His city was dark. Not the dark of night; he was used to that. Even in the darkest hours of the night, there was light in Gotham, light enough for him to work by. This was different. Like a city-wide power outage on a heavily-overcast night. The only source of light was in his hand as he prowled the rooftops. From below, he heard muted sounds of a confused and frightened populace. He knew they had reason to be afraid, for on nights like this, the worst of the city's vermin came out to prey.

A loud scream caught his attention. He pulled the launcher from his belt, aimed and fired without conscious thought. The line caught and he swung down to street level. There, in the greenish cast of his cowl's light-enhancing lenses, he spied the couple set upon by a dozen men and women decked out in torn leather jackets, tattered jeans and ripped sneakers. The Zombies, he thought, as he unleashed a powerful kick at the first one. A new gang in Gotham, apparently recruiting from other gangs as well as bringing in fresh blood from the schools.

As the first one went down, the others turned to see what had happened. Several screamed, others turned and ran. Their victims saw him, and shrank back against a wall. The man shielded the woman with his body, defiant now as he had not been against the gang members.

"No! You'll have to kill me if you want to get at her,

Looking around, he saw that the Zombies had vanished. He stepped back, raised his grapple launcher and fired upward. As soon as the line was taught, he swung up and away from the terrified couple. As he alighted on a fire escape four stories up, a strange apparition appeared in the sky above him.

"My death is on your hands, and they know it. They fear you, Batman, more than they ever feared me."

The voice echoed off the walls, and in his head, but seemed to come from the huge hooded figure cloaked in greenish grey looming over the city. No face was visible under the hood, but one had the impression of glowing eyes within.

"What do you mean? You're not dead I spoke to you less than a week ago!" called Batman as he leaped from one rooftop to another, trying to get closer to the haunting figure. As far as he ran and jumped, though, the figure never seemed any closer.

"Before you killed me!" replied the looming spectre, pointing a skeletal finger at the Caped Crusader. "And now, in death, your city will be mine!" The finger pushed forward, striking Batman in the chest and knocking him from his perch. As he fell, his cape tangled around him. He struggled to free himself, an isolated part of his mind counting down the seconds before he-

*thud*

"I must say, Master Bruce, I believe you stuck the landing, as they say in the gymnastics competitions."

Bruce Wayne looked up from the tangle of blankets on his bedroom floor. "Wha?" He glanced around, shook his head, then started to straighten up. "Ungh. A nightmare. I'm not supposed to have nightmares, I'm supposed to cause them."

"Indeed sir. But even you are not immune to the ravages of 23 hour days for prolonged periods of time." Alfred set the tray with coffee and aspirin on a dresser. "As I have tried to point out before."

Bruce stood up, catching the blankets in his hands and laying them across the bed. "And there is a tie to reality in this nightmare." He described the nightmare as he turned on the television, then poured himself a cup of coffee and drank it. "I spoke with Val Kaliban, aka the Spook, just last week."

"A social call?" asked Alfred as he made up the bed.

"Not exactly..." Bruce paused as a news report came on. "Good Lord!"

Tim Drake stood in the doorway of his living room, stunned at what he saw. His father, outrage written across his face, stood there holding one of his Robin costumes.

"How long, Tim?" yelled his father. "How long have you been hiding this from me?"

"Since you were ill, Mr. Drake," whispered the ghostly figure behind him. "When you were ill, instead of caring for you, he ran off to your neighbor and, you might say, found another father."

"Who the hell are you, and where do you get off saying that? I was trying to get help for Dad, I wasn't abandoning him!" shouted Tim, even as he felt a chill of dread at the realization that this stranger apparently knew not only his own secret identity, but that of the Batman as well.

"You weren't, eh? Then how come you're never around here? I've wondered that for ages, but now I guess I know!" Jack Drake threw the costume at Tim's feet. "Go on, take it, and get out of my house! Go off to his cave, or roost, or wherever that masked freak calls home. You're his partner, you might as well move in with him!" Drake turned and stalked from the room.

"You told him, didn't you?" asked Tim, tears starting to stream down his cheeks. "Somehow, you knew and you told him."

"Of course I did," replied the Spook. "After you took my life, it's only fitting that I steal away a part of your life in return." As he faded from view, he added "And I'll be back to take the rest of it later."

Tim leaped at the figure, passing through and…

*thud*

Tim looked up from the floor and shook his head. In the early morning light, he realized he was in his own bedroom. There was a knock at his door.

"You okay in there, Tim?" asked his father.

"Yeah, Dad, I'm fine. Forgot to shove a shoe under the bed, and I tripped on it."

"All right. Breakfast in five."

Tim switched on the small TV on his dresser as he started to get dressed. He heard a vaguely familiar name on the news report and looked up, shocked to see the figure from his dream pictured on the screen behind the morning newscaster.

In a little-noticed building in central Gotham City, a strong, graceful hand reached out to press a button on a small panel next to a bank of computer monitors. The room dimmed as automatic shutters closed over the windows surrounding the room's most outstanding feature: an 8-foot diameter clock that looked out over the city from twelve stories up. The decades-old workings of the clock were overhead, cloaked in shadow, while beneath, the latest in high-tech computing and communication technology stood at the command of a lone, wheelchair-bound woman. To the dozens of heroes and vigilantes who knew her as the disembodied voice with all the answers, she was known as the Oracle.

To her friends, she was Barbara Gordon.

And no matter what name you knew her by, this morning, you did not want to be in her way.

"I don't know what's going on around here, but I'm going to. Half of my communication frequencies blocked, two servers running through constant reboot cycles, and my monitoring remote on the roof of police headquarters is down hard again, the second time this week. I really don't need this after the lousy night I had." She paused, recalling the nightmare that woke her not once, but three times during the night. Visions of images on her computer screens coming to life and attacking her overlaid themselves on the schematic she was studying. She bent over in her wheelchair, twisting a pair of thumbscrews on a panel under the screen, then lifted the panel out of the way. Grasping the edge of the countertop mounted above the panel, she heaved herself up out of the chair, then gracefully twisted and lowered herself to the floor. As she pulled an LED torch mounted to a cloth band and fitted around her head, she spoke loudly. "Activate voice news reader. Headlines. Gotham." As she slid a small toolbox through the opening, then slithered into it herself, a voice came from speakers around the room.

"Article. Gotham County Trust, Allen Street branch, robbery foiled by police patrol."

"Skip. Good for the cops."

"Article. Collection of petrified bird eggs stolen from home of collector Peter Henderson."

"Save to file: cave. Skip."

"Article. Former criminal Val Kaliban, aka the Spook, dies during battle with Batman and Robin."

"What!?! Barbara sat up with a start, forgetting where she was. Her head smacked the inside of the cabinet. With a grumble, she worked her way back out again. "Summary!"

"Source: WGTM Sunday morning news. According to witnesses, Valentine Kaliban was killed on the Infantino Bridge over the Gotham River early this morning in a one-sided battle with Batman and Robin. Witnesses state that, despite his lack of hostile action, Batman snared the former criminal in a rope, and pushed him from the bridge. The rope kept him from falling into the river, but as his body swung on the rope, he impacted with a bridge abutment, crushing his skull. The costumed crimefighters fled the scene as medical and police vehicles closed in on the scene. Kaliban was pronounced dead on the scene."

Barbara got herself clear of the cabinet frame and sat up, running a hand through her hair. "Something's not right. Bruce has never miscalculated like that!"

"Activate com-link, channel Beta Alpha Epsilon One!" she barked, hauling herself back up into the wheelchair. "Conference channel Roger Omega Beta One!"

"This is Batman, Oracle. What have you got?" The voice over the com-link was loud and clear - he was alone and able to speak freely.

"What the hell is going on, Bruce? What happened between you and the Spook?"

"That's a good question, and if I had been there, I would tell you."

"Been there- you didn't fight the Spook last night?"

"No. Bruce Wayne was keeping up appearances, at the Wayne Foundation's Charity Costume Ball. I traded in my usual costume for one that I, ah, borrowed from the Cavalier."

Barbara stifled a giggle at this. "Oh, please, tell me you wore the floppy hat."

Batman's voice held no emotion at all as he replied. "It was Alfred's idea."

"What about Robin?"

"As far as I know-"

"I was here all last night. Pulled an all-nighter on Friday, tracking down a drug shipment in Bludhaven with Nightwing. Seemed like a quiet night, so I stayed home to catch up with school work." There was a brief pause on the com-link. "Umm, sorry for butting in."

Oracle's fingers flew over multiple keyboards. "I've got the police report and a very preliminary morgue report. Definite ID on Kaliban, visual, fingerprints and dental. Cause of death is blunt head trauma, multiple impact points."

"Multiple?"

"I have a photo here - looks like his head must have struck either some protruding bolts, or maybe some sort of decorative stonework on the bridge. Whatever it was, one of the spots broke through the skull and into the medulla, severing most of the primary nervous connections. If it hadn't killed him, it would have left him totally unable to move or speak."

Robin spoke up again. "Hey, I don't know if this makes any difference, but I had a dream about this guy last night."

There was a moment of awkward silence, broken by the still emotionless voice of the Batman. "We need to sit down and discuss this face-to-face."

"I know it isn't Alfred's, but a little tea may help us relax." Barbara set a steaming cup down in front of Batman, and another at Robin's place at the table.

"You know, his offer to come down here and help you out still stands," replied Batman, taking a sip from the cup.

"I appreciate it, but I don't think I could stand having him try to organize the Clock Tower." Barbara parked her wheelchair at the table and reached for her own cup.

Robin stirred sugar into his cup as he spoke. "So, what's the deal? I mentioned my dream, and it was like you two were ready to freak on me. You saying you both dreamed about the Spook too?"

"I don't know about Oracle, but yes. I did. This morning." Oracle just nodded. "Describe your dream, Tim."

Moments later, each of them had described their own dreams in turn. "This can't be coincidence. Especially after we met with Kaliban the other night."

"You did? When was this?" asked Oracle.

"Thursday night. On the roof of Police Headquarters. Kaliban contacted your father with an odd request…"

"Thank you for coming, Batman," started the tall, bald man standing next to Commissioner Gordon in a formal, eastern European accent. "I know this sounds strange, but as you know, Gotham has a law about criminals wearing costumes."

"You aren't allowed to wear your old costume, or anything that closely resembles it. I'm familiar with it. I don't necessarily agree that forcing persons like you to stay out of the costumes helps with rehabilitation, but it gives the police a reason to detain known criminals in the absence of other cause."

"Right. It never mattered to me before, because I have tried to lead an honest life since I served my sentence. It has been three years since I was released from Black Gate, but some of the men I work with at the lumberyard, they know who I used to be. And they thought it would liven up the company Halloween party this weekend if I wore my old costume. Anya, a woman I have been seeing, she agreed with them."

"You're sure they aren't the type to try and take advantage of you or your reputation?" asked Gordon, an unlit pipe in his hand.

"I have worked with these people for three years, they are honest men. It is strange, but sometimes I think they envy my past." Kaliban shook his head. "If they only knew what it was really like. But I don't wish to spoil their, how do you say, fantasies."

"How do we know you aren't really up to something?" asked Robin. "After all, plenty of crooks have claimed to go straight before."

"Perhaps, because I never truly was one of these supervillians that you read about in the papers. Oh, I tried a few schemes to get revenge on Batman after he ruined my original scheme, but I really did not know what I was doing then. My original idea of designing escape routes into the prison then charging criminals a fee to aid their escapes, that was all I ever really had."

"And your help in locating and sealing those escape routes proved the sincerity of your reform, at least as far as I was concerned," said Batman. He pointed at a box at Kaliban's feet. "Is that the costume?"

"Yes." Commissioner Gordon opened the box and pulled out a long grey robe, shaking it out. A cloud of dust rose from the material as he shook it. "When he called, I had it pulled from our evidence warehouse. *cough cough*"

"Robin, check it over. Make sure there aren't any tricks left in it." Turning back to Kaliban, Batman added "I've kept an eye on you, Valentine. Not so much as a parking ticket or a fight at work. No debts, no bad relationships. I can only wish that more of my enemies would follow your path."

"Looks clean," said Robin, looking up from the costume. "Other than needing a good dry-cleaning." He folded up the robe and put it back into the box.

"Valentine, if the Commissioner agrees, I think we can look the other way if you want to wear this costume Saturday night." Batman extended a hand to the former criminal. "Have a good time."

"Funny, I thought you have a camera on the roof of headquarters," said Robin. "How come you didn't already know about this?"

"Hardware problem. The wireless relay in the camera pod stopped working Tuesday. I snuck up there from Dad's office on Friday and replaced it." Oracle gestured toward a work table, where a two-foot long cylinder lay, one side of it opened and exposing wires and lenses. "I haven't gotten it working yet."

A harmonic tone from one of the computers caught Oracle's attention. "The news crawler has picked up something else related to the Spook's death." A screen came to life, showing a red-headed woman sitting at a news desk. A banner at the bottom of the screen was labeled "Opinion" while a smaller banner below identified the speaker: Vicki Vale.

"Have Gotham's costumed vigilantes gone too far? In the wake of the death of Valentine Kaliban, at one time known to a select few as The Spook, Gotham's citizens are starting to question the benefit of anonymous individuals meting out their own brand of justice from behind a mask under the cloak of night."

"You have got to be kidding me. Isn't she an old friend of yours?" asked Robin.

"We dated for a while, but that was a long time ago," replied Batman, watching the screen. "She moved back to Gotham a few weeks ago. She was named the news editor at WSTR."

"This hasn't been broadcast yet," said Oracle, looking up from another screen. "I have a source on the engineering staff at WSTR who set it up so I get direct feeds of everything taped in-studio as it's recorded. Their opinion pieces usually air on Sunday night and during the noon newscast on weekdays."

"This will probably air tonight," said Batman, standing up. "A very quick response to the events of this morning. If you will excuse me, I'm going to see if I can find out more about Kaliban's activities last night." As he started out, there was a short burst of Mozart's Nocturn from one of the speakers in the room.

"Shh, please. Personal call," said Barbara as she activated the phone line on her headset.

Personal? mouthed Robin silently. She has a personal life? A shrug was Batman's only response.

"Good morning Sarah. What's - what? When? Where is he now? No, I understand. I'll be right down." Switching off the phone line, Barbara turned back toward the costumed heroes. "It's Dad. He had some kind of attack this morning, at his office. He's at Mercy General, in Intensive Care."

"Let me change, and I'll go down with you," said Robin, pulling off his mask.

"Keep me posted. I'll be down shortly," added Batman, leaving the room.

In Gotham City, there were two establishments bearing the name, The Acropolis. One was a restaurant renowned for its gourmet food, elegant setting and outrageous prices.

This wasn't that Acropolis.

Nestled between two warehouses near the Gotham River docks, the Acropolis Grill had a reputation of its own: a reputation for decent food at any time of the day for a price most of the dock workers could afford; a reputation for bartenders who did not put up with any trouble; and a reputation for sponsoring some of the finest young boxers to come out of Gotham City over the past fifty years. Nevertheless, the dark and noisy bar was not attractive to newcomers, and few came in without accompanying a frequent customer.

This Sunday afternoon, a newcomer came into the Acropolis.

As he stepped through the door with a worn duffel bag over his shoulder, the stranger didn't pause as he looked around the room. He walked directly to the bar, as if he had business with someone in the room, but did not know where to find them. Which, in a manner of speaking, was the case.

"You looking for someone, mister?" asked the bartender, a short, broad-shouldered man with curling black hair and a beard to match.

"Friend of mine, told me to look for him here when I reached Gotham," replied the stranger in a thick, eastern-European accent. "Double vodka, if you don't mind," he added, dropping a ten dollar bill on the bar.

"Your friend have a name?" asked the bartender, laying a glass on the bar and filling it.

"Valentin. A little taller than me, no-"

"I know him." The bartender pushed the glass forward, along with the bill. "Here, take it. I'm afraid, the news about your friend, it is not good."

"What do you-"

The stranger was interrupted by one of the men who had been sitting at the bar. "Here, sit, please. I am Anatoly, you are?"

"Sergei," answered the stranger, taking the offered seat. "What has happened to Valentin?"

"He was killed this morning. He left here with Anya, and on the way home, he was attacked by the Batman."

"I do not understand. Why would-"

"Because your friend was once a criminal, and we" Anatoly waved a hand around the room, indicating the people in the bar who were all listening to the conversation. "We thought it would be good, for Halloween, for him to wear his old costume. We did not know this would get him in trouble." Anatoly then went on to describe Val Kaliban's criminal past and reform, how he had worked with those in the Acropolis for the past few years, and how he died.

"Who suggested he wear the costume? Is he here?"

"No, I think Yuri knows that his idea led to Valentine's death. He has not come in today."

"Who is this Yuri? How might I speak with him?"

Anatoly turned toward one of the other customers. "Andrei, do you know where Yuri Stragos lives? Maybe we should see if he is all right."

Sergei waved his hand in a gesture of dismissal. "That is all right. If you can tell me where to find him, I will check on him myself. I think I would like to speak to his friend, Anya, as well."

A few minutes later, "Sergei" left the Acropolis, ducking into an alley with his duffel bag. He did not come back out to the street. Instead, after a brief pause, a dark-cloaked figure rose between the buildings, swinging on a near-invisible line.

"I'm sorry, Miss Gordon, but it's relatives only. Your friend will have to wait out here."

Barbara Gordon looked up at the officer. "Sergeant Casey, right? Please, there seems to be a problem with the control on my chair, and I need somebody to help me maneuver. Unless, of course, you would prefer to leave your post to accompany me?"

Michael Casey looked uncertain for a few seconds, then waved Barbara and Tim Drake through the door to the Intensive Care Unit. Inside, they saw detectives Renee Montoya and Harvey Bullock standing near the bed holding a sleeping Commissioner James Gordon.

"How is he?" asked Barbara as she wheeled to a stop.

"They got him on a couple different sedatives," replied Bullock. "Every time he wakes up, he starts yelling about ghosts and spooks." Barbara and Tim glanced at each other. "Renee and I was there when it started, around five o'clock. He came in when he got the call about that Spook guy gettin' killed."

"I've never seen your father like that. He went pale and started shaking, and he was looking at something neither of us could see. He said it wasn't his fault, then begged whatever he was talking to, to leave him alone, and 'don't take it away.'" Montoya shook her head. "We have no idea what he was talking about, though."

"Have the doctors tested him for drugs and chemicals?"

"In this town? Of course they have. Still waiting for the test results," said Harvey, turning toward the door. "I'll get out of your way for a few minutes."

Across town, "Sergei" knocked on a door in a clean but run-down apartment building. He stepped back from the door as he heard steps approaching from inside. The door opened, revealing a tall, solidly-built woman with olive skin and long, black hair, her eyes red from newly-wiped away tears. "Yes?"

"You are Anya Rastov?"

"Yes, and you are?"

"My name is Sergei Narnowich. I went to school with Valentine. His friends told me where I could find you. I thought you might need to talk to somebody today."

"Of course. The second stranger. Please, come in." Anya stepped back from the door. Sergei entered, noting the heavy drapes and tapestries on the walls and sumptuous furniture. Stepping into the apartment was like stepping into another time and place. "Do not mind how this looks. It is all from my family, you see."

"Actually, this is very beautiful."

"Tea?" Anya walked over to a counter, where a large brass samovar sat. She poured two cups out and brought them over to a large, overstuffed couch. "You want to know about Valentine, and how we came to be on the bridge last night. It was very simple, it is the only way across the river to his home. When the party broke up, we were walking home. As we started across the bridge, the Batman he attacked my Valentine."

"You don't waste any time, do you?" observed Sergei as he sipped at the steaming tea. "But you called me the 'second stranger.' What did you mean by that?"

"Two weeks ago, I told Valentine that two strangers were coming, who would lead to his death. He laughed." Anya set her cup down. "He never believed the stories I told him of my mother, and my mother's mother. They had the sight, as do I. When Yuri suggested that Valentine go to this, how do you say, costume party, I knew no good would come of it. But he thought it would be harmless fun. But in trying to do it right, he told Batman of his plans for the night. This was not, I feel, a good thing."

"Maybe. But who was the first stranger, if I am the second?"

"Oh, I did not explain. Yuri Stragos, he is the first. He started work with Valentine two days after my warning to Valentine. Val laughed when he told me of Yuri, saying he was two strangers at once. He thought, you see, that Stragos sounded like 'stranger.' And now, they are both gone."

Sergei had been rubbing his chin, his thoughts straying elsewhere. At her last words, his head jerked upward. "Both of them?"

"I feel it - Yuri is gone. He won't be seen again. Just as I won't see you again." She put special emphasis on the word "you." "Though we will meet again."

An hour later, it was Batman who stood in front of the apartment building of Yuri Stragos, or more to the point, what was left of the building. Smoke curled from the ruins, as a pair of firemen kept hoses at the ready in case any flames started up again. "Yeah, the call came in around noon, said one of the firemen. 'Five families, lost everything. The guy who lived in the apartment where it started, they got him down at the morgue. They ain't been able to find any family to notify, last I heard."

"There won't be any family, and there probably won't be any medical or dental records of the tenant to match against the body." Batman was speaking more to himself than to either of the firefighters. "Tell the coroner to try matching against records of missing homeless people. Any word on the cause?" he asked them.

"Looks like the guy fell asleep with something on the stove. We see it all the time."

"Thank you." Batman aimed his launcher, fired, and swung up and away from the rubble.

Unseen eyes watched him from an alley across the street. A massive figure emerged from the shadows and started walking in the same direction the dark knight had taken. A headset conveyed everything it saw back to its unseen master, who smiled and reached for a keyboard. "Interesting, he ventures out into the daylight for once. Let's see if my little surprise truly works."

"The doctors seem stumped, Tim. No drugs or chemicals at all. I was thinking Dad might have gotten a whiff of something the Scarecrow used, you know?" Barbara's hands moved deftly over the controls of a specially-outfitted van, driving down the Broome Expressway.

"I was thinking the same thing, but -AHHH!" Tim Drake grabbed his head with both hands. "Dad! No! Don't take him, don't-" He reached over and grabbed one of the levers in front of Barbara. The van sped up, surging towards a small sports car ahead.

"Tim! What are you doing?" Barbara hooked her right arm under Tim's arm, forcing it up and away from the controls. He lunged for her, forcing her to thrust her open palm up and into his chin. The blow drove his head up to the roof of the van, knocking him out. As she got the van back under control, she shook her head. "I don't know what just happened here, but it sounds like what happened to Dad."

Moments later, Barbara pulled into the garage at the back of the first floor of the Clock Tower. As she did, Tim regained consciousness, looking around with a confused look on his face. "Wha, what happened?"

As Barbara swung a collapsible wheelchair down from its space behind her seat and lowered herself into it, she replied "I'll tell you on the way upstairs."

Two blocks from the burned-down apartment of Yuri Stragos, Batman swung overhead toward the alley where he left his car concealed behind a pair of dumpsters. He released his line and was preparing to fire off another one when a cacophony of noise came through the earpiece in his cowl. His vision flickered as the lenses in his cowl switched from infrared to starlight, to normal, then back to starlight, but through out the changes he could once again see the Spook advancing on Gotham City, towering over it.. His grappler fired prematurely, missing its mark. He dropped, twisting so he could kick off from one building and slow his fall with horizontal movement. Another kick sent him toward the tattered remains of an awning over the entrance to a long-closed deli. Ten feet off the ground, he heard a low growl behind him and felt something massive strike him in the back. He tumbled to the ground, rolled, spun, and came up into a low crouch. A misshapen man, standing fifteen feet tall, was staring down at him.

"I suppose I shouldn't be too surprised," muttered the caped crusader as he pulled a handful of gas pellets from one of his belt's compartments. He hurled them at the creature, two of the striking the ground and exploding as the rest struck the figure in the chest. A cloud of greenish gas enveloped the giant, but it kept moving forward, unaffected. "Hnnh. Looks like that won't work this time."

The giant lunged for him, and the Batman ducked under its arms and rolled to one side. As he did, he brought one leg up and kicked it in the ribs. Its head jerked upward, but it was otherwise unfazed. As it turned to face him again, Batman jumped and grabbed its shoulders. He vaulted up onto its back, twisting around so he could wrap his legs around its neck. He found the headgear it wore, an amalgamation of electronics that included a camera and microphone. "I know who you are, and I'm coming for you!" he hissed just before tearing the apparatus apart.

The creature slowed as its air supply was restricted, but it did not stop. It reached up and clubbed at the Batman with fists larger than his head. One of them knocked him loose, and a follow-up sent him to the ground. Those same hands reached for him. A raised hand held the grapple-gun, and fired. The compressed-air-propelled grappler struck the giant in the face, the claws whipping around to dig into any soft surface they struck.

"AARRRRRGGGHH!"

The Batman touched a button on the grapple launcher, and several thousand volts shot through the connecting line. "I'll have to thank Robin for that idea," thought Batman as the creature dropped to the ground.

"What the hell? Back up Tim! Into the elevator!" Barbara smashed her hand through a glass panel and yanked on a red lever underneath. A loud buzzer added to the sound of flames, fire alarms and malfunctioning electronics as she followed Tim back into the elevator. "Halon system is discharging, the flames will be out in a few seconds," she said as the elevator doors closed.

"How did you get around the government ban on halon fire control systems?" asked Tim.

"Same way Batman does - this system doesn't exist."

"Oh. Yeah." As the doors opened again, they saw a scene of chaos.

The halon had combined with the oxygen in the air, depriving the fire of one of its necessary elements for seconds, just enough time for the flames to die off before the room's ventilation systems allowed more oxygenated air into the room. But the damage had been done. Panels hung from computer cabinets, sparks leapt from circuit boards to mounting frames, charred cables dangled from their remaining connections.

"This shouldn't have been able to happen!" exclaimed Barbara as she wheeled about the room. "That halon system should have engaged as soon as the temperature went above 130!" She picked up the camera pod from the workbench, its exterior charred, its interior a molten slag of gold, lead and other rare metals.

"The alarm and extinguisher system were affected by the same thing that caused the fire. The same thing that caused our dreams last night, and probably the same thing that struck your father down." Barbara and Tim turned to see Batman standing up in the works of the clock. "I just got here myself."

"You like line you've been through the ringer and - " Tim's mouth dropped open. "Why are your ears sticking out?"

"Fried the audio circuits in the cowl. Lens systems aren't much better." Batman dropped down beside them. "Do you remember when the Commissioner shook out the Spook's costume?"

"Yeah, it was full of - oh. That wasn't regular dust, was it?"

"No. Micro-sized wave relays, designed to carry and amplify a transmitted wave. Similar to what the Hatter has used in his hats, but more sophisticated, and miniaturized. It carried the 'broadcast' that showed up as our dreams. Since the Commissioner wasn't asleep when it first happened, it seemed as if he was having a seizure."

"That happened to me, too. The dust must have still been on me."

"Right. It also affected electronics." Batman waved at the table where Oracle's surveillance pod lay. "That was covered in the dust. It was bad timing that it had broken before our meeting, because you brought it in here, and it's wreaked havoc with your systems."

"But who is behind this? Is this another attempt by the Spook to fake his own death?" asked Barbara.

"No, Valentine Kaliban is a victim here. Along with at least two others, one of whom is dead, and the other transformed into a mindless brute." Before Batman could continue, there was a knock at the door.

"Who can that be?" Barbara reached for the switch to activate a video screen. "There are only a couple of people who can get past the outer doors. Oh, it's Alfred."

The door opened, and Bruce Wayne's aide de-camp stepped in. "I thought I would find you here, sir, and I believe this is rather urgent. A courier delivered this to the manor some thirty minutes ago. The outer package was addressed to Bruce Wayne, but the inner package was clearly marked for the Batman." He handed over a small box, which held a standard VHS videotape.

"Someone is kidding, right?" asked Oracle, one eyebrow raised.

"What's the matter, don't have this kind of ancient technology around here?" asked Robin, smiling in the face of a bizarre situation.

"Of course I do." Barbara took the tape and slid it into a slot. Another screen came to life, showing a broad-chinned, bald man with thick glasses.

"Greetings Batman. Or should I call you Bruce. Oh, no, despite several years of uncertainty, I do still remember. And I'm ready to do more than that. I hope you enjoyed your weekend, because this is just the start. And before I am done, Gotham City, and all that you hold dear, will be part, parcel and property of…"

"Hugo Strange," finshed the Batman, along with the tape.

FINI