Sir Edmund Dorrance.  King Snake.  With the eclipse of Oswald Cobblepot, he was the most powerful “rogue adjacent” crime boss in Gotham. He should have been enjoying himself.  But he was not.

     That insane weakling Hugo Strange had actually succeeded.  He had come to King Snake with a request for funding.  He had a scheme, he said, that would render Batman useless as a crime fighter.  He was convinced that he could successfully implant a suggestion in Batman’s mind.  A suggestion, Strange claimed, that could be activated by the use of a specific code word.  It would cause Batman to halt any attempt to apprehend the speaker.

     Strange had a reputation in the Gotham underworld for being a crackpot and a pervert, but it was also conceded that he had a knack for exploiting the human mind.  There was a chance Strange might succeed, although it was a slim chance and not the kind of gamble he would normally take.  Still, with the aforementioned eclipse of Cobblepot’s Iceberg, his Ghost Dragons were seeing an unexpected surge in all of their operations and their weekly tribute was becoming more than he could easily launder.  He was flush, and had nothing better to do with the money… Eventually, although he still considered Strange to be a crackpot and a pervert, he chose to underwrite the mad doctor’s plan.

     Dorrance could admit that Strange had also successfully appealed to his vanity.  With the disappearance of the Penguin and the ineffective leadership of his replacement Poison Ivy, King Snake had become “the head of the pre-eminent criminal organization in Gotham”.  He was also the only man Strange could approach “whose financial resources were so great that he wouldn’t even feel the pinch” from Strange’s request.  It was all true, and if King Snake didn’t need a cowering little toadstool like Hugo to inform him of the fact, it was still gratifying to hear the words in the open air.

     King Snake didn’t respond to flattery, but he did respond to the truth.  It had pleased him that his new status had not gone unnoticed, and so he cut Strange a check.  If nothing came of it… well, as the doctor said, he wouldn’t feel the pinch.

     Surprisingly, the money had been well-spent.  Strange had returned with a smile and a word—”flehmen”.  The following night, one of Dorrance’s Ghost Dragons committed a minor and very clumsy robbery.  The Bat noticed, the Bat attacked – and with a single word, the Bat withdrew.  In the few nights since, the Ghost Dragons had been hitting targets all over Gotham, and in every case where Batman appeared, “flehmen” was sufficient to send him on his way.

     And Dorrance was the only criminal in Gotham with this knowledge!  With that kind of advantage, he could almost guarantee that the Ghost Dragons’ prestige and power would spread through Gotham like a wild fire in the months to come, devouring all competition and putting the city in a stranglehold.  It was, without a doubt, a tremendous coup.

     But Dorrance couldn’t enjoy it.  Well, to be honest, he had been enjoying himself, but all that ended… not long after he entered Jenna’s and took his seat by the wall.

     There were two reasons for this.  One was that the waitstaff was dishonoring his Ghost Dragons.  A Ghost Dragon was a warrior with a code of honor. He followed the practice of the Chinese nónglì xīnnián beginning each lunar year — or, in this case, each month — free from debt. As a matter of honor, a Ghost Dragon paid his tab by the last day of the month, or he would lose face. Any individual so marked as untrustworthy, unreliable, and impoverished would no longer be accorded the privilege of wearing Ghost Dragon colors nor of working out in the dojo.

     Yet tonight, King Snake witnessed several Dragons attempting to pay their monthly tab as honor dictated, and each was summarily rebuffed.  Their money was no good in Jenna’s, they had been told.  “It’s company policy,” the manager had said, which Dorrance thought a very odd statement.  What kind of company would have a policy of refusing payment?  The Dragons didn’t care about any of that, they just wanted to satisfy their honor.  But the fools here didn’t seem to get that.

     While this in and of itself was a nuisance, there was a larger problem.  Dorrance might have been blind, but that didn’t prevent him from sensing things around him.  What he sensed was a subtle shift by the other club patrons.  The ones who weren’t criminals, to be specific.

     When the Iceberg Lounge was still in business, ordinary Gothamites or tourists sometimes visited.  They didn’t come for the food or the liquor or the décor, of course.  They came to look at people like him.  They came for the dark, voyeuristic thrill of being close to dangerous felons and deranged psychopaths.  But they did so at their own risk.  The Iceberg had always been a somewhat lawless establishment, and the Rogues held the balance of power.  So law-abiding citizens knew that they were inviting injury or death by coming.

     Therefore it was to be expected that Jenna’s would be something similar, and it was.  Lately, however, there was something different.  It was something in the way people talked, in the way people invaded his personal space.

     Mainly it was something missing - fear.  King Snake suspected that many customers had forgotten to be afraid of Jenna’s more notorious visitors – and that the club itself had encouraged this.  Familiarity bred contempt, and the longer these young, upwardly mobile immortals were in close quarters with the worst menaces in Gotham without incident, the more relaxed they’d get.  He could hear the subtle hint of condescension in their voices.  It was as if they’d concluded that these psychopaths and ganglords weren’t that scary after all.

     And since Jenna’s was obviously catering to these people, by the way their numbers grew every night, it wanted them to come, spend their money, and see the tamed criminals.

     Was King Snake to ignore this effrontery for a few free drinks?

     Dorrance stood up.  “Let’s go,” he told the nearest Dragons.  “If they won’t take our money, well - I think I’ve become too big for this establishment anyway.”

     From the talk around him, King Snake didn’t think any one even noticed them leave.  That convinced him not to return again.

     He’d just have to find somewhere else for his Dragons to entertain themselves.  Once more it was a pity that Poison Ivy had driven the Iceberg into the ground.

     Poison Ivy had spent much of her adult life disputing the belief that she was insane.  She was just fully committed to a cause that nobody else understood.  To the small minds and callous hearts of the world, plants were merely a resource to be exploited.  Because she contradicted that selfish, narrow-minded view, she was deemed insane. 

     Still, if you believed in the popular definition of insanity as doing something over and over again and expecting a different result, then Ivy supposed she was insane.

     Why else did she open the Rydbergii Lounge night after night to sparse crowds, letting it hemorrhage cash and drain the profits from her black market operations?

     Why else had she driven herself to Arkham every week only to see Harley wilt and droop like a rose without sunlight or water?

     It was always the same.  Neither made her happy.  Why did she persist in the belief that it would?

     Maybe she needed a therapist.

     "Ms. Isley?"

     Ivy looked up from her desk.  By now she didn't spend much time on the floor any longer.  Even she had to acknowledge that her customers, for some unfathomable reason, didn't like talking to her.  "Yes, Raven?" she asked wearily.

     "There's someone at the bar you're going to want to see," the hostess said nervously.  "There was no way to stop him from coming in."

     "Who, Batman?"

     "No, it's - it's Matt Hagen, Ms. Isley."

     Ivy's head snapped up.  Lately she’d found that her temper had become wildly unpredictable.  Certain things that would have infuriated her a year ago were now shrugged off, while other things still set her off instantly.  This, apparently, was one of the latter examples.  "Clayface has dared to show himself in MY club?!"

     Raven backed away.

     Storming out of her office, Ivy headed for the bar with a full head of steam.  She didn't notice how empty the establishment was because she didn't care about the people who weren't there.  Just the person who was.

     "Hagen," she snarled, seeing the massive, slovenly bulk at HER bar.

     "Pammy," he murmured without turning around.

     "You will leave now if the walls themselves have to come alive and throw you out!"

     "Really, Pammy?  Is that what you want the twenty people in here to see?  You throwing a paying customer out for no reason?"  Clayface chuckled.  "You run a business like that, I can see why it's empty."

     Ivy approached him and jabbed a finger into his soft mass.  "I don't care if the entire block sees!" she hissed at him.  "I will not allow you to sit there and pretend to drink when you're only here to mock me and take pleasure in my problems!"

     Clayface finally faced her, even if it just meant his back becoming his front by virtue of the eyes and mouth that appeared there.  "Women always think they're mind readers, don't they?" he asked, outraging her further.  "Actually, I have reasons to be here besides witnessing your humiliation."

     "You have to the count of three," Ivy growled.

     "Barkeep, I'd like to open a tab."

     "One."

     "A round of drinks for everyone!  Here, this oughta cover it."

     "T - "  Ivy stopped as Clayface tossed a stack of bills her way.  "This is ten thousand dollars," she said blankly.

     "That tab I mentioned?  Put that on it.  I expect to be coming here a lot in the future."

     Ivy scowled at him.  "So that's your game?" she asked bitterly.  "You think I'm so desperate for ten grand in cash that I'll let you come in here every night and 'witness my humiliation'."

     Clayface smiled.  "No, I don't think you're that desperate, I think you passed that level of desperate three weeks ago.  But what if I came back next month with another stack like that, eh Pammy?  And the next month, and the next.  What if I paid you ten grand every month?  Think you're desperate enough for that?"

     Her pride rebelled.

     Well, it was more like a minor peasant uprising.  It was brutally smashed by her need for additional cash flow.

     "Why are you doing this?" she asked, staving off the unpleasant moment where she would have to (temporarily) put aside her longstanding grudge.

     "Let me tell you a little story," Clayface told her.  "I was sitting in a bar in Metropolis when I heard the news that the Iceberg Lounge in Gotham was reopening under new management.  When I heard the new management was you, I figured that was it.  You blacklisted me from Gotham, and any hope I had of returning to this city was gone if you were running the Iceberg from now on.  Just more traveling back and forth between places like Metropolis and Star City and Keystone."

     Ivy glared at him.  Yes, Clayface forever the wandering exile, that would have been very nice.

     "And then later," he went on, "I find out that you're running this place into the ground."

     "I do not appreciate this story," Ivy snapped.

     "So I think to myself, 'This is an opportunity.  If all the other Rogues are drinking somewhere else because they don't want to deal with Pammy's shit on a nightly basis, I have the opening I need to return to Gotham'." 

     "Yes, I'm glad this has worked out so well for you."

     Clayface looked at her consideringly.  "It could work out for you too, you know."

     "Excuse me?" Ivy said.

     "Well, come on, I can amuse myself at your expense, but that's only a short-term solution.  The Lounge shuts down, you go back to being the most disturbed woman in Gotham, the status quo returns, and I'm out again," Clayface reasoned.  "But if I helped you keep this place open, you'd HAVE to bury the hatchet with me for good."

     Ivy sneered at him.  "Oh, so now you're here to save me.  Thank Gaia a man has come to do what a woman possibly couldn't."

     "Catwoman could," Clayface replied casually. 

     That shut her up. 

     "Look, everyone in Gotham knows that you don't get along with me any better than you did the Joker.  If word gets out that I'm drinking here instead of that Jenna's place everyone else is going to, you think some people might say, 'Hey, if it's safe for him, maybe it's safe for us too'?"

     Ivy pondered what he was saying for a moment.  "What exactly are you offering me?" she asked finally.

     "Wow, Pammy.  That's the most reasonable tone you've ever used with me."

     "Hagen."

     "Right, right.  I give you ten thousand a month until this place is in the black again.  I figure by that time, I can drink here for free for the rest of the century.  I'll socialize, I won't start fights, I'll let the tourists see the former film star and current mudman.  You treat me right.  I'm not asking to be friends, but you can stop looking at me and talking to me like I'm the lowest form of life on the planet.  And next time Harley arranges one of those Rogue Karaoke nights, I get an invitation," Clayface told her.

     She felt a pang as she wondered if Harley would ever be doing that again.  "It's - not a bad offer," she admitted.  Better than what she expected at first.  Still… "I'll take it on one condition."

     "What?" he asked suspiciously.

     When she'd finished speaking, Clayface looked at her for a few seconds.  Then he smiled.  "And here I thought you were just going to give me a lot of petty orders to satisfy your pride.  Common sense from you, Pammy?  I think you've learned from when I saw you last."

     Ivy smiled tightly and clutched her money harder.

     Eddie made a “tsk, tsk” sound at the mirror while he straightened his tie.  He’d always known King Snake was blind, but was he deaf as well?  It was the only way Eddie could imagine why the Ghost Dragons’ leader would ever have gone into business with a complete nimrod like Hugo Strange – because he could neither see nor hear the demented old fart.

     And the plan!  Brainwashing Batman in a fucking day spa?  King Snake had demeaned himself just by associating his name with such a cliché!  Frankly, the Bat had done the gang leader a favor by throwing him in jail along with his cronies.  On the outside King Snake would have had to deal with the looks and remarks (well, maybe not the looks, he was blind) of his betters.

     “Betters” meaning people like himself… or Selina.

     Eddie frowned.  Where was she anyway?  As appalling as the notion of a Hugo Strange day spa was, the crackpot scheme had happened to coincide in a lucky way with an event he was very much interested in.  The MOMA was exhibiting the latest sculpture by James Sanborn, the man behind the giant code sculpture outside CIA headquarters.  It was a puzzle physically larger than himself, and it was priceless.  What better target could there be?

     Unfortunately, Batman would see it that way too.  There’d be no point even leaving the letter at the signal, because the hero would already know where Eddie would be.

     One answer, Eddie had deduced, was a party to be held at the MOMA.  If Batman was going to be at the museum one way or another, let it be out of costume and in the guise of Bruce Wayne.  That would buy him some time, but not enough.  It was only part of the answer.  He’d need a distraction too.

     That distraction could have been Selina.  He’d had a notion to point her towards Strange’s attempt to rewire Bruce’s brain, and let the fur fly.  Bruce would have been too busy with her to worry about him.  Unfortunately, the idea had encountered two formidable obstacles, and he was forced to abandoned it.  The simple reason was that Selina was out of town, and he didn’t know where she’d gone.  The kind of manipulation he had in mind was not exactly something you could put into motion over the phone.

     The larger problem was the manipulation itself.  That was the only word for it.  He was planning to cunningly play on his friend’s insecurities with the skill of a master manipulator and the special knowledge of a trusted friend.  Not something Selina would appreciate when she found out later.  His friend’s wrath was troubling enough.  Coupled with the knowledge that he had betrayed her by sleeping with the “spawn” Selina loathed so much, the Riddler was feeling much too guilty to mess with her head.

     Eddie sighed.  Talia. 

It was bad enough that she was high on Selina’s list of least favorite people.  But it was also because of the wretched spawn that he’d learned Selina was dating Batman, a factoid that had come hidden inside the secret of the Bat’s identity like a pack of rabid Greeks packed inside the Trojan Horse.  Selina and Wayne meant Selina was with Batman — a fact he had been much happier not knowing.  He blamed Talia for the discovery, since he never would have begun to suspect Bruce Wayne was Batman if she hadn’t let something slip.  It would have been so much easier if, hating her as he did, the evening with Talia had been a total disaster.

     He was forced to admit, however, that even now, he couldn’t look back on the night as a complete loss.  Talia would never have made a suitable girlfriend, but just for the one night, she could have been worse.  She could have been a lot worse, in fact – with a few less glasses of champagne in her, she could have been one of those groupies of his.  Why did he only attract the idiots?

     Of course Doris, he reminded himself, had been the furthest thing from an idiot.  She was also the furthest thing from Talia, and frankly that was the main reason why Talia would never have worked for him.  She could never have measured up to Doris. 

He wasn’t sure anybody could. 

And he sighed again.

     As for his professional life, Eddie was unfortunately forced to conclude that the MOMA party wouldn’t work as a time for a heist.  He’d have to show up another night after hours with a crew of heavy lifters, and hope for the best.  At least the presence of other individuals would force Batman to remain “Batman”.  Thinking of him as “Batman” was frightening.  Thinking of him as “Bruce” or “Selina’s boyfriend” was an utter nightmare.  The two of them would have to remain in their assigned roles, if Eddie had any hope of continuing to face his rival in their battle of wits.  Any slim, weak, faint whisper of a hope.

     For now, he’d crash the party anyway.  A little personal reconnaissance never hurt anybody.  Plus, from what he'd read, the Sanborn incorporated several light sources into its theme.  There might be a way to rig the lights so that a press of a button would make them visually disable anyone nearby who wasn't ready for it.  Strobe lighting, maybe, or blinding bright colors (no, not that, too Crazy Quilt).  However he did it, it could let him get away from Batman without the possibility of causing lasting injury.

     He was now trying to plan robberies that couldn't injure Batman.  This was the hell Talia had introduced him to.

     Still, if he was going to crash a museum function, then he’d better look good doing it.  Who knew?  A party at the MOMA might be just the thing to draw Selina back.

     It had been a long, long week, but as Talia huddled in the back seat of a disgusting taxicab that she couldn’t even afford, she reflected that it would all be worth it in an hour or two.

     Talia had allowed herself to be escorted to Gr’oriBr’di after arriving in Gotham.  There had definitely been something interesting about the man, and in other circumstances she might have enjoyed seducing him with her wiles.  Now, however, any thought of that had been completely ruined.  She might tell herself she was pursuing Gr’oriBr’di for her own reasons, but she would still be following her father’s orders.  This she could no longer bring herself to do. 

     At the conclusion of their brief meeting, Talia had done something quite shocking.  She didn't trust using the credit card her father had given her.  When her father discovered her treachery, she didn't want him to be able to trace her through her charges.  So she had lied to one of her father’s lieutenants.  Even worse, her lie was that her father had orders for Gr’oriBr’di to turn over to her whatever funds he had available.  She had misused her father’s power for her own ends.

     Well, if that wasn’t an act of rebellion, she didn’t know what was.

     Gr’oriBr’di only had a mere few thousand dollars, unfortunately.  Talia had settled for this puny amount and left “on a mission of her own”.  She allowed him to think that it was a mission from her father.  If Gr’oriBr’di only knew what her father’s mission was, he would have loved to think that was what she was doing.

     Still, if Gr'oriBr'di was anything like Ulstarn, he would report to her father later in the day that he'd met with Talia and given her the money as "ordered".  So her father would know of her perfidy before the night was out. 

     So Talia took refuge in a miserable hostel where her father would never think to look for her (and where she was unlikely to encounter rude stares and remarks), a place called a “Holiday Inn”.

     Since then, Talia had tried to clear her mind by indulging in those things she found relaxing.  Five days of good food and spa treatment, though, had failed to produce the desired result.  She could not think of an appropriate protector to attach herself to.  Oh, of course, she could target any of a hundred millionaires in the city and make him hers with ease, but they could not protect her from the might of her father.  Besides, she would not let herself be viewed as some common gold-digger. 

     The millionaire she did want, well, that was different.  For him she would even let herself be viewed as some kind of whore.

     But who else was there?  Who else could offer her the power and resources she needed?  Who else in this dirty city was respected?

     She still didn’t know, and the money had almost run out.  Increasingly nervous, Talia had sneaked into the fringes of Chinatown, the stalls and open-air markets where men dealt in obviously stolen goods, in order to learn if there were any rumors concerning DEMON.  Perhaps a search for a beautiful young woman of good breeding?

     Instead she’d learned something more distressing.  Her Beloved had been behaving erratically for the past week, allowing ordinary thieves to escape!  The rest of the rumors had been jumbled – typical superstitious Chinese, they spoke of dragons and ghosts and snakes, and no one could agree on whether Beloved was alive or dead.  But everyone agreed that some kind of day spa was involved.

     Talia had gone to this day spa only a half-hour before to investigate, but there she had an unpleasant encounter with an impostor dressed as Beloved.  And like Beloved, he had an unhealthy fixation on cats!  “Noblest creatures on earth,” ha!

     She had an epiphany at that moment.  The Cat-slut had used sorcery on Beloved to make him enamored of cats.  But the spell had gone awry somehow, and now anyone who wore the costume of the Bat was similarly affected!

     It had been the proof she needed.  She had left the spell-addled fool behind, hailed the nearest taxi, and ordered the driver to take her to the Gotham Museum of Modern Art.  The Wayne Foundation was holding a function that evening, according to a half-dozen advertisements she’d seen at the Holiday Inn.  Beloved had to be there.  Once she revealed the Hell-cat’s perfidy, Beloved would realize her worth, banish the bitch, pay her cab fare, and then take her to live with him at his manor – no, his castle! 

     And she would be princess to his prince, just like she’d imagined as a girl, all those many, many years ago.

     It had been a long week, but as Bruce made his way to the bar, he knew none of it would matter any more once Selina made her appearance.

     While Arthur had interrupted their weekend getaway, he wasn’t so rude as to ask Selina to return to Atlantis with him that very minute.  He simply asked that she visit him at the first opportunity.  Selina had little firsthand experience with Aquaman, so after Arthur had left, she asked Bruce where the Atlantean king rated on the scale of “super-schmuckery”.

     Bruce told her that Arthur was one of the most sensible members of the League, with a low tolerance for arrogance, pretention, or bullshit.

     “So better than Diana?” Selina had teased.

     “Opposite end of the spectrum,” Bruce said dryly.

     The weekend jaunt had ended on schedule, and Bruce reflected that the most enjoyable part of the excursion was that he was able to enjoy it.  He hadn’t spent a minute fixating on the time away from Gotham or obsessing over crimes he’d failed to prevent.  He was under no illusions that Gotham had magically become a utopia, but with Joker’s removal from the equation, Bruce no longer felt it was teetering on a precipice.

     So… he enjoyed himself.  And as soon as they returned to the manor, a curious Selina had changed into her costume and left for Atlantis, by way of the Batcave teleporter.  He had watched her go, wondering darkly what Arthur wanted her to steal.

     As it turned out, her departure had come at a fortunate time.  For no sooner had she left, than Bruce Wayne had been “lured” (in an insultingly transparent manner) into an obvious trap at a brand-new day spa.  The perpetrators actually thought they had hypnotized him and implanted a code word that would cause Batman to stop pursuing any criminal who uttered it.  Since the scheme hinged on knowledge of Bruce’s identity, that meant it could only be Hugo Strange pulling the strings.

     Bruce corrected himself:  Theoretically it could have been Ra’s or Riddler, but it wasn’t.  The use of hypnosis was a Hugo Strange hallmark, Ra’s would never use a cat-themed anything to lure him, and a Rogue of Nygma’s standing would never stoop to a painful cliché like a hypno-day spa.  Still, as far as Nygma was concerned, Bruce would have to keep in mind that even if Riddler wouldn’t reveal his identity to the world, he was still capable of using the secret against him.

     At any rate, Bruce had let Strange think his plan succeeded.  Hugo simply didn’t have the financial resources to set the thing up, and Bruce needed to find out who his backer was.  Once the password began to be used, and he saw it was only Ghost Dragons who possessed it, he had his man.  It was an unpleasant discovery.  A year ago, King Snake would never have been able to bankroll an operation of this size.  While it was a clear sign that Penguin’s empire had declined since Ivy took over, his competitors had filled the void faster than Bruce would have liked.

     Although for the moment, the void was empty again.  King Snake had joined the Ghost Dragons who only thought they had escaped.  All were in Blackgate, except for Strange who was in Arkham.  The day spa was shut down… All in all, it had been a successful operation (even if the act of letting those Dragons escape, temporarily, had been distasteful).

     While Bruce had felt Selina’s absence personally, Batman couldn’t help but feel it was better for Gotham that she’d missed the “Flehman” episode.  Considering how angry she’d been when Strange had tampered with her friend “Eddie’s” mind that time, he shuddered to think how she might have reacted to this.  She would have insisted on a large role in the investigation, at the very least, and probably a personal “contribution” to the physical payback.  While Bruce always appreciated her help, he didn’t think it would help either of their public images if Batman had to physically prevent Catwoman from shoving an icepick up Hugo Strange’s nose.

     So, as a gift of fate, Atlantis, and lucky timing, the crisis was averted. Selina had notified Alfred she would be returning to Gotham that night, in time for the party, and had him lay out some “goddess dress” or something so she could change quickly on her return.  She was probably on the way to the MOMA at this very moment.  Still, Bruce wouldn’t completely relax until she was with him. He had a present for her.  And “relaxing” was not a possibility while that little red box remained in his pocket.

     A small red leather box.  Cartier’s, her favorite.  And inside that was a pink sapphire ring.  Bruce had been walking back to the office after a particularly long lunch at d’Annunzio’s – a special reward for Patterson, recognizing the extraordinary effort the man had made since WayneTech absorbed those LionCorp subsidiaries.  It was a simply expedient to save jobs, Wayne Tech had no real use for the LC operations, but Patterson had taken it upon himself to make it more than that. He had found ways to integrate the new firms into existing Wayne Tech divisions, “reorganizing” in the literal sense, not as a buzzword to slash jobs, and the company was stronger for it.  Lunch with the CEO was the least Bruce could do.  The man deserved a reward…

      A thought which brought Selina and the Gatta to mind throughout the meal.  He was walking back to the office thinking how their enjoyable excursion on the yacht had been.  A yacht he purchased to show his gratitude for all she’d done for him since Joker’s demise.  A gift bought as a thank you for her, but which he had really enjoyed himself.  He thought how unusual that was.  He had bought countless expensive gifts for women over the years.  It was a cost of doing business for a fop playboy.  The Gatta, that was something else.  The initial purchase was the same, an extravagant gesture… but the way he enjoyed it, that was new.  It came as a sudden shock that he was actually able to enjoy his wealth.

      And he wanted to enjoy it with her.

      Just at that moment, there was Cartier’s window.  He looked in, saw the ring, and felt a raging desire to see her face when he gave it to her.  A gift that wasn’t a thank you, a gift that wasn’t fop cover, a gift that had no ulterior motive whatsoever.  It was just a vehicle for the giving.  

      That it was a ring, well… he tried not to think about that. They were together “for better or worse” since the moment he took off his mask… 

     His thoughts were interrupted by the touch of a feminine hand on his arm, and he turned, half-expecting it was Selina wearing some new perfume she’d picked up in Atlantis.  So it was with an appalled start that he realized it was Talia al-Ghul clutching his sleeve.

     “Beloved, I had to come,” she whispered dramatically.  “I have discovered terrible, horrible news!  It could not wait another moment, you have to be told!  Tonight I—”

     “You’re wrinkling the Dolce & Gabbana,” he growled.

     Talia let go of his arm, suddenly struck mute.  Bruce in turn grabbed her arm and dragged her towards a more secluded part of the museum.  Normally, he viewed spending time alone with her as he would a sharp stick in the eye, but there was something he wanted to say to her.

     “Beloved,” Talia repeated before he could speak.  “I heard of your recent troubles today.  I went to this accursed day spa to investigate, and I encountered this – this impostor dressed as you!  And he was spouting some nonsense about how cats are the noblest animals on earth, and—”

     “I’ll look into it,” Bruce interrupted.  Her story jibed with reports he’d received of a man dressed as Batman in Times Square.  He’d dismissed it as a PR stunt, but if the imposter really was at Hugo’s spa, then he must have been connected to the criminal operation.  Judging by what Talia heard him say, Bruce could hazard a guess that “cats are the noblest animals on earth” and in a costume resembling his own, the Bat-imposter must be Tom Blake.  That would certainly explain the use of “flehmen” as the code word.

     “But don’t you see?” Talia pleaded.  “The Cat-bitch has used some kind of black magic!  It causes anyone wearing your costume to become completely enamored of cats!”

      …

     This latest bit of idiocy made Bruce massage the bridge of his nose.  Talia was always a headache, but this was unprecedented.  Still, that wasn’t important at the moment.  What he had to ask her was.

“Tell me, Talia,” Bruce hissed in his best Bat-gravel, seeing no one else around.  “What made you tell the Riddler Batman’s identity?”

     Talia looked shocked, and then indignant, but in between there was a flash of guilt in her eyes. 

“I never told him such a thing!”

     “So you never talked to him?”

     There was that poorly disguised guilt again. 

“I talked to him, yes, but I didn’t—” Talia said.  Then she stopped, and her eyes widened in an expression he’d never seen on her face.  Apparently she’d gotten an idea.  “That little louse!  He and the Cat are the two most odious creatures in this city!”

     “I think she just paid you a compliment, Eddie.”

     Bruce and Talia both turned towards the new voice.  There stood Selina, looking absolutely stunning in a vision of draped red silk, and next to her in an off-the-rack polyblend tuxedo… Nygma.  Bruce had a silent spasm of irrational jealousy that Nygma had seen her before he had.  Riddler, in contrast, didn’t seem to notice Bruce at all.  His eyes were riveted warily on Talia.

     Talia, in contrast, looked at Nygma with pure rage. 

“Vermin…” she seethed.

Selina rolled her eyes in a “here we go” expression, then saw Talia’s gaze was a little off the mark.

“Canker blossom…” Talia declared.

Selina followed the demonspawn’s eyes, puzzled, seeing they were going right past her and were, in fact, pointed right at…

“You sneaking, lying filth!”

Eddie?

“You foul excrescence of a parasite!”

     “Where’d you learn all your insults, the fourteenth century?” Nygma replied, becoming defensive.

     “You used me!” Talia retorted. 

      Selina looked at Bruce.

“It was never about being properly apologetic for the way you behaved towards me.  You were merely trying to pump me for information!”

      Bruce looked at Selina.

     “Yeah, well, nice that you finally figured that out,” Riddler said, checking his watch and then letting out a low whistle. 

     “Um,” Selina said with a light musical lilt in her voice that was neither as casual or amused as it seemed, “Eddie, I think Bruce and I going to go upstairs and see the Monet waterlilies, and we’ll just let you and the spawn—”

     “You’re not even sorry!” Talia snarled.  “You were the one person that day who didn’t treat me like garbage, and all along you were treating me like your pawn!”

     “Honey, lesser intellects like you shouldn’t even be allowed on the chessboard!” Nygma yelled.

     Selina had slipped over to Bruce’s side.  “You know, if we sneak off now, I don’t think they’ll even notice,” she murmured.

     By now, Bruce had had more than enough of people who knew his secret that he really wished didn’t. 

“I’m glad you’re back,” he whispered, “and I have something to show you, but I’ll save it for when we’re alone.”

     “You scrawny twerp!”

     “A-DIRE-HA airhead!”

     “And you weren’t even that good!”

     Bruce and Selina both froze in place.  Her eyes wide, his dilating.  They must have misheard her, or misinterpreted, or…

      “Oh yeah? Why is an iPhone better than a night with the Demon Head’s daughter?  At least the iPhone screen moves when you touch it.”

     “Oh yeah?” Talia shot back.  She darted forward, grabbed him by the lapels, and kissed him fiercely.

     Selina’s hand shot up, clamping down tight over her own mouth.  Bruce was so startled, he didn’t even turn to look at her, although he felt certain her eyes were riveted on the same wondrous horror that his were.

     Talia and Nygma broke away from each other for a split second, regarded each other with marked hostility, and then resumed their passionate kissing.  Talia even lifted her leg and wrapped it around him.

     Sickened, Bruce now managed to look at Selina and saw that she appeared to be going through something like the five stages of grief.  Shocked denial gave way to nauseated horror, and then depressed revulsion.  He had a feeling “bargaining” would be skipped and anger would come later, once she’d regained the powers of speech.

     A tiny corner of his brain deduced this was why Nygma had been so vague about how he’d gotten the initial hint about Batman’s identity.  He’d slept with her…

     Nygma had slept with Talia.  And they were kissing now (with a really disturbing vigor), so clearly it hadn’t been a one-night stand.  The shock wore off completely as Bruce realized this was possibly the happiest news he’d had in months.  Given the (really disturbing) vigor with which Talia initiated that kiss, it was just possible the clingy psycho was out of his hair for good.  And Nygma, well, nobody actually deserved to be dragged into Talia’s dysfunctional relationship with her father, but if someone had to be…

     “Eddie, what the fuck are you doing?” Selina finally asked.

     The two lovebirds stopped for a second time, and slowly turned their heads towards Bruce and Selina.  Bruce again saw the guilt on Talia’s face, and realized that was why she had looked so guilty earlier.  It wasn’t that she’d revealed his identity; it was, in her deluded view of their relationship, that she cheated on him by sleeping with another man.

     And Nygma… Well, Batman had never inspired the look of mortal terror that was in the Riddler’s eyes now as he looked at Selina.  As a creature of the night who prided himself on evoking fear in the criminal underclass, Batman was impressed.

     “Er, well ‘Lina—” Nygma stammered. 

He glanced at Talia.

     She swallowed. 

“My hotel is a few miles from here,” he rasped in a voice hoarse with passion.

     He looked once more at Selina, who was clearly waiting for an answer that would make all of this/some of this/any of this make sense. 

     He then nodded, grabbed Talia’s wrist, and ran away, dragging her after him. 

"ALLAY EROTIC LULL!” he called over his shoulder.

     “Eddie?  What – I’ll call you later?!”

      She turned to Bruce, eyes dull with bewilderment. 

      “I’ll call you later?” she repeated.

     “Let him go,” Bruce said.  “You can work it out another day.”

     She just looked dazed. 

“But Bruce,” she said finally.  “Eddie and the demonspawn?  He can do better!  I mean, seriously… Fuck, Giggles from the Iceberg can do better.  But Eddie?”

     “It wouldn’t be his first mistake,” Bruce pointed out.  “Let’s forget about them for tonight, okay?  All I know is you’ve been gone for days, and—”

     “HANDS UP, EVERYONE!” Bruce heard from another part of the museum.  “PREPARE TO HAVE YOUR VALUABLES PURLOINED BY THE KING OF CATS!”

     To be continued…