The DCFutures FanFiction Group recognizes that Batman and all related characters are property of DC Comics. These stories are written for no profit, but rather a strong desire to peer into the future of the DCU. The stories and concepts presented herein, however, are property of the author. So there. **** BATMAN: DCF #20 **** Written and Directed by Erik Burnham darvey@rocketmail.com **** BATMAN created by Bob Kane and Bill Finger BATMAN: DCF created by Erik Burnham **** "Crossed Paths, part 1" **** There was a lot going on at Twosmith's Harbor. Bruce Miers was fairly new to the Gotham scene. He had been sent by Tuesday from Albuquerque earlier in the month to supervise one of the boss' "special projects." Bruce didn't like the water, but Tuesday said specifically to be waiting there -- at the harbor. Meet the boat, he said. Take the captain out for a beer, whatever. Let the Cops board it, search it, and find nothing on it. ...And then blow it to kingdom come. Simple assignment, really. And the kind Bruce normally enjoyed. But the boats he saw rocking out on the sea made him queasy. Why couldn't this have been done inland? The queasiness grew, flowing through his body until he thought he was going to vomit. His chest hurt. His vision blurred. He really was going to vomit. It wasn't hypochondria like Dr. Bachand always said. Bruce closed his eyes... ...And felt an intense pain, a real pain, a sharp explosion in his lungs akin to the raspy kiss of freezing air. It was a blade, surgically sharp, masterfully crafted. Not that Bruce noticed. His eyes fluttered open to see two people... one was just a man... nondistinct... but the other was... was... Darkness. "It appears, my dear, that your information was correct," the swordsman said, removing his blade from Bruce's corpse and polishing it with all the finesse his crippled left hand could muster. "Of course it's correct. It's always correct. You just never believe me," a woman's muffled voice replied. "No cause to be rude, Maria; no cause at all. If you would be so kind, now, as to dispose of Mr. Miers' body, we can begin to dismantle the rest of his employer's present scheme." "Will do," the woman acknowledged, hefting the dead man with one hand and carrying him off into the night, leaving the swordsman alone with his thoughts. Tuesday, Tuesday, Tuesday. The name haunted the man with the sword; a former Justice Leaguer eventually crippled by the process that gave him his power, he had retired to Kansas with his family. Some picturesque community kept as it was in the 20th. Small town, Smallville, something like that. Daniel, his son, hated it in the country. He was a city boy, born and bred. He hadn't wanted to join the League's prep schools, and so was denied his only chance to stay near the cities he loved so much. Daniel was forced to seek amusement in the tiny town. ...And he discovered Heartbeat. A drug Tuesday found especially easy to peddle to the bored folk in NorAm's heartland. Daniel was caught. Locked away in his room. And went through withdrawal. The thing with Heartbeat is that it bestows super-human strength. Normally, that isn't a problem, as the drug mellows one out almost to the point of dangerous lethargy. But during withdrawal, Daniel managed to burst forth from his room in a frenzied panic, killing his mother and sisters before his own heart exploded. The man lowered his sword as the familiar pangs of regret washed over him. Why had he kept Daniel in the house, when he knew the drug's side effects? Why hadn't he taken his family someplace where this wouldn't have happened? Why couldn't he find Tuesday and make him pay for what had been lost? Why? **** "Checkmate," Clark said with a smile as his white bishop cornered the black king. "Alfred, I thought you could play this game." "I can," Alfred returned. "But apparently I'm no Deep Blue. My congratulations, sir. Perhaps we can try poker next?" "Uh, no." Clark blushed; remembering the last time he had partook in the game. "I think I'll grab a nap. See you later." And with that, Clark eased off into the darkness of his nook. He had been sleeping a lot lately... moreso since the death of Michael Carter. [**See Suicide Squad #12**] But what could Alfred do besides provide him with appropriate diversion during his waking hours? Chess, television archives, conversation. Anything to help that man past the burden he bore with a lonely smile. "Alfred, I need some information." Tim Drake had managed to sneak up on Alfred, the computer that was aware of everything. It took a moment for the latter to process the reality of being lost in thought. "Of course, Master Tim. What do you require?" "The InfoNet tells me some unlucky credder got himself skewered and dunked near Twosmiths. I need to know who, when, and any guesses why." "And this hardly uncommon occurrence interests you for what reason, Master Tim?" Alfred queried with a dry tone as he accessed his back door to the GCPD's incoming directory. "That's a long story," Tim replied as he hovered near the stairs to Wayne Manor. "A very long story." **** Tim remembered the day the Leaguer with the crippled hand paid a visit to the Drake Estate. He was a stocky man with curly blond hair and a ruddy complexion. He smiled a lot... even when a young Timothy Drake, all of 12 years old, stared tactlessly at his deformity. "Timothy," Richard Drake scolded, "that's rude." "Sorry, pop," Tim replied, quickly looking away. "Quite alright," the Leaguer replied. "It's better to see curiosity than indifference. You're wondering how this happened, aren't you?" More smiles from the blond man. "Yes, sir." "Well interesting story, that. Apparently my mother meant it when she told me to eat my vegetables..." The man allowed the joke to breathe, but it provided no laughter. He smiled again nonetheless. "Tim, do you know about the Justice League?" "Yes." "And you know how important they are to the safety of our world." "Yes." "Have you ever wanted to be a Justice Leaguer, Tim? Like Jack Flash or Hourman?" The question hung in the air even more awkwardly than the joke had. "I think I'm a little young for duty, sir," Tim finally answered. The blond man roared at the answer, laughing until a tear completed a run down his cheek. "How old are you, Tim?" "Twelve." "Twelve. I have a son that's not too much younger than you, Tim." "Have you tried to get him to join as well?" "Yes I have, Tim... but he's not the athletic type. He's more interested in... well, who knows, anymore. Go figure, huh?" "Go figure. But I think I'm still too young." "Well, Tim... that's the thing. The League is sponsoring a group of academies around the globe... some in Eurasia, some in SouthAm, some in Afrikaa and Australia... and several in NorAm. One, as a matter of fact, is being sponsored right here in Gotham. What I'm saying is, basically, if you're interested in joining the League, attending one of these academies would be a terrific idea. What do you say?" [**For a look inside one of these schools, check out Young Justice:DCF -- coming soon from our own Daniel Ben-Zvi!**] "We're not interested," Richard answered. "Are you sure?" The blond man asked, still smiling. "Positive. Thank you for your time, Mr..." "Carrington. Bradley Carrington." The blond man winked again at Tim. "Or Penguin, if you prefer... although I have no idea why they chose to assign me that name..." Penguin shook hands with Richard and then with Tim. "If you should ever change you minds, please don't hesitate to... what?" The lights had suddenly gone out. The windows, formerly streaking with fresh afternoon sunshine, were dark. "For crimes against the people of Earth...." A hollow voice ripped through the darkness, "You are hereby sentenced to death." "Get down!" The Penguin hollered, shoving Tim out of the way with his crippled left hand as he drew his famed sword. "I know that voice!" "Of course you do, Penguin." A white shadow floated through the artificial darkness, ethereal yet super-real. Tim was surprisingly calm. His father was breathing erratically. The Penguin held his sword out before him. "Riecheau," Penguin acknowledged. "I wasn't aware Patriot had let you back in." "No one said that," Riecheau replied. "This is an independent act of retribution." The ghost nodded to the Drakes. "I'm only sorry that I didn't interrupt you three a bit sooner. It would have been far more merciful to kill you before you had to wade through the League propaganda Carrington spews so--" Tim Drake had never seen anyone move so fast, or act so ruthlessly. The Penguin tucked, rolled, and stabbed his sword into the essence of the ghost's torso. Riecheau started to laugh. He was intangible, after all... how could so blatant a physical attack possibly harm him? He found out how. The Penguin's blade began to glow. The glowing was accompanied by an unearthly howl, a howl that Tim gradually came to realize was Riecheau's own. The white shadow spread farther and farther apart, allowing the light back into the Drake home in one outstanding burst. When Tim's vision cleared, he saw The Penguin sitting against the wall with his sword in his lap. The blond man managed one more tired smile. "Just another glamorous day in the life of a Justice Leaguer..." The Penguin managed before passing out. **** "Master Tim!" Alfred exclaimed, his volume exceeding normal standards by 62%. "I have your information, Master--" "Okay, Alfred. Relax. You don't have to shout... Clark's sleeping." "Oh, what a shift in the status quo," Alfred deadpanned. "The name of the deceased was Bruce Miers. Suspected associate of... Tuesday. He hails... er, hailed, from Albuquerque and was, as you put it, 'skewered and dunked' two nights ago." "Thank you Alfred," Tim mumbled, glancing at the clock. "Anything else I should know?" "Well, now that you mention it, Master Tim..." **** Kylie Roarke leaned against the wall of the elevator, humming along with the muzak and dreaming of a nice, long backrub. Mike was good at those. And she needed one. Stress, stress, stress all week long. It started out on Tuesday. The drug bust gone bad... or good, depending on one's point of view. It had been a trap, after all -- one that had been interrupted by someone with a very sharp personality. Ha, ha, bad pun. Very tired. Kylie was a bit angry, though. All the signs pointed to standard bust. No trap. Every source she had ever used, every reliable source, had come up roses. And yet here the boat was, a floating bomb. A floating BOMB. Fifteen of Gotham's Finest would have been scattered to the winds; Kylie included. And the scariest part was: it would have been a total blindside. Who was Tuesday that he could pull strings so well? Kylie eased her way down the hall to her apartment and opened the door to a new kind of shock. The Batman. In her apartment. Lounging on the couch, legs crossed, his hands behind his head. "Hey there, you do work late." The joking tone was duly noted. Kylie was not in the mood, and suddenly agreeing very much with Jon Isaacs' personal opinion on the vigilante. "Didn't I tell you?" Mike spoke up as he entered the room, handing the Batman a beer. "She's a workaholic." "Classic reversal of theme you got going on here, Ky. Mike the happy homemaker's been filling me in on some things... like that nickname he had for you in college. Great stuff." "Mike!" Kylie snapped as she felt her face turn three shades of pink. "But as interesting as that was, bimblykix, I need some other kind of conversation." Batman paused, lifting his mask enough to take a swallow of beer. "Like information on the shiskabob you guys yanked out of the harbor." Kylie sighed. Mike was obviously impressed with this Batman, so why didn't she help him? Just a bit. She wouldn't volunteer anything, but she'd answer his questions. So long as he didn't ask anything too compromising, that is. "Shoot," the detective said, taking a seat. "Name of the deceased?" The Batman started. "Miers, Bruce." The Batman nodded, that checked out. "Was he from Gotham?" "Albuquerque." Another nod, coupling that with a smile and a drink. "And what about this skewering bandito? Anything unusual about the wound?" Damn. He had just gotten to the hardball questions. "Like?" "Maybe the fact that the wound was too clean to be a blade, and too imprecise to be energy based, even with the trace of energy that stuck around. That's kinda weird, don't you think, detective?" "How did you learn that?" "I heard some things." "Did you raid our database?" Kylie realized how stupid the question sounded as soon as she spoke up. "I heard some things," the Batman repeated forcibly. Mike had already slipped out of the room, Kylie noticed. "And believe it or not, I think I can help you. But I need your help as well, Kylie. Whaddayasay?" Kylie wasn't sure what to do. Jon was opposed to working officially with the Dark Knight. He also respected the edge an urban legend brought to the patrolmen. The official position was to ignore the Batman. But this deal he was offering -- help. Maybe he had found out something they hadn't? Maybe he was more of a player than he let on? Maybe. Only one way to find out. "What kind of help?" Kylie asked. **** TO BE CONTINUED! **** NEXT ISSUE: Batman vs. The Penguin! **** GOING BATTY **** No one wrote. People used to write. I miss you, folks. *sniff* Anyhow, I hoped you guys enjoyed the first appearance of the Penguin. Watch LoG, for he may appear there soon. As for his partner, you can find out who she is... next time! Join us next time for more hijinks... --Erik