad alternative.

“Report,” the Batman’s deep baritone ordered.

“There’s nothing to report,” the Huntress answered. “Dinner was uneventful. No threats, unless you count slightly overcooked linguine. Are you sure this isn’t a wild goose chase?”

“Positive.”

“Of course you are. I just…” she stopped, and let out an irritated sigh.

“What?” the Batman prompted her.

“I’m just not entirely comfortable with it. The deception. It bothers me,” she said, surprising herself a little. She liked to think of herself as ruthless, hard-as-nails. And as the Huntress, she usually was. Helena Bertinelli, however, was another matter—a different person, in many ways.

“I thought you didn’t like him,” the Batman responded, his tone emotionless.

“I don’t. But he’s…let’s just say I got to know him a little better. And I don’t like the idea of hurting him.”

“You’re there to ensure he doesn’t get hurt,” the Dark Knight reminded her.

“That’s what I mean. I think he might be…developing feelings for me,” she said, with more discomfort than distaste. Which surprised her.

“Hurt feelings are the least of our worries right now. When’s your next encounter?” the Batman asked as he turned the car around a corner.

“Friday night. The Winter Carnival’s opening bash,” she answered.

“I’ll be there. You won’t see me, though.”

“Does anybody see you if you don’t want to be seen?” she asked, and got no response, not that she expected one. Taking a tactic from his book, the Huntress went on as if she hadn’t said anything. “Good. That’s reassuring, since I’ll be wearing ice skates.”

“Hh. Hardly practical for battle.”

“You’d be surprised,” the Huntress responded with a slight grin. The Batman’s head turned slightly; she read the disapproval in his nearly-expressionless features. “I’ll manage,” she continued more seriously, watching the road as the car skirted the edge of Robinson Park.

“See that you do.”

“Are we going somewhere, or just patrolling?” she asked, eager to leave the topic of Wayne, and her secret identity, behind.

“I think I’ve discovered who was going to buy those armor-piercing bullets from our diminutive friend.”

“I can’t say I’m surprised,” the Huntress said, a hint of admiration in her voice. She didn’t consider herself a detective—nowhere near. But she did respect the Batman’s skills in that area.

“Oracle found a suspicious transfer of funds recently made to one of Cobblepot’s bank accounts, from another account she tracked to the Ventriloquist. One of my sources confirmed the purchase.”

“And we’re headed for his HQ?” the Huntress asked.

“No. The bank transfer is nowhere near sufficient evidence. But Oracle’s sources have discovered another potential seller of that type of ammunition, and heard rumors of a large buy happening tonight in the offices of McCarthy Exports, one of the Ventriloquist’s front operations.”

“Sounds like the Ventriloquist has decided to bypass the middle-man,” the Huntress commented. “So we charge in and catch them all red-handed?”

“Something like that.”

“What sort of opposition are you expecting?” the Huntress asked, checking the preparedness of her mini-crossbow.

“Probably the same as Saturday night,” the Dark Knight answered as he drove into Gotham’s financial district, “about a half-dozen or less per side.”

The Huntress paused for a moment, puzzled. A dozen thugs, Batman could easily handle on his own, and usually preferred it that way. “So…why ask me along?” she asked, turning to look at the Batman.

He seemed to think for a moment before responding, then shrugged his powerful shoulders slightly. “Professional courtesy. You were in on the start. I thought you’d want to be in on the finish.”

The Huntress did her best to hide her surprise. Several words came to mind when she ventured to describe the Dark Knight—most of them not repeatable in polite company—but “courteous” was decidedly absent from that list. His answer made her instantly suspicious. Another test, she decided, that’s what it has to be. She determined to execute the mission tonight—and his instructions—flawlessly. I’ll show him, Helena quietly resolved to herself.

They parked the car a few blocks from their destination, leaving it in one of several nearly-abandoned parkades the Batman used for this purpose. The Batman and the Huntress made their way across the rooftops to the Anderson Block, a new, gleaming glass office tower, where McCarthy Exports had its offices on the twentieth floor. The two crime-fighters attached lines around the air ducts on the roof, then lowered themselves down eighteen stories to the phony company’s windows.

“When...?” the Huntress asked quietly on the way down.

“Five minutes,” the Dark Knight responded.

And he does that without even glancing at a wristwatch, the Huntress said to herself.

The offices looked dark and quiet when they halted their descent outside them. The Huntress could discern no movement behind the semi-reflective glass. She glanced at the Batman, who glared stoically into the building, watching sharply for any movement within.

A cold, hard gust of wind caught her cape, making it snap about her body; she shivered slightly in the frigid winter air and tightened her grip on the line. She felt vulnerable, waiting like this, suspended one hundred feet above the pavement below. We’re sitting ducks out here. Good thing Batman knows it’s not a trap, she thought, reassuring herself. It can’t be a trap, she told herself, glancing at him again; she felt that she couldn’t insult him by asking, but the hairs had begun to stand up on the back of her neck, and not from the cold. Suddenly nervous, fighting down a rising panic, she glanced about her. Nothing...wait! There, across the street—her eyes fought to make out a shape in the darkness—a man...binoculars?

The Huntress bent her knees, then pushed herself away from the building. The Batman’s peripheral vision caught her sudden movement. He looked at her and saw her dark form swinging towards him. He instinctively raised an arm from his grip on his line to defend himself. She avoided it and chopped harshly at the hand still gripping his rope. He let go, then she released her own rope. He grabbed at her as they both began to fall, latching on to a handful of her hair and cape, and she caught a glimpse of his angry grimace.

Then the world around them exploded.

The windows on the floor they’d been watching blew out with a loud, fiery blast that briefly illuminated the night. The concussion knocked the Huntress’ body into the Batman’s. Shards of glass glittered around their tumbling bodies, like snowflakes. He threw an arm around her waist and released his grip on her cape. He reached to his belt with his free hand and grabbed a grappling gun. He aimed towards the glass tower as they plummeted towards the street.

They fell past the fifteenth floor.

The Huntress heard the sharp retort of the gun as it went off near her right ear. She wrapped her arms around the Batman’s chest, anticipating—praying for—the break in their descent. Looking down, she could see the street rising up to meet them, faster with every second. She closed her eyes.

Ninth floor.

The Batman watched the line extend. It waved slightly in its flight. Then he saw it go taut as the grappling hook caught on—well, something—inside the tower. He pressed a lever on the gun to tighten the grip on the line. He gave it enough play to slow their descent rather than halting it. Otherwise the Huntress might lose her grip, or he could lose his.

Fourth floor.

The Batman grimaced as he felt the tension in the line spread through his hand, his arm, then down his back and shoulders.

Third floor.

He tightened the gun’s lever. He felt the Huntress squeezing him tighter. Her arms were strong; she made it hard for him to breathe.

Mezzanine.

They stopped, finally, about two yards above the pavement.

“Hun...tress,” the Batman said, his voice tight, “let...go...”

The Huntress opened her eyes. She saw their proximity to the ground and released the crime-fighter, falling deftly to the pavement below.

“Mary Mother of God,” she murmured, her tone both angry and grateful.

The Batman gratefully took a full breath and dropped to the sidewalk beside her. He quickly glanced around at the surrounding street and buildings, then steered the Huntress into the nearest alley, following close behind her.

“Hh. A trap,” he commented, his tone flat.

“NO SHIT, SHERLOCK!” the Huntress shouted at him, the adrenaline rushing through her system.

The Batman turned and glared at her. “Keep your voice down. If someone’s coming to finish the job, you just gave away our position.”

She turned to say something to him, realized he was right—as usual—and turned away again. The Batman urged her further down the alleyway, into the darkness. He paused, glanced up at the shattered windows in the tower where he’d once again narrowly avoided death, and then looked at the silent woman who glared at him from his side.

The Huntress shook her head in amazement. “I can’t believe you didn’t consider the possibility that this was a trap,” she snarled at him, but quietly.

The Batman’s voice and face remained impassive. “Of course I considered the possibility. It seemed unlikely, given the usual reliability of Oracle’s sources.”

“Unlikely, but not impossible,” the Huntress responded sharply.

“Hnnhh,” the Batman grunted in agreement. He gingerly rubbed his right wrist, where she’d struck it to make him release his grip on his line. He glanced at the surrounding buildings, then at the Huntress once again. “How did you...”

“I...it was just a feeling,” she said, then sensed his silent skepticism. “Then I spotted something. Someone. A person, with binoculars, I think, looking at us from that building...” she added, pointing out of the alley toward its entrance at an older office tower across the street.

“Probably gone by now,” the Batman said, a subtle tone of anger in his deep baritone. “But we’ll go have a look anyway.”

“Right,” the Huntress acknowledged, her arms crossed, glowering at him. “Guess we’ll have to figure out a motive...I mean, who would want to kill you?”

The Batman turned away, ignoring her sarcasm. Then he paused, uncharacteristically hesitant. The Huntress had started to follow him, then looked at his broad, caped back, puzzled.

He turned his head slightly towards her. “You’re...developing good instincts,” he said quietly, then continued down the alley.

It took the Huntress a moment to recover and follow him. Was that a thank you? she wondered. Is he feeling all right?

The Batman’s analysis of the opposite roof, where the Huntress had seen someone watching them, yielded little information, but he could at least confirm, from the footprints in the snow, that someone had been there recently. He turned his search to the ruined business office once the firefighters had gone. The Batman spoke briefly to the police detective in charge of the scene, then began searching the debris. The police did the same, but mostly kept their distance, letting the dark night detective do his work. Every now and then he’d stop and carefully place something in a small plastic bag.

“Hunh. When I find the Ventriloquist...” the Batman growled, crouched over a flattened door.

“...you’ll make him talk out of the other side of his mouth?” the Huntress offered.

The Batman glared at her, then continued his careful sifting of the debris. “If I’d wanted smart-aleck remarks, I would’ve brought Robin,” he muttered.

A joke? the Huntress marvelled. That was a joke. I don’t believe it. He never jokes about anything..., she mused, shaking her head and idly kicking at a fragment of an office chair.

“Don’t touch anything,” the Batman sharply remonstrated her.

The Huntress raised her hands, widened her eyes, and slowly backed away from the toppled chair. “So-o-o-r-e-e-e,” she murmured as the Batman continued his detective work. What the hell does he hope to find anyway...

Something on the ground, a couple of yards away, caught her attention.

“Uh, Batman...is this what I think it is?” she asked, crouching down next to the object she’d spotted.

The Batman approached her and glanced at the item she indicated. The Huntress had spotted a fragment of a circuit board.

“I guess it just could be a piece of a computer...,” she said doubtfully.

“It could,” the Dark Knight replied as he crouched beside her. He glanced at the piece of broken, charred plastic and tiny electronic components, then carefully lifted it with a pair of tweezers. “...but it isn’t. The combination of resistors is inconsistent with computer circuitry.”

She turned her head and looked at him dubiously. “And...you know that because...”

“I make it my business to know these things,” he responded without looking at her. “Besides, there’s no other computer debris here,” he continued, dropping the fragment into a plastic bag. “Hard drives don’t easily explode or burn, but there are none here. And why bother buying computers for a phony company?”

“So, you think that could be part of the bomb mechanism?” the Huntress asked as they both stood up.

“Possibly. I’ll have to analyze it further.” The Batman turned to speak to the detective about the potential evidence they’d discovered.

The Huntress nodded. “Right. Guess you won’t be needing me, then...”

The Batman stopped and turned towards her. “Actually...I’ve been thinking of taking you up on your request,” he said quietly, so the police around them couldn’t overhear.

“My request...?” the Huntress looked puzzled for a moment. “Oh. To teach me?”

“Yes,” the Batman answered. “First lesson: what have I been telling you since we first met?”

“Um...to get out of town?” the Huntress speculated.

“Hrrm,” he grunted, annoyed. “...and I thought working with teenagers was difficult...”

“Sorry,” she said tersely. “I give up.”

“That you need to use your head more.”

“Oh, that,” she said, somewhat abashed.

“Yes, that,” he responded icily. “You are a scientist, aren’t you?”

“I teach science, as you well know,” she responded sharply, still resenting his knowledge of her identity. “There’s a difference.”

“Not much, not in my book. The scientific method’s the same for both, as is the logic of observation and deduction. You up for a late night spent peering into a microscope?”

She looked at him sideways, dubious. “Gee, sounds like a fun date.”

He turned and glared at her. The wind was no longer blowing, but the Huntress felt an icy chill anyway.

“Okay, sure,” she murmured apologetically. “Where?”

“Where do you think?” he replied.

The Huntress’ eyes widened. “You...want me to come with you...to the Batcave?” she asked quietly, disbelief in her voice. Robin had referred to it, when she’d worked with him. Nightwing had described it to her, when she’d...when they’d...spent some time together. But she’d never been there herself.

“I prefer to just call it ‘the cave’,” he corrected her.

The Huntress felt her heartrate accelerating a little. It wasn’t just the childish excitement she felt about finally seeing the Batman’s legendary crime lab. His invitation signified that what she’d hoped for, what she’d worked for, what she’d craved for the last few years...was finally happening. He accepted her, respected her, wanted her in, as part of his “family” of crime-fighters. She knew he’d mainly invited her into the JLA so she could work with a group of crime-fighters and heroes who operated well within the boundaries of the law, boundaries she often pushed and came close to crossing. But this…this was different. She fought to contain her feelings; the Batman wasn’t one for emotional displays, after all.

“Well, yeah, okay. That sounds good,” she said quietly, nodding, trying to sound nonchalant.

Dear God, she thought, he might actually pull that cowl back and finally tell me...

“Once we get to the car, I’ll have to blindfold you, of course,” he told her quietly. Then he walked away to talk with the police detective.

The Huntress sighed. One step at a time, girl.

Ensconced in the Batcave, the Huntress felt like she was back in college, studying chemistry, with an extremely demanding professor. The Batman had given her little time to appreciate the gothic grandeur of the immense cavern. Instead, he’d put her to work preparing slides of blast samples for the microscope. He insisted that she analyze every one. Each time, her hesitant deductions elicited a far less than satisfied grunt, followed by his own more thorough and cogent analysis.

“Look,” she said impatiently after listening to his list of no less than fifteen significant clues she’d missed on the circuit board she’d felt so proud about finding, “why don’t you get your kicks with the microscope, Mister Science, and I’ll stick to what I do best.”

“Which is...?” he responded in a scornful tone.

“Busting heads,” she responded sharply.

“Hh.”

She turned from the microscope and glared at him. “And I’m getting sick of those grunts of yours! You know you do that at least once every two minutes? What are you, Batman or Batape?”

He stared at her silently for a moment, then the corners of his lips curled upwards a little. “Heh.”

She nearly fell off her chair.

“Huntress. I don’t expect you to provide a complete and coherent analysis of these samples. I simply wanted to establish the extent of your current knowledge on the subject.”

She gave an exasperated sigh. “Well why didn’t you say so?”

He didn’t respond.

The Huntress looked at him hesitantly. “So...what is the extent of my knowledge?”

He paused, appearing thoughtful for a moment. “Adequate for teaching high school science.”

She rolled her eyes up towards the cavern’s stalactites. “Well, thanks so much for that vote of confidence.”

“...but your understanding of the logical method is strong. We can build on that.”

Taken aback by the compliment, the Huntress could only say “Oh. Well, good.”

“Class dismissed. I have enough information to turn this over to Oracle now,” the Batman told her, activating his link to the information broker. “Oracle, this is Batman,” he announced.

“It’s a good thing I keep late hours,” Oracle responded grumpily. Her pale green avatar, in the form of an ancient Greek drama mask, appeared on the cave’s computer viewscreen.

“I have something I’d like you to track down. Purchases and orders of the following chemicals and equipment...”

As the Batman listed off the items he’d discovered at the blast site, the Huntress remained quiet and still, out of the range of the viewscreen. Her most recent dealings with Oracle had been as icy as the current outdoor temperature, and that was a charitable description.

“Sounds like a shopping list for a bomb maker,” Oracle said in response to the Batman’s list.

“Exactly,” the Dark Knight replied.

“In fact, it sounds like a very familiar bomb maker,” Oracle went on.

“That’s what concerns me. Let me know when you have something.”

“Right. Oracle out.”

A few minutes of silence passed. “You were quiet,” the Batman remarked.

The Huntress shrugged. “I had nothing to contribute to the conversation,” she said flatly. She turned and saw the Batman watching her, but she added nothing.

“Hnnh. Isn’t this a school night?” he said, walking back to the car. She took his hint and followed.

As they drove back into Gotham, after she had removed her blindfold, she asked him, “Which bomb maker?”

“Hmm? Oh. His name’s Abner.”

She frowned slightly. “Not a very colorful name for someone in your rogue’s gallery.”

“Not every criminal has a strange name and a gaudy costume, you know.”

She cocked an eyebrow and glanced at him. “Only the ones you go up against.”

They continued into the city in silence for a few minutes.

“Oracle doesn’t like me,” the Huntress eventually remarked.

“Why do I get the feeling I’m still working with a teenaged partner?” the Batman asked, the barest trace of sarcasm in his voice.

“No, I mean, she doesn’t approve of me. Doesn’t think I belong...fighting crime, in Gotham or anywhere.”

“And...?”

“Well, gee, where do you think she got an idea like that from?” the Huntress asked sharply. “Maybe her bat-eared boss?”

“I’m not Oracle’s ‘boss’,” the Batman said coldly as he changed lanes.

“Whatever. I think she’s still pissed that I tried to be Batgirl for awhile, during NML.”

“I wasn’t happy with that either, as I recall,” the Batman commented.

“True. But she used to be Batgirl,” the Huntress replied, then watched carefully for the Batman’s reaction.

“Hh. What makes you think...” he started to say, his tone noncommittal as he took an off-ramp from the viaduct.

“Oh come on. You being offended with me being Batgirl, I understand. But her? Only if she had some personal connection. And why play second-hand superhero via computer, unless something prevents you from doing so? Like being crippled, say, the way Barbara Gordon was by a certain white-skinned maniac, right about the same time the original Batgirl...”

SCREEECHHH!!!

The car came to a sudden halt as the Batman hit the brakes and turned to glare at the Huntress, who returned his angry stare.

“Thanks for just confirming that,” she said sharply. “Maybe I don’t suck as a detective after all.”

“I’m warning you, Huntress,” the Batman growled, “if you do anything to endanger Oracle...”

The Huntress’ eyes widened, and her mouth hung agape in shock. “Jesus! You really don’t trust me, do you? I catch crooks every night, I’m a standby member of the JLA, I’ve worked with you, Nightwing, Robin...all the members of your little family, including Oracle. But I’m still the black sheep, the one you keep out of the club. Well, screw you, caped crusader!”

She opened the car door to get out, but he reached in front of her and pulled the door closed again.

“LET. ME. OUT,” she demanded through clenched teeth, gripping the door handle tightly.

“No. If you leave now, I’d have to bring you down. We both know it.”

She stared at him, wide-eyed. She’d always suspected he might try to have her arrested, but he’d never threatened her with it. Not until now.

“You walk a very fine line, Helena,” he said, in a tone that was gentle...for him. “I want to help you make sure you stay on the right side of that line. Your anger...”

“Yeah, I know,” she answered sullenly, then sighed. “My anger will destroy me. We had this conversation already.”

“Several times, in fact,” the Dark Knight said.

They sat quietly in the car for a few moments as it idled. Then he put the vehicle back into gear and continued into central Gotham.

“I never meant to imply that you would intentionally put Oracle in danger,” he said quietly after a few minutes had passed. “But knowing her identity...you could inadvertently place her at risk. You have to be careful with that knowledge.”

She looked at him quizzically. “Was that an apology?”

“Call it what you will. It’s an explanation. And a warning.”

“Are you careful with my secret?” she asked pointedly.

“Yes. The JLA membership doesn’t even know your identity,” he asserted. “But some of them know mine.”

But I don’t, the Huntress thought.

The Batman pulled the car into a back alley and stopped. They were five blocks from Helena Bertinelli’s apartment, and she understood—and preferred—to get there on her own from here. But she sat in the car, deep in thought, for a few minutes. The Batman waited patiently.

“Do you trust me?” she finally asked.

The Batman rubbed his right wrist, where she’d struck him earlier that night and had saved his life by doing so. A thin smile came to his lips.

“I’m learning to,” he answered.

The Huntress shook her head as she opened the car door. “I just don’t get you,” she said.

“Good,” the Batman answered tersely. She looked at him for a moment, but he didn’t return her scrutiny. She shut the door, and he drove off into the night.

Gotham City Gazette, Wednesday, February 25th

“Gotham Gossip” by Natalie McNeil

Heads turned at posh Michelino’s Ristorante in downtown last night when Gotham’s favorite son, Bruce Wayne, showed up. Members of Gotham’s glittergensia at nearby tables puzzled over the identity of his companion. Actress? Model? Heiress? None of the above, GG later found out.

Wheeler-dealer Wayne’s latest lovely is a local girl—hurrah!—and schoolteacher, yes, you read that right, schoolteacher, at Gotham Central High. Elegant brunette Helena Bertinelli has accompanied Wayne on the town twice now; this faithful reporter has determined that she also accompanied the much sought-after billionaire to Saturday’s divine Don Giovanni at the Gotham Opera House.

Long-time readers will know that a woman having two dates with Bruce Wayne occurs as often as blue moons and sightings of the Loch Ness monster. The couple certainly left in a rush, as though they couldn’t wait to be alone somewhere. We’re keeping our fingers crossed for the Italian-American beauty…but not too tightly...

“Ugh. Thank God my students don’t read newspapers,” Helena muttered the next morning as she read the column with her morning coffee…and growing trepidation. She looked up. “I can’t believe I just said that…”

Nonetheless, she felt grateful that the column had at least made no mention of her family’s involvement in organized crime. Though she knew that if this dragged out much longer, such information would eventually become fodder for the media.

Helena tossed the newspaper aside. Clad in her dark-red terrycloth bathrobe, she slid down further in her favorite chair and relaxed for a few moments before she started preparing for her day at the school.

She was tired. She’d been up quite late the night before, analyzing evidence with the Batman. But it wasn’t just that. Protecting Bruce Wayne was wearing on her. Helena didn’t like the lies she had to tell, and constantly keeping her guard up was exhausting. She didn’t particularly enjoy the public scrutiny either. Unlike the Batman, she didn’t have some secretive lair to hide in—just her apartment. And she didn’t care for Wayne himself. She had to admit he seemed…less repugnant, slightly more human, on their second..."meeting". She couldn’t bring herself to call them dates.

Helena stood, stretched, and made her way to her bathroom. She couldn’t help hoping that whoever had threatened Wayne would make his move on Friday night.

Helena knew that other people might read the gossip column and be surprised to see her name linked to Bruce Wayne’s. But she didn’t consider two particular sets of eyes that saw the column and saw red.

One of those sets of eyes read the column in nearby Bludhaven. The other set perused it in a squalid hideout located on Gotham’s skid row. Neither was pleased by what they saw…

To be continued...