//------------------------------// // Monarch Theater // Story: A Dark Knightmare // by Danger Beans //------------------------------// “No one can beat the mighty Zorro!”  Bruce Wayne shouted, waving an imaginary sword in a frenetic zigzag motion. “Hold on there, desperado,” called Thomas Wayne after his son.  “Don’t get too far away from us.” Bruce turned around.  “Sorry dad,” he said, but there was no apology in either his tone or his face.  His eyes were filled with starry visions of masked desperados, swordfights, and daring chases on horseback.  “They call me, Zorro!” he mimed a salute with an imaginary sword, and ran off again. Thomas Wayne turned to his wife.  “Honestly, I don’t know where he gets all that energy,” he said to her. Martha Wayne rolled her eyes and smiled.  “He’s a boy, Tom.  They’re supposed to have boundless energy.  I’m sure that you were no different when you were his age. “If he showed half the enthusiasm for his studies that he does towards these . . . action films, he’d be in college right now,” Thomas said admonishingly, though his eyes betrayed his amusement. They were just stepping outside of the Monarch Theater.  It was the tail end of June, and the night was still warm with summer heat.  On the theater’s marquee, The Mark of Zorro was emblazoned in deep black letters, serenaded on every side by bright golden light bulbs.  Bruce had been begging to see it for the last week, with all the relentless enthusiasm that only an eight year old child could muster. “Oh, hush.  It wasn’t that bad," said Martha.  “It was no Midsummer Night’s Dream, I’ll admit, but it wasn’t the worst thing that we’ve ever been dragged to.” Thomas Wayne laughed, “I suppose you have a point there, Martha—Martha?  What’s wrong?” She pointed towards the street.  “Where’s Alfred?” she asked.  “Wasn’t he supposed to be waiting for us?” Thomas scanned the street.  Alfred was supposed to be waiting for them in the limousine outside the theater when the movie let out.  But he was nowhere to be seen.  He turned back to Martha.  “I don’t know where Alfred is, dear, but—Bruce!  Put that down this minute!”  Thomas Wayne had turned back to see his son waving around a rusty pipe that he’d picked up somewhere.   Bruce hastily dropped the pipe.  “Sorry dad,” he said guiltily. Thomas Wayne’s face softened.  “I’m not trying to be mean, Bruce.  I just don’t want you to hurt yourself.  Do you understand that?” “Yeah, I guess so,” Bruce said without looking up. Thomas smiled.  “All right, what do you say we go get some ice-cream on the way home?” Bruce’s head jerked up, “Really!?” he asked, face alight. Thomas Wayne nodded sagely, “Really.” “Yes!  Ice-cream!”  Bruce jumped into the air, thoughts of Zorro temporarily buried underneath fantasies of creamy goodness.  “Can I get double scoop?  Covered in sprinkles?” “Of course, Bruce, it is your birthday after all.” “Hold on one second, boys.  Aren’t you forgetting something?”  Martha Wayne suddenly spoke up from behind them. Thomas and Bruce both turned around to face Martha.  “And what would that be, Martha dear?”  Thomas asked.   Martha gestured to the empty street.  “How are we going to get there?  We don’t have a way to get home, let alone the nearest malt shop.”  A somber silence followed this statement.   “We’ll take a taxi,” Thomas spoke up. Martha blinked.  “A taxi?” she sounded slightly aghast at the idea. Thomas Wayne nodded.  “Main Street’s just a block away.  We can walk through Park Row—it cuts right between Phillips and Pearl Street—and get a taxi straight to Donaldson’s for some ice-cream and then back home for cake.” “Cake!” exclaimed Bruce, “Whoopee!” Martha sighed good-naturedly.  “Okay, boys, let’s go get some ice-cream.” They made their way across the street. It wasn’t very late, but the traffic had thinned, and the sidewalk was deserted. Martha looked over at Bruce, “What was your favorite part of the movie, dear?” Bruce looked thoughtful for a moment. “I don’t know,” he said at last. “You don’t know?”  Martha echoed.  “So, there wasn’t a single part of the movie that you liked more than the others?” Bruce shrugged.  “I guess I just liked all of it.” Martha smiled.  “Well I’m glad you enjoyed it, Bruce.” But Bruce didn’t reply.  He couldn’t reply. Suddenly, he was frozen in place, as if every inch of his body had been entrapped in cement.  He tried to call out, to say something, but his mouth and tongue were just as tightly bound as the rest of his body.  He couldn’t even blink.  He was frozen.  His parents walked past him, completely unaware.  But it was okay, he thought.  They’d notice that he wasn’t following them in a minute and look back.  Then everything would be okay. And then a man appeared, seemingly out of the shadow itself—a man in a long trench coat, and a scar running along the side of his face.  Slowly, the man began to walk toward Thomas and Martha Wayne. Bruce felt a shiver run through his body at the sight of that man.  Suddenly, he tried to scream, not out of fear, but concern—for his parents.  Get away!  He wanted to shout at them.  Run away from him!  But he couldn’t scream, he couldn’t move, he could only watch. The man pulled something from the inside of his coat, something that glinted evilly in the moonlight.  With mounting horror, Bruce realized what it was: a gun.  His parents kept on walking, smiling, seemingly oblivious of the man or the deadly weapon cradled in his hand like poison silver. The man with the gun smiled, it was a sinister smile; the smile that a psycho-killer would smile in a horror movie right before he pulled out an axe and started chopping people up.  But this wasn’t a movie. Slowly, the man raised the gun, and it no longer glinted, it glowed, glowed with a deadly malice in the night, illuminating the alley with its sickly glow.  And still his parents did not see either the man or the man’s gun, and still Bruce was held fast by some unseen force and could not say anything to warn them. The hammer cocked. The gun fired. And everything went white. Bruce Wayne jolts upright with a gasp, a gunshot’s thunder in one ear, his mother’s scream in the other.          At first he’s disoriented and for a few brief, panicked seconds doesn’t know where he is, then the feeling passes and he realizes that he’s in his suite at Canterlot Manor. He’s drenched in sweat, his bedding and pillows are soaked; the sheets have been kicked off.  His body’s trembling; his heart’s pounding like a drum; he can hear the sound in his ears, droning out every other noise.  THUMP, THUMP, THUMP, THUMP, it beats.  His breathing is ragged; every breath coming to him in harrowed gasps. “I wonder,” a voice, smooth as silk, says from the shadows beyond his bed.  “Do you dream of the night your parents were slain as it happened or as you imagine it to have happened?” Bruce is out of the bed before the last word has entered his ear; his arms coil into steel springs and his hands ball into fists in front of his chest; his legs spread apart as he lowers into a combat stance; his feet plant themselves into the carpet, ready to leap towards the voice or away from it in an instant.  This all happens without any conscious thought on Bruce’s part.  He stands like that for a tense second, as he gathers himself, then relaxes. “I told you to stay out of my dreams,” he speaks into the shadows. “I do not need to venture into your dreams to know what it is that torments you,” the voice calls again.  “I have never met one so haunted as you.  Not in all my years.” Bruce scowled.  “I’m not haunted.” “Oh?  Every night you relive your parents’ death.  Every night your scars are cut open red and fresh with a black knife.  Every night you awake as if the Dark Horse himself had chased along the fields of Nilience.  And you tell me that you are not a man haunted by the wraiths of your past?  Then please, enlighten me.  What then are you, Bruce Wayne?” “I’m reminded,” Bruce states finally. The sound of silence fills the room. Slowly, she emerges from the shadows.  She resembles a horse but to compare her to one would be to compare a chicken to a swan.  A horse is bulky, its body swollen with muscle; her body is lean and slender, not unlike a gazelle though that too would be a shallow comparison.  Her entire body is a deep shade of midnight blue except for twin patches of black on her flanks.  A horn, long and slender and the same shade of midnight blue stems from her forehead. Covering her sides are neatly folded wings.  Her mane and tail, which do not resemble hair at all but swatches of the night sky, look as if they were cut from the very heavens themselves; they sway back and forth endlessly, writhing in the unseen currents of the cosmos.  She moves with the grace of a dancer in the rain, every movement flowing into the next, like water down a fountain.  But her appearance belies a fierce intelligence, which is only hinted at by her eyes; they are not the eyes of a deer or horse, they are the eyes of a panther; a wolf; a hunter.  She is a creature of myth sprung forth into reality, a creature that primitive men would bow before in reverence.  A creature that even civilized men might bow before in reverence.  Her name is Luna. “I wish you would let me help you, Bruce Wayne,” she says to him. “You can help me by getting me back to Gotham.” Luna sighs, “That is not what I meant, Bruce Wayne.” “I know.” “We are trying, Bruce Wayne, but as I have said, we have never encountered anything similar to your . . . situation before.  Whatever force it was that has connected you with our world has also anchored you to it.  It is a problem most vexing.” Bruce doesn’t reply; he walks to the armoire and pulls out fresh clothes, strips off his sweat-soaked pants, then goes into the adjoining washroom and steps into the shower, all in stony silence. “Are you always this talkative in the mornings?”  Luna asks with a coy smile. Silence. “Apparently so,” Luna huffs.  “Well, Bruce Wayne, whenever you begin to feel so-inclined, I–” “What were you doing in my room?” he asks suddenly. She blinks.  “I beg your pardon?” He turns and stares at her through the steam of the shower.  “You aren’t here for a friendly chat, Luna,” he says without looking at her.  “Why are you here, and what do you want?” “My, must you always be so suspicious, Bruce Wayne?” “Yes.”          “Would you believe that I merely was watching over you while you slept?” she asked innocently. “No.” Luna smiled, and said “Very well, you have found me out, Bruce Wayne; I am here at your quarters to invite you to break your fast with me.” “Breakfast,” Bruce says flatly.  “You want me to have breakfast with you.”          “Yes.” “And you just happened to arrive when I was having a nightmare.” Luna nods.  “Yes.  I was coming here to fetch you when I sensed your night terror.  I thought it prudent to wake you before it got out of hand.” Bruce does not believe a word of it.  She doesn’t want to have breakfast with him; she wants to learn about him.  Ever since she learned how to speak his language she’s done nothing but question him.  She doesn’t ask—never asks—about earth, his species, government, technology, or anything about his world.  She asks personal questions . . . questions about him: his past, his family, his city, his life.  She’s digging for something, and Bruce doesn’t know what. “Do I have a choice?” he asks. “Why of course you do, Bruce Wayne.  You always have a choice,” Luna says, looking affronted at the very idea.  “You are a guest here in Equestria, not a prisoner.  You always have a choice here.  You can have breakfast with me in the dining hall, or not at all.” They just stand there for a moment, staring at each other, Luna smiling, Bruce frowning, neither talking.  At last Bruce lets out an annoyed breath, “Fine.”   “Splendid!”  Luna says, face alight.  “I think that you will quite enjoy it.  We have recently acquired a new gourmet, one that caters to a more . . . diverse pallet.” Bruce raises an eyebrow at that, but otherwise says nothing.  He finishes getting dressed and follows her out into the castle proper. The last time Bruce Wayne had eaten any kind of meat, had been over six months ago: in his own world.  Since coming to Equestria, he’s eaten nothing but fruits, vegetables, bread, nuts and beans.  The ponies are vegetarians and the only animal product they cultivate is milk.  But when Bruce walks into the dining hall, he is shocked to see plate after plate heaped high with meats of every kind.  Eggs scrambled, poached, over-easy, over-hard, hard boiled, and deviled.  T-bones, rib eye, sirloin, tenderloin, brisket, and filet mignon wrapped in bacon.  Sausage patties and links, prime rib, spare ribs, cutlets, and a crown roast. “Surprised?”  Luna asks from across the table.  She’s wearing the smug expression of a cat that just got the crème.  Her own plates are filled with typical Equestrian fare: an assortment of fruits, grasses, and vegetables, with a few small pastries strewn about. Bruce stares at the feast before him.  “How did you get this?  I thought you were—” “Vegetarian?” she finishes.  “We are.  But we have a gourmet on retainer hailing from one of the more carnivorous races that call Equestria home.  When I propositioned him to prepare a meal of cooked meat, he was jubilant.”  She gestures to an empty chair across from her own, “Sit.” He sits.  Immediately, a small white pony appears at his side, and starts speaking to him in Equestrian.  He looks to Luna. “She wants to know from which platters you wish to be served,” Luna translates. “Oh,” Bruce says.  “That’s quite alright; I can serve myself.” “Oh, I have no doubt of that, Bruce Wayne,” Luna says with an amused look. Bruce looks first at the diminutive mare standing silently next to him, then back at Luna.  “Will you tell her then?” “I will not,” Luna says, smiling.  “That young mare has been dreaming of this moment for some time now.  It would be cruel to deny her the honor.” Bruce stares at her.  “You’re joking.” “I assure you, Bruce Wayne, that I am quite serious.  You have become the topic of much conversation outside the castle walls” Luna says, smiling.  “Why, just look at her, she’s practically rapturous.” Bruce looks again at the serving mare.  Her face is static, her expression stoic.  He looks back to Luna, “I’ll take your word for it,” he says flatly.  Luna doesn’t reply. Relenting, he gestures to several platters; the mare, in turn, takes a portion from each and places them onto his plate.  Afterwards, she turns to him, bows curtly, and is gone as quickly as she appeared. “Luna.” “Yes.” “I appreciate what you’ve done here . . . but there’s no possible way that I can eat all of this food,” he says tentatively. “I don’t expect you to,” says Luna cheerily. “Anything that you do not finish now can be preserved indefinitely.” “Indefinitely?” Bruce asks. Luna nods again, and points to the crown roast in the middle of the table with a hoof. “Why, this piece has been in our possession—magically preserved—for nearly two hundred years. Two . . . hundred years. He echoes. “Yes. It was a gift from the Griffon Empire. To hear it said, at the signing of a peace treaty between out nations, the Griffon King offered my sister her pick of any boar from his private reserve, as a ‘token of their newfound friendship.’ Apparently, my sister did not understand his meaning—for when she chose a boar, it was promptly beheaded, and its carcass presented to her. I would give my left hoof to have seen the look upon her face that day!” “Huh,” Bruce says. “That’s . . . interesting.” He makes a mental note not to eat the crown roast. “Everything is to your liking, I hope?”  Luna asks him after he’s had a few minutes to sample the dish. “Yes,” he admits grudgingly.  “But you’re . . . okay with this?” “Okay with what?”  Luna asks. “This food; where I come from, meat comes from animals, and unless you can conjure raw meat out of the Aether, something would have to have been killed to make this meal—several somethings by the looks it.  And you’re okay with that?” Luna shakes her head.  “While we do not condemn the eating of animals by our citizens, neither do we condone the killing of animals on Equestrian soil.  The animals that comprise your meal were born, raised, and slaughtered across the sea; the meats are imports all.  We are not a close-minded nation, Bruce Wayne.  We have long since come to terms with the dietary cultures of our neighboring countries.” “So it’s legal to eat a cow but not to kill it?” “Yes.  You’re starting to understand.” He looks back down at his now empty plate.  “If meat is only available via import, wouldn’t that make it a luxury?” Luna shrugs.  “I suppose.  My knowledge of Equestria’s economy is somewhat lacking I’m afraid.  I do know that we grow food in such abundance that one could feed a large family for the cost of a slide of steak.  For those that are so inclined, meat is available, but not economical.” Bruce looks down at the table, and all the various cuts of meat.  If what Luna had just said was true, then this must have cost a small fortune.  “Why are you doing this?” he asks sharply. “Doing what?” “This feast.  Why are you doing this?  What are you trying to accomplish?” “Accomplish?”  Luna asks, puzzled.  “I’m not trying to accomplish anything, Bruce Wayne.  When last we had intercourse, you said that you were having trouble keeping your protein up.  I consulted your . . . holo . . . holograph . . . the glowing stone that holds your words.” “The holographic omnilingual encyclopedia?”  Bruce offers dryly. “Yes . . . that.  After I learned what protein was, I had these meals prepared for you.  I am only trying to help you, Bruce Wayne.” “Will you allow me a question?” she asks suddenly. Bruce stares at her warily.  Luna stares back, smiling. “Sure,” Bruce replies after a moment. “Why was your butler unable to retrieve you from the theater the night of your parents’ death?”   Bruce freezes in the middle of placing another slice of ham onto his plate.  “What!?”  The question has taken him off guard; it shouldn't have; he knows why she’s invited him to breakfast, he knows that this whole thing is just a prelude to the polite interrogation which Luna had so often inflicted upon him, but the question—and the abruptness of its delivery—has blind-sided him all the same.   “Your butler,” she repeats.  “Alfred.  Why was he not there to retrieve your parents from the theater on the night of their death?” “Alfred?”  Bruce manages to keep his face cautiously neutral.  “Why do you ask?” Luna takes her glass in horn and takes a long sip.  “Idle curiosity,” she says.  And to hear her tone, one would think that she had just inquired about the weather. Bruce takes a long sip of his own drink, mulling over the question. “I don’t know,” he says finally. “You don’t know?”  Luna asks indifferently.   “He never told me, and I never asked.”   “I find that rather difficult to believe.”  Luna’s face and tone betray nothing, but Bruce can tell she’s surprised.  Just the slightest twitch of her eyes gives it away.  When she wants to, Luna can transform her features into those of a smiling statue. Bruce keeps his own face equally blank.  “Well, it’s the truth.”  Not the whole truth, but close enough.   Luna’s eyes search his face for a moment, scrutinizing him.  “Very well, Bruce Wayne, will you allow me another question?” “As long as I don’t have to answer it.” “Do you blame him for what happened?” Bruce doesn’t answer. Batman stands atop the west tower, looking out over the city of Canterlot.  He takes a breath, long and deep.  The air in Canterlot is clean and fresh, almost sweet.  Every breath feels cool and refreshing. The air in Gotham is oily, acrid, and thick; it burns and scratches the throat like a murder of crows. Batman looks down, straight down, at the city below.  The West Tower is nearly as high as some of the skyscrapers in Gotham; by his count, it’s about eighty stories.  But looking down at the sheer drop below, he can feel something: a heady weightlessness enveloping him, permeating him.  His chest starts to tighten and his breath quickens.  Fear.  He feels fear looking down from a height that—only a few months before—he would throw himself off of on a nightly basis. In Gotham City, the night would ring out with a cacophony of sounds: car engines, horns, trains, police sirens, screams, gunshots.  They’d fill the streets like a dark orchestra.   Canterlot is quiet.   This place, this city, this entire world, is quiet.  Quiet.  Silent.  Serene.  Peaceful. And it’s making him soft. Batman steps to the edge of the tower veranda, the street is all but invisible below him.  He takes another breath, and steels himself; quashing the burgeoning fear.  He has to do this.  It’s not enough to keep his body strong; much like an astronaut will experience muscle atrophy in zero-g, his reflexes, his fortitude; his very instincts are being eroded away by Equestria’s constant peace.  He’s losing his edge. Batman leaps off the veranda. Six. For a brief moment, time seems to stand still, and he floats, suspended in the night sky high above the sleeping city of Canterlot, and then he falls. Five. West Tower becomes an incandescent mass of white marble as he dives down headfirst towards the cobblestones below.  The wind roars at him, whipping at him more fiercely with every passing second.  Slowly, the ground begins to take shape below him, growing larger and more defined as he falls. Four. Batman feels his chest growing tighter, his heart beating faster.  He keeps his mind clear, his muscles loose. Three. He has to time this perfectly, if he makes a single mistake, if he’s even just one second off . . . no.  Batman wipes those thoughts from his mind.  They won’t do him any good. Two.         Everything slows down.                    One.                  Batman grabs his cape and spears his arms out to either side, instantly he’s jerked upward as the memory cloth spreads out and catches the wind.  He pushes his legs out and kicks his head back, angling upward.  Slowly, he begins evening out.  Too slowly.  The ground’s racing towards him like a greyhound.  He pulls his cape out further, his arms scream in protest, but he starts bleeding speed.         Thirty feet away from the ground.         Twenty feet. Ten. He hits hard, shifting his momentum forward into a savage somersault before landing in a sprawling heap on the cobbles.   Too late.  He’d moved too late.  And an eighty story drop had very nearly ended him.  Damn it.  He slams a fist into the ground. As he stands, pain spikes up both his legs; his knees audibly pop; his shoulder feels out of place, and the entire right half of his body aches.  He probes his legs with a finger, and winces at the flares of pain.  Hairline fractures by the feel of them.  Well that’s something he thinks.  His right arm feels about the same, but he can still move it.  Barely.   Ignoring the pain running through his body, Batman takes out his grapple gun and repels back to the top of the West Tower.  As he climbs atop the balcony railing, he finds that he is not alone: Princess Luna is standing atop the veranda.  She has a blue porcelain cup in horn; tendrils of steam writhe up into the cool night air. “I should think that there are less painful ways to die, Bruce Wayne,” she says to him. Batman grunts in pain as he swings himself over the railing.  “I’m not trying to die, Luna.” Feigned surprise passes over her face.  “Truly?  From where I stand, it appeared that you tried to jump off of my balcony railing.” “Are you spying on me now?”  Batman asks heatedly. Luna smiles dismissively.  “I observe many undertakings during the night, Bruce Wayne.  Your endeavors are but one amongst the many.”  She walks over to the edge of the veranda and casts a glance downward.  “Though I must admit your dalliances are quite far removed from most nocturnal happenings; they seem positively banal in comparison.” “So, you’re not spying on me specifically, you’re just spying on everyone,” Batman says dryly. Luna gives an exasperated sigh.  “Why must you be suspicious of every action taken in this world, Bruce Wayne? “It keeps me alive,” he says tonelessly. Luna is silent for a moment, then sighs.  “You can be most bothersome at times, Bruce Wayne.” Beneath his cowl, Batman cocks an eyebrow.  “Funny, I could say the same thing about you.” Wordlessly, they stare at each other. “This is none of your concern, Luna.” “Oh?  I beg to differ, Bruce Wayne.  As a guest of our kingdom, your safety is very much my concern,” she says pointedly. “I've been doing this for a long time, Luna.  I can handle myself.”  He makes to turn around, back towards the balcony railing, but she steps in front of him. “You are hurt.” “I’m fine,” he says, annoyed. “At least let me do something for your wounds,” Luna lights her horn, and a silver chair appears in a flash of starlight.  She gestures to it.  “Sit.” “I said I’m fine, Luna,” Batman says, annoyance sparking into anger. Luna doesn’t move.  “I insist.”  She says firmly. Seeing that she’s not going to budge, Batman takes a seat in the silver chair. Luna smiles, “Now was that so hard?” Batman says nothing. Luna closes her eyes and lights her horn.  A soft blue aura washes over him, and the pain begins to fade, when she opens her eyes, the pain is gone completely, and in its place, is a slight tingling sensation.  Like pins and needles, but without the uncomfortable prickling sensation that follows when the blood flow is restored.  “Luna, I feel . . . strange.  Is that normal?” he asks. “Do not worry yourself, Bruce Wayne,” Luna says with a small smile.  “It is very common that healing magic makes the recipient feel such, usually in proportion to the wounds that are being healed.  You have small cracks in both of your legs, your right arm, and your right shoulder is not where it should be.  I should think that mending such wounds would make you feel very ‘strange’ indeed.” “If you say so,” he replies.  The next several minutes pass in silence, filled only by the soft tones of the wind whirling around them.  “How long does this usually take?” “The duration of the spell depends upon circumstance—the severity of the wounds, the power and skill of the castor, and the species of the casted,” Luna says without looking up. “Species?”  Bruce Wayne asks.  “So, this wouldn’t take as long if I was a pony?” This time, Luna does look up.  “Actually, Bruce Wayne, mending your body would take longer if you were a pony.” Bruce looks at her questioningly.  “It would take longer? Why?” Luna doesn’t reply immediately.  “It is a . . . difficult concept to explain.  But in short, it is because you have no magic.” “Because I don’t have magic?”  Bruce asks, surprised. Luna nods in affirmation.  “Yes.  Every being in our world, large or small, possesses magic within them."  She touches his chest with a hoof.  “You do not.” “I still don’t understand.  How does a lack of magic make a spell take less time to work?” Luna sighs, and presses her lips into a thin line, trying to find the words to explain.  “It is . . . it is like this: every race in Equestria possesses magic, but not the same magic.”  She pauses for a moment, collecting her thoughts, and says, “for example, earth ponies.  Earth ponies are strong and so too is their magic.  Casting a spell onto an earth pony requires an excess of power, because their magic will resist it.” “Even if the spell in question is beneficial?” “Yes,” Luna nods. “That doesn’t make any sense,” Bruce says quizzically. “But doesn’t it?”  Luna asks.  “Does an oak tree soften its bark before a pruning even though the pruning will make it healthier?  No.  It remains unyielding.  The same can be said of the earth ponies, and every race that calls Equestria home.  Except for you, Bruce Wayne.” “You have no magic, and your body drinks it in like a stallion dying of thirst will drink upon finding water.” Bruce opens his mouth to speak, but Luna shushes him.  “Be still, Bruce Wayne.  Your bones are healed, but now I must return your shoulder to its proper place.” The light from her horn grows brighter, and the tingling intensifies, though still not unpleasant.  Ideally, he wonders just what it is that’s causing the sensation.  He hypothesizes that Luna’s spell deactivates the pain receptors, which then causes the remaining nerves to try and compensate.  It makes sense, in theory, but he’d need to see the spell working in real time, to prove it.  There were high-powered medical scanners in both the Batcave and the Watchtower, if he could— “Bruce!” Bruce was startled out of his reverie to find Luna staring at him intently.  “Yes?” “Your wounds are healed, Bruce Wayne.” Bruce sits up without feeling even the slightest twitch of discomfort.  He tests out his arms and legs, nothing.  Even his shoulder seems to be back in place.  “Thank you,” he says, turning back to her. Luna bows her head slightly.  “You are welcome, Bruce Wayne.”  She pauses for a moment and says “if I offended you earlier, I apologize, ‘twas not my intent.” Bruce watches her for a second, and then sighs, and removes his cowl.  “Don’t worry about it.”  He walks to the balcony railing and looks down over the edge, at the white cobbles below in the murky darkness.  “I’m losing my edge, Luna.  There was a time when I could have made a jump from twice this height with my eyes closed.” Luna walks to his side and places a wing on his back.  “You fear that when you return to your city that you will not be able to protect it.” “I know I won’t,” Bruce says plainly.  “If there had been criminals down there, a few of them might have turned and ran when I fell, if they were young, and green.  Maybe.  But if they were seasoned, hard criminals, I would've been dead in less than half a minute.  Right now, I’m not capable of protecting Gotham.” Silence falls.  They stand there, looking out into the night sky. “May I ask you a question, Bruce Wayne?”  Luna asks. “Only if I don’t have to answer it.” “What exactly is an ‘Electrospray Ionization Mass Spectrometer?’ ” Bruce stares at her blankly.  “What?  Where did you—” “You were wakedreaming. I heard things.” She shrugs sheepishly. “Sorry.” Bruce doesn’t reply; just stares off into the starry horizon. “No one can beat the Dark Knight!”  Batman shouted, waving a batarang around in a frenetic zigzag motion. “Hold on there, ‘Dark Knight,’ ” called Nightwing after him.  “Don’t hurt yourself with that thing.” Batman turned around.  “Sorry, Nightwing,” he said, but there was no apology in either his tone or his face.  His eyes were filled with starry visions of masked robbers and gun fights and daring car chases through the streets of Gotham.  “They call me, Batman!” he mimed a salute with the batarang, and ran off again. Nightwing turned to Batgirl.  “Honestly, I don’t know where he gets all those gadgets,” he said to her.  “If he showed half the enthusiasm for fighting crime that he does towards his own movies, Gotham would be free of crime right now.” Batgirl rolled her eyes and smiled.  “He’s a superhero, Nightwing.  They get movies made after them.  If you had your own movie I’m sure you’d be no different.” They were just stepping outside the Monarch Theater.  The Dark Knight was emblazoned in deep black letters, serenaded on every side by bright golden light, on the theater’s marquee.  Batman had been begging them to take him to the film for the last week, with all the relentless enthusiasm that only a caped crusader could muster. Nightwing laughed, “I suppose you have a point there, Batgirl—Batgirl?  What’s wrong?”  Nightwing had turned to see a look of concern upon Batgirl’s face. She pointed towards the street.  “Where’s Alfred?” she asked.  “Wasn’t he supposed to be waiting for us?” Nightwing scanned the street.  Alfred was supposed to be waiting for them in the Batmobile outside the theater when the movie let out.  But he was nowhere to be seen.  “Batman–put that down this instant!”  Nightwing had turned back to see Batman waving around a silver katana that that he’d gotten from somewhere. Batman guiltily dropped the katana.  “Sorry, Nightwing,” he said. Nightwing’s face softened.  “I’m not trying to be mean, Batman.  I just don’t want you to hurt yourself.  Do you understand that?” “Yes, sir.” Nightwing smiled.  “All right, what do you say we go get some ice-cream?” Batman’s head jerked up, “really!?” he asked, face lit up. “Of course, I mean, it is your anniversary after all.” “Yes!”  Batman jumped into the air, fists pumping at the thought. “Hold on one second, boys.  Aren’t you forgetting something?”  Batgirl suddenly spoke up from behind them. Nightwing and Batman both turned around to face Batgirl.  “And what would that be, Barbara dear?”  Nightwing asked. Batgirl gestured to the empty street.  “How are we going to get there?  We don’t have a way to get home, let alone the nearest malt shop.”  A somber silence followed this statement.   “We’ll take a taxi,” Nightwing spoke up. Batgirl blinked.  “A taxi?” she sounded aghast at the idea. Nightwing nodded.  “Main Street’s just a block away.  We can cut through Crime Alley and get a taxi straight to Mac’s for some ice-cream.” “Alright!” exclaimed Batman. Batgirl sighed good-naturedly.  “Okay, boys, let’s go get some ice-cream. They made their way across the street. It wasn’t very late, but the traffic had thinned, and the sidewalk was deserted. Batgirl looked over at Batman, “So, what was your favorite part of the movie?” Batman looked thoughtful for a moment, and shrugged. “I don’t know.” “You don’t know?”  Batgirl echoed.  “So, there wasn’t a single part of the movie that you liked more than the others?” Batman shrugged.  “The parts with me in them.” “The parts with you in them?  Well I’m glad you enjoyed it, Batman,” Batgirl laughed.   But Batman didn’t reply.  He couldn’t reply. Something was wrong.  Something was very wrong. Suddenly, he was frozen in place, as if every inch of his body had been entrapped in cement.  He tried to call out, to say something, but his mouth and tongue were just as tightly bound as the rest of his body.  He couldn’t even blink.  He was frozen.  Nightwing and Batgirl walked past him, completely unaware. And then a man appeared, seemingly out of the shadow itself—a man in a long white lab coat, and a smile like a scar on his face.  Slowly, the man began to walk towards Nightwing and Batgirl. Batman felt a shiver run through his body as he recognized the man.  He tried to reach for his utility belt—get a batarang, a bolo, even a smoke pellet.  Get away!  He thought furiously.  He wanted to shout at them.  Nightwing!  Batgirl!  Run away!  Now!  But he couldn’t scream, he couldn’t move, he could only watch. The man pulled something from the inside of his coat, something that glinted evilly in the moonlight.  A syringe.  Inside the syringe, was a bright green liquid, seeming to glow in the darkness of that shadowed alley. Slowly, the man raised the syringe, shining with its sinister malice, and stuck it into his arm and depressed the plunger.  Batman watched as the green liquid drained into the man’s arm, still held immobile by that unseen force. The serum began to take effect immediately. Suddenly, the man’s skin started to ripple, as if made of liquid, his ears began to stretch and elongate and then dark brown fur erupted all over him, covering his hands, then his chest, and finally his face. His arms and legs began to stretch with a grotesque cracking sound, like snapping a tree branch that’s still green and alive. Long, dagger-like talons burst forth out of his fingers. His mouth bulged unnaturally, and then was forced open as huge needle-teeth jutted out from his gums. And finally, a pair of great leathery wings unfurled out at his sides.   The man was no longer a man.  He was a Man-Bat. The Man-Bat looked straight at Batman with eyes as black as the deepest pits of Hell, and lunged.