You Know My Name: A Tale of Gotham Nights

[Themightytom]

As long as clones are not involved, it will be awesome.

[FaxModem1]

Just started reading this today. Such a good read. Around what time does this take place in DC continuity, before or after Crisis and all that?

[Publius]

Chapter Six: Suspicious Minds

Night fell in Gotham City to the sound of the city's millions taking a deep breath. Chthonic terrors that lurked deep within man's collective psyche elsewhere were much closer to the surface in Gotham; the perennial suggestion for the city's official motto was "Here there be monsters." Not to say that night was a symphony of horrors for all who called Gotham home; by no means. Some monsters donned top hats and tail coats, and traded their seedy lairs for exclusive clubs. There were many such monsters in Gotham City; first and foremost among them was their emperor, the Penguin.

As he stood at the soundproof two-way mirror that separated the VIP room of the Iceberg Lounge from the main room, the aristocrat of crime savored the moment — and the view. His guests included some of the oldest and most respected names in the state; judges, city councilmen, men of affairs. It hadn't always been this way. Their kind — the athletic, handsome sons of old money — had belittled him, sneered at him, practiced their petty little jokes at his expense. And why not? What had they to fear from the fat, awkward boy with the aquiline nose? As though a Cobblepot would forget such insults. He descended from the bluest blood — the Cobblepots of Oxfordshire had money older than most of the countries in Europe. How many of his boarding school fellows were third in line to a dukedom? How many of them could boast of a lineage that included men like Field Marshal Sir Oswald Spencer-Cobblepot VC?

But the cretins had paid no mind to that. Well, that was all right. Let them sneer. Vengeance was his; he would see to that. As Sulla had once boasted, there was no friend or enemy whom he'd not repaid in full. Every valley exalted, every mountain laid low. Now he was here, one of the wealthiest and most powerful men in Gotham, to whom the elite of the city paid court. And the pranksters from school? Dead, every one of them. If you had to go — well, go with a smile.

"Is he coming or not?" There was a distinctive scrape of skin against metal as the coin went flying into the air. Heads or tails? Virgin or whore?

"Really, Harvey, must you persist in that incessant flipping?"

"Are you really asking me that, Pengers?"

"I've told you not to call me that," he growled, turning around. Honestly, the man could be insufferable sometimes.

"Have you? Have you told me that as many times as I've told you not to call me Harvey?" Two-Face sat in one of the room's luxurious leather chairs, nursing a glass of port with a hand-rolled cigar tucked between his index and thumb. "You didn't answer my question," he said, bringing the cigar up to the side of his mouth, on the still-handsome right side of his face. Once upon a time he'd been a good-looking man, a veritable Apollo. People had believed in Harvey Dent.

"Asking about it won't make it happen any faster," said the dark-skinned man standing by the window. In such colorful company, he was practically non-descript, dressed in an unremarkable if well-tailored white suit coat with a black collarless shirt. Ordinarily he wouldn't have been permitted to set foot in the Iceberg Lounge dressed like that, but he wasn't there as a guest. Somebody had to speak for the Great White Shark, to keep an eye on things on his behalf. So he had sent his best killer — after all, who better to mind the Ps and Qs than the Tally Man?

"He's a man of punctuality," said the Penguin. "If he said he's coming, he's coming."

"Pfeh." Given the mangled state of half of Two-Face's lips, the dismissive raspberry had a decidedly strange quality to it. "Forgive me if I don't share your confidence. It's nearly time, and there's neither hide nor hair of him."

"Nearly time," Tally Man began...

"But not yet," said the raspy voice of their visitor. "I am always on time, Two-Face. Not early, and not late."

"No, indeed," said the Penguin, smiling thinly at his pocket watch with the cigarette holder jutting from his teeth. "On time, precisely. Welcome, my friend. We have much to discuss...."


* * * * * * * *


"Things are gettin' out of hand." They were staring at one another from opposite ends of the conference room table, as though even sitting near one another were intolerable. They would have made an odd couple, anyway: The Ventriloquist and the jewel-eyed tsarovna.

"Nothing I can't handle," she said dismissively. "I am in complete control of my part of the outfit."

"Tell that to Gully Carson," snapped the dummy gangster. "He was one of our gest heistmen, and now we can't even find his head."

"Carson was freelance," Kosov retorted. "He wasn't family. He was only a henchmen." The business in Gotham had been pretty evenly split for a decade now between the made men of the crime mobs and the freelance henchmen of the freaks. Not everyone was in agreement where men like Arnold Wesker and his dummy Scarface belonged.

"The point stands, lady," Scarface said, jutting a hand in her direction. "We're losin' our gest field men, and it's getting harder to run the crews. The take is goin' down, it's goin' down hard, an' don't kid yerself — it's goin' down on yer side o' the line as much as mine."

"I don't hear any suggestions out of you, Scarface," Kosov said, feeling ridiculous. If only there were some way to have this conversation with her erstwhile partner without having to talk to this dummy... But there was no denying that, when he spoke in Scarface's voice, the Ventriloquist was a ruthless man.

"I told you already, ya dumb groad!" the dummy said, throwing up his hands in disgust. "This is the Long Halloween all over again. It's Holiday. Targetin' the outfit, real systematic-like. Goin' after the hinges so you can push just push the door down."

"Not that again." Kosov rolled her good eye. "Alberto Falcone is dead. And even if he weren't, the Odessa had no quarrel with the Roman, and neither did your family."

"Dead, huh? Do you have any idea how many times Rā's al-Ghūl's been 'dead'? Or Clayface? How 'bout Poison Ivy? Or even Joker's dame, Harley Quinn? Christ, lady, just last year they said Crime Doctor'd been offed!"

"I am not having this conversation with you again," she said, standing. "This is ridiculous. How can I trust you to run your half of this outfit when you're worrying about a man who's been dead fifteen years?"

"Uh, ma'am, I don't think — "

"Shaddup, you," Scarface growled, interrupting the Ventriloquist's timid attempt to speak. The puppet's head cocked to the side and regarded the Russian with what was surely in Wesker's mind a menacing glare. "Lady, you think I can't handle this job, you think you got the stones, gy all means, please start somethin'. You really think you can go ten rounds with Mohammed Scarface?"

"This is ridiculous," she repeated. "I am not arguing with a dummy."

"I got very little patience, toots," he said. "And yer treadin' on my last nerve."

The truce between Black Mask's top two deputies had been in steady decline almost from the moment it began. Between the Joker and Red Riding Hood, the outfit had taken a beating. As the body count rose, each was sizing up the other; with each outline drawn in chalk, Scarface and Kosov were revising their figures, recalculating the odds, each reviewing the latest estimate as to the other's strength. It was a deadly game they were playing, each coiled and ready to pounce once the pendulum swung just far enough.

To make things worse, the realignments following Black Mask's death had added to the instability. As each vied for power, the other bosses showed no hesitation in throwing their weight around. A key alliance with one of the big players could make or break Scarface's or Kosov's control of the whole outfit. All it might take was one meeting, and then the Penguin or the Great White or one of the others could tip the scale in their favor. And the pressure from the new contender, the Mullah, was getting harder and harder to ignore. Yes, it was a deadly game, indeed.


* * * * * * * *


"May I offer you some tea?" Jervis Tetch grinned benignly at his friends. Well, not truly friends, but friends of convenience. Pish tosh. A friend in need is a friend indeed, eh?

"Let's just skip to the point," one of them said. Impatient fellow, by the name of Lucky Jimmy O'Neill.

"Why the rush, my dear boy? Are you late, late, late? Have you got a very important date?"

"Look, Hatter, I can't say as I much like it here, either," said Little Italy, a mid-level professional hencher. "Can we get on with this?"

The Mad Hatter drew his teacup to his lips and took a sip of some very gratifying Earl Grey. "Of course, old sport, of course. To put it simply, fellows, it is a question of trust. Do you truly trust the poor, harried Mr. Wesker to keep you safe, boys? He's not been doing very well at it, I'm afraid. His half of the outfit has been hit hard."

"Scarface's done right by me," said Tony "The Knife" Burton, a defector capo from one of the Five Families. "I've got no love for the Russian, I'll tell you that."

"My dear boy, it's a brave new world," the Hatter smiled again. "Scarface can't protect you. With this new cape in town, it's protection you want. It's protection that I'm offering you."

"Protection? No offense, Hatter, but your protection hasn't done too well so far. Kosov's guys ain't exactly been safe lately, either."

"Pish, tosh. That was yesterday, my boy, today's a brand new day. The kid gloves are off, you see; Miss Kosov has brought in the big guns."

"Yeah? Who's she got? Bane? Mr. Freeze? Dr. Death?"

"Firefly? Mr. Zsazs? Shrike? Zeiss?"

The Mad Hatter grinned. "Me."

"You?" Lucky Jimmy snorted. "You? You gotta be joking."

The Cheshire grin widened. "My dear boy, I'm always serious about my work."

The Mad Hatter was not a large man. He stood around four feet and eight inches tall, weighed 149 pounds. He was hardly a threatening figure.

"Right. Ok. Fine." Lucky Jimmy stood. "You guys can stay here and waste your time with this freak. I got better things to do than listen to this crap. Yeah, sure. Mad Hatter's the big guns. What're you gonna do, offer Red Riding Hood tea? What can you do?"

The Mad Hatter's grin grew wider still, taking on what looked like impossible proportions. "What can I do? Ask not what I can do for you, my boy," he said, running his right hand along the brim of his oversized top hat, "But what you can do for me."

Lucky Jimmy began to tremble, and then trembling gave way to tremors. His face turned red. Slowly, mechanically, his reached forward to the table setting and retrieved a butter knife.

"Wha— What're you doing, O'Neill? Hatter, are you doing this?"

"I think our friend's incredulity demands an answer, don't you, friends? You'll be happy to know that I'm a team player, and I think we'll have a vote. Who here thinks our friend Mr. O'Neill should provide a demonstration of why I can protect you?"

The others looked at him, and looked at Lucky Jimmy's struggling against his own body. The butter knife was steadily coming closer and closer to his face, on what might be described as an intercept course.

"All right, friends," the Mad Hatter said, a Cheshire grin stretching from ear to ear as he doffed his hat in a mock-salute. "I think the eyes have it."

[Publius]

Just started reading this today. Such a good read. Around what time does this take place in DC continuity, before or after Crisis and all that?

This story takes place about one year after the "War Games" arc, supplanting the events of "One Year Later" in this particular hypertime line. The events of Identity Crisis and Infinite Crisis (in some form) more or less happened -- Tim makes an offhanded reference to the deaths of Superboy and Impulse -- , but not necessarily in the same fashion as in the 'New Earth' multiverse's version (e.g., Catwoman shot and killed Black Mask immediately prior to the OYL leap on New Earth, but this obviously did not happen in this time line; likewise the Tally Man's killing of the Ventriloquist).

[Publius]

Chapter Seven: A Hard Day's Night

Tim Drake rubbed his eyes tiredly. A glance at the clock told him he had better get to bed soon if he planned to get any sleep at all. Roofcrawling on a school night was one of the worst aspects of the cape-and-cowl gig. He indulged in a yawn and a stretch, and tenderly touched at the bump on his head from the brick Red Riding Hood had hit him with. Just once, he'd like to find a cape who reacted to him with even a little of the paralyzing fear the Batman inspired. Then again, he supposed it would be a bit more difficult for the Boy Wonder to inspire fear like the Dark Knight of Gotham, even after the costume change from early in his career.

At this Tim glanced over at the glass case. Well, he thought, if nothing else, at least I get to wear long pants.

It had been a long night. He'd spent a few hours on surveillance duty in the East End while waiting for the Hood to appear, and then there'd been the drawn-out encounter with Hush. While he'd been a relative lightweight in terms of scheming — nowhere near masterminds like the Riddler or the General or Rā's al-Ghūl —, Tommy Elliot had been a powerhouse in terms of pure physicality. Half an hour's worth of fisticuffs with him had taken more out of him than most nights of patrol did. Then there was the fact that he'd had to wait around for the police investigators to secure the scene, and then he'd had to sneak into the precinct evidence room and 'borrow' the wakizashi for analysis.

It had turned out that Red Riding Hood was a careful killer — he'd obviously worn gloves every single time he'd handled the wakizashi. Considering that the blade was liberally coated with tetrodotoxin, Tim couldn't exactly say this was a bad idea; even a minor cut could be dangerous, and there certainly wasn't anything like an antivenom. There were no identifying markings, nothing like a trademark or serial number. Traces of chemical cleaning; probably it had been bought on the black market and then carefully sterilized, removing any traces of former or current owners. Not much of a market for edged weapons like this; most skels wanted firepower. He'd have to check the database to see who in Gotham would carry such exotic merchandise, but his gut was saying it was one of the Penguin's black marketeers.

He decided he'd look into it tonight, and then groaned. He was already making plans for tonight, and he hadn't even been to bed yet. He still had to make it through Friday at school.

Unbidden, the thought came to mind that dating Stephanie had been impossibly lucky for him — where else would he find a girl who could actually deal with his schedule? He closed his eyes and tried to will this thought away. He didn't like to think about her. It still hurt too much. Concentrate on the work at hand. Thank God Bruce hadn't put up another glass case.

He'd found the Batarang he'd hit Red Riding Hood in the shoulder with. It had been discarded a few rooftops away from the scene of their fight with Hush. He could have sworn he'd seen it penetrate, but when he'd found it there were no traces of skin or blood on it — and analysis had revealed only traces of the Nomex/Kevlar armorweave the family used for their bodysuits. That was disappointing in the extreme. He'd hoped he'd be able to find something on it to check against the Bat-computer's extensive databases.

Unrewarding. A very long and frustrating night. And now he was going to have to come up with an excuse for the brick-related injury on the side of his head. He was pretty sure his pen pal out in Neptune never had to deal with this kind of thing. Why did crooks have to be both smart and dangerous? Why couldn't there be more pushovers like Killer Moth, or the Baffler, or the Condiment King? Just two months ago the worst menace he'd faced had been 'Abd-al-Führer ibn Clausewitz Freiherr von und zu Damaskus, an eyepatched-and-monocled Syrian Nazi warlord. Riding a donkey. No, seriously.

He rubbed his eyes again and looked back over the chart he'd been working on. If nothing else, at least he'd been right when he'd predicted the Masked Red Death's next hit. It had taken a lot of logarithm-crunching to mathematically confirm it, but he had predicted it. Much of the Mullah's meteoric rise (stupid phrase; meteors fall, he thought randomly) stemmed from his reputation for toughness and his ability to hurt whomever got in his way; he stood to lose more than the other bosses if it began to look like he couldn't keep his deputies alive. To some extent, his ability to put fear into his would-be rivals and enemies was key to his rapid success. Catwoman, after all, had put the fear of God into the Falcone family, and he'd given her a pretty brutal pummelling not seen since the Penguin's men had gotten hold of that comedian in '93.

The Mullah's rise to power was a pretty clear threat to both Scarface and Kosov; it remained to be seen how much longer the Black Mask syndicate would hold together under the strain, especially with Red Riding Hood taking out mid-level management on a weekly basis. To say nothing of the Joker. Apparently he'd firebombed Kosov's penthouse tonight while Tim had been busy with Hush and the Hood.

He heard the crunch of heavy black tires on the paved driveway leading into the Batcave, and looked up. The Batmobile was rigged for near-silent running ("Sound is the byproduct of bad design," Bruce was fond of saying), with bleeding-edge technology built into every square centimeter of its powerful engine. Looked like he'd taken the BM6 tonight; it was Tim's favorite, with its sleek lines and 1,200 horsepower jet engine. Dick still preferred the older BM3 hot rod design, but then, he'd been the one who'd designed the original Robin costume, yellow cape and green shorts and all. Sometimes Dick's sense of aesthetics left something to be desired.

There was a slight hiss as the air-tight seal on the cockpit broke and the windshield slid open, allowing the Batman to emerge. His uniform was in tatters — no mean feat, considering the strength of the N/K armorweave they used — and his face was smeared with soot and perspiration. He wore a fiercer scowl than usual, and he held a sealed evidence bag with a torn strip of cloth in it.

"I hate clowns," he said to no one in particular, peeling off his cowl. "What are you still doing awake?"

"I was doing — "

"I see that," he said shortly, then frowned. He looked worn out. "You need to get more sleep. It does you no good to work yourself sick."

If he appreciated the irony of his remark, he certainly gave no sign of it.

"How long has it been since you've slept even an hour at a stretch, Bruce?"

"Don't change the subject," he said shortly. He handed the evidence bag to Tim, who winced despite himself on seeing it was purple. "As long as you're up, run a scan on this. Joker was hiding out in the water treatment plant. See if there's any other chemical residue on his jacket."

"I take it you've been to Kosov's apartment?"

"I almost had him," Bruce said, anger etched clearly into his face. People who didn't really know Bruce thought he was an unforgiving martinet; they didn't realize that the man he held most responsible for things that went wrong around him was himself. "He'd brought a hostage with him. High school freshman. Pushed her out the window before I could cuff him."

Tim didn't ask if he'd rescued the girl. The fact that he was merely angry and not in a smoldering rage told him she'd survived. The Joker wasn't particularly picky about his murder victims, but he did have a tendency to target young females and children for his hostages. The man seemed to grasp that it had more of an emotional impact on males to see a girl threatened. Just like the Joker to understand enough about society and perceived gender roles to use it for the purposes of general mayhem.

"Where's Dick?" Tim was already setting up the equipment to do a full analysis of the cloth. Hm. Strange —

"Something came up. He had to respond to an emergency. Man-Bat was sighted in the vicinity of Tricorner."

Tim looked down at his hands. He was wearing a pair of disposable gloves. Well, of course. That was SOP — all evidence should be handled with gloves to avoid contamination, but it was especially important when dealing with the Joker. He had apparently built up an immunity to his own chemical agents, so he had been known from time to time to impregnate his clothes and effects with nasty surprises.

He was handling everything with gloves. No prints. Handling something possibly contaminated with a deadly toxin. Didn't he just leave this party?

Red Riding Hood was following the same SOP.

[Lonestar]

That just Tim's paranoia showing through?

[LadyTevar]

I think Tim's onto something.

[Publius]

Chapter Eight: Smooth Criminal

Long day at school. Kept catching himself dozing off at inappropriate times. In the middle of conversations. Nearly face-faulted into a bowl of soup at lunch. Strange, that — he didn't do that much anymore. His body had become accustomed to the long-term sleep deprivation that came as a side-effect of being a nocturnal crimefighting vigilante. If he was slipping back into non-clinical narcolepsy, it must mean he'd been putting far more time and energy into this case than he'd thought. Perhaps he had more in common with Bruce than he'd care to admit. At least Tim could remember to shave.

Tired. But nice to see a friendly face. The way she smiled — remarkable. The tiredness seemed to melt away. Long day. Well, that's all right; they had all night. Like magic, really; she made him feel alive. He loved her smile; more than anything, the way her smile filled her face. The gleam in those crystal-clear, beautiful blue eyes. He liked seeing her happy; it made him happy. A virtuous circle. Being with her was like being whole.

Funny, he thought, most people don't think sparring is romantic.

She was working on her aikidō, and definitely getting better at it. Well, she certainly ought to be. She'd been spending at least an hour sparring with Cass every day for the past three weeks; it almost made him blush to notice the... uh, how to put it delicately? firming... effect the rigorous workout had been having on her already trim figure. Not that he was looking. Really. It was just... kind of hard not to notice. Especially when she had him in a pretty good choke hold. Not aikidō, really, but a bit more her style. She seemed to like choke holds. Connor had made an off-color joke about it once. He'd pretended not to hear.

She was kind of distracted. Not that he blamed her; there was a case she'd been following lately, dealing with quite possibly the most formidable member of her modest but respectable (and slowly growing) rogues gallery. He'd made the mistake of snickering when she'd first mentioned the Abdominal Snowman to him. He'd heard about it for two months straight when she'd had to extract him from an ice cube following a chance encounter with the very same Abdominal Snowman. He'd felt pretty stupid when he'd discovered it hadn't even been a shipment of Incan gold; the box had been full of tacos for some reason. She'd tried to explain it once, but gave up when she realized not even she could tell that part of the story without laughing.

He'd offered to help track the Snowman down, but she was working on her sleuthing, and didn't want to cheat. Thing was, it meant she was distracted. And her grip was coming loose right... there.

A hip toss, and she was rolling to her feet. She'd gotten a lot faster at the recovery, true — but how many times had he tried to tell her to break that habit? She always rolled on her right shoulder after a hip toss. She said it was muscle memory from years of gymnastics. That may well be true, it made her predictable. It was never good to be predictable — he caught her with a leg sweep just as she was coming back to her feet. He always knew where she'd end up, he said (not for the first time). She always rolled on the right.

He reached down to help her up. She smiled as she took his hand... and before he knew it, he was on the ground. Chokehold. Again. She smiled and gave him a peck on the cheek. He always tried to be polite to girls. It made him predictable.

He grinned. Dick always said he grinned like an idiot around her. He didn't care. She was smiling. He was smiling. Life was beautiful. Her grip loosened. The chokehold was broken. She had a different kind of hold on him, anyway. It was funny, how people could embody such contrasts. Her fists felt like steel, but her lips —

Tim Drake awoke with a start. He screwed his eyes shut and his hands found their way to his face. His breaths came in long and slowly. If men cried, one might call it a silent kind of sob. Men didn't cry, of course. Not even for things like — No. He wanted none of that. None of that. He didn't think about that. Not when he was awake, not when he had a choice. His subconscious could betray him, remind him of what had... of what had once been. But not when he had a choice.

Perhaps he had more in common with Bruce than he'd care to admit.

The computer was blinking at him. He exhaled slowly, letting all the... memories... drift away. Focus on the work at hand. He examined the computer readout; he'd tasked the Cray with identifying possible sites for Red Riding Hood to have acquired tetrodotoxin. He was trying to put together a profile on the perp. The unglamorous side of working in the Batman family: Homework.

Item one. Red Riding Hood used shuriken. Oh, his shuriken were unremarkable, and not laced with tetrodotoxin. Three-pointed, but there was nothing terribly noteworthy about that. Trips were the most common arrangement found on the black market in the tristate; apparently they were a big hit with the local ninja community. There was still enough of a teenaged role-playing game geek in Tim to think it was awesome that he could refer to something like "the local ninja community" and be completely serious about it. Like the wakizashi, there were no prints on them anywhere. But the fact that he was using shuriken at all was useful enough; it indicated a certain level of training. It was surprisingly difficult to throw shuriken with any degree of accuracy. Most of Gotham's skels and a hefty fraction of the masks couldn't do it. The Joker threw razor-edged playing cards, but he was the only big name to really go for it consistently. There had been a case some time ago, however, in which Steph's dad the Cluemaster had worked with Dragoncat to train up street toughs into somewhat more capable heistmen. Dragoncat fancied himself a martial arts master; he might have resuscitated the crime school concept. Worth looking into, at least.

Item two. Red Riding Hood used a wakizashi. He'd already earmarked a few black-marketeers to check out for this somewhat more upscale weapon. He didn't do too much actual swordwork with it, at least not that Tim had seen so far. Enough to show he wasn't just swinging it like a baseball bat. Not enough to peg him as a swordsman, though. That was... unfortunate. Tim couldn't think of anyone that really fit that profile. Still, depending on what turned up on the black market, he might be able to determine if the wakizashi had been bought (which might give some indication as to the level of logistical support and networking he had) or stolen (which might indicate a lack of supply, or perhaps a background more on the larcenous end — if that were the case, he might check with sometimes-enemy, sometimes-ally Schrödinger's Catgirl to see if she knew any thieves that fit the profile).

Item three. Red Riding Hood was a gearhead. For starters, he wore a Nomex/Kevlar impact suit. That certainly pointed to a certain minimum level of logistics. An N/K bodysuit didn't necessarily have to be custom-made, but there was definitely some customization necessary to ensure a proper fit; all told, the suit typically cost somewhere in the neighborhood of $2,500 or more. If his cape were N/K armorweave too, that was probably around another $350. He had a grapnel gun, which meant he was using de-cel jumplines, which ran at around $40 per yard. Even without looking at the utility belt, he was looking at several grand in overhead. Financing of that kind either demanded a fair amount of theft or some kind of backing. Could theft explain the deliberate targeting of mafiosi? It seemed unlikely, given that (like Tim himself) the Masked Red Death used speed as a force-multiplier. Obviously he'd left the scene immediately when he'd had run-ins with Tim, so there was no theft going on there. He hadn't seen any indications that he was looting his victims when not interrupted by Robin the Boy Wonder, but then, it wasn't like the mob was going to report missing large sums of ill-gotten money.

Item four. Red Riding Hood was using tetrodotoxin. This perked up Tim's attention. Gotham killers, especially the ones with poisons as their M.O. — q.v. the Joker, Dr. Death, Poison Ivy, Gas Bag, etc. — usually went for something exotic. Well, tetrodotoxin was relatively exotic, he supposed. Everyone knew pufferfish could be deadly, even if they didn't know the name of the venom (of course, Tim thought of the blue-ringed octopus and Pfeffer's flamboyant cuttlefish first, having written a paper on them for his AP Biology class — that, and the fact that he'd once had a rather surprised blue-ringed octopus thrown at him). It displayed traits of preparedness (there was no known antivenom, ensuring that even a minor cut could be deadly) and a flair for the dramatic (using a more obscure venom where a better-known one would suffice hinted at a desire for distinctiveness, a desire to be noticed).

Item five. Red Riding Hood was systematic. He'd consistently had a clear escape route designated for each of his hits, and he'd taken steps to conceal his identity, confound pursuit, and cancel-out forensics. In short, as Tim had realized that morning, he'd been following the family's SOP. Part of that may have been simple paranoia — Tim was feeling pretty exhausted lately, and most skels knew to avoid leaving evidence like fingerprints. The Hood had been thorough, though; he'd not left any kind of identifiable evidence yet, including having taken the time to spray Tim's Batarang with some kind of chemical agent to erase any possible traces of skin or blood. And there was something unnerving about the Hood, something familiar that he couldn't really put his finger on... yet, anyway.

Item six. Red Riding Hood was well-informed. He was clearly targeting key mid-level leadership of several syndicates, which meant he knew who the key mid-level leadership was. He'd been taking out capos from both Scarface's and Kosov's halves of the Black Mask syndicate, as well as going after the Five Families and the Shah's outfit, the XYZ. So far, the Mullah's people had been only lightly hit; the same was true of the Penguin,Two-Face, and the Great White Shark. Why?

Item six merited some consideration. The Penguin was an aristocrat of crime, and he had the money and resources to prove it. His men tended to be by far the best equipped in the city, probably due to his controlling share of Gotham's gunrunning market. He'd done well for himself throughout No Man's Land and then in the gang war, because he was the only boss in town who had the money, the hardware, and the networking to make himself almost totally untouchable. The clincher there had been the Joker's apparent fondness for the man himself; the Clown Prince of Crime had once beaten a man to death with a bunch of bananas for having insulted the Penguin. Two-Face — the crusading district attorney turned ruthless crime lord — was one of the most dangerous men in Gotham; he was a criminal mastermind of the first rank, and some of his more elaborate plans had seen him controlling nearly the whole first tier of Bruce's rogues gallery: Poison Ivy, Mr. Freeze, the Scarecrow, the Mad Hatter, Solomon Grundy, even the Joker himself. Two-Face was not a man to take lightly. Steering clear of him was always a good strategic decision. The Great White Shark lacked Penguin's wherewithal and Two-Face's raw power, but he made up for it with quality. The Shark was a corrupt businessman turned influence-monger, and he had friends in high places. Despite the best efforts of the Arkham Asylum administration, he controlled nearly a third of the facility's guards and staff, and there was more than one judge who owed him favors. Not for him control of street crime; probably that kept his people out of the Masked Red Death's sights.

Then there was the Mullah. A relative newcomer to the mean streets of Gotham. Omar Salih was a relative unknown to the Bat-computer, which had only the skeleton of a background on him. Apparently he'd been born somewhere in the vicinity of Mosul, and was reportedly a generally indifferent Sunni (which made the street nickname "The Mullah" all the more inappropriate — he was neither Shi'ite nor Persian nor particularly devout). There were conflicting accounts of his activities during the '80s and the '90s. INTERPOL believed he'd been some kind of shadow agent working for the Saddam Husayn regime, but the FBI's files said he'd been working as a hitman in the Eastern bloc at the time. Then again, both files were filled with internal inconsistencies and a few factual errors. Apparently he'd crossed paths with the Peacemaker a few times; the Bat-computer's file included a few notes from him on the subject. Why had his people been spared for the most part so far? Was it his relative newcomer status? If the Hood had been targeting known targets first and foremost, the Mullah's outfit simply may not have registered on the radar yet.

Ultimately, item six brought him back to item zero: Red Riding Hood was killing mobsters. Why? If he were stealing from the mob (and Tim didn't think he was), then it was pretty sure it was to finance his operation. That was circular; it came back to killing mobsters. If theft wasn't the motive, what was? Retaliation for something that had happened during the war? That was certainly possible, but where had the resources come from to start the operation in the first place? And the training? He was good. Not great, mind you — Tim was pretty sure he was better in a straight-up fight, but the Masked Red Death had been pretty good about avoiding one so far. Not great, but he was good. Where did one go about acquiring any kind of experience at swinglining, even if only enough to be so-so at it? Was he a hitman? If so, who was he working for?

Tim stood from the terminal and stretched his arms, suppressing a yawn. Time to suit up. He had some people he wanted to ask a few questions, namely, had anyone acquired a liberal amount of tetrodotoxin in the recent past?

He'd radioed ahead to Dick and arranged to meet him on the way out. It'd been a while since they'd gone roofcrawling together — the Joker case had kept Dick busy, since he was simultaneously providing Bruce with backup and responding to emergencies Bruce would normally handle but were unwelcome distractions from stopping the Joker. It'd be nice to get someone else's input on the Red Riding Hood case. A fresh perspective might help. There was something about the case that was bothering him, and he couldn't put his finger on it. Something he should have noticed, something like an elephant in the room. He had a suspicion, but he wasn't ready to air it. Not yet.

He rubbed his eyes. He was tired, much more tired than usual. That was probably why he couldn't quite make the breakthrough he needed. Not yet, anyway. He was pretty confident it would happen. After all, he'd figured out who Batman and Robin were. The time would come. He donned the domino mask and his cape, and headed toward his motorcycle. For some reason he hadn't felt like driving the Redbird lately. Well, he had places to go. Robin headed out into the night. There was work to be done.

[LadyTevar]

Too much talking, not enough action... You could have had this written out as Dick and Tim chatting while taking out some low-level scum, similar to JLU's depliction of Supes and Bats talking about Capt. Marvel. Still gets the background across, but without the InfoDump.

[White Haven]

Guess I'm wierd, I chat with my inner monologue enough that it doesn't bother me when characters do the same.

[Themightytom]

Too much talking, not enough action... You could have had this written out as Dick and Tim chatting while taking out some low-level scum, similar to JLU's depliction of Supes and Bats talking about Capt. Marvel. Still gets the background across, but without the InfoDump.

I kind of agree but i'm not sure what style you go for. its a lot of monologue but I don't find it boring. you break it up pretty well with grammar structure that is either creative or more advanced than i know of.

The way that you use sentence fragments and break up a train of thought seems very genuine and nis at least for me pretty entertaining.

In a comic book style, definitely no, you'd want characters to converse around action events, but this is reading like a classic gumshoe story, in which there usually IS a lot of exposition, and frankly I'm really impressed with how thorough and knowledgeable your writing is period.

I was reading this piece as a bit of an interlude and character developement, I have faith there will be more action later so i can easily suspend my boredom

[Publius]

Chapter Nine: Kiss from a Rose

The snow was falling with gusto now. It was a heavier winter than had been expected, but nothing extraordinary. As any city this far north, Gotham had always had its fair share of bleak and dreary winters. Indeed, there was something charming about Gotham in winter — something indescribably picturesque about the gusts of falling snow dusting the Dark Deco ramparts. It suited it somehow, as though a cold and forbidding climate were the most perfectly suited to the city whose heart was always cold and forbidding.

Tim pulled his cape more closely around himself. He'd donned his winter uniform before heading out for the evening, but that didn't mean he didn't appreciate the little bit of extra warmth afforded by his flame-retardant cape. A glance over at Dick, who seemed relatively undisturbed by the elements, prompted a question he'd been meaning to ask for some time now.

"So, seriously. What was the deal with the short shorts?"

"Hm?" Dick looked up, evidently surprised. "What, you mean the old Robin outfit?"

"Unless there was an intermediate Nightwing suit I didn't know about. I bet Babs would — "

"That's enough out of you, shortstuff," Dick said, grinning wryly. "I don't know. I designed it when I was twelve. So sue me."

"Yeah, that's not a really good excuse. How old were you when you stopped wearing it?"

"I think I was sixteen, seventeen," he said. "I don't know. Why?"

"So, did you, what? Shave your legs? And the pixie boots? Seriously?"

"Har-har. You're awfully uppity for someone whose rogues gallery includes the Mighty Endowed."

Tim chuckled. "Oh, like yours is any better. You had, what? Crazy Quilt? And who was that guy that always wore the Eisenhower and Nixon masks?"

"Oh," Dick said, trying to suppress a laugh — and failing. "Oh. It wasn't just Ike and Nixon. He had all of them. His Reagan mask was actually really good. Oh, man. The President Select. That guy was awesome."

"Whatever happened to him, anyway?"

"Oh, man," he shrugged, still laughing. "I don't know, honestly. I only tangled with him a couple of times. The guy who really had to deal with him was... well, you know."

Tim did know. The President Select had been a foe primarily faced by his predecessor as Robin. The late Jason Todd.

"We never really talk about him," Tim said after an uncomfortable silence.

"It's..." Dick frowned. "Well, you know what it's like. He was a good kid, honestly. He really was. He just had... he'd had a rough life, I guess. It was hard for him. Following Bruce's orders, I mean."

"He was about my age, right?"

"Yeah," Dick said, looking Tim over. "I never really got to know him very well. I guess he was about your build, too. I remember Bruce had to get an entirely new set of uniforms for him — he was too big to fit mine."

"So you guys really made him run around in the short shorts and pixie boots?"

"Hey, I don't think it ever occurred to him to ask for a different uniform." He shrugged. "I guess he just thought that was how Robin was supposed to look. I can't help that I made it look good."

Unbidden, the thought occurred to Tim that the original Robin outfit would've looked terrific if Steph had — Stop it. Stop it. Stop it.

"Ok, serious question," Tim said. "You didn't really wear the short shorts on nights like this, did you? You wore long pants, right? Right?"

"Seriously, what's with the obsession with the shorts all of a sudden? Are you trying to tell me something?"

Tim made a face. "Nice, Dick. This from the man with the decidedly phallic nickna— did you see that? Bandit, eight o'clock."

"Eight o'clock?" Dick raised a pair of miniature binoculars to his eyes and scanned the horizon. "Yeah. Nice catch. That is definitely our friend."

A pair of grapnel guns made their way out of utility belts and were put to use. They'd both accumulated enough experience at swinglining for it to be a straightforward exercise, moving from point A to point B with a minimum of fuss. One of many skills Tim had accumulated that he would never be able to put on his résumé.

And there he was, large as life, emerging from a newly-burgled jewelry store. A hulking tank of a man. He made no effort to conceal himself; he never did. There was a distinctive whirring of mechanics as he moved. Sheathed from head to toe in protective armor, his physical strength augmented by waldoes that enabled him to crumple steel in his hands, a veritable man of steel with a heart of ice. Snow fell all around him. How appropriate. Life was always a bitter winter for Mr. Freeze.

Driven mad by his wife's degenerative MacGregor's Disease, Victor Fries had placed her into cryogenic stasis while he searched for a cure. A freak lab accident had radically altered his body's biochemistry, leaving him a fragile shell of a man whose skin would blister at room temperature. But neither madness nor transifguration had robbed him of his genius intellect, and he had designed a formidable suit of armor to protect himself and regulate his internal environment, in the process making himself into a humanoform armored car. But it was not his armor that made him a person of mass destruction; rather, it was his deadly freeze gun, a marvel of engineering decades ahead of its time. When he required money or resources he could not simply take — and to his mind his wife's cure justified any cost — the man who came in from the cold contracted his services to the highest bidder. They were few and far between that could survive a visit from Mr. Freeze.

They hit him hard without warning. Freeze's powered armor gave him the raw strength to tear a man limb from limb, but it did not afford him any great measure of speed. Fighting him was a dangerous game of too-close, too-far: Get too close and risk falling into his deadly grip, stay too far and become an easy target for his devastating freeze gun. The key was to keep moving, and give him too many targets to effectively track.

Dick moved in on a 'strafing run,' razor-edged Wing-Dings slicing into the vulnerable joints in the armor. Freeze batted at him, missing and smashing through a lightpost. While he was thus distracted, Tim swung in from the front and connected with a dual-footed kick directly Freeze's sternum, knocking him back and throwing off his aim. He withdrew immediately after deploying a pair of gas capsules. No danger of Freeze being incapacitated by regurgitants or tear gas or anything like that — he wore an airtight composite dome over his head, and breathed specially-cooled, carefully-filtered air — , but reduced visibility would always work in their favor.

Tim's usual 'by the numbers' routine didn't really work on Freeze. He'd tangled with the family too often to be discombobulated by a sudden attack, and his armor meant that virtually no alpha strike was going to take him down right out of the gates. It was grueling work, taking the fight to this walking tank. If he got his hands on you for even a second, it was over. He could quite literally disarm a man in a heartbeat, and his patience and sangfroid meant he was perfectly capable of fighting for hours on end. A man that does not hesitate to walk directly into a hail of bullets is not to be taken lightly.

The worst of it was that Freeze, while schizophrenic, was not stupid. He could not be goaded into losing his temper, because he was in rather advanced stages of anhedonia and blunted affect: he barely experienced emotions at all. He certainly had lost none of the mechanical genius that had led to the creation of his armor, and continually updated and improved the design. No longer were the air scrubbers and cooling mechanisms exposed on the outside; too many instances of Batarang strikes had prompted their removal to the armor's interior, where they were far better protected.

The enter street front was practically covered with ice now and strewn with wreckage and debris, and the snow was still falling heavily. Mr. Freeze was not in the least bit slowed by the weather, while Tim had to deal with his cape getting progressively heavier as it was coated generously with the stuff. Dick had gone in and was hammering at Freeze's protective dome with his escrima sticks. Tim reached into the compartment on his utility belt near the small of his back and retrieved a capsule he'd been meaning to try. No time like the present.

He unclasped his cape and let it fall free, giving himself a little more mobility with the loss of the extra weight. Sprinting now. He mounted a smashed car and took a flying leap directly at Freeze's back and managed to scrabble on almost like a piggyback ride. Freeze immediately tried to shake him off, grabbing for him. Tim dodged each grasping claw as if his life depended on it (which, as it happened, it more or less did). Good thing he'd discarded the cape. Raising his hand with the capsule still in it, he brought it down against the dome directly in front of Freeze's face as hard as he possibly could.

Freeze grunted in annoyance — annoyance being an intellectual response, and one of the few emotions he still felt — and managed to grab Tim's utility belt. He made a casual toss, and the Boy Wonder went flying like a ragdoll. He managed to roll with it and avoided all but a few scrapes and bruises when he came tumbling to a halt, only to see Freeze elevate his arm, freeze gun in hand. Aiming directly at him.

Dick's escrima stick connected directly with the dome where Tim had burst the capsule. A spiderweb fracture appeared in the dome, and Freeze rocked back in surprise. Tim grinned. Success.

The corrosive agent had been initially created by Steph's father, the Cluemaster. He had a fondness for corrosives and epoxies, and had often used some surprisingly creative varieties in his heists. Tim, who'd always enjoyed chemistry, had long since taken to tinkering with some of his formulae, eventually creating an agent for just this kind of scenario. Freeze's composite dome was bulletproof, but he'd figured out a chemical that could render the dome brittle and vulnerable to pressure.

Freeze was backpeddling now, keeping Dick at arm's length — keeping his sticks away from his suddenly vulnerable dome. Tim was still grinning. Showtime.

He retrieved a Bird-a-rang from his utility belt and took a running start. Freeze saw him coming and fired off a burst from his freeze gun, but Tim easily dodged it. He'd always enjoyed a good dramatic moment, so he indulged in one. As he cleared the burst of impossible cold, he let fly with the Bird-a-rang as hard as he possibly could.

Bullseye.

Freeze's dome shattered and he immediately made an incoherent noise. It was not merely a question of temperature; it was actually cold enough out that Freeze could survive outside his containment armor. Rather, it was the fact that Gotham air was simply not clean, plain and simple. Freeze's altered body chemistry wasn't capable of dealing with it. The air itself was practically poisonous to him.

Freeze took a knee, coughing and wheezing. Dick drew closer and gave him a complimentary dose of knockout gas. He looked up at Tim, who was retrieving his cape. "Nice work," he said.

Tim was about to reply when he saw something out of the corner of his eye. Movement at the rooftop level. A flutter of red.

"Nightwing — " he said.

Dick nodded. "Go. I'll take care of Freeze."

A burst of compressed gas. The whine of de-cel line. The rush of cold air. Tim was in the air and soaring. The crunch of snow beneath his boots. Red fluttering further ahead. His quarry was near.

The chase was on.

[Trogdor]

Love the bit where Dick and Tim are shooting the breeze. The way it sounds like two guys having a casual chat, mixed with the very unique subject matter, is a really nice touch.

[LadyTevar]

Ok, that was MUCH better I like my comics, what can I say?

[Crazedwraith]

That's a nice couple of chapters, Publius. Though I think I preferred the first chapter, the Dream Sequence with Spoiler was very well done.

[Publius]

Chapter Ten: I've Just Seen a Face

Of the air and soaring. The wind rushed past his face. He adjusted his grip, let the line go slack. His boots landed on the roof with a muffled thud. Thanks to the heavy snow, the noise didn't carry very far. He kept his eyes on the prize. There. Up ahead. The red cloak was moving. The game was afoot.

Running, now. To the edge. Rigorous training had made this whole process automatic. The grapnel came up of its own accord. His aim was steady and true. Red Riding Hood may be a cunning foe, but he was only so so at swinglining. Tim had years of experience, and would soon overtake him. It was time to end this hunt. Very close now. The adrenaline was pumping. Almost there....

Red Riding Hood did not know he was being followed. He moved quickly, methodically, to the edge of the building, overlooking a large parking lot and a warehouse. A glance around told Tim they were over in Five Corners, currently disputed territory. Who was he targeting? The XYZ and the Mullah had both set their sites on the area, putting a lot of pressure on the Five Families. At the time of their last encounter, the Hood had been going after the Mullah's people in East End. Was he here to finish the job?

Something was happening below. Tim was almost there. Almost. He reached the same rooftop now. He was almost there...

The Masked Red Death raised his hand and threw something from the roof. There were some muffled pops and a few loud bangs. Smoke began to waft up from below. And then he was gone, a flutter of blood red over the side. Tim was too late.

He leaped over the side of the building without a moment's hesitation. No time to crunch the numbers. He had a chance to stop the Hood this time, to prevent any more deaths. He was going to take it.

It looked like the Hood had hit a fencing crew coming out of the warehouse. There was a lot of smoke. The Hood must have dropped gas grenades before launching his attack. There were shouts and the report of firearms. The burst of flash-bangs. A glance around told him little. Nondescript men in cheap suits. That ruled out the Burnley Town Massive and the Maroni family, who rarely wore suits. They were using 9mm pistols, it looked like. Well, that didn't help identify them, either. Shuriken were flying almost as regularly as eight grams. Idiots. The gunmen were frightened and confused, and more likely to shoot each other. They never learned. It was practically the cornerstone of his by-the-numbers routine.

He had already donned his gas filter, and the enhanced lenses in his mask allowed him improved vision even in the chaos of smoke and snow. There. The flutter of red. Interesting — the Red Death had acquired a new wakizashi. Time to stop him before he put it to use.

Tim was halfway in the process of throwing a Bird-a-rang when he heard a very distinct roar over the din.

The steady rhythm of automatic fire. Deafening. The rounds tore into the cars, into the street, into the walls, into the goombas. The Red Death leapt for cover, and so did the Boy Wonder. The barrage continued. And suddenly —

The guns fell silent. As abruptly as it had begun, the onslaught ended. Smoke filled the air. The men who had been hit were groaning, blood flowing easily from the wounds. It had happened all too quickly for Tim to even begin to guess at what had hit them. He took advantage of the pause to tap his throat-mic and sent an automatic alert to the local police precinct. One of the nice things about his communications suite was it allowed him to send specific messages with the throat-mic equivalent of hot keys. The police would receive a specific tip noting automatic fire in the vicinity, and wouldn't be coming in blind. He retrieved a reflective device from his utility belt and used it to peer around from where he'd taken cover.

The silence was perforated by the delicate sound of a 1918 silver dollar flipping into the air.

Oh, sweet Jesus, Tim thought, his eyes going wide beneath the mask. There, at the other end of the street, flanked by four other gunmen, stood the man in black and white, a still-smoking military model Browning Automatic Rifle resting on his shoulder. Smiling and frowning at the same time.

Two-Face.

"Come out, come out, wherever you are," he said, flipping the silver dollar again. Virgin/whore, happy/sad. Good/evil. Mercy/justice.

One of the goombas tried to draw a bead on him, and received a thirty-aught-six between the eyes for his trouble. "My, my, my. What have we here? I come down to inspect my territory, and what do I find?" His rough, gravelly voice cut through the cold air like a knife. He was walking now, drawing closer. There was a sound of thunder as he saw to another one of the goombas who looked like he might still be in fighting order. "My territory," he growled, kicking one of the men directly in his open wound. "My territory!"

The silver dollar cut into the air again. "You lousy ——s think you can just come down here and take what's mine?" He turned and fired a burst in Tim's direction, where Tim had been readying to make a move. "You stay where you are, boy!"

Wonderful. The man knew he was here.

Two-Face had turned back to the man he was kicking. "I've got a message for Aquista," he growled, his eyes alive with hatred. "I want you to tell him for me. This is my territory. He thinks he can take it from me, he's welcome to try. He thinks he can play in the big leagues, he's got another think coming. Tell him to stay the f— out of my territory. I won't ask nicely again."

He turned. "And you," he said, as he let a few rounds go in Tim's direction, as if to punctuate just who precisely he was talking to. "You've got a lot of nerve coming here, kid. I've got half a mind to— "

Flash. Bang. The hiss of a pair of shuriken. Two of the gunmen went down, their throats torn wide open. A flutter of red. The Red Death was going straight for Two-Face.

It was too late to stop him.

The BAR smashed into the wakizashi with the force of a speeding car, knocking it easily out of the smaller man's grip and coming back around just as hard. It caught the Hood across the jaw and sent him tumbling back. The man in black and white threw the rifle aside and planted a heavy kick directly into Red Riding Hood's ribs, then grabbed him by the throat. Tim had felt those hands often enough to know they felt like a steel vice and were certainly a lot less friendly.

"I thought I told you to stay where you are!" Two-Face whirled and his ebony .45 roared, driving Tim back under cover. An instant later the same weapon cracked across the Hood's face. Nobody in Gotham pistol-whipped quite like the man in black and white. It was like being hit in the face with a bowling ball.

Another burst of .30-06 kept Tim pinned down, too busy not being ventilated to do much of anything to stop the brutal beating in progress. Two-Face still had two gunmen left.

The smaller man was thrown against a nearby car like a ragdoll. The windows cracked on the first impact. The third broke them altogether. The Hood was coughing heavily and tried to push himself back up from the ground. Another kick to the side was his reward from Two-Face. "Kids," he growled. "How many times do you stupid kids need to be told?" Impact. "How many times do I need to tell you?" Impact. "When will you learn to leave the adults to their business?" Impact.

Strange, Tim thought. Sounds like he's crossed paths with the Hood before.

Sirens. The police were finally responding. The sound provided that split moment of distraction Tim needed. The gunmen went down hard, a pair of Bird-a-rangs finding their mark. He moved fast, not giving Two-Face the chance to bring his .45 to bear. The tune of ten grams flying past his head told him it wasn't for lack of trying. The ebony peacemaker's ivory-handled partner joined the symphony. Tim let loose a Batarang and missed. Two-Face tended to have that effect on people.

The man in black and white roared in anger.

The Batarang was jammed into his side, just below the armpit, sliding past the ribcage. When he'd turned to deal with Tim, Red Riding Hood had managed to get to his feet, and retrieved Tim's misspent Bat-ordnance. He certainly seemed to have learned his lesson, because he was beating a hasty retreat into a nearby alley, while the police Quick Response Team was within visual range now. Two-Face paused for a moment, bleeding pretty badly from his newly-acquired wound. Hesitation was written across both halves of his face, and he jammed the black .45 under his other armit so he could retrieve his decision-maker.

Virgin/whore? Mercy/justice?

Mercy.

As abruptly as he had arrived, the man in black and white left. The police would be too busy dealing with the carnage at the site to track him down, and Tim certainly wasn't going to — the man obviously had transportation, since his main base of operations wasn't even in Five Corners. The vagaries of fortune had left Tim free to pursue his original quarry. He quickly headed down the alley, taking care not to be seen by the arriving QRT.

The Hood was moving much more slowly now. There was no surprise there; he'd taken a pretty savage beating from Two-Face, a man who had long since completed post-graduate work in the dealing of violence. He was headed in the direction of the harbor; the question now was whether he'd even get there. He'd only been so so at swinglining under optimal conditions, and post-Two-Face was never optimal conditions.

Tim could feel the adrenaline wearing off now, and fatigue began to set in. He hadn't slept much last night, and then he'd already tangled with Mr. Freeze before chasing the Hood across town. His quarry may have taken a beating, but Tim was plain running out of juice. Wasn't that just great? He finally had Red Riding Hood in a position to be cornered, and he was too tired to be sure he could do it.

They stumbled steadily closer to the harbor. The docks were just ahead. Had to stop him. Tim's legs felt like cement. He was running on empty. The snow was so heavy. It kept falling. Why was his side so sore?

The Hood was just ahead. He'd reached the docks. There was no reason he should have made it this far. How could he still be ahead? He'd had the tar beaten out of him, and he wasn't as good at roofcrawling as Tim. His side hurt. The snow was heavy. His head was spinning. The Hood was stumbling on ahead, up to the edge of the wharf.

"Wait," Tim shouted hoarsely. To his surprise, the Hood turned back and looked at him. His mask was torn; the fabric had probably caught on Two-Face's .45. Tim tried to close the distance between them. The Hood turned again and stumbled over the side of the wharf. There was a muffled splash. The snow kept falling. Tim was too late.

He stood there for a moment and kept looking at where — seconds before — the Masked Red Death had stood partially unmasked. The snow was so heavy. It was making his cape heavier, and his side already hurt. Why did his side hurt? Tim looked at his cape and was surprised to find a hole in it.

Tim had been shot.

[Enigma]

Ha! Jason Todd is the Hood, isn't he? Deny all you want but you know I am right.

[LadyTevar]

Jason Todd is dead, Enigma. Joker blew him to bits a long time ago.

Great job, Publius

[thejester]

Great read so far...and chalk another one up who thinks Jason Todd is The Hood.

[Ghost Rider]

Given this is an alternate/Hypertime telling, Publius may not be going for a retreading of the current trend in comics with that particular character.

So saying it's Jason Todd because that's how DC is doing currently is a tad presumptuous , especially given that he's lead details of more then one person possible under that mask.

[Publius]

Chapter Eleven: Send in the Clowns

Jim Gordon was having a lousy winter. The Joker was still loose — one of his longest sprees on record. The gangland killings were picking up pace, and the whole situation was within spitting distance of critical mass. Jane Doe had vanished again. Mr. Freeze had been wrapped up, thank God, but Killer Croc had finally turned up on another rampage, and Hugo Strange had escaped custody, taking Prometheus, Deadshot, and the Calendar Man with him. And there was a serial killer on the loose over in the North End. He almost felt bad thanking God it seemed to be 'just' a 'regular' serial killer. The Chief of Detectives said they were pretty close to putting paid to that case. Thank God.

The power struggle was coming dangerously close to boiling over. The Mullah had rapidly risen from near total obscurity to being a major contender, and there were plenty of the more established crime families that were not happy about it — and that was without even playing the race card. Organized crime was one of the most racist communities in the United States; it was still common for non-Italians to be rejected for 'made' membership in a mafia family on the issue of nationality alone. Hell, that was one of the reasons the Penguin had never been accepted among the Five Families — not because he was a blueblood, but because that blood was English. With the rise of the 'freaks' in Gotham's mob scene, such narrow distinctions of national origin had become much less rigidly enforced, but that didn't mean they were gone. There was still plenty of bad blood between Italians, Irish, blacks, Japanese, Chinese, and Russians. It went without saying that the more 'traditional' families were overtly hostile to the idea of an Iraqi-born Kurd running a city-class outfit. And even that didn't take into consideration that the man was a Muslim.

Gordon took a small drink of coffee as he examined the map spread out on the table. The low-intensity maneuvering that had been standard since the death of Black Mask was starting to taper off into outright fighting. Two-Face in Tricorner and Penguin in North End had both been expanding their territories, often at gunpoint; more than once Two-Face had demonstrated his willingness to break out the heavy guns, like the extermination of a Maroni fencing crew over in Five Corners. The Mullah's expansion was more by annexation, including assimilating entire crews whole; he'd made huge in-roads among the Burnley Town Massive. Henry Aquista had been more or less solidified as the boss of bosses of the Five Families in Old Gotham, a development nobody would have ever thought possible before the gang war. The Great White Shark's outfit was less infrastructure-oriented, not really dealing in territory in the traditional sense; that left them difficult to monitor, so it was anyone's guess what he was up to. The Arañas and the Hill Gang had been relatively well-behaved, probably because their leadership was... somewhat loosely affiliated with Gotham's most industrious concerned citizen.

Ultimately, what it came down to was the Black Mask syndicate itself. Unlike the other outfits, the syndicate was not homogeneous, leaving it particularly vulnerable to power struggles. The fact that it was by far the largest outfit in the city meant that by sheer probability it was going to suffer the most from the seemingly random killings of both the Joker and Red Riding Hood; the pressure on the syndicate's leadership was incredible. The power-sharing arrangement between Wesker and Kosov had never been particularly stable in the first place; it was showing signs of imminent collapse. If another gang war was coming, Gordon knew, that was where it'd start. The syndicate's bosses were living in a powder keg, and giving off sparks. The slightest thing could set them off. The situation was just waiting for something to go wrong.

Gordon sighed as he rubbed his eyes. This was Gotham City.

Something always went wrong.

* * * * * * * *

"... and by that point, the kids' dog was wearing the jetpack."

"I must say I can see why you neglected to tell me about this when it happened."

"Well, Donna and Wally accused me of making the whole thing up. Especially the name of the van. Roy said something similar'd happened to him, once — but I'm pretty sure he was just being a copycat. Just like his mentor, the poor man's Batman."

Things sort of swam back into focus for Tim, who was only partially aware that he was laying on a rack in the infirmary area of the cave. It sounded like Dick and Alfred were talking about... something involving a dog and a jetpack, but he wasn't sure how much of that was true and how much was grogginess. His side hurt like hell, and he was pretty sure he'd been out for a while. His first impulse was to try to sit up, but he quickly dissuaded himself from the attempt.

"Welcome back to the stage of history," Dick said, appearing in Tim's field of view.

"You are such a dork," he said weakly.

"Is that the kind of gratitude I get for saving your keister? You kids could learn something from your elders. What would Reagan do, huh?"

"Unless memory fails, Master Dick, President Reagan also forgot to duck." Alfred's voice came from somewhere outside Tim's view. It was a bit disconcerting.

"What happened?"

"Well, I'm not hip to all the gory details, but basically you got shot at some point. I'm guessing from the caliber and proximity to the scene you were at the scene of the Five Corners killings?"

"I got shot? What?"

"Yeah, you're lucky as hell, too. Looks like you caught a .30-06 slug right in the ribs."

"Jesus," Tim winced. "I didn't think my cuirass was rated to stop one of those."

"It isn't," came a third voice. Tim started despite himself. Bruce had a nasty habit of sneaking up on people. "You're luckier than you have any right to expect to be. The round passed through four layers of your cape first. The impact still destroyed your cuirass and did some nasty work on your ribs. How do you feel?"

"Like Judge Doom," Tim said, rubbing his face and trying again to sit up. The third attempt actually succeeded.

"Who?"

Tim was greeted by the site of Dick covering his face with his hand. "I thought you were reviewing your pop culture file, Bruce." Little known fact: The Batman maintained a detailed file on current memes, fads, and crazes. This included memorizing the lyrics of popular songs, and reviewing clips of the latest wardrobe malfunctions and nationwide laughingstocks. The reason? With men like the Riddler, Egghead, and the Cluemaster, it was vital to be able to catch references to this kind of thing.

Unfortunately he approached it much the same way he approached the periodic table of elements. Bruce was great at Twenty Questions, but he didn't actually integrate the knowledge. He knew facts, but didn't really know the material.

"Nevermind. What's my prognosis?"

"You're off the streets for at least two weeks. After that, we'll see." Bruce's tone did not invite discussion. Tim offered it anyway.

"I don't think that's such a good idea."

"I didn't ask, Tim."

"Look, I know you're the boss and all, but really, Bruce, let's be realistic. You and Dick are the only masters in the family, and have been ever since Babs has been in the chair. Cass is the only other full-time op we have, and with you two busy with the Joker, she's not really enough. You've got, what, King Tut, Calendar Girl, Clock King, and Baby Doll all unaccounted for? Not to mention Red Riding Hood — "

"Two weeks, Tim. That's final. You've been pushing yourself far too hard for weeks on this Hood obsession of yours. You need to rest and recover."

Tim could see the writing on the wall. He didn't bother mentioning Bruce's own Hood obsession — rumor had it that the man who would later become the Joker had been previously known as the Red Hood.

Wait a minute. The Red Hood?

* * * * * * * *

"Isn't it... rich? Aren't we a pair?"

"Ahhh, dat's the stuff," said Scarface, drawing a lit cigar to his lips. There was a sucking sound as he inhaled, but of course the cigar itself was unaffected. It was being smoked by an inanimate wooden puppet, after all.

The penthouse was quiet. That was good. It'd been a long week, and Kosov — that pampered, too-big-for-her-britches tart — had been on edge ever since her place had been firebombed. She hadn't exactly taken it with good grace. Scarface, well, he just rolled with it. He'd been in the business in Gotham long enough not to sweat the small stuff. It was all small stuff once you got down to it. Your place got firebombed by a freak with a flair for the dramatic? Price o' doin' business in Gotham, pity to say. Couldn't tell you how many of his places had been ransacked or gutted. No sweat off his back, he could tell you that.

That was why he was on top, y'know. He knew how to roll with the punches.

"Isn't it bliss? Don't you approve?"

Things had been rough lately, sure. Between the Joker and that uppity Iraqi mook, the outfit was havin' problems. That without mentionin' the Red Riding Hood killings. Well, that was fine. Give him a chance to reorganize his half o' the outfit, see? Yeah, that was the ticket. Black Mask may have been a helluva supervillain, but the dumb mook wasn't so hot at actually runnin' a business. Hell, that was how he'd gotten started in the first place — he'd run his company into the ground with his lousy business sense. The syndicate he'd created after the war? A mish-mash of existing outfits. No finesse, that dumb goat. Like makin' a tapestry with a couple o' quilts and a staple gun.

Well, turns out that Kosov tart wasn't much better. She was a helluva businesslady, sure. Knew her stuff like Black Mask never did, and in a good fifteen years she mighta been ready to sit at the grownups' table. Problem was, she didn't have fifteen years, and she was sittin' too much in his sun right now. He'd have to deal with her, and that was gonna have to happen soon. She was crampin' his style somethin' fierce.

"Just when I stopped opening doors..."

So, sure, there were problems. There was pressure. But pressure is what makes diamonds, you know. Scarface, he was a diamond. He shined under pressure.

* * * * * * * *

The elevator ride was long, but he didn't lack for amusement. Oh, no. Not him. Not ever. It was all so f—in' hilarious.

He kinda liked the song they were playing. It had a twist of muzak to it, but it was catchy. It had a rhythm, and you could dance to it.

The doors chimed, and they opened promptly. Top floor. Ladies and gentlemen, please take your seats. The evening's main attraction will be starting momentarily.

* * * * * * * *

Tim glanced over at the memorial case. The shoulders were about the right breadth. Difficult to say on the legs, but Dick had said they were about the same height and size.

Age was about right, too. It would explain the experience in martial arts, and the experience at swinglining and roofcrawling.

Jason Todd had been killed by the Joker, formerly known as the Red Hood. It wouldn't be the first time someone had returned inexplicably from the dead. Tim had seen enough in his time not to discredit the idea out of hand, no matter how much it repulsed him. It would explain a lot, especially why the case had been bothering Tim so much. Members of the family spent a lot of time around one another, picked up physical mannerisms. Moved in ways that were at least broadly similar. The Hood's body language had always seemed familiar somehow.

God, how could he talk to them about this? How could he share his suspicions without offending them horribly? Bruce had practically idolized the kid. He was the Good Soldier, the idée fixe of the cost of the war on crime. How could he tell Bruce the truth? And what if it wasn't true? What if Tim was wrong? What if it wasn't really him? He'd have slandered the memory of one of Bruce's children.

It was... God, this was horrible. He hoped and prayed he was wrong. But it didn't feel wrong.

"Hey, Alfred," Tim said quietly.

The manservant looked up from the terminal where he was updating some of the family's case files. "Yes, Master Timothy?"

"It kind of occurs to me," Tim said, trying not to make himself sound morbidly depressed by his recent all-too-close brush with a bullet. "I don't think I ever really knew what Jay looked like."

"Ah," Alfred frowned and sat back into his chair. "Master Bruce does not keep pictures of the late Master Jason, as you know. His resemblance to Master Dick was close enough that many never realized he was not the same Robin they'd previously known."

"Yeah, I know that much," Tim said, biting his lip. He hated dragging up painful memories and not even letting Alfred know what he was really getting at. "But, even with all the facts I know, I don't really feel like I know anything about him. I mean, I don't even know what color his eyes were."

Alfred frowned again. "It isn't really the sort of detail one often thinks about, you know. Unless my memory fails me — "

Tim tensed despite his best efforts to appear nonchalant.

" — Master Jason had blue eyes."

Tim felt things begin to click in his head.

There, on the docks, he had caught a glimpse of Red Riding Hood's face unmasked. He had not seen much, but one detail had been very clear.

Jason Todd had blue eyes.

So did Red Riding Hood.

* * * * * * * *

Walking down the hallway, pushing the cart. Smelled wonderful. Had to hand it to the crazy ol' coot. He had good taste.

The door was just ahead. Please silence your pagers, cell phones, and watches that chime. Wouldn't want to ruin the experience for the rest of the audience, after all.

Knocking at the door.

* * * * * * * *

"Making my entrance again with my usual flair..."

Scarface relaxed, as the poor spineless Wesker dope poured him a drink. Yeah, it'd been a long week, but nothin' a fine drink, a fine cigar, and some classic Ol' Blue Eyes couldn't cure. Long week, sure, but things were lookin' up. Nothin' could wreck his mood tonight.

There was a knock at the door. Room service. Scarface had ordered up some steak. One of the bodyguards went to check the peephole.

Smelled delicious. He loved a good steak. Nights like this, nothin' could go wrong.

* * * * * * * *

Thank you for your patience, ladies and gentlemen. The wait is over.

Showtime.

* * * * * * * *

"But where are the clowns? Quick, send in the clowns."

[Publius]

Chapter Twelve: Do You Realize?

Two weeks was a surprisingly long time. Tim knew this, because even one week was killing him. Fortunately for his sanity, Red Riding Hood had also been laying low, licking his wounds from the beating Two-Face had given him. That left him only the problem of the brewing gang war to deal with. From a desk.

The Black Mask syndicate was in an uproar, as Kosov moved to solidify her control.The lesser bosses were scrambling to pick up new crews and territory in the wake of the fall of Scarface. Allowing for old rivalries and unpaid debts, that meant anybody who didn't want to work for Kosov had some pretty limited options — nobody who'd worked for Scarface was going to be keen on going to work for Two-Face or the Penguin. There was too much bad blood there in the recent past. Thanks to the recent rash of killings, the most marketable service a boss could offer potential soldiers was protection.

The end result was that of all the bosses benefitting from the defections from the syndicate, it was the Mullah who'd come out ahead... and the fact that his new outfit was being swelled with recruits who'd left the syndicate out of hatred for Kosov set things up for a nasty showdown between the Russian and the Kurd.

Lovely.

In the meantime, he was here nursing some badly bruised ribs. At least he'd been able to convince Bruce he should be allowed to leave on reconnaissance duty, provided he not engage in any actual street work. In this particular formula, Bruce had clearly and carefully defined "street work" to include any sort of direct engagement, except where his intervention might save a life. Given the workload of late, it simply didn't make any sense to keep him off the streets entirely. He'd already worked out a 'spotter' arrangement with Cass. Tim did the work to track the skel down, and then called in the artillery strike. So far they'd already captured Jane Doe, Hugo Strange, and Prometheus. He'd worked up some leads on Calendar Man and Calendar Girl, who at last report were working together, and he was working up some intel on Clock King and Baby Doll.

But the truth of it was, his heart just wasn't in it. He'd been tracking the Red Riding Hood case since the beginning, and the truth was that Bruce was right. Tim was obsessed. Ever since that fateful night when he'd witnessed the death of Roman Sionis — and try as he might, he still couldn't arouse even a flicker of sympathy in his heart for the man's brutal death — , there was something about this case he couldn't get out of his head. Even now that he was pretty sure he'd figured it out, something was still bothering him. He felt like he was missing something, and something big, at that.

The enforced recovery period was killing him. Making sure his ribs were properly taped, Tim donned his uniform, including a brand new cuirass — the one he'd been wearing had been thoroughly wrecked by the gunshot wound. Turns out that a .30-06 will do nasty things even to body armor. No wonder Two-Face was so fond of his M1918A2. Not really surprising, though; Gotham City's criminal element was a decidedly nostalgic bunch when it came to weapons. The old M1911A1 .45 automatic and the Thompson submachine gun were staples of the mean streets of Gotham, the fact that they dated to the early part of the previous century notwithstanding.

One of the conditions of his parole — which is precisely how Tim thought of his being allowed to do some light duty during his recovery time — was that his motorcycle was impounded. That was all right, he supposed; it'd been a while since he'd used the Redbird, anyway. It'd be nice to take the ol' girl out for a spin. He had some appointments he needed to keep, and then he'd planned something special for the evening. There was someone he wanted to ask a few questions.

* * * * * * * *

Alexandra Fyodorovna Kosova — her birth certificate said "Kosov," but she thought of herself in the Russian, anyway — was having a good week. A mere two years ago, she had been a junior member of the family, her brother Viktor Fyodorovich the head of the Odessa mob in the West End. Poor Viktor had been killed in the same massacre that had claimed the heads of the Latino Unified Gang, the Escabedo Cartel, the Gotham Yakuza, the Harbor outfit, the Lucky Hand Triad, the Burnley Town Massive, and the Five Families. That was a shame — Alexandra had genuinely loved her brother. But at the same time, she was her father's daughter, and he'd taught all his children that feelings should never interfere with seizing the moment. She'd stepped up to take her brother's place. She'd briefly allied with Scarface's outfit during the war, and had been the first boss to join the Black Mask. She'd been rewarded with the role of second lieutenant in the organized syndicate after the war.

Now both Black Mask and his first lieutenant, Scarface, were dead and gone, and it was Alexandra Kosov who was the boss of bosses, only the second since Big Boy Caprice. Oh, there were other outfits she didn't control, certainly, but the Black Mask syndicate controlled nearly two-thirds of all organized crime in Gotham City — and that was more than even the Roman had been able to claim in his day. Capo di tutti capi... well, she didn't particularly care for the title itself, even if she did rather enjoy the power it represented. It was just so... Italian. To be expected, really; Black Mask had been Italian, as had the Roman and the Boss, and all the way back to the Big Boy himself in the old days. She'd have to see to that, as soon as she thought of something appropriate. The word on the street was that she was already being called the Crime Czarina.

Typical Western ignorance. The distaff form of czar was czaritsa, not czarina. Well, at least "Crime Czarina" was closer to the truth than calling that uppity Kurd "The Mullah."

The Joker had ensured she'd been in need for a new place anyway, and she'd been unable to resist the symbolism of acquiring the same suite once occupied by the Roman himself. The new penthouse was appointed in the best finery she could afford — and it went without saying that the boss of bosses could afford quite a lot. It was a suite fit for a tsar. Which was only appropriate, no?

She turned her chair from the window, with its vast panoramic view of her city below, to face her guest across the huge oak desk she'd appropriated for herself. As far as the city's freaks went, he was relatively mild, even if his fetish for hats was more than just a little offputting.

"Report," she said brusquely.

"Scarface's half of the syndicate is still hemorrhaging street-level people," said the Mad Hatter. "It seems quite a few aren't willing to dance to your tune. I've been able to persuade — " here he grinned a Cheshire grin — "many of the underbosses it is to their advantage to remain loyal."

"Good. The remaining underbosses?"

"I have a list of those who won't dance at all," he said. "They will be... seen to. The remaining mugwumps will be joining me for tea tonight."

"And you will see to it they are properly advised of their options?"

He smiled again. It was never a pleasant expression, not on that man's face. It was all teeth and cruel intentions. "Ms. Austen is not the only one to know a little about persuasion," said the Mad Hatter.

Kosov rolled her eye. She'd never had any use for these freaks' fetish for banter. "I want it made clear that anyone who leaves my service without my express permission will be punished."

The strange little man doffed his tophat and did a mock courtly bow. "Milady, I am at your service."

* * * * * * * *

Of course the meeting had to be in Five Points. As far as convenient meeting places went, Gotham's Little Fallujah had plenty of possibilities. He'd selected a condemned apartment building with all the doors and windows boarded shut. Tim had no idea how he'd even gotten in, only to find him in a room on the fourth floor that was appointed in surprising comfort, seated behind a desk that was far too large to have fit through the doors. It was, on the balance, entirely typical. He did this kind of thing to indulge his superiority complex, to leave his visitors wondering how he'd managed to do something. The truth was, he was a genius, but he was also a cheater. Like any magician, there was a trick involved.

"What can run but never walks, has a mouth but never talks, has a head but never weeps, and has a bed but never sleeps?"

Years of experience with the Batman had left him rather more skilled than most at knowing when he was no longer alone. He was difficult to sneak up on.

"A river," Tim answered from the shadows. "What is it that the maker does not tell, the taker does not know, and the knower does not want?"

"Counterfeit money. How many times can you subtract five from twenty?"

"Only once. After that, you'd be subtracting from fifteen."

"Well, well, well," said the man with a smile, hands steepled in front of his face. "To what do I owe this singular honor?"

He wore a green smoking jacket and bowler, a black shirt, and a purple domino mask. His silk necktie was plain purple, except for a single green question mark.

"I think you already know why I'm here," Tim said, deliberately staying back in the shadows. It was a game they played, each trying to force the other into showing his hand first.

"I cannot help but find it amusing," chuckled the man, "For all your sleuthhounding, when you've lost your sleuth you come to the Riddler."

"Think of it is as a compliment," Tim offered, amused at the Riddler's deliberate flaunting of his knowledge: he'd been unable to resist pointing out the etymology of sleuth. "We acknowledge your intellectual girth."

"You value my information, you mean." The Riddler leaned back in his chair. "And what is it you want from me this time?"

The Riddler was one of the most accomplished thieves on the Eastern seaboard. Over the course of his career, he had stolen more than a billion dollars' worth in cash and valuables. He was also one of the most intelligent men in the whole of North America, whose crippling superiority complex and obsession with riddles compelled him to leave clues as to his latest heists. Were it not for these clues, not even the Batman would have been able to keep up with him. He had recently secured his own release from prison after spending a week in Blackgate's library, having found some law books in the inventory. The ensuing legal chicanery had left even his attorney confused.

Despite his decidedly criminal background and occupation, the truth was that the Riddler was also one of the best-informed men alive when it came to Gotham's underground. Black market sales ledgers, blackmail files, organizational relationships, who was paying whom for what... all of it was filed away in the Riddler's head. He had never served a full term of imprisonment, always finding some means of plea-bargaining his way back onto the streets. The district attorney's office considered him one of their most valuable — if maddeningly unreliable and uncooperative — sources of information.

"Red Riding Hood," Tim said.

"Ah, yes," said the Riddler, tapping his chin with his index finger. "Curious as to who lurks behind the mask of the Red Death, are you? Well, you know I demand payment."

No such thing as a free lunch. The Riddler never gave away information for free; even if there was no fee involved, there was always a price. Tim produced a sealed envelope and handed it over.

The Riddler looked at the envelope, and then looked at Tim. "Is that what I think it is?"

"Maybe, and maybe not. You have my word that it's fair payment."

"But I'd have to open it to find out."

"Of course. I don't have to tell you that opening it would mean you'd accepted it."

The Riddler looked at the envelope again, and smiled. "Well played, Boy Wonder. Well played, indeed. The payment is fair. A riddle for a puzzle, then. Cui bono?"

"Cui bono is neither a riddle nor an answer," Tim said, resisting the urge to frown.

"I wasn't finished," the Riddler said, placing his hands flat on his desk. "Children. You worry so much about your toys and never think about what makes them. When is the virgin like Miss Muffet?"

"That's your final answer?"

"Are you deliberately trying to insult my intelligence?"

"Not at all. I'm just trying to be sure I've gotten my money's worth."

The Riddler smirked. "You have my word that it's fair payment."

* * * * * * * *

Tim mulled over the Riddler's words as he turned the car back toward the cave. Like the Batmobile itself, the Redbird was not so flashy that it draw undue attention while driving down Gotham's streets, despite its many illegal features. The windows were sufficiently tinted that nobody outside the car could see that the driver was dressed like a bird. So it turned out that Dick had said the name Robin was in fact a reference to the bird, while the original tunic and pixie boots had been his father's design, deliberately invoking the aesthetic of Robin Hood.

Cui bono? To whom the good? Who was benefitting from the gangland killings? All of the bosses and underbosses who hadn't died, in the general sense. In a narrower sense, the big winners were the Mullah and Kosov. With so many poison pills left over from the antebellum days, it would have been difficult or impossible for the relative newcomers to secure their power bases so quickly, whereas they were now among the most powerful bosses in the city. Was that intentional? Was that what the Riddler was saying? Was Red Riding Hood working for one of the bosses?

The Joker had been deliberately released from Arkham, that much was clear. Bruce's own investigation had revealed the hand of the Mad Hatter in that, part of the plot to overthrow Black Mask. But then the Joker had promptly gone on a rampage, killing gangsters as often as civilians. And then there had been the arrival of the Mullah, which had been every bit as unexpected as the Joker's killing spree had been unpredictable. If someone had been working a scenario, it must have been nearly wrecked by that development. Omar Salih, who had benefitted quite possibly the most from the Red Riding Hood killings, had started out with the least infrastructure. He didn't have the resources at first to be backing the Masked Red Death.

Nevertheless, somebody was backing him, that much was clear. The material resources required to keep him equipped and the information he needed to select his targets ruled out a solo campaign. The Batman's war on crime was backed by the Wayne fortune, one of the largest in the Western hemisphere. Who was paying the bills for Red Riding Hood's kanly war of assassins?

The truth was that Tim was not as ready for returning to duty as he'd like to believe he was. He was already tired, and his side ached. He was having a hard time focusing. What was it the Riddler had said? "When is a virgin like Miss Muffet?" What did he mean by that? The Virgin — Mary, Mother of God? Sir Richard Branson? Queen Elizabeth I? The constellation Virgo? Miss Muffet — what was that a reference to? Miss Muffet sat on a tuffet, a kind of three-legged stool — Tricorner? The Triumvirate? The XYZ? A troika? Curds and whey — the Condiment King? The Milk Man? Along came a spider — the Spider, the 1930s man of mystery? Tarantula, the Blüdhaven vigilante and now leader of the Arañas? That blue and red guy from New York that Bruce occasionally crossed paths with?

Dealing with the Riddler was never a straightforward affair. He had only the Riddler's word that the riddle was worthwhile. Then again, the Riddler had only his word that the envelope had contained something worthwhile. It was a game they played. Tim shrugged. He turned on the radio.

He was driving through Chinatown half-listening to a press statement from the White House, something about President Ryan and Prime Minister Kerslake responding to the latest demands by Red Claw, when he noticed a flutter of red at the rooftop level. The radio was quickly muted and he checked the on-board computer... Yes. He had reports the Mad Hatter was meeting with some underbosses on Kosov's behalf somewhere nearby. And Red Riding Hood was at last back in action.

Well... Bruce had said he could get involved if someone's life were at stake. And the Red Death had been targeting underbosses the whole time, so....

Tim pulled into an alley and reached for his grapnel gun.

[SCRawl]

Excellent work again, bravo. I have to say, though, I was convinced that Red Riding Hood was female, I can't say why. It certainly looks as though that's not the direction things are taking us.

[LadyTevar]

This is why the Riddler is such a great character to play around with.

The Riddler looked at the envelope again, and smiled. "Well played, Boy Wonder. Well played, indeed. The payment is fair. A riddle for a puzzle, then. Cui bono?"
...
"I wasn't finished," the Riddler said, placing his hands flat on his desk. "Children. You worry so much about your toys and never think about what makes them. When is the virgin like Miss Muffet?

Cui bono = to whom the good. You give us that one, and it's a good point Tim riddles out. Who is getting the bonus of the mob bosses fighting themselves to death? Someone that can sweep in once everyone's too weak to resist, is my guess. Kosova and Mullah may simply be catspaws themselves.

When is the virgin like Miss Muffet?
Little Miss Muffet sat on her tuffet, eating her curds and whey.
Along came a spider, who sat down beside her,
And frightened Miss Muffet away.
My best guess to when a virgin is like Miss Muffet? When She Runs. But I don't think that's the real riddle here, it's just one of the distractions.

Children. You worry so much about your toys and never think about what makes them.
THIS is true riddle, and what connects Cui Bono to Virgin and Miss Muffet. On the surface, this seems like the crotchety old man complaining about kids who never listen, but when does the Riddler ever leave things on the surface? This is just as important as the other two, and gives deeper clues to Red Riding Hood.
The first we've already guessed: Children. Red and Robin are similar in age. That gives us Jason Todd (who I wish people would leave dead), and Stephanie (who I thought the writers treated horribly in the comics). I think my wishes in the matter are clear.

Obviously, we'll have to wait for Publius to finish the story before we find out who's right and who's wrong ... and when a virgin is like Miss Muffet.

[CaptainChewbacca]

Clearly, Publius is writing on a whole other level. Well-done!

P.S. Its 'Keister', not 'keyster'.