Jason's hand moved fast, the familiar weight of his pistol settling in his grip. The Court member barely had time to register the movement before the bullet punched through his skull, painting the expensive wallpaper behind him with blood and brain matter. The crystal tumbler fell from dead fingers, shattering against the marble floor.

  "I thought he would never shut up," Sarah said casually, not even flinching at the gunshot. She walked over to the corpse, completely unbothered by the gore.

  Jason holstered his weapon and looked at his sister with something approaching respect. "Yeah, I don't understand people like that. They just think their words mean anything when it comes down to it." He gestured with the barrel of his gun. "Like he said, we all want power. And I have power. It's called this gun."

  Sarah's smile was sharp and knowing. "So what took you so long?"

  "Try fighting your way through several floors of fanatics and assassins," Jason said, holstering his gun. "It's not that easy."

  She gave him that familiar crooked grin he remembered from childhood, the one that used to get them both in trouble. "Thanks, sis," Jason said, meaning it. "I couldn't have done this without your part."

  "Hey," Sarah said, stepping over the pooling blood to retrieve a silk robe from a nearby chair, "he got one thing right. Human beings are selfish, and we do want power." She tied the robe around her waist and looked at her brother with satisfaction gleaming in her eyes. "And guess what? We're now the rulers of the Court of Owls."

  Jason looked around the opulent room, at the dead man who'd thought words could change minds that were already made up, at his sister who'd pyed her role perfectly. The weight of what they'd just accomplished hit him. Power. Real power. Not the hollow satisfaction of saving ungrateful civilians, but actual control over the systems that shaped the city.

  "So," he said, "what's our first order of business?"

  ---

  The Batmaker materialized in the sparse apartment, his quantum interface powering down. He looked around the clean, Spartan space and nodded. *Good—I'd hate to have to run into Jason right now.*

  He moved through the apartment quickly, opening cabinets and drawers. "Where is it?"

  The bedroom closet held a few jackets and some boots on the floor. He pressed his hand against the back wall. The panel slid aside, revealing a hidden compartment.

  "Jackpot."

  The Red Hood suit hung inside: leather jacket, tactical gear, and the red helmet. The Bat Maker lifted the helmet and found what he needed: a single strand of dark hair caught in the lining. He put the helmet back and closed the compartment.

  In the kitchen, the Bat Maker pulled out a syringe-like device from his pocket. He inserted the hair into a chamber at the base. The strand dissolved, and the syringe filled with a milky-looking liquid.

  "Okay, time to take my medicine."

  He injected the serum into his arm and closed his eyes against the burning sensation. His body shuddered as the genetic material integrated with his own. *Many a time I've done this,* he thought through gritted teeth. *If I could just find a Taskmaster, this would be so much easier.*

  The burning faded. The serum didn't give him Jason's abilities—it gave him the potential to develop them through training. Just like when he'd found Green Arrow's DNA in another universe. Each injection added new possibilities to unlock.

  The Bat Maker stored the empty syringe. Jason Todd's fighting potential now y dormant in his genetic code, waiting to be developed.

  He activated his quantum interface. *Time to move on to a universe with a Krypton. But before that, I need to offer a certain disgrace an opportunity that he should not refuse.* He dissolved from reality, leaving no trace except for one missing strand of hair.

  ---

  Charles Victor Szasz sat against the familiar brick wall, his stomach gnawing at itself. Another day, another group of pedestrians pointing and ughing.

  "Hey, look, it's insane Szasz!"

  "Still think Batman's Bruce Wayne, crazy man?"

  He closed his eyes and waited for them to pass. *Same routine, different day.* The mockery had become as regur as sunrise, but it never stopped hurting.

  "Hey, hungry?"

  Charles looked up to see a well-dressed man standing over him. The face clicked into pce immediately—expensive clothes, confident bearing.

  "Wait," Charles said, squinting up at him. "I remember you. You're the one who gave me that meal, took me to—"

  "Yeah, about that." The man gestured toward the street. "Let's go back to Blimpie's."

  Charles struggled to his feet, his legs shaky from hunger. *Three days since I st ate anything substantial.* As they walked across the street, he studied his benefactor more closely. The same expensive clothes, the same confident bearing. But there was something different this time—a purpose in the man's movements that hadn't been there before.

  Inside Blimpie's, Charles ordered the same foot-long Italian sub, chips, and a cookie. His hands trembled slightly as he unwrapped the sandwich. The man across from him ordered just a coffee this time.

  "Nothing in life is free," Charles said between bites, his reporter instincts kicking in despite his desperation. "So what do you want exactly?"

  The man smiled. "You're right. Nothing in life is free. I want to offer you a job opportunity."

  Charles paused mid-bite. *A job? After all this time?* "What?" he asked suspiciously, though he kept his voice neutral. *Too good to be true. Has to be.*

  "You like to figure out answers to questions, right?"

  "Yes," Charles said carefully.

  "I can tell you're a person of good observation. You think outside the box."

  Charles nodded, his mind racing. *This could be anything. Could be a setup, could be someone making fun of me. But...* His stomach cramped with hunger, reminding him of his reality. *What choice do I have?*

  "Okay," he said. "What's the deal?"

  The man leaned forward. "My name is Bruce Wayne, and I'm from a different universe. I need someone to do some detective work for me."

  *Different universe?* Charles thought. *Either this guy's crazier than people think I am, or...* He remembered the Joker's words, remembered how everything impossible had turned out to be true. *Maybe crazy is just what people call things they can't understand.*

  "Your only purpose would be to find certain things for me, figure things out. You like stuff like that, correct?"

  "Correct," Charles said, his heart beginning to race. *Detective work. Real detective work again.*

  "What's the catch?"

  "There is no catch. All your needs will be met. You'll get paid a sary, live comfortably. You won't be ridiculed—you'll be appreciated for your intelligence."

  Charles stared at the man ciming to be Bruce Wayne from another universe. *This is insane. But so was everything else I figured out, and I was right about all of it.* He looked around the sandwich shop, then back at his benefactor. *Right now my life is ridicule and starvation. Whatever this is, whatever the real catch might be, it has to be better than dying slowly on the street.*

  "You're serious?" he asked.

  "Completely."

  Charles took another bite of his sandwich, buying time to think. *I've got nothing left to lose. Nothing. And if he really is Bruce Wayne...* The pieces clicked together in his mind. *Bruce Wayne is Batman. This Bruce Wayne says he's from another universe. That would make him another Batman. Why would Batman need a detective?*

  "Sure," Charles said, surprising himself with how quickly the word came out. "I accept."

  *Whatever this really is,* he thought as relief flooded through him, *at least I won't starve.*