Date: Mon, 16 Jul 2001 18:57:31 -0700 (PDT) In The Blood drawn from the vein by Benway ___________________________________________________________ This story borrows some Bat-characters for not-for profit use from DC Comics. The story iself belongs to me. This story is likely to disturb the sensitive and the innocent. This and other terrible things that I've done to various X- and Bat-People are archived at the website of Luba: http://home.att.net/~lubakmetyk Many thanks to Luba K and Tina S for their editorial assistance in hunting down typos and correcting various misunderstandings about genetics, female human biology, and arithmetic. This story is set in the near Bat-future, as Tim Drake (Robin III) is nearing the end of his time as a student of the prestigious Brentwood School for Boys. Tim's father sent him to Brentwood, shortly after learning that Tim's 26 year old stepmother Dana was pregnant with her first child Dylan. He now has a private room (because he's a senior), and a butler (Alfred) on campus who can run interference for him from time to time. He has a friend, Buzz Cohen, who lives on the floor below and who hasn't really been given a personality yet by the writers. In his spare time, Tim helps Bruce Wayne (The Batman) with the usual Bat-things (entrapping criminals, catching them in the act, beating the crap out of them, leaving them tied up and/or unconscious for the cops). After the senseless killing of Bruce's parents, etc, etc. Since Tim doesn't have a lot of spare time, part of his duties have been taken over by Bruce's other apprentice, Tim's ex-girlfriend Stephanie Brown (The Spoiler). Stephanie was the daughter of the Cluemaster, a murderous and not-terribly-successful thug. Stephanie won Tim away from his first love, the Russian immigrant Ariana Dzerchekno, by forcing her way into his hidden world. It didn't work out. Tim and Stephanie are on speaking terms, but do not patrol together. Ever. Bruce has another assistant, Cassandra Cain (The Batgirl). Cassandra was raised by a professional assassin to be the perfect killer. She achieved superhuman speed and coordination in fighting at the expense of her ability to speak, which remained non-existent until shortly after she arrived in Gotham City. From birth until the age of 16 she knew none but the most fleeting human contact with anyone other than her father. Barbara Gordon (The Oracle) and Bruce trust her, but the kids in Young Justice (including Tim) think that she's seriously fucked in the head. Young Justice includes Bart Allen (Impulse), Kon El (Superboy), Cassandra Sandsberg (Wonder Girl), Cissie King-Jones (the former Arrowette), and The Secret (real name unknown). They're just visiting in this one. Influenced by: Geobreeders, Wild Palms, Leigh, Lerner, Loewe, Rohmer, Shaw Enjoy. *** In the Blood By D. Benway (d_benway@yahoo.com) *** Thursday, June 7 *** There are so many times when I could have stopped. I used to have a sense of caution. Bruce praised me for it, so often. It's gone, now, useless to me. Bruce once called me his conscience. In the last month, I've betrayed almost everyone I know or love, all in my quest for the truth. The truth Bruce knows, and wouldn't tell me. I'm sitting in my car, the one Bruce gave me. It's parked in his driveway, under the portico. He's inside, waiting for me to come in. Maybe he knows that I started using that post office box I rented in Gotham Vale, the one that we were going to start using in two weeks for a sting operation. Maybe he's guessed what I used it for. It took 85 hours. Half a day to get the specimens there by UPS, 72 hours for the lab to process them and send the report back to me. It was a risky thing to do, and we can't use the box now. Bruce will be furious, but he's brought this on himself. I didn't undo the envelope until I stopped the car under the portico and turned off the engine. I didn't trust myself to drive after seeing it. I'd already guessed what was in it. It's all there, in black and white. Four pages of copies of blots from a set of gel electrophoresis plates. Four columns on each page. One is marked 'Child'. That's me. One is marked 'C'. That's my Dad. I knew ours wouldn't match before I even mailed in the specimens. Mine doesn't match A either, but it matches B. According to the analysis, there is 99.999% chance that B is my biological father. Bruce has a lot of explaining to do. *** Saturday, April 28 *** I can see things that other people can't see. Not things that aren't there, but things that are. Things that are very hard to see, patterns that are there, patterns that don't call attention to themselves. I'm better at it than Bruce, but he's much better at deduction and strategy. I can pick the right move by instinct, almost without thinking. He always thinks, and always has the right move as soon as he's reasoned it out. He also has years of experience to rely on, which gives him an edge over me. He knows there are patterns that should never be looked at up close. It's a Saturday night on one of the few weekends when I'm home from school. I'd spent the afternoon with Ives and his new boyfriend, and they were good together. Better than Steph and me, anyhow. I don't know why I'd asked her along. She lives nearby, but we've both agreed that it's over. We had a fight. As usual, we both lost. I'm pissed off about the fight, but I don't let it show. I never let it show. It bothers my Dad. He always thinks I'm hiding something, which I am, but not what he imagines. He really doesn't have much of an imagination. We have wine with dinner. I only have a glass, but Dana and Dad finish off the bottle and start on a second one. I have the feeling they've had a fight and are making up. I don't remember him fighting with Mom, but then there were those times when I'd wake up and find Dad making the breakfast and smiling a lot more than usual and telling me that Mom had gone off to see Aunt Amy and wouldn't be back for a few days. I used to wonder why she didn't tell me she was going. I was only four at the time. Dana is talking about Dylan again, and how lucky they were that he has no defects. She's heard that there is a 1 in 400 chance of carrying the gene for cystic fibrosis, and was wondering why she didn't know anyone who had the disease. My father has a background in law and knows next to nothing about science and Dana's education consisted of a lot of time spent in the gym and the pool (her lips move when she's reading the TV guide, but she is very sweet and understanding on all the family stuff), so I want to reassure her. I tell her that the gene is recessive, and so both parents need to have the gene in order to transmit the disease. That would make a 1 in 160000 chance that a child would inherit both genes and catch the disease, but I don't tell her that by her age, most of the kids with the disease would be dead. She nods (I don't explain all the assumptions), and says she is so glad that she'd asked to have an amniocentesis, just to be certain. A red flag goes up. Steph had had one of those when she was pregnant. Her child had come up clear. They told her that there was a small risk to the fetus from the test, but her mother talked her into it since the father was nowhere to be found. There is no way that a doctor would have given Dana an amniocentesis when they could do a DNA test on both parents. Dad is playing with his knife and fork, like he always does when he gets nervous. His eyes are darting from her to me, and back again. I ask no more questions, and go upstairs after we finish the coffee. I go to get a new set of towels for my bathroom, like I do every night before I go to bed. They're kept in the linen closet, in the master bedroom, next to Dad's bathroom. I can hear Dad and Dana downstairs, talking about something. I slip into the bathroom and check the medicine cabinet. Viagra, just as I thought. Engler Clinic Pharmacy, not CVS or Walgreen's. I put the fresh towels in my bathroom and go downstairs to help them finish the dishes. I tell them I'm going to take an early night, which is true. I need more than 5 hours sleep at least one night a week, and this is Steph's weekend to be on patrol in Gotham. I use my laptop to hack into the Engler Clinic records, weaving around their firewall as if it isn't even there. Since they do abortions, I make a mental note to send them an anonymous note in the mail, explaining how easy it was to get in, and providing a list of their home addresses and unlisted phone numbers. I don't know where I stand on abortion after what Steph went through, but I do know where I stand on killing people who have been born. The clinic records are a mess, and it takes me almost an hour to find all the pieces. I can only go back five years, but this proves to be more than enough. My father has Viagra for the obvious reason, but Dana has had an in-vitro fertilization, with sperm from a sperm bank. They didn't tell me that. The reason? Sterility. My father was sterile, on account of an adolescent glandular infection. My father was 36 when I was born. I go to Yahoo and search on in-vitro fertilization. The first successful procedure took place five years before I was born. I check the internet yellow pages for clinics. I go to the sites. The Engler Clinic is ten years old, and most of the clinics aren't much older except for the one that claimed to be the first. The first was the Thomas Wayne Medical Centre, right here in the Heights. *** Saturday, May 12 *** I can't stop thinking about it. Why wouldn't he tell me? I looked up the literature on divorce and found a paper that said wives who had children by sperm donors were more likely to divorce their husbands than wives who had children the usual way. After that, I found two more studies that said there was no difference. After reading through the research methodology, it was plain that no-one really knew anything about it. Still, I can't help thinking: does my father just want to believe that Dylan really is his son? If he tells me that I'm not his son, does that mean that he's giving me up for Dana and Dylan? Why did he even agree to it twice? Was it his way of making sure she wouldn't take off? The more I think about it, the more I keep getting uglier and uglier ideas. It wasn't supposed to be this way. I love Dana and I love my Dad, and I know she didn't just marry him for the money, but I don't know why she married someone old enough to be her dad. I phoned Steph and asked, but all she did was ask me why I wanted to know. I didn't tell her. She said I shouldn't worry about it as long as they're happy. She didn't say anything about me being happy. It isn't only my family that I keep thinking about. Since I think about them a lot, the name Dylan keeps running through my head, and it reminded me of another kid with that name: Dylan Erb. His name kept coming up when I first arrived at Brentwood. Was I his brother? His stepbrother? His cousin, perhaps? I'd never heard of him, and he'd been expelled three months before I arrived at the school. I looked him up in the old yearbooks. It could have been a picture of me. I think that he might be my halfbrother. I can't get into the Wayne Centre records over the net. Waynecorp handles their software security, and there's no way I'm getting in without using Bruce's equipment. If I do, Bruce will know what I've been up to, and I don't think I should tell him, not until I get the donor's name. After I check the guy out, I probably won't even go talk to him. I just want to get some idea of who he is. Then I'll tell Bruce and he'll chew me out, but he'll understand. He'll know where I'm coming from. I'm inside the Fertility Clinic of the Thomas Wayne Medical Centre. I went in through the ventilation system after I'd hacked into the security station and put their duct cameras onto a loop. The records aren't on paper, but are on microfiche. They aren't any better ordered than the electronic records at the Engler Clinic, and I have to hide in the ducts during two of the regular hourly foot patrols. I'm halfway to talking myself into going home when I find the records. My father was sterile. My mother was impregnated with sperm from a donor. There are no donor names, but I have a number for a file that I'm sure is locked inside the office vault. The vault proves to be a joke compared with what I had to go through to get into the clinic. I could have picked the lock with a paper clip, and there isn't even a camera inside. There is a handle on the inside, and I shut myself in just before the next foot patrol comes around. It takes me another hour and a half to go through the 50 or so filing cabinets before I find the donor list in the back of the bottom drawer of the second last one. It's a wire-bound notebook, with the title Seminar Duties, and someone thought they were being very clever by filling the first ten pages with who had to bring the cookies to two years worth of seminars on reproductive health. This is followed by 20 blank pages, but I can tell from the page edges where the action is. The records are brief and to the point. Each mother is named, along with her social security and medical file numbers. Each donor is named, along with his file number. The date of the procedure is given followed by either a check or some sort of code. I recognize some of the names. Someone with the same name as the Titans' bow and arrow man is matched to at least five successful pregnancies. The dates correspond to the time he was in his second rehab, two years before Lian was born. I find a Bullock, H. listed, but it stops being funny when I see King-Jones in the same line. I flip through to the page with a date nine months before my birthday on it, and my whole life goes to hell. Some of the entries are different here. Twenty of them, including my own, have no listing for the donor. Instead, there is a telephone number beginning with 947. Only internal Waynecorp phones use that prefix. I think I know who my real father is. Steph noticed. Back when we first met, three years ago, she told me I looked like a short Bruce Wayne when I was in disguise. Same hair, she said, same mouth, same ears. We both ended up rolling on the ground, laughing our guts out. It doesn't seem so funny, now. He has to know. Why wouldn't he tell me? Is this why he let me become Robin? I go back over the list and write down the names of all twenty mothers, as well as the phone number. One of names is Belinda Erb. When I was four, I wanted a brother so I wouldn't have to keep smiling and saying how good the oatmeal was that my Dad burned when my mom went away. I wanted a brother so I could tell someone how horrible it was, so I wouldn't have to keep it a secret. Now I've become very good at keeping secrets, and I think I have a brother, and the guy who burned the oatmeal isn't my dad. Twenty minutes later, I've put the files away, cleaned all the handles, and wiped up the tears that fell on the floor. It's not supposed to be like this. I'm halfway through my bedroom window when the man who isn't my father switches on the light. He's been sitting there with Dana in the dark for who knows how long, since it's 3:30. We have The Argument, again, but it's different this time. All the other times, I've begged, pleaded, been reasonable. This time, I don't give him an excuse at all, and tell him that it's none of his business. He tells me that it's his house, and so it is his business. I tell him I'm 18 and actually say that he's not the boss of me. Saying it makes me laugh, and he only gets angrier. He demands to know what I was doing. Making babies with Steph, I say. He goes to hit me. I block him hard, without even thinking. I hear a bone in his hand snap. They're both staring at me. He's bent over, cradling his right hand in his left. He turns to Dana. How could you tell him? he says. The thing I should say is, Tell him what? Instead, the mask is off and I stare back at him, letting him see what I'm feeling. You had to have the last word, he says to Dana. He storms down the steps. We hear the front door slam and an engine start. He leaves rubber on the street. Dylan starts crying and Dana goes to look after him. I take off in my car and sleep in a parking lot at the end of The Bristol Botanical Gardens that I know never gets patrolled. When I get back to Brentwood School, Alfred asks me why I'm back early. I make up an excuse. There's no way I'm letting Alfred in on this, not until I have evidence that Bruce Wayne is my real father. *** Saturday, May 26 *** I found a lot of reasons not to go home for the next two weekends. This one I'm spending with Kon and the gang. They all know something is up, even Bart. I haven't said anything about it. I haven't phoned my Dad or Dana, and they haven't phoned me. I have no idea if he's even come home yet. I haven't seen or spoken to Bruce. He's been away. We're watching SNL, because that's what everyone does on Saturday night. It wasn't even funny when it was supposed to be funny (I've watched Bruce's tapes; everyone looks stoned), and it isn't funny now. When it's over, Cassie and Cissie turn on me and demand that I spill. I found out my dad's not my dad, I say. I could have lied, said something about Steph. They all know where that's been going, even before I did. There are hugs and sympathetic words, which is nice, but nice isn't what I need. What are you going to do? asked Cassie. I want to know who the donor was, I said. I'm not even going to speak to him, I just want to know who he is. It's a lie. I want to know why Bruce did it. Ever since I found that telephone number, I've known it's him. It's the why that bothers me, that part I can't figure out. My life used to be a complex, constantly shifting set of sequences of events that I could glide over without any real effort. One minute I'm Tim, the next minute I'm Alvin the Loser, then the Boy Wonder (would-be lover of Steph), then Robin of Young Justice. Each one had his own agenda, and they all kept their secrets. Now, there's only one thing on my mind, one way forward into blackness. At the end is the answer, why Bruce has done this to me. Accept it, says Cissie. Don't ask any questions. What's past is past. Come on, says Cassie. He has a right to know. Are you sure you really want to know? says Cissie. Yes, I say. I do want to know. Why? says Bart. Because it's missing, I say. A part of me is missing. No important part, says Bart. Nothing that was missing before you knew. It's just like that extra stuff on the disc that you don't really need to know to play the game. Great simile, Bart, I say. Man, this is really getting to you, says Kon. Yeah, I says. How would you feel? I know who my father is, says Kon. Kind of. What would you do if you did find out? says Cissie. I'm not sure, I say. Check things out carefully, before approaching anyone. Before approaching anyone, says Cissie. So you've already decided that you're going to meet them. What happens then? You have no idea what to expect. I've got a pretty good idea who it is, I say. Then forget it, says Cissie. Now. No way, I say. OK, says Cissie. There was this girl in US Archery. Good, maybe Olympic calibre someday. She found out she was adopted. She spent all her stipends on lawyers, trying to find her birth mother. She tracked her down to some place in Louisiana, some real hole. She knocks on the door, just out of the blue, doesn't even phone ahead. This woman comes to the door. Hi, I'm your daughter, she says. The woman tells her no, no, it can't be true and this girl starts throwing all this paper at her, names, addresses, legal stuff, all that. No, no, says the woman. It's down there you want to go, they live in that house over there. The girl makes her apologies and she's walking down the street when she hears this gunshot from the house. She runs back and finds the woman she spoke to on the living room floor, but she could only tell by the dress because she'd used a shotgun to blow her head off. What a load of urban legend bullshit, says Cassie. That's straight out of Brunvand. It's true, says Cissie. You read it in a book or you heard it from somebody or you read it in the Enquirer at the checkout, says Cassie. I've had enough of this family shit, says Kon, and he flies off. Bart takes off after him. I want to take off, but I can't. Something is going to happen, I feel it. I need to be here. Spill, says Cassie. She does. Cissie, strong as steel Cissie, breaks down, her face falls in on itself, and now I really want to be gone. Oh no, says Cassie. I was made in a petri dish too, says Cissie. I don't want to know who jerked off into the tube. I had a dad, he was sweet, he loved me and he died and left me with my fucking mother. The good ones die and the bad ones are like cockroaches, nothing kills them. You don't know how much I'd- She can't finish. They're now both in tears. Somewhere, in the back of my head, I know I should embrace them, say the things I could never say to Steph, lie. It's all right, it's all right, just like my mother used to, and my so-called father never did. Instead, I stay there rooted on the spot, my hands locked together, watching them cry. Then, I turn and leave. I don't get very far, because the Secret catches up with me just around the corner. She floats in the air in front of me. I can see an exit sign glowing red through where her heart should be. Cissie's right, she says, in my mind. You're better off not knowing. But I have to know, I say. Why? she says. Because there's a whole part of my life missing, I say. Like when you're reading a book from the library and you find a chapter torn out. But it's someone else's story too, she says. How do you know who or what they are, and whether or not they want to be found? So I shouldn't do it because he'll kill himself? I say. You shouldn't do it because you're not the one writing the story, she says. There's no way you can know how it will turn out, and even if you did know it wouldn't turn out the way you want it to. But I have to know, I say. She hugs me, as I cry. I should not have been able to feel it, but I did, more than I felt the hugs from any of the others. She holds me until I'm able to stop, until I can dry my eyes and leave without saying goodbye to anyone else and drive back to school. *** Tuesday, May 29 *** Now, I have two places not to go home to. Dana called and said that Dad had been by to pick up some of his things when she was out, and she didn't know where he was staying. Cassie called but I'd left an excuse. By now, I'm sure Bruce knows, but he hasn't called or left a message. I'm in the cave, where I've come to do some research. I'm officially here to make a false ID to rent a post office box with, but I also have the phone number from the donor list memorized. Batgirl is there, getting ready for patrol. She looks up at me, but she doesn't take her mask off, she just stares at me with those big, empty eyeports. I hate her mask, it's hard to look at, all hacked up like the inside of her head. At least she doesn't speak. Kon says she sounds like a parrot imitating a human. I'm sure she killed Shiva Woosan, six months ago. We heard a rumor of a contract, on Bruce and I. We were ready as we could be, and waiting. We even called in some help. She slaughtered Connor before he could reach us. We were waiting in the cave with our backs to the wall when the call cames in over the scanner. I hacked into the autopsy files the next day. It was Shiva, and she was dead. She looked like she'd been hit by a truck. Her spine had been broken in four places, and much of the rest of the damage had been done after, some of it after she'd died. Bruce had gone looking for Cassandra immediately, and we found her with Babs, playing Scrabble. Babs swore they'd been in all night. Bruce went after Babs for an hour, and didn't ask Batgirl anything. She stared at us the whole time, and didn't say a thing. Bruce didn't talk to either of them for a month, but he didn't stop Cassandra from going on patrol, either. Then again, no-one else has gotten into that kind of losing fight with a truck since then. She stops staring at me only when Bruce comes into the room. The Tornado called, he says. What happened last weekend? Things got out of hand, I say. Cissie was there, and she got upset about her mother again. I can see Bruce's lips tighten. It's one of the few ways he shows emotion. Bad business, he says. You had another fight with your father, after you broke the rules. Yes, I say. He's staying at the Country Club, he says. Oh, I say. I should tell Dana. I already have, he says. You've been careless. Their marriage isn't my responsibility, I say. Getting caught, he says. We agreed that you wouldn't get caught again. Why did you do it? I was out with Steph, I say. It was so obvious a lie. I've never lied so carelessly to him before. That would explain it, he says. I almost let my surprise show. He should have seen through me in a moment. She was supposed to be on patrol with him. She wasn't. I wonder where she was. Probably out on a date. You should be more careful about family, he says. If they're not your responsibility, whose responsibility are they? Yours, I want to say. I almost say it, but I can see Batgirl standing there behind him holding both hands over her mouth. He notices me looking and turns around, but she's too fast for him. She inclines her head in the direction of his car. Get it cleaned up, he says. Once he's gone, I finish the ID, then go to the library. Bruce has reverse telephone directories for Waynecorp going back to the 30s. I find the number. It's for Evan Hamilton, M.D., a member of the Wayne Pharmaceuticals research staff. The listings for him begin two years before my birth and end seven years after. When I get home, I search on Evan Hamilton and turn up nothing current, except the Evan Hamilton Memorial Ward at the Wayne Medical Centre. I hack in to the newspapers and find his obituary. He was murdered by the Joker when I was seven, on Christmas Eve. Ha fucking ha. *** Wednesday, May 30 *** Without Waynecorp's man with the sperm, my most important lead is gone. Still, I have a list of names. Some of them are easy to track down, others impossible. There are 35,233 Smiths in Gotham, and two of them are on my list. I go through 564 before giving up. Annabelle Lynch-Morton is much easier to find, but she and her infant daughter were eaten by Killer Croc sixteen years ago. In the end, I come up with seven names, all kids my age, who match the info on the list. Two have websites, one has a picture. I recognize my hair, on a girl. It's almost the same haircut. She's a runaway, missing for two months. I find Morris Erb's family website, but it has no mention of a son Dylan. Another trip to the Gazette turns up a picture in the Neighbourhoods section of a 6-year-old Dylan Erb and his father Morris skating on the river in Winter. It could have been a picture of me in my old snowsuit. I phone Morris Erb from a payphone at the docks. When I ask for his son, he hangs up on me. I'm not about to give up on Dylan. I know he's my brother, and I'm sure someone here at Brentwood knows where he is. I ask around, and every person I can find tells me that the only person who might know is one of the last people I want to talk to. Gregory (never Greg) Brady is someone I'm sure sells hash and ecstasy, but he's been sly enough not to leave any evidence where I or anyone else could find it. He's rumored to have deflowered his oldest stepsister, while his brother is said to have had an affair with his stepmother. There was supposed to be a third brother who had set their house in LA on fire, and I found him listed in the California prison records. He was sent to San Quentin for life at the age of 11 because the housekeeper went up with the house. His father and stepmother are divorced. I send him an e-mail message, and he sends one back, telling me to come to his room. His room is one of those that the cool people hang out in. He has a huge collection of 60s and 70s vinyl that he plays as loudly as he can get away with, and he's provided cover for my footsteps across the roof more than once without knowing it. His brother, known as Bradykinin for his viciousness on the rugby field, gives me a nasty look as I go in. Drake, says Gregory from his bed. Stick up the butt Drake. You want to know about Dylan? Yeah, I say. You think he's your long lost brother? says Gregory. The 250 pound rugby forward everyone calls Pittsburgh giggles hysterically at this, then returns his attention to the patterns of light dancing across the ceiling. Gregory's got something rigged up with lenses and candles on a turntable. Close the fucking door, says Bradykinin. The room reeks of hash. You got a lot in common with him? says Gregory. Hope not, says Pittsburgh. If you do, we'll have to kill you. Don't know him, I say. Heard you've seen him. Hey, hey, says Gregory. Peace. No need to get hostile. Siddown. You need one of these. He hands me a joint. I stare at it. Never seen one of these before, huh? says Bradykinin. No, I say. This is a lie. I've seen them fly from mouths I've just slugged. I once dumped 4 tons of hash into Gotham Harbor, which Bruce had to retrieve with a sub before any one else could. He told me he burned it in a cement kiln. You want something from me, I want something from you, says Gregory. Pittsburgh starts to giggle again. I look at the joint. I don't need to do this. There are five other names on the list, but I have no idea what they look like. I do know what Dylan looks like, and I can't find any trace of him. It's not easy to disappear as completely as Dylan has. We're going to party, says Gregory. I'm going to help you become a little less tight-assed. Oh. I said. I'm staring at the joint as he attaches a roach clip. This entire situation is ridiculous. I could take these shits down, but it would put the mask at risk. I could make them tell me, if I had my mask on. My other mask, that is. Bradykinin lights up the joint and passes it to me. I suck on the end. It's worse than getting a lungful of campfire smoke. I can't hold back the cough, and I drop the joint. Bradykinin catches it before it hits the floor. Shit, says Bradykinin, shaking his burnt hand. Let's try this again, says Gregory. Suck it in and hold it down. Three times, on my count. Bradykinin lights the joint again, and gives it to me. I've faced down Shiva Woosan. I've faced down Ras al Ghul. I've faced down the Joker. I take the joint and do as I'm told. It burns. That's right, just like that, says Gregory. Pittsburgh's sitting up, and leering at me. Bradykinin's sitting on a stool, eyes darting from me to the door, back and forth. I watch him for a long time. The motion of his eyes isn't quite periodic. Man, he's lost it, says Pittsburgh. I don't like the way he's looking at me, says Bradykinin. I wake up in my bed, more or less, with Buzz standing over me, looking down at me. I wonder why I'm all damp in front. I pass out. I wake up again. Here, says Buzz, yanking me over to one side. I throw up. I pass out. I wake up again. The light is on. I have one fucking killer headache. I pass out. Someone is shaking me. I throw them off, then fall out of bed. Oh shit, I say, looking at Buzz's feet, unable to move. You going to be sick again? Buzz says. Sick? I say. Been sick? I show myself that I am by throwing up again, at least not on myself this time. It feels very odd, not really like retching, more like an internal shrug. Oh man, says Buzz. Did something stupid, I say. You are so fucking lucky I found you before anyone else did, he says. Found me? I say. In the quad, he says. You were running the sundial in your underwear, screaming I am Superman at the top of your lungs. You're the first person I see back here after 5 hours on the plane. I thought I'd left all that shit back in LA. You picked one weird time to let it all hang out, man. Oh God, I say. The whole house heard you, he says. I got you inside with Garth's help. He took off when you puked the first time. Oh God, I say, then puke again, a bit more vigorously. Alfred, I say. Where's Alfred? He left you a note, says Buzz. He said he `had to attend to a matter involving Ms. Stephanie'. Looks like he left an hour before I got here. Oh fuck, I say. Steph called too, he says. I told her you were out. She told me to tell you to call her before asking any more questions. Oh shit, I say. What else was I been saying? Outside. Before. You said you were Superman, Batman, Robin, and Wonder Woman, he says. Wonder Woman, I say. I start giggling. I can't stop, even though it's driving the pain through my head. Oh man, he says. What, I say, finally choking the giggling off. There's nothing funny about it, he says. They'd have your butt for this if they catch you, and you'll lose that MIT scholarship. They gave me a joint, I say. Told me not to be such a tight-ass. Who? he says. Bradys, I say. And you smoked it? he says. Are you fucking nuts? Those guys are evil. They laced it with something. That's how they got Dylan thrown out. You know Dylan Erb? I say. Sure, he says. You know where he is? I say. Yeah, he says. Oh shit, I say. *** Friday, June 1 *** I become known as Superman at school, to everyone except the people in my courtyard. They start calling me Amadeus, and, like everything else in my life, it makes no fucking sense at all. Somehow, none of the staff or Alfred find out about it. I expect some sort of blackmail from the Bradys, but I notice that they stay out of my way, taking off whenever I come near. I also notice that Bradykinin has his arm in a sling. It took two oxycodones from my utility belt to kill the headache last night, and I've taken four since then to keep it away. I know I should see Leslie Tomkins about this, but I have to talk to Dylan Erb first. Buzz told me where to find him. It's a place I've been to before, during undercover ops. I'm dressed for the part: black sunglasses, hair gelled straight up, black leather boots, black latex rubber t-shirt, black leather pants that were too small for me two years ago, and I've grown since then. I couldn't sit down even if I wanted to. Once, Bruce and I came here and I was down on all fours all evening with a collar around my neck while he led me around on a leash. I wonder if he was laughing at me, somewhere deep inside. I don't know what to make of him, any more. They're having a singing contest here tonight. Since I'm here by myself, everyone feels the need to make a pass at me, but no-one gives me any serious trouble. I find a spot near the stage and get a beer from a passing waiter. I can feel the headache trying to come back. I attract another admirer. Don't mind me, says Pittsburgh. I'm not a fag, I'm just here for the music. He's completely wasted. He doesn't recognize me. The most remarkable thing is that he's telling the truth. He doesn't take one look at my crotch, and the moment the first number finishes (from The Producers) and the singer asks the crowd to join in, he starts belting out the tune. He proves to be a very good singer. Dylan Erb is supposed to be on second, but that's asking for too much around here. The song from The Producers is so popular that the contestant plows through six more numbers, and then ends with a rousing all-club version of Springtime for Hitler with a chorus line of six leather men from the audience kicking up their legs out of synch with the music. After that, no Dylan Erb. I have to sit through two Judy Garlands (one 6 foot 5, the other 300 pounds), a Marlene Dietrich, and a chorus singing something monastic and getting as big a cheer as Springtime. Finally, an hour and a half later, Dylan Erb. Of course, he's in drag. Short black hair, not quite cut in my style. I can't think of the name of the actress, but he needs that haircut to look like her. His body is thin like mine, thin like hers, but it's taller than mine, taller like hers. He's wearing a frilly full length Victorian dress and carrying a parasol. Move your bleeding erses! he shouts. I think he's trying to sound Cockney, but failing. I couldn't do it either. I'd fail to do it in exactly the same way. I know that he is my halfbrother. He begins to sing. I can't sing either. Wouldn't it be luverly. Just you wait Henry Higgins, just you wait. I could have danced all night. He's no worse than the Garlands, but the crowd is going wild again. He receives the applause graciously. On the street where you live. Someone else comes on to sing that one, while he watches, rapt, and I watch him. I glance at the singer from time to time. It's a woman in drag. Her voice sounds familiar. It isn't deep or rough enough to be convincing as a man, and she has an accent. She'd have been better doing Dietrich than Rex Harrison. No-one here seems to care, though. I can't take my eyes off his face. He has the same features that I do, only finer. A longer, sharper nose. Small mouth. Same blue eyes. I can't let him get away. The song ends, and they take a bow. The applause rises, Henry Higgins takes off his hat, and bows again. It's Ariana, my first girlfriend. She's cut off her hair. She dumped me into a world of shit by trying to get me into bed before she dumped me and now she's standing on the stage of a gay bar in drag, staring straight at me with her mouth wide open. She flees the stage, while Dylan stares after her looking confused. He shrugs, gives one last bow, and leaves the stage as well. I want to catch him in his dressing room, but that would mean letting Ariana go. I'd let her go too, if I didn't know it will take him at least five minutes to get out of that dress. I ask around. The bouncer says Ari took off out the front door two minutes ago, but the only person I can see in the street is my old friend Pittsburgh, puking into a concrete garbage can. I flag down a passing taxi, and give the driver 50 bucks to take him back to the Waffle House around the corner from Brentwood. I resist the temptation to send it straight to the school gates. Instead, I call Gregory Brady and the first thing he asks is if I've found Dylan, and he makes it sound like a serious question. I tell him where his friend is. I tell him how to get his friend in through the unlocked window in the basement of the cafeteria, and make a mental note never to use that route again. The weird thing is, he's almost pathetically grateful. I hang up while he's still thanking me. The worst thing is, I don't think he's shitting me. I've somehow managed to earn the respect of the most twisted guy in all of Brentwood while out of my mind on something he poisoned me with. I glance at my watch. Ari's had her five minutes, and it's been two hours since my last beer. I take another oxycodone, and go looking for my halfbrother. I didn't dress this way to see the show. There were as many straights as gays in the audience. I dressed this way to get into the big party backstage, where ten guys make passes at me and two of them pinch my butt before I find Dylan's dressing room door. I knock. Enter, of your own will, says someone inside. He's there, and so is someone else. I've interrupted something. I take off my sunglasses. He stares at me. The recognition is immediate. Go, he says to his companion, who closes the door behind us. He hasn't got his costume on, but I'm still in mine. It's the only thing that's protecting me. Dylan Erb, I say. Is dead, he says. Long live Eliza. I think we have the same father, I say. I fucking well hope not, he says. Biological father, I say. He stares at me for some time. That's obvious, he says. Did you at least look like the guy in your house? I used to think so, I say. Henry recognized you, he says. Took off like a rocket. What's her real name? I say. His real name is Henry, he says. And I've never asked about the one that was thrust upon him. Real names are magic, and you never want to lose the magic. Who is our father? I say. Do you know? Not a clue, he says. I'm looking for him, I say. I'd like to meet him, too, he says. If I had the cash, I'd track him down. Guess you have the cash. Yeah, I say. I've got the cash. We'll all have the cash if it works out like I think it will. You have an idea of who it is? he says. Oh yes, I say. You think this is funny? he says. No, I say. Why? The look on your face, he says. It's all so fucking ridiculous, I say. I always wanted a brother when I was small. And I suppose I'm not the kind of brother you wanted, he says. I don't know what kind of brother I wanted, I say. I never had one. I had three, he says. It's not so great. Still, I say. There's more to you than meets the eye, he says. There a look of recognition in his eyes again. You're Robin, he says. Oh fuck, I'm Robin's brother. I laugh, I can't stop myself. He joins in. He has a rich laugh, deeper than I would expect, not girlish at all. Oh my, he says. I don't know what came over me. It's all so fucking ridiculous, I say. Why would you think I was Robin? It was a joke, he says. Oh, I say. They're popular around here, he says. Popular, I say. Last Hallowe'en, half the people at the party here came dressed as them. Dressed as them, I say. Batman and the Boy Wonder, he says. Not me though. I came as Batgirl. Batgirl, I say. Man, you need to go home and get some sleep, he says. Sleep, I say. Here's my number, he says. Call me sometime, when you're less out of it. Call me when you know, or if you decide to give up on it. Give up on it, I say. Might not be a bad idea, he says. *** Saturday, June 2 *** I drive back to the school, and only go through two red lights on the way. I make a mental note: wait more than an hour after drinking before taking an oxycodone. My head is clearer now, and I can tell because the headache's coming back. Bruce would beat me senseless if he knew I was driving a car with my head like this. I should go and see Leslie Tomkins, but she won't be in until Monday so I'll wait. This seems to be the most sensible thing to do. I stash the car in the usual place, and hope that Alfred really is away for the weekend. I have to go in through the steam tunnels, since I gave the easier way in away to someone I know I can't trust, even if he's afraid I'll come after him wearing a star-spangled bustier. I have a note, two e-mails, and fifteen phone messages waiting for me when I get back to my room. The note is from Buzz, saying that he's going to be away for the weekend. He leaves a number, in case I need anything. There's an e-mail from Oracle, asking me to call her as soon as I can. There's an e-mail from Steph, telling me not to call Babs but to come over to her place right away. The phone messages are from Ari. The first one asks me to call back when I can. So does the second. She's crying during the third one, and the fourth. It's so long since I've seen her. I call the number she's left. Don't let him know, please don't let him know, is the first thing she says as she answers the phone. Who? I asked. Uncle Vari, she says. Shit. Her uncle Vari used to tell me about how the world ought to be. His stock speech on gays usually began with the statement In some things, Hitler was right and it would get worse from there. I just have to do it, she says. I'm not a queer. I just need to do it. Need to do what? I say. Sing, she says. Dressed like a man? I say. You took me there, she says. Then it hits me. I did take her there. Ives and Hudson decided to go, before they came out, and they invited us along. She said she had a really good time. Why the fuck could she never be honest about what she means? I don't really care, I say. I mean, it doesn't matter to me what you do. My uncle thinks I'm doing a second shift, I say. I'm not going to tell anyone, I say. He'll kill me, she says. He won't, I say. Yes he will, she howls. He'll throw me out of the house. They'll disown me. You don't know that, I say. Yes I do, she says. They love you, I say. They're not my parents, she says. I can't think of anything to say to that. If you don't tell them, I won't tell your father, she says. Shit. That's all I need. My father knows, I say. Not about all of it, she says. All of what? I say. You know, she says. Now I'm starting to sweat. It has to be the oxycodone. She couldn't know. I won't tell, I say. You know I'd do nothing to hurt you. She starts crying again, and it's a long time before I can hang up the phone. I page through the rest of the messages, but the last one isn't from her. Need see you. Cave. Tonight. Alone. It's from Batgirl. I call Steph. She tells me to come over, NOW. I go. My head's cleared enough that I can drive properly but the headache is back and it's killing me. She's waiting for me at the door. She's been out on patrol, and she hasn't showered yet. She's wearing the costume under her dressing gown. Where's your mom? I say. Night shift, she says. Looks like you had one too, I say. Been following someone around, she says. On your own time, I say. Yeah, she says. Bruce won't like that, I say. Bruce doesn't like drunk drivers, she says. She puts a hand on my forehead and frowns. You look like shit, she says. So everyone keeps telling me, I say. You need to drop this, she says. Like, now. Drop what? I say. Your dad's gone back home, and everything's peachy, she says. Everything except you. They keep calling me, asking where you're at and why you don't phone back. I can't believe you followed me, I say. You're falling apart, she says. Didn't think it could happen to you. You know what's going on? I say. Dana told me, she says. No, I say. Bruce told you. How much do you know? That your dad shoots blanks, she says. Bruce didn't tell you all of it, did he? I say. No, she says. He didn't. He didn't tell you who my real father is, did he? I say. No, she says. He didn't. Bruce looked into every aspect of my medical history when he took me on. She's lying to me. Tim? she says. Go home. Come talk to me about it tomorrow. I'll be here all day. Don't get angry when you're in a fight. Bruce always tells me that. Fuck you, dad. What would you do if you found out the Cluemaster wasn't really your father? I say. He is, she says. My mom nailed him with a paternity test right after I was born. That's how they got hitched. At least your dad isn't an asshole. How would you know, I say. He went back home, she says. Back to Wayne Manor? I say. To your house, she says. She's hitting below the belt. She's always been as good with her tongue as she was with her right, but I'm pretty good with my right, too. What about your son? I say. Son? she says. Or your daughter, I say. Whatever. Your kid. You said my son, she says. You don't know a thing about him, I say. You never asked. Asshole, she says. How can you come down all high and mighty on me when you can't even face the consequences of your own actions? I say. I know one thing about my kid, she says. That he left the hospital alive? I say. That my kid still lives, she says. That he's safe. You can't know that, I say. You didn't want to know. You know why I let Old Tall, Dark, and Scary take me on? she says. I'll never know why he took you in, I say. I thought you went for it because he made you all hot and bothered. Oracle, she says. He scares me shitless but she watches over my son. She watches over him, and if he isn't safe, if he isn't looked after, she'll tell me and we'll take care of it. I couldn't bear to know any more, Tim. Steph, I say. I couldn't bear to know more because if I kept thinking about it I'd go nuts and do something really stupid, OK? she says. There are things you shouldn't know because they'll rip you apart. You can only be so strong. Steph, I'm sorry, I say. It can't be undone, she says. I have a son. I have a little boy. She breaks down. I should go to her. I should hold her, let her know how fucking sorry I am, but then she wins. She knows something, and she's not telling me. Tell me what you know, I say. No, she says. I hurt you, I say. Hurt me back. My kid's dad is Karl Ranck, she says. What? I say. Karl, she says. Ranck. He got capped in your school. You went to his funeral. You told the cops where to find his killer's corpse. You fucking liar, I say. You were all over me, every time I saw you. You were at that funeral and you were flirting with his friends. You didn't fucking shed a tear for him. I didn't shed a tear for him because I didn't love him and he could be a real asshole, she says. I was flirting with his friends to get the goods on the guys who shot him. He had a girlfriend, I say. His girlfriend didn't know, she says. Neither did you. Why would you want to fuck Karl Ranck? I say. Because he was hot, she says. Because he knew how to give a girl something she wasn't getting from the boy she really wanted. Who was? I say. You can be so fucking stupid, she says. And so can I. It was the best fuck I've ever had, and I just keep on paying for it. But if it was his kid, why didn't you tell anyone? I say. The Rancks are rich. You could have kept the baby. Duh! she says. Look around, Boy Wonder. See this house? Two bedrooms, one bathroom. You ever been in another place like this when you weren't kicking the shit out of the people who lived there? You think the Rancks would take in poor old Stephanie Brown and her ex-addict Mom? They'd have their lawyers prove I was an unfit mother just by making me say 'garbage' and 'welfare' and 'the rain in Spain falls mainly on the plain' to the judge. We got the food stamp cheese in the fridge, but we buy real expensive stuff like Cheez Whiz to give to you when you come over. Get it? Oh Steph, I say. Go, she says. Go home. Go to bed. Sleep it off. Come back tomorrow after you talk to your Dad. So you want me to go to Wayne Manor right now, I say. Don't, she says. Just don't. Why not, I say. I need to know. Drop it, she says. Please. Didn't I hurt you enough? I HAVE TO FUCKING KNOW, I say. No. I don't say it, I scream it. I can hear the glass in the light fixture resonating in time with the pulsebeat in my head. Please, she whispers. I can't look away from her eyes. They're so blue. It's always fucking like this. My father said we shouldn't get close, not without the masks on. She's sitting on the loveseat, with her head in her hands. I kneel down beside her, and pry her hands aside. She's not crying, but she's really upset. I'm not. I've got the advantage back and she knows something she's not telling me. She draws me in. We kiss. She still tastes sour. It doesn't matter. This time, it will work. This time, nothing will go wrong. This time we'll break through and go all the way. We'll go all the way and she'll tell me what I want to know. She pulls me down on top of her. I slide my hand around under her waist. The loveseat is too short even for us. My back is arched in a really uncomfortable way. Our heads come together too fast, and I knock her bridge loose with my teeth. She lost her two front teeth when her father hit her across the face with a 2-by-4. He's in a wheelchair now. What the fuck am I doing? Thorry, she says, tossing the bridge into the fruit bowl on the coffee table. She starts kissing me again. I never know what to do with my tongue in her mouth. It isn't like Ari's. Shit. But she knows something. I start stroking her. My pants are starting to castrate me. She moans, but it sounds like pain. Bruthe, she says. What? I say. I haff a bruthe, she says. She slips the costume down, over those perfect breasts. One side of her back is black and mottled green. Bruise, I say. Yeah, she says. Been hard at work when I wathn't chathing you. We kiss again, and I feel it coming. It's going to work. She peels my shirt off, breaking off the kiss only for a moment. I run my hand across her breasts. They are so soft. My hand goes further. I have to open my fly before my hard-on kills me. Yeth, she says. Oh yeth. She sets her hand to work down below. Tho hard, she says. It's gone. The magic. It's gone. All I can think of is that she said this to Karl fucking Ranck. I don't stop. Instead, I push her costume down further. Wait, she says. She reaches behind the loveseat somewhere and fishes out a condom. The thought that she has a bowlful there, waiting for anyone who comes along, makes me even angrier. Still, she started this. We get it on, then we get it on. I'm in her, now, I'm shoving it in her, I'm shoving it in, shoving it, shoving it, she's going to tell me everything. She pushes me off, and buries her head in her hands again. Thtop, she says. Thtop. What? I say. Hurth, she says. Your back, I say. Down there, she says. Just like all the other times. Just like all the fucking other fucking times. What did the doctor say? I ask. She dothn't know, she says. Not an infecthun. She takes the bridge from the fruit bowl and fits it back into her mouth. So it's in your head, I say. She looks at me, and I have to look away. Why did we even try, I say. Please, she says. Drop it. Go home to your dad and Dana and Dylan. I take her by the shoulders, pushing her into the cushions. Drop it? I say. Is that what this is all about? You thought I was going to drop this if you let me fuck you? Is that it? You think I'm going to tell you anything if I let you fuck me? she says. I can't look at her. My head feels like shit. I hear her slipping back into her costume. Bruce said we shouldn't, she says. Why didn't I listen? He said that to me too, I say. Why did he say we shouldn't? Said it would never work out, she says. Yeah, I say. You know what the sickest part of all this is? she says. No, I say. I still dream about you, she says. I still love you. Even with all this shit, you're the only one I've ever loved. I love you, too, I say. I'm lying. It's not true. Once, I'd have thrown myself in front of a bullet meant for her. Now, now she's just someone in my way, who's in love with her dream of me, but I'm not in love with my dream of her. Once again, I win the race, I get somewhere before she does. Lucky me. Pretty fucking pathetic, huh? she says. All I want to know is the truth, I say. No you don't, she says. I have to know the truth, I say. Do you think it hurt when I did it with Kurt? she says. Did it? I say. I could tell you, she says. Would you believe me? I can't answer her. Go home, she says. Talk to your dad. Get some sleep. Sure, I say. Really? she says. Trust me, I say. I drive back to the school. I don't stop by at home. After all, it's 4:30 in the morning. I make my second trip through the steam tunnels. In my room, I crash on the bed, my head pounding. Steph doesn't want me to confirm what I know already, because she'll lose everything she's got with Bruce. After all, she's not his daughter. That makes sense. The part that still doesn't make sense is why Bruce hasn't told me. He has to know who I am, who we are, but he's never mentioned Dylan or any of the others, not once. I can't see him being embarrassed, I can't see him being ashamed, but most of all I can't understand why he would do it in the first place. Vanity? Doesn't fit. Genetically determined need to reproduce? As if he couldn't overcome that by sheer will-power. I have no idea what he does to get off, but the thought of him jerking off into a test tube has me over the side of the bed and rolling on the floor, laughing, as silently as I can. It hurts to hold it back, so they don't hear me outside. When it's over, I take off the t-shirt and the pants and stash them behind my desk. A shower is just too much effort, so I put on my pjs and take another oxycodone and flop back into bed. Bruce and a test tube. Shit. *** Saturday, June 2 (II) *** The Boy Wonder makes it through another day. I catch up on my assignments. No, I don't. I stare at them, and keep trying to figure out why Bruce isn't telling me. I study for my exams. No, I don't. They're in three weeks, and if I don't get As my scholarship to MIT gets flushed. I can probably string together some excuses and get it cleaned up during summer school, but that's going to piss everybody off. I have brunch and dinner in the dining hall with the other boys with no homes to go home to. No, I don't. I use up half my instant coffee supply instead. I've only had to take two oxycodones today. I phone my dad and tell him I'm coming home for dinner, and that all is forgiven. Phone my dad. Yeah, right. Which one? Tomorrow's going to be Monday, and Alfred's going to be back in the morning. He's going to haul me off to see Leslie and then Bruce will get away with this. The sun's gone down. I've been sitting here at my desk for six hours. Maybe I'll think better in the dark. I reach for the light switch. Then I feel the hand on my shoulder. It all comes together. I'm off the chair and up in the air and 180ing to land in a crouch on my desk, hands in a defensive position, head pounding. I knew it couldn't be Wesley or Alfred or Steph. They're not so silent. I knew from the size of the hand that it couldn't be Bruce. Instead, it's her. She's in her suit, that fucking mask still on. Didn't come, she croaks. Last night. I was busy, I say. What do you want? She goes to the window and closes it. She drops the blinds. Somehow, she manages to do it without making a sound. My desk light only has a 40 Watt bulb, and I can barely make her out in the gloom. She doesn't answer. She pulls her mask back over her head, then brushes the hair back from her eyes. Did he send you? I say. She shakes her head. She has a hundred different ways of shaking her head. This one seems to mean no, and something else. What do you want? I say. Don't like me, she croaks. She's staring at me. She stares and stares and stares. It's like going to Arkham. I've sometimes wondered if that's where she should be. I have to look away. No, I say. She takes my head in her hands. I tense up and draw back. What? I say. No lies, she says. That stare. But to see it, I must be staring back. It goes on for a long time. Staring. I breathe. She breathes. Her leathers give off little creaks and sighs. I forgot, I finally say. Who you are, she says. I don't know who I am, I say. Knew, she says. Forgot. Never knew, I say. Forgot, she says. I DON'T KNOW! I say. No, I yell it. Shut up, Drake, someone shouts from down below, but no one comes up the stairs. Know, she says. Who knows? I say. She points, straight to her heart. How could you? I say. How could someone like you know? My tongue's become a switchblade, slashing the faces of everyone near me. I can't look at her, can't see the reaction. She takes my head in her hard, tiny hands again. She can turn my head, but not my eyes. Look, she says, and I look. There is no rage in her features, no sadness, no blood. Her eyes are clear white around near black holes, staring at me, drilling into me, telling me nothing. I can't see, I say. Then I become aware of her hand, slowly making its way down my face, along my neck, my collarbone, down, further, down, all the way to where I've gotten really, really hard. No, I say, but I can't look away. She draws me closer. She tastes good, oh so good. Her hand wraps around my back, and she brings me in tight, and it's too much, her taste, her tongue, the feel of her hardness against me, and mine against hers, the soft creak of the leather, my mouth melting into hers. We're not on the bed, it would make a sound. Instead we're on the floor, on the part that's above the utility room on the third floor and not above Kingsley's room, but he's away until Tuesday anyway, and I know the same thing went through her mind, only before, and I think she planned this just like I did with Steph, but now she's somehow got my t-shirt off and she's on me, all soft leather, and our mouths... It goes on for some time. I know because she came in at sunset, just after 8, and when she leaves it is 11. She leaves me on the floor, exhausted and soaking, climbing back into her suit in her mask in one fluid gesture. I am spent, worn through. I know that the whole time, we barely made a sound. I feel the tears coming. It wasn't supposed to be like this, and not with her, but it was, it was, and I know I'll never feel anything like it again unless I give up like she's going to ask me to, and I can't. She crouches down beside me, and lifts my head. The mask stares back at me. She picks up my t-shirt and wipes my cheeks. Still not understand, she says, and puts something in my hand. It feels like glass. Two glass tubes, filled with blood. One is marked Control [X] and the other is marked Treatment [BW]. Thank you, I say to an empty room. I have the four condoms that I didn't even feel her put on me flushed away and the room aired out by midnight. The headache doesn't come back in the morning, and I get just enough work done to make it look like I've been keeping up. I phone my old home and don't give anything away, only telling them that I'm coming next Saturday with some important news. I manage to tell just enough lies to Alfred so that I make an undetected trip to the post office before breakfast on Monday morning. *** Thursday, June 7 *** His house is cold, dark, and empty at the best of times. Even the cave feels brighter and more of a home. I can barely work the key in the lock. In the foyer, I can see the glow of firelight from his father's study. I told him I was coming, and he's waiting for me. He's sitting in a very large black leather armchair, wearing a black pullover and black pants and black shoes. He doesn't look at me, just stares into the fire, swirling a brandy snifter on one hand. From the smell in the room, it has brandy in it. He's done it to rattle me. You want an explanation, he says. He slurs the last word, almost imperceptibly. All my questions are gone in an instant, and now I'm scared. Very, very scared. It's medicinal, he says. My father kept a bottle in here for medical uses, and to remind himself of what killed his father. Why, I say. It's complicated, he says. Tell me, I say. You've seen this book, he says. He's pointing to an old copy of Statistical Methods for Research Workers by Fisher. He had me read it when I began working with him. It explains the correct methods for setting up an experiment and extracting information from it, he says. Do you what isn't in it? No, I say. He takes a drink from the snifter. Not a sip, a mouthful. Ethics, he says. There's no chapter on ethics. Experiments. Treatments. Controls. Medical ethics. Oh God. Fisher invented much of modern statistics, he says. He and his colleagues and his predecessors developed the basis of all of modern genetics on the basis of work with plants and livestock. It wasn't too much of a stretch for them to extend the same ideas to people. He takes another drink. They were working a hundred years ago, he says. Their grandparents rode in the first steam locomotives and steamships, and they saw the invention of the automobile and the development of the first antibiotics during their lifetimes. They saw themselves and others rise from obscurity to challenge the power of the nobility in that class-ridden society, and they were the intellectual leaders of a society that came to rule a quarter of the world. They knew the fragility of their creation, and they believed that we too could be improved, if only the bad traits could be weeded out. He doesn't turn to look at me. One of those traits was Downs Syndrome, he says. It was identifiable, and those who suffered from it weren't in any shape to rule anything. It was clearly inherited, and so they reasoned that the best thing for society would be if all Downs children were sterilized. In his charity work for Gotham City hospital, my father carried out over a hundred of these sterilizations on adolescents in the Retardation ward at Arkham. He drew the line at Down's Syndrome, but many others did not. Until 1953, no inmate in the psychotic ward left intact. He never takes his eyes off the fire. It was supposed to be for our own good, he says. For the good of all society. He even practiced this at home. Breeding, I say. I have his diaries, he says. He was engaged to two other women before my mother. He didn't marry the first because her father was an alcoholic and a known philanderer, and he didn't marry Leslie Tomkins because she had a brother who had Down's Syndrome. My mother's family was clear of any taint, all successful athletes and business people, no inbreeding that he could determine. He wanted to be sure of his heir. And you thought you had the right to do the same thing, I say. Nothing gives me the right to do anything, he says. Nothing but the dreadful certainties that they taught me. The snifter explodes. I'm out of the chair. STAY, he says, not turning to look at me. He throws the remains of the snifter into the fire. With his uninjured hand, he starts picking some of the larger pieces of crystal out of the flesh and throws them into the flames. He takes a handkerchief from his pocket and wipes away some of the blood, then wraps his hand in it. He does this all without turning once to look at me. Why, I say. All through my life, he says. I was brought up to believe that certain things were meant to be. I have dedicated every aspect of my life to some of these things and discarded others, but some I could never fully get rid of. Before my parents were murdered, I never spoke to a child outside my class, a child who didn't live in a house that could not be maintained without servants. When I did meet other children, I found it difficult how to imagine how they could live in houses so small, so bereft of beauty, and I came to believe it didn't really matter. I began to question the unspoken assumption that had underlaid my life until then: that I deserved what I possessed because of my ancestry. Most of my parent's friends and their children believed it, that they were born to be masters, that superiority was in the blood. I knew that it was not true, but could not convince myself of it fully. I needed to know, with objective certainty, that it did not matter, that killing the worst would not in some way make things better. Killing the worst, I say. I only had to look at German history to see how it could go wrong, he said. But it was so tempting. If I could play judge, jury, and enforcer on crime in this city, why not executioner? Some of them would kill and maim and steal over and over again, no matter how many times I locked them up. If they had children, would they grow up to be murderers and rapists and destroyers of the lives of others? Stephanie, I say. One case, one anecdote, he says. Himmler was always complaining about how Nazi party members always had a few Jews that they wanted to save from the ovens. No, anecdotal information can only go so far. What I needed was an experiment, an experiment that would show me that it wasn't in the blood, that it was what happened afterward that mattered. But we see that every fucking day, I say. But are we fully objective? he says. Unless we believe that we can selflessly determine guilt and innocence and act upon it with more efficiency than do the courts and the police, how can we be anything better than those who believe that they have the right to take a life for their God, or the voices in their head, or because it will make them feel better about themselves? There is a difference, I say. Explain it to me, he says. I want to, I want to explain the instinct, the one that tells me who to hit, the one that sees the signs of innocence that others can't see, the one that's led me here. I just know, I say. I met Evan Hamilton at a Wayne Industries function several years before your birth, he says. It was the premiere of a film, Trading Places. I'm sure you've heard of it. In vitro fertilization had just become possible then, and Evan was hired to provide the service at the hospital whose records you so cleverly found. It was a difficult time in my life, a period of great internal moral conflict. He asked me if I wanted to donate, as a joke, but then we began to discuss how much we hated the idea that it was all in the blood, how ridiculous it was, how little concrete evidence there was against it. No, I say. You were one of the children in our experiment, he says. We provided fertilizations free to 100 of the first 1000 to sign up for it, and we were able to select 5 families at random from four strata based on economic and social class. I provided funds and genetic material, and Evan looked after everything else. I was told nothing else of the experiment, and would learn nothing until the day that the last of the children turned 18. Then who was my father? I say. Evan selected him, he says. I asked Evan to choose a man of no qualities, neither intelligent nor stupid, neither rich nor poor, neither criminal nor saint. The man he chose is your father and the father of nine others. Dylan's father, I say. No, he says. He is no relation to you. He is my biological son. You know who they are now, I say. You found out after the Joker killed him. That is true, he says. You know Dylan has no money, I say. You know Janey Warbeck ran away from home, and no-one knows where she is. Do you know where she is? She was working the streets near the bus station in Omaha, he says. Now she's in rehab and care. She is your half-sister. And you let this happen, I say. It was part of the experiment, he says. I had to interfere as little as possible. I couldn't watch them all the time. You fucking son of a bitch, I say. Do you know now? Is it in the blood? I don't know anything, he says. I needed to stay objective. I didn't even know who the other donor was. It wasn't in the notes. I trusted Evan, and he betrayed me. He still hasn't looked at me. Instead, he keeps twisting his impromptu bandage tighter and tighter. Look at me, I say. He doesn't turn. You know who the donor is, I say. Yes, he says. Don't ask me. Tell me, I say. You were the proof, he says. The perfect proof that it didn't matter. The proof that I was right all along, that my judgment was sound. Look me in the eye and tell me who my father was, I say. He doesn't look me in the eye. He only manages a slight turn of his head, just close enough that I can see a patch of glistening skin on his cheek. Tell me, I say. He turns his head away again. I'll make Stephanie tell me, I say. He shudders. I can see the whole chair shake. Then, he tells me who my father is. *** I've been walking for hours in the darkness. My head really fucking hurts. It's not too dark, there's a full moon, so I can see where I'm going. There's not much out here, just grasslands. They're part of a county refuge. No-one developed them because of pollution from the steel mills and because the mob used to bury people here that they didn't want found. I found my father. They were waiting for me. They have a room set up, with a glass partition that will separate me from him. I tell them I have to see him up close. They aren't too happy about that, and I get the lecture about how I have to stand at least twelve feet away, out of spitting range. The room is painted pink. There is a table and five chairs, all steel and bolted to the floor. They wheel my father in, bound in a straightjacket, suspended by cables from a frame. They won't take off the surgical mask. I make them wait outside. I stare into his eyes. They're green, not brown like my own, but they have the same shape. His hair, if black not green and clean and cut, would not be unlike my own. It has the same wave to it. The nose, what I can see of it, is similar in shape, but a bit longer, and the only way I will see all of it is to take off the mask. They knew it was him. No. Bruce never knew, not until I started asking questions and Stephanie told him. She's his apprentice now not because she's careful in the field, but because she's careful and sneaky and clever in other ways and because she found out. She found me out four weeks after she met me because I called her from home and she had caller ID. She told him that she'd collected hairs from my car, and hairs from me. She talked her biology teacher into taking her on as a student lab tech in spite of her straight C grades, and she used their donated piece-of-shit gene sequencer to compare the results with samples she filched from the Wayne Medical Centre lab when she was working there. They had a vial of Bruce Wayne's blood in the back of a freezer, from one of the many times that Bruce was injured out of costume pretending not to know how to fight. She found out from a city directory that my house was next to Wayne Manor. She confronted him with the blots, and he gave in and took her on. He let her do the sequencing for our work, and one night she ran my blood against our file samples, just for fun. She didn't tell Bruce what she found. She didn't tell me. She knew for almost a year and she didn't tell me. I undo the surgical mask. The meadows are pleasant here, long stretches of them. You can walk for miles and not see a soul. The mask is soaked with drool. The meds never work. Nothing they tried has ever worked. I make my way back along the wall, staying at least twelve feet from his mouth as I've been told to. I think I left my staff back there, somewhere, when I slipped and fell on the bank of the creek. My fucking head hurts. I had two oxycodones left and I've taken both of them. His skin is paler than my own, not unscarred but just as unblemished. His face is longer, but the relative positions of eyes, nose, and mouth are also remarkably similar. He works his mouth from side to side, then lets loose a jet a of spit that lands just in front of my foot. I like to hunt Robins, he says. I like to use a crowbar and dynamite. It's messy but it's more fun that way. There are aspects to his face that are different from mine. After all, he's only half of me. What have I done now? he says. He sounds like he's half asleep, but his spitting is too accurate, or maybe he was accurate only by chance. He's the master of messing with people's heads. Why am I asking the questions? he says. Don't you want to know where I buried the loot? Don't you want to know what I'm going to do next, after I get out of here? It's all planned, all planned in my head, it's all in here and I'm not letting it out. He goes on for some time, but the more I look, the more I see. You know, staring is what they lock people up for in here, he says. Almost everyone in here is perfectly healthy, except that they like to stare at other people, and so they get locked away. The odd thing is, he's not raving as he says it, not screaming, not over-inflecting. It strikes me that I've never heard his real voice before. What do you want, son? he says. It's a turn of phrase. It has to be. Evan Hamilton, I say. Who? he says. You killed him, I say. So? he says. Ten years ago, on Christmas Eve, I say. That was a good one, he says. Is this twenty questions? He was a doctor, I say. What kind of doctor? he says. Hm. Fifteen questions left. I think I'm going to win. A doctor in the fertility clinic at Wayne Medical Centre, I say. Guess I'm not going to win, he says. Why did you kill him? I say. Oh, there was no-one specific I wanted to kill in that little event, he says. I had more of a holiday theme in mind. All those people just happened to make a really bad decision about which day to fly on. Oh, I say. That's not the question that you really want to ask me, is it? he says. He titters, though not loud enough to be heard outside. No, I say. I can't take my eyes off him. He's staring at me, deep in thought. You didn't put your mask on properly, he says. It's leaking. I want to take the mask off. I want him to be able to look me in the eyes. I can barely make him out through the tears as he goes on staring, but then I see the light of recognition come into his eyes. Cuckoo, he says, and his face splits into that grin. Cuckoo, cuckoo, CUCKOO! he screams. It's four o'clock in the morning. Do you know where your children are? He starts to laugh his laugh. They come running. Oh shit, says the doctor, I told you not to get too close. We've got the anti-venin right here. My face hurts. The doctor thinks my father spat on me and hit me with the smile venom. My father didn't have to do a thing, it was in me from the start. If they hit me with the anti-venin, I'll go into shock and they'll take what's left of my mask away. The doctor is coming at me with the needle. I take him down with my staff, and I'm out of there. Out through the service entrance, out across the grounds, out into the woods. The guards are as useless as they always are, and I lose them in ten minutes, and then I walk and I walk and I keep walking and I can't stop thinking about my three fathers. My first father sent me off to school because he loved me and cared for me and thought I was going off the rails. My first father sent me off to school so he could fuck a kid eight years older than I am and get it right this time. My second father was everything I ever dreamed of being, a man I loved and practically worshipped. My second father saw a movie with Dan Aykroyd in it and decided to play God with my whole fucking life. I don't know how Hamilton got it out of him, but my third father gave me half of everything innate within me. He gave me my lighting-fast mind. My third father is a psychotic mass murderer who killed the Robin before me and thousands of others. Bruce said he was chosen because Hamilton thought that there wouldn't be a statistically significant paternity effect unless the other father was the polar opposite of good old chaste, noble, selfless, morally upstanding Bruce Wayne. The whole experiment was fucked from start to finish. It's so fucking ridiculous. Heh. Heh. Heh. 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I'm breathing so hard, and it's all ruined, all gone. Everything. Everything except her. She's standing three feet away, staring at me. She's dressed in a black shirt, black pants, black shoes, black watchcap. She has my staff and my mask in one hand. She places them on the ground and kneels next to me. All gone, I say. She shakes her head. Everything ruined, I say. She shakes her head. Everything in my life is a lie, I say, and feel the laughter that killed my father's soul rising from within again. She puts her finger to my lips, and it's gone. The laugh, the terrible pain in my head. Not everything, she says. How can I tell? I say. I feel her touch my forehead, then my chest. How can I trust it? I say. My father is that thing. She shakes her head, but this time it looks more like frustration. She points to her heart. Trust, she says. She points to my heart. I am staring into her eyes as she says it. How can she know? How can someone that damaged know? She can't know, and neither can I. She lifts my left arm from the grass. She points to my hand. Missing, she says. Missing, I say. Not whole, she says. She shows me her right hand. Missing, she says. She places her hand in mine, and locks the fingers together. I try to pull away. She locks my hand in hers. No, I say. She nods. I'm the Joker's son, I say. So? she says. She places her other hand over ours. I reach up with my free hand to make her let go, but then place it over hers. Need us, she says. Need you. I sit, up, and look into her eyes. Need you too, I say. We stay sitting, side by side, hands held together, until the sun begins to rise over the derelict cranes of Gotham Harbour. FIN