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.

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BATMAN: DCF #31

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Written and Directed by Erik Burnham
darvey@rocketmail.com

****

BATMAN created by Bob Kane and Bill Finger
BATMAN: DCF created by Erik Burnham

****

"Tuesday's Gone - Part One"

****

Tuesday was in Heaven.  Had to be.  After all, it
wasn't often in life one got such an opportunity! 
Gotham City - one of the biggest markets in the world
- free and clear.  Wide open.  Devoid of security! 
Well, almost.

Oh, the deliciousness of it all.

Tuesday was free to peddle narcotics of all sorts on
the streets of this fair city, assured that the
police - the scant few that still remained active -
would not be able to intervene in any way, shape, or
form until it was too late, if at all.

What a present.

Still, better safe than sorry.

Tuesday looked out the window to see the gray sky let
loose with a torrent of snowflakes.

After all, Christmas wasn't Christmas without snow.

****

Tim Drake looked lazily out the window of his offices
near the eighty-fifth floor of Drake Industries'
headquarters.  Watching the snow from work, like in
the old days.

Work.  

It was nice to be back.  Tim felt the strongest urge
to be himself again.  And, as much as Gotham needed
him on the streets, to deny himself the life he was
born and raised into would cause more harm than good
to his sense of self and thus, the Batman.

It was just bad policy to separate, and then deny any
part of, yourself.

Listen to the psychobabble he was making up.  Tim had
come a long way.

Besides, it was Christmas!  What kind of a moron
would cause any trouble during Christmas?  Tim
sighed.  Every kind of moron.  That was why he had to
wear the cape in the first place.

But still.  Drake Industries had hit a busy time, and
Tim had to get some hands-on work in.  It wasn't that
Ennis wasn't capable of doing the job, far from it. 
There was just a lot of work to be done, a lot of
decisions to be made... and the sooner they were made,
the sooner everyone could enjoy the holidays.

"Ms. Olsen?" Tim spoke out, speaking to the secretary
he had just noticed outside his door.  "C'mon in."

Donna Olsen peeked inside the office with all the
temerity of a sedated church mouse.

"We can do this another time, sir, if it's not
conveni-"

"Donna, Did I not tell you to call me Tim the last
few times I was here?  Waitaminnit... I know I did.  In
fact, I specifically recall putting that into your
job description - 'call Mr. Drake Tim at all possible
occasions.'"  

Tim smiled.  Donna reciprocated.  It warmed the room.  

"Now then," Tim said, taking a seat and gesturing for
the secretary to sit as well.  "What did ol' Ennis
send you over for, again? I'm scatterbrained I know,
and not here as much as I - uh... how 'bout you just
update me before I make a fool of myself?"

Donna placed a disk on Tim's desk.  "There are some
decisions to be made, sir.  These are of the highest
priority."

"Tim."

"Yes, sir... Tim.  The highest priority."

"Well, let's see just what it is we have here..." Tim
grinned, picking the disk up.

****

Dr. Tippitt was not getting paid enough.

On virtually no notice Angel Tuscotti had sent him
the subject for an experiment they had discussed only
weeks ago.

One must not rush these things in such a way!

At any rate, the job was close to done.  Mr. Tuscotti
would have that which he so desired, although Dr.
Tippitt did wonder to what end.  

They were facing consequences for the types of
genetic experimentation that was being performed
here.  Heavy consequences.  Tippitt knew that for
himself, the rewards of success outweighed any other
negative outcome.  That is why he agreed to the job
in the first place.  No matter how busy he was, there
was a thrill to being this creative.  He took what he
could get, although time and money would have been
fine bonuses.

Tippitt glanced at his computer screen and punched in
his special codes.

Let's see how we've done!

****
Kylie Roarke sat at her desk in the near-deserted
headquarters of the Gotham City Police Department,
staring out her window at the snow that was flitting
down upon the city.

I wonder how many other people are watching the same
thing right now, Kylie mused.  Mike is.  He has to
be.  He's sitting at home - where I should be -
watching the snow fall, waiting for me to come back
and be with him so we can look at each other instead.

Kylie felt a tear of frustration snake down her
cheek.  As a detective, she was not included in the
strike currently strangling the capabilities of the
Gotham Police.  Unfortunately, that made her job
harder.  The thing she wanted to do took a backseat
to that which she must do.

"DETECTIVE ROARKE - CALL CHANNEL ONE."

The abrupt disruption of the silence by the Automated
Secretary made Kylie jump in her seat.

She took the call.

"Roarke."

"Detective Roarke?" A squeaky male voice responded
meekly.

"No, but I do a great impression of her."

A pause followed before the voice on the other end
was ready to speak again, asking: "Can you guarantee
my safety?"

"Excuse me?"

"Can you guarantee my safety, detective?"

"It depends on what you need safety from."

"Trust me, detective, I have something big..."

****

Clark Kent slammed a glass of orange juice as he
waited for his costume to come out of the dryer.

It was so good to be active again!  It made it easier
to deal with things.  Ever since his mind had been
cleared by J'onn, Clark had felt the need to busy
himself lest the memories of the past overwhelm him...
Lois.  His deep-freeze.  All of it.

Clark had thought Justice would provide him with
answers... but as usual, he found more questions than
anything else.  So, with his re-emerging powers,
Clark took to the streets.  Gotham needed it, and so
did he.

"Idle hands..." Clark started.

"...Are the devil's workshop," Alfred finished,
entering the room with Clark's now-dry costume in hand.

Clark took the ebon suit from the android, noting how
flawlessly the robot passed for a human being... right
down to the expression on his face.  The pained
expression...

 "Something on your mind, Alfred?" Clark asked.

"Actually, yes... that is, if you have the time to
listen."

"Always," Clark replied, sitting down.

"Good," Alfred smiled.  "I was afraid that, with all
of your recent activity, and your... your shall we say
penchant for said activity, you would be, ah,
indisposed towards playing counselor."

"Alfred, you and Tim have been here for me.  What
makes you think I could be any less?"

"Thank you, sir." Alfred sighed - a marvel for a
being that didn't really even breathe - and stared at
his hands.  "Master Clark, I'm not... well, I'm not..."
Alfred paused.  "I'm not sure where to begin, sir."

"Take your time."

"...I can no longer leave the house in this body."

"Excuse me?" Clark asked, confused.

 "What's the problem with that, Alfred?  I mean,
you're not locked down in one place, you blend..."

"Regardless, sir, I am unprepared for such a change. 
I should say, since the time of my 'awakening,' or
rather, the emergence of my sentience, I have prayed
for the ability to interact more with the people of
the world.  I built this body to that end, but wound
up afraid to use it."

"Afraid?"

"Master Clark, I stole the schematics to this
anthropomorphic guise.  I was - paranoid, I believe,
is the term - that should I go out in the world, this
body would be taken from me... perhaps by force.  Would
I be shut down?  Perhaps.  Or maybe I would just be
deemed unacceptable by the masses.  In either case, I
placed this form in storage until the time of our
journey to Metropolis, where I felt the risk of this
body's use was warranted."

"I see."

"Now, sir, for the past several hours I have pored
over information about Master Tim's manipulation, and
I began to fear that I was merely another paradigm of
said manipulation.  I worry that my sentience, my
very life, is in another's hands, putty to be used as
some unseen rogue sees fit.  I worry that, at some
time, I will be forced to take action against the
only friends I have, and will not be able to do
anything about it.  And then there is this..." Alfred
pointed to his chest.  "This body.  What should
happen if my fears regarding it are correct? Master
Clark... I don't know what to do."

Clark stared back at the artificial man that had just
bared his soul, and knew not what to say.  Alfred
started speaking again, however, before Clark could
offer any advice.

"These fears have been running through my mind for
the longest time, Master Clark.  And I do know that
there is nothing you can say to assuage them... but I
had to get them out.  Even if all of these issues
came across as a rambling mess, and I'm sure that
they did, I had to give voice to them or lose what
sanity I still possess.  Thank you for listening,
sir.  Should you need anything, I shall be in the
cave, organizing ever more information for Master Tim."

Alfred left the table, and a slightly overwhelmed
Clark Kent, behind. 

****
Work's better than I remember it, Tim thought.  "Next
order of business, Donna?"

"Er... project... Sunchaser."

"Sunchaser?  I remember that..."

"It was a plane, si-Tim.  About one billion dollars
worth of technology?"

"Ah.  Status on that?"

"They recovered the plane... or it's remains, rather.
 It crashed."

"Excuse me?"

"There was a bug in the system.  The group that stole
it wound up shutting it down over the Atlantic while
trying to accelerate."

"Casualties?"  Tim asked.

"None."

"Good."  And then it started.  A beeping.  NOT NOW! 
There were... things to be done, here... corporate like! 
Geez, who came up with the concept of a Bat Beeper
anyway?

...Oh, yeah.

"Anything else Tim?"

"...Yeah, Donna.  But it's going to have to wait."  Tim
smirked in response to the secretary's quizzical
look.  "If I don't let you get back to Ennis, he'll
never get anything done!  And thank you."

"All part of the job," she said, leaving the room.

What a sweetheart.

Now, then... to change.  Never a phone booth around
when you need one.  Ha.

****
Twelve cops.  Twelve cops.  Twelve cops.

The number was rushing through Kylie's mind like a
plague.  Including her, there were twelve cops
heading for this bust.

Twelve cops.  One quarter of the available pool of
active peace officers.

Twelve cops that were going to take down Tuesday.

AT LAST.

Kylie had a problem with Tuesday... almost to the point
of obsession.  This kingpin - whoever he was - had
slipped by one too many times.  And now, just when
she needed a whole mess of officers with itchy
trigger fingers and a zeal for their work, there was
a strike in effect.  So, twelve cops.  And - God
willing - the Batman.

Kylie had sent the signal out before she left... a
digital message should have sped it's way to the dark
knight, wherever he was.

All he had to do was show up.

****

The doors of the warehouse took two direct hits from
the Kinetic-ram before it fell.  Afterwards, Kylie
and her team entered screaming, trying to confuse
anyone there into believing there were more cops than
the reality.

It worked.

The processors and distro men quietly put their hands
behind their heads and took to their knees.

Maybe Batman wasn't necessary after all.

TCHUNG!

The entrance to the warehouse slammed shut.

"What the..." Kylie started, before seeing Detective
Magh grasp his neck and fall to the ground.  And then
the same with Detective Baker.  Detective Bush,
Detective Newman.  Kylie looked at Bush when he
collapsed - a tiny dart was poking out of his neck -
but where had it come from?

Before Kylie knew it, she was the only one standing.

"Welcome, detective," a woman's voice rose above the
silence in greeting.  "So glad you could make it."

"Who?"

"Say my name, Kylie.  You know who I am."

"Tuesday?"

"Very good."

The woman was in view now, smiling.  She had short
blond hair and wore a velvety black pantsuit.  The
press of a button shattered the ruse created as Kylie
saw the crates of narcotics vanish, their holographic
existence expunged.

"Did you really think, Detective Roarke, that I would
allow myself to be so easily cornered?"

Kylie remained silent.  Now would be a good time for
an eleventh-hour appearance by the Batman.

"That's what I thought.  You were blinded, my dear. 
Not that I blame you - it's been a rough time, and
something like this, well, too good to be true.  A
Christmas gift."  Tuesday grinned.  "Let me tell you
what I've learned in my many years of business,
detective.  Too good to be true means it is.  Also,
eliminate any problem before it has the chance to
overwhelm you.  Gotham has been a problem, hence the
personal appearance.  You are on my list, detective. 
As is this Batman, and then our little mystery
saboteur, whom my sources tell me is currently in
League custody.  And then, it shall be back to
business as usual."

"No."

"No?"   Tuesday laughed, motioning with her arm for
someone behind her to come closer... and he did. 
Stepping into the light was a gigantic black man,
arms crossed, a blowgun hanging around his neck as if
it were so much jewelry.

His belt held a multitude of darts, in a variety of
colors.  Kylie counted - 11 slots empty.  Eleven
darts missing.  Eleven cops out cold, or worse.  And,
with a speed the likes of which she'd never seen,
Kylie joined them.  The large man drew a dart, fed it
into the mouth of the gun, and ejected it in one
swift, fluid motion.  Kylie never even felt the prick
of the dart until she began to grow drowsy.

"I've been keeping track, detective. You've been
problematic.  It is then, I think, prudent to wipe
this particular slate clean.  Completely and totally."

...That was all Kylie heard.

****
Mike Roarke was sipping his coffee, reading a copy of
the Gotham Gazette, and wishing his wife was in his
arms to enjoy the view... he knew how she loved the
snow.  

But she had to play the hero.  That was one of the
reasons he loved her, even though he wished she would
play the part a little less often.  Like never.  He
made enough money to support them, and he wanted -
more than anything - to have a family.  Just like
he'd always wanted.

That's when Mike Roarke heard the mail buzzer ring.

Walking to the door, Mike noticed a small package,
complete with a note which read - 'hope you enjoy the
early present.'  Who could possibly have...

Mike Roarke never got to finish the thought.  The
second he picked up the package, the explosive device
it contained was triggered.  A free trip to Heaven.

Merry Christmas.

****

TO BE CONTINUED!

****

NEXT ISSUE: Is this the end of Kylie Roarke?  Where's
Batman - or Clark - when you need 'em?!?

****

GOING BATTY

**** 

Letters! Here we go! (Keep 'em coming!)

Date:Tue, 23 Mar 1999 14:32:04 -0800 (PST)
From:Schuyler Bush <zenreaper@yahoo.com> 
Subject:Batman: DCF #30
To:ERIK BURNHAM <darvey@rocketmail.com>

Well, what can I say man? Great issue! In fact,
several great issues recently. But this issue
actually prompted me to write. Why you ask? CLARK'S
WEARING A COSTUME! Wahoo! So much fun seeing Tim back
on his home turf, and saving the likes of Bryan from
certain doom.

Can I make a suggestion for Clark? He needs a name to
go with that costume. Give ya one guess what name I'm
thinking of...

It starts with an "N", and rhymes with RightWing!

C'mon! It's perfect!!

Oh, and by the way, don't think I didn't notice the
liberal use of my name in #28... I'll get you, don't
you worry...

P.S. Plastic Man! I want Plastic man!

Schuyler

****Thanks, Schuy!  Let me address the last part
first:  Plastic Man is coming along.  I wrote about a
fourth of the story before and shall complete it and
send it off to the masses.  As to Clark's name, well,
he'll just not have one for the time being... NightWing
is kind of a sore spot at the moment, and we don't
want anyone confusing Clark with Marc!  At any rate,
keep looking, there's a lot more to come.****

And with that one letter (want more!), I bid you
adieu until next time!  But don't forget to check out
- if you haven't already - Schuyler's Adventures of
Superman: DCF!  

-Erik

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