AN: Holy Moly everyone! This chapter is looooong overdue. Thank you to anyone who's still reading this story, and sorry for the delay. I was sick for most of last year and, due to complications, was so sleep deprived I was at the point of seeing things that weren't there; which is why I didn't feel like I was in the proper state of mind to work more on this project. Now that I'm doing better, I plan on chipping away at Extinction Burst until the ending; no more year-long hiatuses.

Please enjoy and leave any critiques for me and my writing if you want to help me improve. Much appreciated!

I jerked my hand from where it had absentmindedly rubbed my cheek. Just grazing my palm over the wound painfully pushed unshaven bristles against the still sensitive area.

Just as absentmindedly, I caught my hand scrolling the computer's mouse, running through files on the Strange case. At this point I had all the facts memorized, but I still felt a compulsion to push myself into viewing the facts with fresh perspectives. There were too many mysteries, too many unresolved threads for me to leave it on the back-burner for even a day.

As impossible as it sounded, there was no doubt something supernatural about the things Strange was capable of. From his creation of the Beastmen, to the hypnotism of the guards and staff at Arkham. Hypnotism was the word Strange had used, but I'd experienced first hand his mind control. Simply from hearing his instructions, I'd been rendered neutered, unable to properly defend myself.

Sharp pain from my cheek alerted me I'd begun scowling to himself. I loosened my jaw and forced my body to relax.

Strange had used the term "Arcane" when he'd loosely referred to his powers. But what exactly did that mean?

Magic, miracles, the arcane; those things science and rational minds floundered to categorize within the same precepts as any of the physical laws running the universe, were not without precedent. Everyone was familiar with the reports of the so-called 'Swamp Thing' in Louisiana. Experts from all fields were still perplexed by the phenomena revolving around the 'Helmet of Fate' unearthed in the 1920s, currently housed in the Metropolis Museum of History. There were even the smaller cases of curiosity that even I had to admit contained a load more credibility than your average conspiracy theory, such as the eerie reports surrounding Maxine Baker of San Diego.

The "stone," Strange had also mentioned, seemed to be the seed from which Strange's arcane sprouted. Once the stone had been shattered, so had Strange's sanity, and all displays of his abilities. All traces of his otherworldly powers had vanished.

I clicked open my file on the stone's fragments. Its composition was uncommon, but not unusual enough to raise an eyebrow, out of context.

A dead end.

Automatically I found myself contemplating, for the thousandth time, what relation John Crane's fear toxin had to Strange's stone, and why it had been able to defeat him.

Was there a clue there I could follow up on?

My guess was less that the fear toxin was in any way related to the arcane, whatever that was, and more that the effects it had on Strange caused him to banish the stone himself, brought on by his induced state of fear. The toxin could prey on one's biggest fear and force them to pathologically obsess over that emotion. Based on my theory, I'd been miraculously lucky the fear toxin had worked to de-power Strange, despite how unlikely I'd have ever been able to predict that particular move working.

It was deeply unsettling. Strange had truly bested me. I'd been too weak to defeat him. It had been more like he'd defeated himself with his own oversight and fear…

I took no solace in how the world at large remained as perplexed by the Strange events as I was. I hated not knowing anything…

I'd kept a close eye on Strange's entire incarceration. He was visited by the government, the military, scientists, and psychologists. He was questioned, tortured, run through every conceivable medical test, all in aims to discover how he'd created his Beastmen.

All dead ends.

Strange's body, brain, and physiology were proven normal and unexceptional.

Worse, he hadn't spoken a single word since Batman had cut his limbs off. Strange hadn't so much as nodded or made meaningful eye contact since the encounter.

A dot flickered on the security screen. Someone had entered the cave through the manor's secret entrance. I followed the dot as it made its way toward me. Without turning around, based on hearing the clinks of cups on a platter, and being familiar with the man, I knew it was Alfred, and why he was here.

The platter was set down on the table behind me and two cups were poured.

"It's encouraging to see you up and at it again," Alfred set a cup beside me.

"Yes, Alfred," I said. I could only speak using half my face without being in pain, so my words not only came out harsh and low, but muffled. When it healed, I'd have to work on not sounding permanently lazy or tired while talking around the permanent damage.

"I can't imagine how your self imposed isolation is intended to keep you sharp." Alfred huffed into his chair, facing me as I resolutely faced the screen.

"What would be the point," I said. "Not much I can do while healing up. I've been using the EMS on my muscles, so I'm at least not going to lose much while in convalescence."

In the corner of my eye, I noticed Alfred looking away, his attention caught on something else in the cave.

The hand.

I'd Stuck Joker's hand in a jar to preserve it. I'd yet to find a more permanent storing place, so it sat on a nearby table.

"I'm still hazy on the details from that night."

I turned and stared at Alfred, making a point of how much I was paying attention to him. "What do you want to know?"

He must have picked up on my annoyance at his presence. "I want to understand what brought you this low. Even after your fights with the Beastmen and Strange's arrest, I don't remember you locking yourself in your room for this long."

"I'm not in my room anymore, Alfred."

His eyes looked at the screen, saw I was in the Strange files again. He stole a glance at the hand. "Were you responsible for that?"

"Ah," I said. I could follow his logic. I'd fought the Joker, returned with his severed hand, stayed in bed for a week, only to go back to pouring over an old case. A case in which I felt guilty for taking things too far. From Alfred's point of view, I might have gone overboard again, cut a limb off an enemy, and was again plagued by guilt, obsessing over my inability to grow into a better person.

"He did that to himself," I told Alfred.

Alfred leaned back, noticeably relieved to hear that. "Crazy bastard," he muttered. "And you believe he's truly left Gotham?"

I nodded.

"Hm," he said, diplomatically. "Don't know whether that's for the best, or is in some way very disconcerting."

"Of course it's bad," I said. "Now he'll never stop being 'the Joker.' He's going to double down, but somewhere else. Somewhere out of my reach."

Alfred lifted an eyebrow. "He's down a hand though. That's bound to slow him down, at least a little."

I waved him off. "No. Not him. He'll make it work somehow."

Alfred took a deep breath.

"Alfred," I said, getting his attention. "Say what you need to say."

"I will. You know me well enough to know I'm not going to hold back from you. It's just that… it's complicated. It always is when it comes to him."

I nodded, unsure of what I meant by doing so; maybe agreeing that it was complicated.

"You've been changing, Bruce. The way you help people. The way you help yourself; for the first time, it's as if you are a person you care about as much as those you save. Your approach when it comes to him has evolved. Or, maybe you evolved so you could approach him differently."

I didn't move a muscle.

"And you succeeded to scare him out of town," Alfred leaned in and placed a hand against my knee. "I've never been more proud of you."

"I failed," I said. It was the last thing I'd wanted to say. Swallowing, I continued. "All that mattered was Joker putting it all behind him. Him letting go of the isolation and pain he let control him. I did everything I could. It felt like progress was being made, that success was finally in sight."

Alfred's hand squeezed my knee. His eyes were intent on mine. "Why, Bruce? Why him? Why did it matter so much?"

I swiveled in my chair, away from Alfred, releasing me from his grip. I planted my elbows on the computer table and held my head in my hands. "Because he wasn't insane. He's brilliant. With his mind, his perspective, if that man couldn't decide to be good, then what hope is there for the rest of us? If we're all dumber than him, and he understands so much, then how can we have hope? He tried seeing it my way, tried moralizing, contemplated a life dedicated to altruism, only to end up rejecting all that. What if he's right?"

Alfred took a sip of his tea and stood up. "Gloria is out there, you know. She's gathered all the volunteers here today. They're setting up for next weeks community services."

"What?" I said. I started a bit from the abrupt change of subject.

"You insisted Gloria and Ron moved into Wayne Manor after their eviction for a reason. She's dedicated her life to charity work in a way that thoroughly impresses you. And you're a tough man to impress.

"There's a reason you want to be around her, isn't there? You hope she can rub off on you.

"When you first revealed Batman to Gotham, you fought the Joker by his means. Your focus on him was so intent there were times I caught you muttering to yourself, conversations you had with him in your head. It wasn't only to anticipate him, you wanted to emulate Joker. I know that, in a way, you admire him. You respect him. And in your battles against him, your tactics reflected his brilliant and terrifying machinations."

I stared at Alfred. "Your point being?"

"You've played Joker's games. Now, you're working to reform the city in Gloria's fashion. You're frightened Joker might somehow be correct in his philosophies. At the end of the day, Bruce, which method has brought more light to yourself and those around you?"

Alfred took another sip of his tea before turning and leaving.

I glanced at the hand in the jar.

I remembered Hugo Strange reach his hand out to my exposed face, threatening to change my destiny.

Right now, I'd give anything to have that power for myself.

—-

I could hear the commotion down in the main foyer before descending the stairs. Gloria Legrasse was behind a foldout table handing out sack lunches and supplies. She'd gathered the usual suspects in way of volunteers. Most of the faces were ones I recognized.

Catching my approach, Gloria smiled at me before turning back to the group she was explaining details to.

She was twice my age and, at least that day, more than doubly enthusiastic. This was her element, engineering the best possible ways of how to help people.

Gloria met me at the base of the stairs, letting someone else take over directing volunteer parties for the day's tasks.

"Glad to see you up and about," she smiled. It was a wrinkled, warm, and authentic smile.

"What can I do to help?" I asked. I found it harder than usual keeping Batman's roughened edges out of my voice with one cheek as jeopardized as it was. It had also been days since I'd spoken to anyone, other than the scattered word or two with Alfred.

"No need to bother yourself, Bruce. You take as much time as you need to rest and heal up."

"I already did that," I said, not sounding half as nice or tactful as I'd been intending. "I need to get out. To feel like I can contribute… Please."

Gloria smiled again, most of her concern for me vanishing from her face. "Good to hear. I'd be feeling pretty restless too, in your situation."

I nodded.

"I'm sure Alfred has seemed like he's haranguing you extra hard lately?" Gloria said. "I was chatting with him earlier, before he went off to find you. He worries you're not taking good enough care of yourself."

"Never really picked up that skill," I shrugged.

"At least you exercise," she laughed. "At the rate I'm 'taste testing' our bake sale goodies, I'm not going to make it another twenty years."

"Gloria, you look twice as sharp as half the younger ladies that attend my parties; and none of them have so much as made eye contact with a carb since they were children."

"Oh please, Bruce," Gloria laughed. "It doesn't hurt to turn off the charm every now and then."

I crinkled out the best half smile I could with my face cut up the way it was. "I've been anything but 'charming' these past few days, shutting myself in and everything. Honestly, more than anything, I'm worried about what will happen when I grow bored of getting this hands-on with the charity and volunteer work. Lately doing all of this the way you always have, because it's been fresh and exciting. But at some point, I just won't be able to bring myself to care."

I caught myself scratching at my scar again. "Not that if I give up on it I'll ask you to pack your bags or anything. I meant what I said about you and Ron staying here for as long as you want. It's just… I don't get how you manage to be such a better person than me? You've been volunteering your time like this for decades, and you still love it."

Gloria looked past the foyer and out by the porch, where her husband Ron was working with a group of the teens making and bagging sandwiches, lunch they would later be distributed to the homeless in the Narrows.

Ron was a thin scrawny man with almost no hair and oversized glasses covering his face. Gloria was beaming at him as he joked with the kids. "He wasn't my first husband, you know. My first guy was the complete package. Confident, charismatic, very handsome, with nary a skeleton in the closet," she laughed as Ron caught her looking and beamed a smile her way before returning to his conversation with the kids. "When I met Ron, he was in desperate need of direction in his life. He was a constantly broke dreamer, hardly anything to his name but a guitar he'd have to sell if he couldn't keep down his next job. Well, I simply couldn't let that happen, so I took him on as my project. I like to take credit for making him the man he is today, but really I'm the one in complete debt to him for saving me. Without him to work on as and show off as if he's my own masterpiece, I would've gone mad long ago, like I was beginning to when I left my first marriage.

"We don't get tired of helping, Bruce, when the cause uniquely fills our selfish pathologies."

I almost slipped a laugh as she finished talking. "You're the least selfish person I've ever met, Gloria."

She shrugged. "Nah. I've just gotten good at faking it. Which, I think, is the secret. If you change a life all that really matters is that you might have also saved the life. Who cares why you did it?"

I chewed on that for a beat. "I suppose you might be right. My way of saving lives for so long wasn't just selfish though, I'm afraid it might have actually been harmful to everyone but myself."

Gloria put a hand on my shoulder. "You're a good man Bruce." I frowned. "It's ok to admit it. Oh, I forgot to mention, Richard was looking for you earlier."

Richard? Right; the kid from the orphanage. Most of the kids prepping the meals were from the orphanage, part of a program Gloria had helped me work out to give them the chance to get out into the community, feeling like they could be part of the solution. "Alright. Where'd he get off to?"

Gloria bent her head away from the bulk of the group, out toward the kennels. "Where do you think? He dashed off with Harper the first chance he got. He's got the cutest crush I've ever seen."

"Hmm," I said, walking off toward the door. "I hadn't noticed. He'll have to wait for a long time before he's old enough to make a move."

"They're all so precious," Gloria was again fawning over Ron working with the orphans. "I just wish we had raised some of our own…"

—-

Neither Harper nor Richard noticed my approach. Harper looked as happy and relaxed as I'd ever seen her. She was focused on teaching Richard the proper commands to get the Irish Wolfhound they were working with to do a gamut of tricks, to which it promptly received a small treat from the boy. It was so rare to catch a glimpse of Harper looking unguarded, so content, so unburdened by the crushing weight of her plight for survival. I snapped a mental picture.

My own mirth was quick to be soured as I noticed the small signs of wear upon her person. Her hair roots were gaining more black as her hair grew and she hadn't been able to touch up the purple. There were signs of her typically purposefully-roughed-up clothes being authentically chewed up, both by her wearing them without washing for several days, as well as the tears and scuffs from rough nights spent surviving homeless on the streets.

It's my fault.

I was responsible for displacing her from her home.

It wasn't clear how she'd first scammed her way into owning or renting the place Batman had trashed, but without a bank account or her taking on jobs that received legitimate, taxable, paychecks, finding a new place to live would prove to be a struggle for Harper.

"Harper," I nodded at the girl, who turned and gave me a sardonic grin. "Richard." I put out my hand to shake the young boy's.

Richard Grayson was probably thirteen or fourteen, thin even for his age, and had a mess of thick black hair. Grabbing my hand and giving a solid shake, he said, "Please, Dick. Glad to see you're finished holing yourself up in your dark mansion like some sort'a vampire."

With all the willpower I could muster I refrained from quirking an inquisitive eyebrow when he requested to be addressed as 'Dick.' "Ah, well, Dick, I am too. At least so far. Gloria said you were looking for me."

Dick shoved the dog clicker and bag of treats into Harper's arms, her rolling her eyes in a jovial manner at the boy's hapless enthusiasm. "Harper was telling me how you went undercover and shit, and did all this crazy stuff to free these dogs from a dog fighting rink. Can you tell me the story?"

"Uh, hmm, that's pretty much it. Sounds like she told you the brunt of it."

"Didn't one of them bite you and you didn't even flinch? You just made it go obedient with your eyes and made it befriend you?"

"I must have flinched," I said. "I don't know where you got that part from…"

"He put his neck out there," Harper said, she'd kneeled down and was petting the wolfhound. "So Bruce is only a little less of a phony than he seems. A little less.

"Can I see it?" Dick's eyes pleaded.

"Uh, sure," I unrolled my sleeve until the fading pink dog teeth marks were exposed in the sunlight.

"Whoa!" Dick grinned looking down at the bite. "You're becoming a real badass with all these scars."

Subconsciously my hand went up to the facial scar the Joker had left me. I caught Harper look over at it. When we made eye contact she glanced away too fast to be ncasual. She stared into the distance, getting lost in her own thought.

She's probably thinking about him too.

"Dick," I said. "You should probably join the rest of the group. I don't want your chaperones wondering where you are."

Dick's demeanor deflated slightly as he looked back at Harper before beginning to trot off.

"Maybe I can bring you over to help me train the puppers some other time," Harper told him, before looking my way. "Assuming that's cool with you."

"Mi casa es su casa," I shrugged.

"You really suck at weaving a good yarn, guy," Harper said, once Dick had dashed off.

"Ya… I've been pretty sequestered since… My whole people thing is probably pretty rusty right now. Sorry.

"Also, I know what you're going to say, but I have to put it out there anyway. My place is totally available to you, anytime. I-" My eyes alighted on her large and overstuffed duffle bag. That, and her backpack next to it were all her belongings in the world.

She held up her hand to pause me, even though I'd failed to pick up my train of thought long enough it was clear I wasn't going to. "You're right, you probably do know what I'm going to say. I'm fucking fine, man. And it's kind of insulting to have you worrying about me, you know?" She caught me looking down at our feet. "But, I'll give you this, I don't think the offer is creepy. You probably are genuinely trying to help, and not just sleep with me."

Looking up at her, I failed to see any humor to what she said. I assumed the sentiment had less to do with my reputation as a womanizer, and more to do with her own past experiences. Either way, I choose not to be offended.

"He's a good kid, by the way," Harper said. "Fuck what you might have heard."

"Huh?"

"Dick," Harper quirked her head toward where the kid had run off to.

"Sure, sure. He's got a good energy. I haven't heard anything bad about him. But what's with this 'Dick' business?"

Harper snorted. "I think it's like a control thing. He gets a kick out of hearing the adults call him that while they have to keep straight-faced. A kid like that takes whatever power he can where he can. Your identity becomes open source in 'the program,' all your behaviors and foibles scribbled down in documents and given to whatever asshole guardian tries you out for the day. You gotta' keep trying new behaviors or personalities just to feel like you still belong to yourself."

"Were you…?" I asked, knowing she'd never stayed in the orphanage or had anything resembling a foster parent. But Bruce Wayne didn't know that.

"Nah." She said. "I can just empathize with the type."

"Ya. I vaguely remember how it was at that age."

"Pah," Harper huffed.

I imagined how she saw someone who lived like me. I'd had things when I grew up. I'd had shelter, people who cared enough to look after me, a proper education, and money. She'd had nothing, next to no one close to her, and nowhere to call home. Now she was back to square one, retaining little else than the skills she'd fought tooth and nail to accrue.

She was right, I shouldn't worry about her, and I didn't. I only felt guilt toward her current nomadic predicament. She was a survivor and always had been.

From her point of view, I had everything she could ever want, and it had pampered me, split our world-views irrevocably. Maybe she was right about that too. I was used to getting my way, and I'd taken that spirit to the extreme.

There was a while there I thought I could tackle all of crime by myslef.

"I was also an orphan by the time I was his age," I said, continuing my thought.

"Right…" Harper, to her credit, refrained from sounding too derogatory as she peered at my giant estate to my back. My upbringing was still a far cry from being anywhere near the same planet as Dick's. Not to mention that the word 'orphan' had different connotations to Harper than to me. She'd thrown a celebration when her mom had died.

"Heh," I chuckled. "I'll never seem human to you, will I?"

"It's not your fault, Bruce," Harper teased, her tone taking on an exaggerated motherly cooing. "No one gets to choose the hand they've been dealt."

"No, they don't. And I know enough now to know I would never change the life I was given, including my parents being killed."

The period of time following their deaths flitted through my head for the first time in a decade. Even at the funeral, I had barely been given a second to grieve before my family and my father's business partners all swooped down on me like vultures. Things became nearly satirical, my life playing out like some story you'd hear about a boy prince, his advisors seeing him as a mere object, a potential puppet for their future machinations. I still had no idea how I'd made it through intact, contesting the best liars in Gotham, and thus, likely, the world. No doubt it was high time to thank Alfred again. Without his world-weary wisdom, any boy that young would have been gutted and left to die from exposure.

"In my time I became quite the rebel-raiser at school," I reminisced.

Harper scoffed at that. "Jesus, I'm sorry Bruce, but let's be real. You, in your little tucked in uniform at a prep school settling scores with another boy by challenging him to a game of squash is not the standard definition of a 'rebel-raiser.' When I was in middle school Marsha Sykes threatened to shove a hot curling iron up my snatch if I didn't stop flirting with her limp-dicked, meathead boyfriend, who I would give myself the clap keep away from me. So I jumped her on the spot and tore out a chunk of the bitch's hair, getting a thick slice of ham worth of scalp bleeding over my fucking chucks. In my world, you don't threaten someone; that was her biggest mistake. You want to hurt a person, then you hurt them hard enough they'll think twice before hurting you back. When her boyfriend tried to punch the shit out of me, I put a cigarette out in his eye. The next day must have been the only time my attendance record had two consecutive marks. The fucking clods would have got the wrong message if I'd done the practical thing of just laying low and not showing up.

"Come to think of it, I think she did learn her lesson. She later jumped me in the locker room while I was selling weed, her two pretty friends holding me down then pantsed while she brandished the curling iron like a knife. I kicked Marsha in the cooch so hard it must have knocked an ovary loose. To this day, when I smell blood I remember biting a hole in her friend's cheek so I could get away. At least looks fade eventually, anyways," she shrugged.

"Huh," I said, more impressed that she hadn't been arrested for any of the violence than anything. "I got myself in a few scraps of my own in high school. Nothing… like that. There were just some douchebags on the football team that I tried venting my pent up anger on. I got the shit kicked out of me no less than three times."

"On my street, they would have killed you before the third fight," Harper was still looking pleased after recounting her story. "Please tell me little Brucey learned his lesson?"

I sighed. "Eventually. More because the thrill of fighting didn't prove enough to get the demons out of me. I was mad enough I wanted to see them hurt, in a real sense. It's so cliche, now that I think about it. They were, God as my witness, real-life bullies. You're picturing it right, by the way. They were some of the richest among the rich, went through their growth spurts before everyone else, and, fuck me, didn't have a single goddamn pimple amongst their pompous entourage. They uniformly kept one-side of their button ups untucked. The pukes were even star athletes, for Christ sakes."

Harper chortled. "You're making this up."

I shook my head. "There was this one kid on the football team, Bradley Montgomery, short, tubby, a bit dim… they were relentless on him. I couldn't wrap my head around it. At some point, all their teasing, their cruelty, the pranks… the homophobia. Didn't it ever just get old?

"I don't even think he was gay, but they tried their damndest to convince him he was. At some point or rather I think they cajoled him into kissing each one of them. They spanked him insistently in the locker room till he couldn't sit right in class. Got him naked once, stole his clothes and locked him in the girl's shower. He was suspended so long for that, nearly kicked out of school. Almost sent to juvie even, despite his parent's wealth."

Harper was beginning to look invested in my reflections.

"So I snuck into our teacher's office, stole the answers to the next test, snuck those into these guy's backpacks unawares, then intercepted their tests and filled them out with all the right answers. I got them caught with the planted evidence to their 'cheating.' It didn't take the first time, them being scolded with no more than a 'boys will be boys.' I did the same thing two more times, despite feeling like, even if I didn't get caught no one would think these punks were dumb enough to keep pulling the same stunt. To my utter amazement, they were caught every time, and every time the teachers, coaches, and parents all thought these hoodlums were actually that stupid, that they were cheating and getting caught in the exact same way without ever learning from their mistakes. But they still never received real punishment. They were never threatened with being benched for the next big game or excluded from inconsequential dances. I even framed them for bullying Bradley. I regret it now, allowing him to become collateral damage; making stink bombs go off in his backpack, again planting evidence in the bullies lockers, again for no one to care. I got more and more creative, more desperate to make the authority figures see these douches for the shitbags they truly were."

"Shoulda' just rammed a hot curling iron up there hoo-has," Harper said.

"I eventually found the one way to get them back. They were stronger than me, right? They thought that made them better than me, saw me as a pathetic worm. Well, how much more humiliating did that make it when I slept with as many of their girlfriends as I could, which was most of them." The deformity of my mouth made my ensuing smile feel more like a snarl on my face. I was proud of my resourcefulness, but maybe not my methods; not anymore.

"Bravo, Bruce," Harper golf clapped. "That may be the kick-in-the-ovaries equivalent for the preppy elite."

—-

After the day's volunteer activities with the orphans in Gotham's inner city, I returned home with Gloria and Ron. We said our goodnights as they headed to their room and I went to mine. I kicked off my shoes but couldn't bring myself to crawl into bed.

There was something I had to do that couldn't wait for morning. I walked to Alfred's room and knocked. He didn't look happy about being woken up once I told him it wasn't an emergency.

"Alfred," I said. "How would you feel about us becoming foster parents?"