Issue# 8, Aug Yr. 2

Resurgence of the Demon (part 1 of 2)
"The Line of Fire"

By Rory O'Sullivan

---

And finally, there came a quiet night.
Terry drifted to the pockmarked asphalt, removing his cowl as he landed. The BatCave's subdued lighting cast about a tranquil atmosphere that his heart echoed. It was about time he had the opportunity to sit and relax, to converse, to gather his thoughts. The past week had seemed to blur into one long day, and he was bone-tired.
Bruce, as usual, was whittling away at some new computer program. "You're back early," he huffed, without bothering to turn.
"Quiet out there." A little too quiet, he struggled not to add.
"Hmm."
That was the usual extent of conversation here in the Batcave. For a millionaire playboy, Bruce's social skills were lacking, to put it mildly. Terry shrugged. To each his own. He routed around in his school bag, found a battered old paperback, and settled into a chair.
They sat like that in silence for the best part of an hour, the only sounds the mingling of respiration and computer bleeps. Suddenly, a speaker above the BatComputer, the police scanner link-up, blinked on, and shattered the calm into a million pieces.
"Attention all units!" It squawked, and Terry cursed emphatically even as he hefted his cowl, "Hostage situation at the Gotham Natural History Museum! All units, respond Code Three!"
Terry--- Batman--- shot out of the cave and into the air before bothering to check with Bruce. "One night, boss. That's all I want. Is that too much to ask?"
"Yes." The answer was delivered simply, dryly. It elicited a chuckle.
"All right. All right."
The museum was coming into view now, an expansive, Victorian-style complex. He dropped to the roof, and peered through the tinted skylight down into the main exhibit hall. "Aw, crap. Bruce, patch me through to the police wavelength." That done, he began his narration. "Batman to Gordon."
"Commissioner Gordon here," returned the harried voice, "go ahead."
"I'm on the roof. I see… four perps, masked, heavily armed. Probably sentries at the door. Three hostages--- security guards. One of 'em's down. He looks… dead."
"Should we move in?"
Batman's mouth turned down. "Negative. I got it."
Working quickly, he slipped the grate from an air vent, and scrambled into the shaft. Within minutes, he'd found his way to another grate overlooking a smaller exhibit room. Two thugs in ski masks were methodically looting display cases, while trading pathetic attempts at humor. Batman steeled himself, and pushed gently on the grate.
"Mornin' boys!" He cried as he bounded into the room. He was feeling particularly buoyant now, odd since his adrenaline had yet to curdle.
"Intruder!" The first thug barked, already slipping his automatic rifle into a firing position.
"Sez the kettle to the black pot," Batman quipped, ramming feet-first into the bewildered thief. They both toppled backward rather roughly, though only the Dark Knight came up conscious.
He stood, hands on his hips, and observed his fallen foe. "Jeez, Bruce, these guys have nothing. I need a challenge, y'know? I---"
"Terry! Behind you!" Bruce, who had been scanning the suit's radar, bellowed into his ear.
Batman wheeled, but too late. The second thug jammed an electro-rod into the nape of his neck, and let fly. Batman jolted, twitched, and crumpled without a word.

---

Bruce darted from his seat in the Batcave as best he could, hobbling slightly as he found his Nightwing costume. He still felt silly wearing the sleek modern outfit, but he wasn't particularly concerned with any fashion statement at the moment.
It's times like this I miss Alfred, he thought, allowing himself a shred of self-pity. He could imagine the old man:
"Master Bruce, just where do you think you're going?"
"Dick--- Terry's in trouble. I have to help him."
"Absolutely not! Master Dick can fight his own battles, sir."
"I'm going, Alfred. I'll see you in the morning."
"Harrumph."
"Good night, Alfred."
As Bruce Wayne slung himself into the Batmobile cockpit, he was horrified to find that his eyes were close to tearing up. He put that aside, and racked the throttle.
He winced slightly as he took a corner sharply. It felt incredible to be back in action. His new heart beat strongly in his chest, but he was still having dizzy spells since the surgery, pushing himself too hard.
He wouldn't have it any other way.

---

"Shouldn't we, like, report this?" The first thug asked.
"Nah," said the second, balancing his electro-rod in the palm of his hand. He gazed confidently over the Dark Knight's prone form. "Let's just do 'im here, now. The boss'll be twice as happy we bagged the new bat."
The first thug nodded slowly, and once more unshouldered his rifle.
Bruce was between them then, arms and legs shooting out in four different angles. Both thugs dropped solidly beneath the barrage of limbs, showing no sign of rising.
"Ugh." Batman lifted himself slowly to his feet, shaking his head. "Feels like a hover-truck hit me." He spied Bruce. "Where'd you come from? I thought the docs told you to take it easy---"
"You have to learn to watch your back, Terry. I won't always be able to." Bruce stalked toward the door out into the statue-dotted hallway. "Come on. There are hostages to free---"
"Wait a minute!" That good old adolescent defiance had ignited in Batman's chest. He bounded forth, effectively blocking Bruce's path. "I knew you'd do this! This is my operation, Bruce! Let me---"
The recognizable clack of a laser-capsule sliding into a pistol brought them both around to face down a third thug, a sentry who'd been dispatched to investigate the noise. His grin was malicious as he took his time aiming the weapon. "Punk vigilantes gonna walk all over us? Don't think so."
His eyes flashed, and Bruce had time only to yell, "Terry!" and seize the Dark Knight's shoulder, before a laser beam connected with the Batman's ribs at lightning speed. As he fell, before Bruce's shocked eyes, he diagnosed the blast as armor piercing. What felt like a second or third degree burn was developing beneath his chest plate. He coughed and writhed for a moment, fighting for control.
As cold and hard as he was, Bruce Wayne was the sentimental type. So when the thug's weapon was turned on him, he was prepared. He produced rusty old batarang, and sent it plowing into his foe's jaw, felling the man. Then he turned on the stricken Dark Knight.
"Terry!" Realizing the armor had been punctured, the old man cursed, and asked once more, "Terry!" Any concerns about secret identities and personal lives were suddenly incredibly trivial. A boy was dying before him. Again.
Batman coughed once more, and managed a smile, a smile shielded from his mentor by the thick cowl. "Hey… Did you… get the number of that… Boom Tube…"
Bruce was regaining his impassive demeanor, more slowly than he'd like. It had been a long time, after all. "Where did the blast hit?"
"It's… in there… somewhere…"
The boy began to babble incoherently, and Bruce turned away. "Stay put."
"I… ain't going… nowhere…"
Bruce charged down the hallway, feeling somehow more vulnerable, like less of a commanding presence, without a cape flowing behind him. He had a young man to attend to, but he also had a hostage situation to diffuse. He had long ago learned to put the good of the many ahead of the good of the few.
Yet another sentry--- there must be a militia in the building, he mused--- lazed by the door to the main exhibit room, twirling his handgun about his finger in a rudimentary impression of Dirty Harry. Bruce sprang forward, and with a great swoop of his arm sent the gun spiraling upward. He followed with a flurry of violent kicks that forced the thug to sink to his knees. Endgame, he thought as he advanced on the door.
Instantly, laser fire lit the room from three different points. Thugs were firing from behind display cases and statues, and one from a catwalk above. Pinned down, Bruce withdrew.
As he braced himself in the hall, he glanced as his chronometer. He was no doctor, but he knew Terry was in pain, and the pain would be worsening. Making a snap judgment, he gathered the KO'd sentry's laser pistol, and ejected the capsule like a professional target shooter. In his utility belt, he found a handful of smoke bomb capsules, the same size as the laser variety, and loaded the pistol. The gun gave a satisfying click, before he sprang into the room, firing as he went.
Inside of thirty seconds, the room was filled with smoke. Bruce could smell it even through his nose plugs, and the odd time his mouth opened a bit it wafted in. He continued to roll and dodge, taking out the thugs one at a time. Finally, he stood at the entrance once more, and slowly surveyed the room, just to be sure---
A laser beam sizzled into his left arm, scorching the flesh. He cried out, and sank to one knee, fighting back tears for the second time that evening. This was not a good night. He'd forgotten the sniper on the catwalk.
The sniper took aim once more. Steady, steady, left a bit… He gently tugged on the trigger---
---and Batman came down on him like a ton of bricks.
Bruce scrambled up the ladder onto the catwalk, finding Terry's prone form next to the spread-eagled sniper. "Terry," he began, "I told you not to move."
"You… should learn… to watch your back…"
"You disobeyed an order."
"That's… gratitude for ya…"
There was a deafening crash, and the GCPD SWAT team swarmed in. Bruce gathered the younger vigilante into his arms, and sent a grappling hook roofward. "Let's go."

---

"---GCPD recovered three of the four hostages. Sources say that the Batman played an impor---"
Bruce flipped off the holo-screen that engulfed one wall of Wayne Manor's main living room. He considered for a long moment. "You were damned lucky."
Terry, lazing on an ornate grain leather couch, his ribs swaddled in bandages, rolled his eyes. "Riiight. You call being shot 'lucky'?"
Their eyes met for a long, cold moment. Finally, Terry conceded the point. "Yeah, I guess."
"And no head-busting until---"
"I'm fully healed. I know."
Bruce's hands coiled into fists. "Six months auxiliary training."
"What!" Terry started, and just as suddenly sank back in pain. "Bruce---"
"If you'll excuse me," Bruce cut in, "I have work to do."

---

The old man took to the rooftops then, still poured into the Nightwing costume and disliking it. He'd developed a complete facemask that helped a little, but not a lot. Looking slightly younger, but still too bulky, he worked his way from building to building across the great city skyline. Finally, he dropped to the roof of Police Headquarters, fighting down a wave of nostalgia. "Commissioner."
Barbara Gordon was sitting on the lip of the roof. She turned toward the sound of his voice, and almost smiled. "I expected your new sidekick would show up." When Bruce failed to respond, she thrust her hands deep into her trenchcoat pockets, and talked to the skyline. "The thugs in the museum job were good. Organized, prepared."
"Working for someone."
Gordon nodded.
"But who? And why?"
"Doesn't matter. They're locked up."
Bruce smirked. "You don't seriously believe that, do you? No offense, but if they're that good---"
Gordon nodded again. "That's why I want you to check on them for me. Will you---"
She whirled at a sudden rush of wind, to find that he was gone.
And the night grew suddenly colder.

---

Blackgate Prison had seen better days. The institution had changed very little since Bruce's more adventurous days, but city officials contended it was on top the modernization lists. Somehow, that didn't make many people too confident about the Gotham penal system.
For good reason. By light of the moon, a small hover-boat wafted across the waves, to the sheer cliff that lead up to the building. A single figure leapt to the rock facade, and scaled it rapidly, professionally. Ducking around panning searchlights, the figure took to the concrete wall of the prison itself, working his way quickly to a predetermined cell window.
"Pss," he offered to the darkness, "Been waiting long?"
The cell's inhabitant, one of the museum thugs who still nursed a bruise on his forehead, responded, "Forever!"
"Shh," the would-be liberator commanded. Had he turned at that moment, he would've noticed the unmistakable shape of a giant bat crossing the moon. He did not, however, and his confidence was not shaken a mite. "Let me alert the others, and then I'll---"
Bruce flung himself haphazardly from his hang glider, rocketing downward. His foot connected with the intruder's shoulder, knocking his grip free. They both plummeted the four stories to the hard ground, one calmly, the other a bit less controlled. One landed gently, the other… landed.
Bruce, wishing once more that he had a cape to wrap himself in, stood over the thug. "Now, if you're finished here---"

---

"---who are you working for?"
"No one, damn it!" The thug screamed into the interrogation lamp for the seventh time. Behind the room's one-way mirror, Gordon winced.
Bruce was beside the commissioner then, staring at the prisoner with barely disguised disdain. "Any progress."
"Nope." Gordon fished in her briefcase. "We did come up with this, though." She handed him an old manila file folder. "It's the museum's file on what they tried to take. Interesting reading."
Bruce flipped the folder open. Page one was a newly printed photograph of an artifact, sort of a half-arch made of solid bronze. There were pages of printed report, but he'd forgotten his glasses. "Enlighten me."
"The Gustovech Metron," Gordon began, "Priceless sculpture. Only two copies in existence. Both were discovered by Mikhail Gustovech on one of his outing in the eighteen hundreds. Together, the two are supposed to point to a 'prehistoric nuclear reactor,' if you can believe that. A natural source of nuclear energy. One Metron's here in Gotham. The other one…" She rifled a few pages. "The other one's in Bludhaven."

TO BE CONTINUED…