> A Dark Knightmare
>  by Danger Beans
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

> Monarch Theater
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

	“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.
> Crime Alley
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

Blood is everywhere.  

It’s spattered across the walls; running down in thick rivulets—as if the walls themselves are bleeding—and forming dark puddles at his feet; it sizzles and burns on the light fixtures; its sour, acrid smell filling the alley.

Blood is everywhere.  Blood that had, not even a minute before, belonged to Batgirl and Nightwing.

And standing there in the middle of it, like a demon ascended from the depths of hell, was Man-Bat.  Man-Bat.  He just stands there, looking at Batman with those hellfire-eyes; smiling like death, his face smeared with blood.  He’d killed them.  He’d torn Nightwing and Batgirl apart right in front of him.

“Hello, Batman,” Man-Bat says, in a voice like crunching bones, the words spoken slowly through its massive teeth, blood dripping down its chin.  “Did you enjoy the movie?”  Man-Bat holds up a claw to his muzzle and licks the blood off his talons.  Nightwing’s blood, he thinks.  Or Batgirl’s.  Man-Bat places the freshly licked claw onto Batman’s shoulder.  “I liked it.  I liked it a lot.  But there was one thing I really didn’t like.”  Man-Bat’s gaping maw is only inches from Batman’s face.  His breath reeks of rotting meat, Batman can see fat droplets of blood running down between his teeth.  “I didn’t like the ending,” Man-Bat says, and squeezes Batman’s shoulder; his armor—a bulletproof, ultralight titanium resin—cracks like an eggshell, and the talons sink deep into his flesh.

The pain is horrendous, like five scorching knives digging into his shoulder.  But Batman doesn’t say anything.  He can’t say anything.  Only seconds before Kirk Langstrom stepped out from the shadows and injected himself with the Man-Bat serum, Batman’s entire body had become paralyzed.  He didn’t know what had caused it.  Nerve gas?  Poison?  Sonic inhibitors?  But whatever the reason, it had rendered him powerless, and he couldn’t speak any more than he could move.

“I like happy endings,” Man-Bat continued speaking,  “And the ending of that movie wasn’t very happy.  I mean, the good guy died and Batman lived!  That’s not a very happy ending at all!”

Man-Bat lifts him up by his shoulder, like a carcass on a hook.  The pain is excruciating.  Batman can’t move, but he feels his teeth clenching and his muscles spasm and twitch with pain—like a marionette in the hands of a sadistic puppeteer.

“I have a much better idea for an ending,” Man-Bat says in that broken-glass-voice.  “Here’s the pitch: Batman is walking down an alley with his two little sidekicks—when suddenly, Man-Bat comes out and kills them all!”  Man-Bat brings Batman’s face to his, until they’re scarcely an inch apart.  “Whaddya think, Batman?” droplets of bloody spittle fly into Batman’s face as he speaks.  “Do I get the Oscar?”

Batman says nothing.

“Why, Batman, you’re speechless.”  Man-Bat takes a hold of Batman’s other shoulder with his other talon, and with a sick squelching noise, pulls his claws out of Batman and drops him.  Batman falls to the ground and crumples like wet papier-mâché.  Then Man-Bat starts making a clogged coughing sound, and Batman realizes that he’s laughing.

Move, Batman, come on!  Move!  He tries to desperately to move, to break free of the paralysis; to reach into his utility belt; to curl his hand into a fist; to kick out, to get up, to fight!  Nothing.  He just lays there like a life-sized Batman doll.  Completely powerless.

Man-Bat kicks Batman over onto his back, and plants one clawed foot in the middle of his chest;  then he laughs that horrible gurgling laugh again—the sound of a man choking to death on his own bile—and says “Don’t worry, Batman, I’ll make sure to mention you during my acceptance speech.”

Man-Bat raises a claw to strike.

Batman doesn’t feel afraid, not exactly.  He just feels a cold clarity settle over him as the pieces settle into place.  Kirk Langstrom’s mind must have become unstable from his repeated use of the Man-Bat serum.  He’d gone feral, reverting to his baser instincts, and decided that Gotham was his “territory.”  His next step would have been to “secure” his claim by eliminating any potential rivals.  He’d retained enough of his intelligence to either fabricate or steal a paralyzing neurotoxin, and then dosed him with it.  Then he’d just had to wait until the toxin took effect, and Batman was no longer a threat, to make his move.

It had worked Perfectly.

Man-Bat had dispatched Nightwing and Batgirl without incident.  Quickly and brutally.

As he watches the claw descending towards him, he wonders what will happen to Gotham City after his death.  There’s no one to carry on after him.  The Joker murdered Robin, and Man-Bat has just murdered Nightwing and Batgirl.  He’s not worried about the super villains locked up in Arkham; The League will dispatch operatives if—when—they escape.  It’s the “regular” criminals that concern him.  The ones too small time to appear on the League’s radar: the muggers, the thieves, the rapists, the murderers.  Without Batman, they’ll run rampant.

Well, maybe not.  He’s made preparations.  In the event of Bruce Wayne’s death, and the deaths of his heirs, his estate would go into trust--to be donated to the Gotham City Police Department.  It might be enough.  It would have to be.

It's funny, he thinks solemnly. I always thought it would be the Joker.

“ENOUGH!” a voice thundered out suddenly from above them.

Man-Bat’s head jerks up.  “What!?”

Suddenly the night turns to day, and then everything disappears in a flash of blinding white light.  Man-Bat screams; Batman feels the weight leave his chest, then there’s a CRACK, loud as thunder, and the ground trembles, and as suddenly as it appeared, the light fades.  Batman is temporarily blinded, then the filters in his visor adjust and begin to compensate for his blinded eyes; a picture forms.

Before him stands a Dark Goddess.  Great and terrible and furious.  The closest analogue that his mind can liken this deity to is a horse, but before him is no horse , her body is a hurricane made flesh, every muscle strained and pulled taught underneath her skin like cords of steel.  Her eyes are twin maelstroms of lightning, crackling and spitting with terrible purpose.  Her mane and tail whip about her with the fury of the heavens.  Her wings are splayed out on either side of her, the tips touching the alleys walls.  Her head is lowered, horn pointed towards Man-Bat.  And when she speaks, the ground seems to shake underneath the power of her voice.

“BEGONE, NIGHTMARE!  LEST I SMITE YOU WHERE YOU STAND!”

The sides of Man-Bat’s mouth split open almost to his long pointed ears, in a hideous grimace of hate.  “Dreamwalker!” he snarls at her.  “You have no power here!  This is not your domain!”

The Goddess makes no reply.  Suddenly, her horn blazes with that same blinding white starlight from before, and a liquid stream of crackling blue energy erupts from her horn and strikes Man-Bat squarely in the chest.  Man-Bat screams, a high-pitched keening wail, like a thousand jagged fingernails scraping along a chalkboard.  “No!  You have no power here!  You have no power here!  You have no power here!”  Man-Bat screams the words over and over, like a blasphemous prayer, as the light spears into him.  A glowing spider web of cracks appear across his face and chest.  Man-Bat howls—one last wordless intonation of pain, fury, and hatred—and then explodes.  No sound accompanies the explosion.  No blood either.  Like an immense glass statue, Man-Bat’s body shatters and flies apart in a burst of light and stardust.

The Goddess stares out at the falling dust motes of light—all that’s left of Man-Bat—gives a derisive snort and stomps her hoof onto the concrete.  Then the winds whipping her mane calm; the maelstroms of lightning leave her eyes, and she is Luna once more.

Luna.

The word echoes through his mind like a ripple in a pond, growing bigger and louder, until it is no longer a ripple, but a tidal wave!  Crashing through his mind!

Luna.

Luna . . .

LUNA!

There's a flash if exquisite pain behind his eyes, and he remembers.  Everything.

He remembers waking up, his battered and broken body surrounded by diminutive aliens.  He remembers waking up again, to find his body completely healed; meeting Luna and Celestia; how quickly they'd learned his language, how diligently they'd worked to send him back to his own world, and how their every attempt had failed.  How he had been trapped there.  Was still trapped there.

This isn’t real, he thinks, relief and shock running through him in equal measure.  It’s just a dream; albeit, a very lucid one.

She turns to face him, and her face goes slack; it’s not too hard to imagine how he must look right now, his shoulder and chest are soaked in moist warmth underneath his armor.  

“Bruce!  Bruce, how badly are you hurt?  Bruce!?"

She  goes to him and places her head onto his chest.  Her ear flickers there for a moment, searching for a heartbeat, before she raises her head to look back at him.  “Bruce, if you can hear me, I need you to hold on.  I am going to heal your wounds.”

Heal his wounds?  She doesn’t need to heal his wounds, he’s not really wounded.  This is a dream!  Unless . . . unless it’s not a dream.  The thought sends a cold chill through him.

Luna tilts her head down and lights her horn; her  aura envelops his chest and props him up into a rough sitting position, and then he feels the soft tingling sensation that he recognizes as healing magic.

And then a skull appears out of the shadows, grows out of the shadows.  It’s not a human skull, the teeth are too long, the nasal passages too wide.  The shadows around the skull bulge and warp, and suddenly the skull is joined by a skeletal claw, and then, impossibly, the skull looks at him.  It shouldn’t be able to.  Inside that skull’s empty eye sockets are two black pits.  But Batman knows beyond any possible doubt, that the skull is looking at him.  And it’s smiling.  Slowly, the claw moves towards the skull and places one bony talon to its teeth conspiratorially.  The skull slowly rises up on a swelling wave of writhing shadows, which begin to form stiff white bones.  Another clawed arm appears, and then a spine, a ribcage, pelvis, femurs, kneecaps, tibias, and finally two clawed feet.   An inhuman skeleton steps out of the churning shadows.

Noiselessly, the skeleton takes a single step forward, then a second, a third.  Thick red strands of muscle sprout out of the shadows at the skeleton’s feet, and begin to wrap themselves around the bones in thick knots.

Man-Bat, Batman thinks numbly.  He’s regenerating himself.  Luna!  Her back is turned, she’s gazing at him intently, completely unaware of the approaching skeleton.  And he still can’t move!

The skeleton is now a well-muscled body, save for the skull.  Veins and arteries, dripping blood, sprout from the shadows and wind themselves around the muscles like macabre creepers.

Move damn it!  He struggles against his unseen bonds.  Nothing.  His body doesn’t so much as twitch.  The only thing he can move are his eyes, and they’re hidden by his cowl.  Damn it!  Turn around, Luna!  Turn around!

A suit of brown furry skin appears behind the grisly body, walking limply, impossibly.  The skin splits open down the middle, and wraps itself around the body, like a living Halloween costume.  For one gruesome moment, the skin hangs loose, then it tightens, and it’s done.  

Man-Bat is rebirthed from a womb of darkness.  From start to finish, the entire process has taken less than a minute.

Man-Bat smiles with vicious glee, like a child about to pull the legs off a grasshopper, but the smile isn’t directed at him, it’s aimed at Luna!

No. Batman thinks.  He’s not afraid to die, but to die like this, to just die peacefully in the night, without even a word of defiance?  While this monster murdered another person he cared about?  No.  He wouldn’t.

He felt a fury rise up in him, and a painful tearing sensation, as if the words were clawing themselves out of his throat, “Luna, behind you!”

Luna doesn’t question the command; she spins around in a blur of motion, just as Man-Bat brings his talons to bear, Luna moves fast, but Man-Bat moves faster.  His talons miss her head by only a scant few inches, but instead rake a bloody triptych gashes across her side.  She cries out, and lights her horn, but Man-Bat slams his other claw into her chest, sending her flying back into the wall.  But her horn is still alight, and before Man-Bat can press his attack, she unleashes another lance of molten starlight into his chest.  Man-Bat flies into the opposite wall, then through it, in an explosion of dust and shattered brick.

She stands there for a moment, breathing hard; she’s standing in a growing pool of her own blood; her side and chest soaked crimson.  She turns back to Batman, her eyes fraught with concern.  “Bruce, are you well?  I feared that you were no longer amongst the living.”

“Can’t . . . move,” Batman says.

“You can’t . . . move?” Luna’s eyes go wide, “You’re bespelled!  The dream; it’s using the dream to—”

LUUUNAAA!  An earsplitting scream cuts through her words like a guillotine.  She turns, and gasps.  There is Man-Bat, crawling through the blasted opening in the bricks.  He looks rabid, foam fills his mouth and dripped out from between his fangs in fat dollops; he was smoking, but otherwise appeared unharmed.  “I told you!” he screams madly,.”  “I told you, Luna!  I told you!  I told you!  I told you!  You have no power here!  This is my domain, my world!  You are nothing here, Luna!  Nothing!”

Shock and horror fight for dominance upon Luna’s face as Man-Bat advances.  “Impossible . . .” she says numbly, then steadies herself and fires another blast into Man-Bat.  This time, though, the light doesn’t so much as budge him; he walks through it with like water.

Man-Bat cackles cheerfully, and says “Not the brightest star in the sky, are you? 

Luna flares her wings and bares her teeth, “Silence, wretch!”  The light from her horn intensifies, and for a second, Man-Bat pauses, but only for a second, and then he resumes his march towards her—one step, then another, and another.  He’s at the mouth of the opening now, nearly within striking distance.

“Luna!  We have to go, now!” Batman screams at her, the “spell,” if that’s what’s really holding him immobile, is no longer impeding his speech, but he still can’t move, and Luna can’t beat Man-Bat alone.

Luna’s horn burns brighter, and silver chains sprout forth from its tip, wrapping around him , binding him.

"You think that this can hold me!?" Man-Bat shrieks.

Luna snorts disdainfully at him, and suddenly, Batman is moving!  But he’s not moving of his own volition.  His body is covered in the soft blue glow of Luna’s magic, being carried by her.  Her horn glows brighter, and a silver saddle appears atop her back.  “I am sorry for this, Bruce Wayne, but time is short, and we must not dally.

Luna lifts him onto her back; silver stirrups appear around his feet; black reins wrap themselves around his hands, yet more silver ropes wind tightly around his torso and shoulders, pulling him down into a jockey position.  It feels like being strapped into crash webbing.  No sooner do the bindings secure him, when there’s a wrenching sound of twisting metal behind them; Man-Bat has broken free of the chains.   “You can’t escape me, Dreamwalker!” he screams at her, but she’s already galloping away.

Batman has ridden horseback before, and his only thought is that this is nothing like riding a horse.  It’s smoother, faster, as if she’s not galloping but gliding, like an ice-skater.  He can hear the clinking of her metal shoes on the pavement, and the clacking of Man-Bat’s taloned feet gouging into the ground behind them in pursuit.

Luna’s at the mouth of the alley now, Man-Bat hot on their heels, pursuing them like a hound out of Hell.  “Luna!” Man-Bat screeches.  “You think you can run away from me,Luna!?  Do you!?  Because you can’t!  There’s nowhere you can run that I cannot find you!”

Suddenly, Luna leaps; her wings flare open, and beat mightily into the night air.  She looks back at Man-Bat, “I do not intend to run, nightmare, I intend to fly.

Man-Bat roars frenziedly.  “Is that it!?  You think you’re pretty fluffy wings will save you from me!? That you will keep me from my prey!  ME!?  I’m going to cut off your wings, Luna!  You’ll never fly on the midnight tides again; never see your precious moonlight dancing upon the clouds again!  Never!

Man-Bat spreads his own massive wings, and takes off after them.  The flapping of those leather wings sound like the withered heart of a corpse beating with stolen life.

Luna beats her wings again and again; the buildings seem to be falling around them as they ascend.  Batman is a ragdoll; unable to move, held fast to a flying pony by a few bands of enchanted leather, hundreds of feet above the streets of Gotham City.  “Luna!  What the Hell is going on!?”

“I do not have time to explain what is happening, Bruce,” she says without looking back at him.  “But this is not a dream.  At least not as you know one.”  She banks a hard right, flying down Fourth Street, Batman could hear Man-Bat’s screeching behind them, but growing distant.  “I can remove the binding upon you, but I will need time to do so.”

“How much time?” Batman shouts over the rushing wind.

“I do not know.  Several minutes at least.  Maybe more, but I cannot perform the spell whilst carrying you as well.  I will need you to be my eyes, and guide me through this city.  Have you a place we can go to ground?”

Batman takes in his surroundings for a second before answering, they’re flying above Poplar Street.  “Luna, in about a minute you’ll see a tram track, when you do, take a left, and follow it to the—”

Man-Bat erupts out of a window directly in front of them, eyes burning, mouth foaming, fangs bared and talons reaching.

“Luna!  Dive!"

Luna snaps her wings shut, plunging them into freefall.

Man-Bat shrieks and slams a claw into Batman like a cudgel; wrenching him backwards in the saddle hard enough to break the enchanted straps holding him.  He’s on his back now, hanging by the stirrups; arms thrashing madly like worms on a fishhook, face to face with the vicious grinning face of Man-Bat.  Batman has an upside-down rearview of his hateful visage.

Man-Bat screams, scant inches away from Batman.    “You’re mine now, Batman!  Mine—”

Luna bucks him in the face.  There’s a sickening crunch as his nose breaks, and his face collapses inward from the blow.  Then it’s drowned out as Man-Bat  screams in pain and fury.  He swipes at Batman furiously, striking his head hard enough to crack the armored plates in his cowl; for a moment, Batman’s blinded by motes of phantom starlight dancing painfully in his eyes.

“Hang on, Bruce!” Luna cries.

Hang on to what? Batman thinks.

There’s a FWAP, and Batman’s suddenly jerked sideways.  They’re no longer falling but flying.  Man-Bat unfurls his own wings and just barely manages to level off behind them.  “I’ll kill you both!”  He roars through a mouthful of broken and bloody teeth.

Luna banks hard to the left, down a narrow back alley.  Man-Bat follows, hot on their heels.

“Luna!” Batman yells.

Luna flies out of the alley and immediately pulls a hard left; Man-Bat flies out after them in hot pursuit.

“Luna!” he yells again.

He feels something warm and wet dripping onto his chin.  He looks down.  Blood.  Luna’s bleeding.  And flying around like this isn’t going to help.

“Luna!”

“What!?” she yells back finally.

“Take us higher!  Above the skyline!”

“Higher!?  Have you gone mad?  The beast will catch us for sure!”

“He’ll catch us anyway if we don’t do something soon, Luna!”

Luna looks back at him, then past him, at Man-Bat.  “Very well.”

Luna jets skyward, beating her wings furiously.  Batman, still hanging by his stirrups, feels the blood slamming down into his head.  Below them, Gotham City is growing small and distant.  Man-Bat is following them, but there’s a marked difference in their speeds; Man-Bat is closing fast.

Luna looks back at him.  “Now what?”

“Find Wayne Tech.  It’s the tallest building in Gotham.”

Luna scans the horizon.  “The one adorned with the golden trident?”

It takes him a second to understand her meaning.  “Yes!  The W!  It’s right below my office!  If we can activate the security protocols, the entire facility will go into lockdown!”

Luna stares back at him, “What!?”

Suddenly, Man-Bat shrieks, “I’m right behind you, Luna!”

“Just fly through the big window!”

"Very well."

The Night Princess flew across the sky and the Man-Bat followed.

“I’m coming, Luna!  Coming to chop off your wings!”

“Luna!”

“I hear him!

“It’s a long way to the ground, Luna!”

“Luna! 

“I’m flying fast as I am able!”

“Fly faster!”

“You’re both going to scream, all the way down!”

“We’re almost there!”

“Well he’s almost here!”

“No he’s not!  Hang on!”

Batman felt a whirring sensation around him, like static electricity, and suddenly, Luna turns her head and fires one final stream of molten starlight into Man-Bat.  It doesn’t appear to hurt harm him any more than before, but it does throw him off balance, into a spinout.

“You can’t stop me!” he snarls at them, beating his wings madly, trying to regain his balance.

“That will buy us a few seconds at most,” Luna says, “but it will be enough.  Now hang on to me.”

There’s a flash, and to Batman, it looks as if they're passing through a tunnel of swirling blue light.  Then the light is gone, replaced by muted darkness; the screeching of metal horseshoes chewing through the carpet fills the room; Luna stops, and Batman is jerked upward back onto her.

Then his helmet filters compensate for the low light, and he sees where they are: Wayne Tech.  His office, to be precise.  He sees his polished mahogany desk, his computer glowing softly in the darkness; the wine cabinet concealing his express elevator to the Wayne Tech Batcave, and—

"The window!" Batman cries.

The spanning the length of his office, is a ten foot tall, twenty five foot wide, glass pane window.  Completely intact.  Instantly, Batman realizes that Luna didn’t fly through the window, she phased through it.  Which meant the security protocols hadn’t been activated!

Luna looks up, startled.  "What!?"

"Luna, break the window!  Now!"

Again, without question, without hesitation, without a second thought, Luna lights her horn.  The entire window glows soft blue in her aura.  Nothing happens at first—then the entire wall begins to creak like an old staircase, and, impossibly, the glass starts to bend outward, as if it wasn’t glass but plastic!  Luna grits her teeth.  “Spurious bastard.  But I am not so easily thwarted!”  Her horn flashes, and sparks fly from her horn into the window—the effect is immediate: the glass ripples like water, reforms, and then, with a sound like gunfire, the window explodes!  Thousands upon thousands of glittering shards fly out into the night like droplets of frozen rain, just as Man-Bat appears.

The glass, propelled by Luna’s magic, slams into Man-Bat with deadly speed.  The shards spear into Man-Bat’s flesh; slice through his wings; blood sprays out in every direction, staining the glass red, like swirling mass of broken Christmas balls.

Man-Bat screams—whether in pain or rage, Batman can’t tell—and plummets downward in a screaming bloody heap of glass, fangs and claws.

At that moment, titanium shutters slide down into the window frames—the security protocols have initiated—Wayne Tech Tower is now in complete lockdown.

Luna looks back at him, panting, “I like the way you think, Bruce Wayne.”  She takes his body in her aura, and the straps fall away limply from his chest and feet.  He’s lifted up, then sat down softly in his desk chair.  “I will have you disenchanted in a moment, Bruce Wayne.”  She smiles wryly, “Try to be still.”

“Very funny, Luna.”

Luna touches her horn to his chest, there’s another tingling sensation, similar to the healing magic, but different, almost like they’re—burning!  Suddenly, his nerves feel like they’re being engulfed in electric blue fire!  “Aaug!” he screams hoarsely.  And then, it stops, gone as suddenly as it had come.

“Bruce!  Are you okay?” Luna asks, taking him in her aura.

Batman holds up a hand to stop her—then realizes that he just moved.

“Yes.  I’m fine.  Whatever you did, it worked.”  Shakily, he stands to his feet, curling his hands into fists.  “I just hope you don’t have to do that again, anytime soon.”

Luna smiles, relieved.  “So do I.”  She glances at the titanium shutters.  “Your tower is warded, but I doubt that the beast has been felled, and I fear that is only a matter of time before it is again nipping at our heels.”

Ordinarily, Batman would have said otherwise.  Those shutters were made of solid titanium and almost a foot thick.  But ordinarily, Man-Bat couldn’t reconstitute himself out of nothing.

Luna shrugs off the silver saddle, which crumples into dust as it hits the floor.  “I know you must have questions about what is happening—”

“I’m asleep.  We’re in a dream world, we’re being attacked by some kind of hypnomancer that’s taken the form of Man-Bat—any injuries we sustain here in this dream world will carry over into the waking world, same for deathdeath.  Did I miss anything?”

Luna stares at him, speechless.  “How do you—”

“It’s happened before,” Batman says nonchalantly.

“My.   You must lead quite an interesting life in your world, Bruce Wayne.”

Batman shrugs, “It has its moments.”  He turns back to the shutters, then back to Luna—at the dripping wounds in her side and chest—and asks “How badly are you hurt?”

Luna shrugs—then winces.  “The claws cut deep.  I cast a spell to slow the bleeding.”  She pauses for a second, “If not for the spell, it would have surely proven fatal.  Tis only a temporary measure, though; in time, the wounds will have to be dressed properly.”

“Can you heal yourself?” Batman asks.

Luna shakes her head.  “No.  Restorative magic has never been my strength, and my strength is fading quickly now with every passing second.”

Batman considers her words for a moment.  “I have a Batcave underneath Wayne Tower: it has a state-of-the-art medical suite, and an armory.  If Man-Bat’s still out there, it would be the best place to face him.”

Luna smiles grimly, “By all means then, lead the way.”

Batman goes over to the wine cabinet, reaches underneath the sink, and triggers the mechanism.  There’s a click, and then the entire cabinet sinks into the floor—revealing a pair of stainless steel doors.  Noiselessly, they open, revealing the sparse narrow interior of an elevator.

Luna looks at it skeptically.  “You conceal the entrance to your sanctum behind a liquor cask?”

Batman steps inside.  “I needed something big enough to hide an elevator; it was this or a gun rack.  I don’t do guns.”

Gingerly, Luna steps into the elevator, there are only two buttons: an arrow pointing up, and an arrow pointing down.  Batman hits the latter button.

Noiselessly, the doors close, and they descend.

“This dream world,” Batman says without looking at her, “How does it work?”

Luna looks at him apprehensively, “What do you already know of the dreamscape, Bruce?”

“I know that if you want to kill someone in their dreams, then the dream has to be based off of reality.  The dream has to be real.  Real enough to die in.

Luna smiles wryly, “But it is a two-edged sword, Bruce Wayne; if the dreamscape must be so real, that the dreamer can die within it—”

“So can the killer,” Batman finishes grimly, remembering the storm of glass as it flew into Man-Bat; shredding his wings; stabbing him like a thousand glittering knives.

“I don’t kill.”  He says decisively.

“I know.  But the creature that attacked you, it is a nightmare—a creature born not of flesh and blood, but fear and shadow.  It only maintains a semblance of life by feeding off the fear of others.   You cannot kill what is not alive, Bruce Wayne.  Only destroy it.”

“I’ll be the judge of that.”

Luna sighs, “You may not have the that luxury, Bruce Wayne.  This is no ordinary nightmare we face, it—"  At that moment, a claw rips through the roof of the elevator and stabs into Luna’s back.

“SURPRISE!”  Man-Bat’s maniacal voice rings out from above.  “I hope I didn’t miss anything important!”

“Luna!” Batman screams.  Before he can move, Man-Bat throws her bleeding body into him like a hunk of meat.  

“Oh, no, no, no, don’t get up, Batman.  I’ll let myself in!”  Man-Bat’s arm retracts to the lip of the hole, and he begins tearing at it furiously.

Batman pulls out a small cylinder from his utility belt; covers Luna’s eyes with his cape, and throws it towards Man-Bat.

The flash bang explodes in a burst of deafening and blinding light and sound; Man-Bat’s superhuman senses work against him, amplifying the grenade's effects.  Through the hole in the ceiling, Batman can see Man-Bat screaming in pain and rage, holding his clawed hands to his head in agony.  “Your little toys won’t stop me, Batman!”  Man-Bat shrieks, and starts swinging his claws into the ceiling blindly, ripping through the metal like a wrapping paper.

Batman crouches down and lifts his cape off of Luna.  She’s bleeding badly, the wound in her back is gushing blood like a fountain.  Amazingly, she’s still conscious.  “Luna,” he says to her, “Are you strong enough to make it back?”

She looks up at him dazedly, “What?”

“Outside.  Back to the waking world.  Can you get back?”

Understanding arises in her eyes.  “No!  I will not abandon you !”  Her words are punctuated by the torturous groans of twisting metal, as Man-Bat blindly rips apart the ceiling.  They have maybe half a minute at most.

“You’ve already done enough, Luna.  I can takee it from here.”  No sooner do the words leave his mouth, then Man-Bat screeches above them:

“I’ll kill you both!  You hear me!?  I’LL KILL YOU BOTH!”

Batman takes off his cowl, and looks Princess Luna in her eyes.  “I can handle this, Luna.  Now.  Go.

Luna looks from his face to the widening hole in the ceiling, then back to him, “May the Mother be with you, Bruce Wayne.”  She stares at him for a second longer, and then her horn lights, and she becomes transparent, then fades away into nothing.

Man-Bat’s torso is halfway through the ceiling now, swinging wildly around the interior of the elevator.  He’s still blind, though.

Batman works quick, replacing his cowl, he takes out two canisters of explosive gel.  Keeping low, out of Man-Bat’s flailing talons, he begins spraying it around edges of the elevator floor.  As soon as he’s sprayed the gel across all four corners of the floor, he glances up at the floor indicator: if this is going to work, he’ll have to time it perfectly.

They’re on the 82nd floor.  That means that they’re eighty two stories up.

81st floor . . .

“Batman.”

Batman turns to see Man-Bat looking at him, smiling gleefully.

“I seeee you, Batman.”  The blindness has worn off.

80th floor.

Man-Bat lunges; Batman detonates the explosive gel.

Six.

The floor of the elevator blows outward; Man-Bat’s claws pass harmlessly through the space Batman’s head occupied less than a second ago.

Five.

Man-Bat falls.  Upward and away.  The light of the elevator shrinks to a pinpoint, a lone star in a black sky.

Four.

Batman feels his heart rate increasing, his breathing quickening, his muscles tensing.

Three.

He can’t see the bottom.  The shaft is too dark for his visor to compensate.  It doesn’t matter.

Two.

Everything slows down.

One.

Batman throws his arms out, his cape catches the wind and the takes shape.  He kicks his legs out straight, and for a second—a lone, solitary second, he thinks that he might have miscalculated—and then his boots slam into the ground with a thwap.  There’s no time for thoughts, in a second, his arms are outstretched, probing for the door.  He finds it, and wedges his fingers between the door, trying to pry it open.  The door is unyielding, which is no surprise; all of his Batcaves are made to be secure.  He’ll have to wire the doors.

Above him, there’s a sudden wrenching noise, followed by the screech of metal on metal.  Batman looks up, and sees a glowing pinprick of light above him.  It’s growing larger even as he watches.  The elevator.  Man-Bat’s disabled the elevator’s locks, and has sent it careening down after him!  

There’s no time to wire the doors.  Batman takes an explosive batarang from his belt and shoves into the space between the doors, then backs into the corner and detonates it.  There’s a flash, and a muffled explosion.  When the smoke clears, the doors are still intact, but charred and dented.

Batman looks up.  He can see the elevator now; the screeching of metal has become a roar; sparks are flying from either side in flaming torrents.

He looks back to the doors.  It’ll have to be enough.

He braces his shoulder into the doorframe, wedges both hands into the door, and begins to push.  Slowly, the blackened door begins to give.  Only a little at first, but then a little more, and more.  It’s almost wide enough now.  “Come on,” Batman grunts, the sound lost in the roar of the approaching elevator.  He heaves again, and with a final groaning, wrench, the door opens.

Batman throws himself out of the door.  Only seconds ahead of the screeching elevator car.

It hits the ground in a horrific explosion of twisting metal; the force of the impact throws Batman back, like the invisible hand of a god swatting a fly.  He lays there for a moment, then stumbles to his feet and surveys his surroundings.

He’s in the Wayne Tech Batcave.  At one time, it had been part of the Old Gotham Railway system; after the Great Quake, he converted it for his own use during the reconstruction of Wayne Tower.  And as far as he can tell, everything is the same: a large, dimly-lit, hollowed-out room.  Nestled against the wall opposite the elevator, is the Bat computer: banks of dark computer monitors suspended over a massive console—upon which hundreds of lights, keys, dials, and buttons are flickering.  Taking up the center of the room is a makeshift laboratory: a large metal table, surrounded by standing racks full of tools and equipment.  To the left, is a tunnel leading out to the garage, and to the right, is—“The armory,” Batman grunts.  The armory would have what he needed.

“Knock, knock, Bat, Man.”  A voice comes from behind him.

Batman spins around, to see Man-Bat stepping out of the twisted doorframe.  Before, in the dim light of the elevator, Batman hadn’t been able to see Man-Bat clearly, but under the florescent whites of the Batcave, Man-Bat looks like a walking corpse: red lines of oozing blood crisscross every inch of his body; there’s almost nothing left of his wings except tattered shreds of flesh; one of his ears is sheared clean off, and the other is limp, hanging by a thread; his muzzle is a bloody crater from where Luna bucked him, and then there are his eyes.  They’re gone.  Both of them.  In the sockets where his eyes should be, are two empty pits.  Twin fountains of blood pour forth from them, and yet, Batman knows that Man-Bat can see him—is looking right at him.  But the worst thing, is that Man-Bat doesn’t seem to be crazed, or angry, or even in pain.  He seems, if anything, annoyed, as if everything that he and Luna have done to him amounts to no more than a mild inconvenience.

But even as the thought crosses his mind, Batman realizes why: Man-Bat is regenerating himself again.  Even as he watches, the shards of glass are falling out of Man-Bat’s flesh, falling to the floor with soft chinks.  The bloody cuts are closing up, and even his missing teeth seem to be growing back.

Man-Bat stops, and looks around idly.  “Where is the Dreamwalker, Batman.  Where is Luna?

Batman says nothing.

Man-Bat smiles a horrific, bloody smile.  “Is she dead?  That would be wonderful.  That little brood sow has been a thorn in my side since the day we first met.  I hope she died painfully!”  Man-Bat spits a bloody gob onto the floor at Batman’s feet for punctuation.

Batman ignores the question.  “Who are you?” he asks precisely. 

Man-Bat keeps smiling his macabre smile.  “Why, Batman, don’t you recognize me?  It’s me!  Man-Bat!”  Man-Bat laughs, spraying blood and spittle from his mouth in doing so.  And resumes walking towards Batman.

Batman steps back as Man-Bat steps forward.  Towards the Armory.

“Are you the one that brought me to Equestria?”

Man-Bat doesn’t break stride, “Do you really have to ask, Batman?” Man-Bat throws back his head and laughs.  “I thought you were the ‘World’s Greatest Detective.’  I guess that part must have been exaggerated.” 

“Why are you trying to kill me?”

Man-Bat stops, and looks down at him through empty black sockets.  When he speaks again, there’s no trace of humor in his voice, and his words don’t come through a broken muzzle and a jumble of broken teeth; they come clear and precise, ubiquitously, no louder than a whisper, but coming from everywhere around him.  “Kill you?  Is that what you think I’m trying to do?  I’m not going to kill you, Batman.  I need you: your body, your mind, your strength.  And once I have you, I am going to kill everyone you know and care about, then I am going to ravage your precious city and then your precious world.  Then, and only then, once blood runs in crimson rivers down the streets and every tree burns; when the skies of your world are choked black, and when the bodies of your kind litter the ground like the groveling maggots that spawned your wretched race, then and only then, you may have my permission to die, Batman.  But not before.  

“No thanks,” Batman says, shifting his gaze behind Man-Bat, and shouts “Luna!  Now!”

“What!”  Man-Bat spins around towards an empty wall, poised to fight; the moment he does, Batman does the same, running towards the Armory.  Behind him, Man-Bat roars in fury.  

Batman runs to the Armory, the biometric scanners in his suit have already unlocked the door.  Inside, are racks filled with batarangs, bolos, smoke pellets, grapple wire, sonic traps, and countless other weapons.  Batman runs past them all.  He knows exactly what he’s looking for, and it doesn’t take him long to find it.

“Batman!”

Batman turns around, Man-Bat is poised at the Armory entrance.  “Do you think I’m a fool, Batman!  That I can be so easily tricked!?”

Batman shrugs dismissively, “You fell for it, didn’t you?”

Man-Bat roars, and lunges; Batman primes the device in his hand, and throws it towards Man-Bat.

When exposed to a light source of one hundred-sixty nine lumens, the average person will experience approximately ten seconds of blindness.

At two thousand lumens, blindness is instant, and total, but temporary.

At four thousand lumens, the duration of blindness becomes indefinite.

The fusion flare Batman throws at Man-Bat, burns at twenty five-thousand lumens.

When it detonates, it’s like a miniature sun.

Batman can see the light, through his cape, through the lenses in his cowl, and even through his own closed eyelids.  Under his armor, he can feel second-degree radiation burns erupting all over his skin.  

Man-Bat’s scream is loud enough to shatter every glass surface in the Batcave.

When Batman’s vision clears, everything around him is charred black.  His cape is on fire, his armor is scorched, and his cowl is melting.  He throws off his cape and cowl, and looks over at Man-Bat.

Man-Bat is now a howling, writhing, burned mass of eschar.

“Real enough to be killed in,” Batman says coldly.

At the sound of his voice, Man-Bat rears up.  “It burns!  It burns!  What did you do to me!?”

“That was a fusion flare.  Developed by Wayne Tech for use against the White Martians, after they invaded Earth.  They were nocturnal; didn’t like the sun; it burned them.  I  thought it might work the same way on you.

Man-Bat charges him, “I’ll kill you Batma—” his words are cut off by Batman’s fist.

“Do you know how often someone gets mugged in Gotham City?” Batman asks.

In answer, Man-Bat just snarls.  

“Every twenty three minutes.”

He slugs Man-Bat again with an uppercut, the force of the blow sends Man-Bat flying back through the doorway.

“Do you know how often someone is raped in Gotham City?”

Man-Bat staggers to his feet, and charges Batman again, swinging a clawed hand towards him in a lightning-fast arc.

“Every forty seven minutes.”

Batman catches the blow with one gloved hand, and sends his other fist into Man-Bat’s elbow, shattering the joint.  Man-Bat roars in a mix of agony and pain, and something else, something that hasn’t been there until now: fear.

“Do you know how often someone is murdered in Gotham City?”

Man-Bat lashes out with his other arm, this attempt is no more effective than his previous attack, and Man-Bat’s other arm joins its counterpart with a snap.

“Every ninety three minutes.”

Batman lands a savage kick into Man-Bat’s chest, he goes flying in a spray of charred flesh, landing squarely onto the examination table in the middle of the Batcave.

Batman walks up to him, slowly, unhurriedly, as if he has all the time in the world.

“Final question: do you know long I’ve been away from Gotham City?”

Man-Bat can only let out a strangled gurgle.

“I’ve been gone, away from Gotham.  Six.  Months.  Do the math.”

He brings both fists together and then down on Man-Bat’s head, hard enough to break the table.

Man-Bat lays there, and lets out a choking laugh.  “You won’t kill me, Batman.  You don’t kill.  You’re weak.”

Batman takes a batarang from his belt.  “You’re right.  I don’t kill.  But you can’t kill what isn’t alive.  “He looks down at Man-Bat’s burnt form; into where the eyes would have been.  “Only destroy it.”  

Before Man-Bat can say anything beyond a surprised yelp, Batman takes the batarang in both hands and plunges the blade into Man-Bat’s chest.

Man-Bat explodes.  Not in a flaming blaze, or storm of guts and gore, but in shadow.  A writhing mass of shadowy tendrils erupts from Man-Bat’s form, filling every corner of the Batcave.  There’s the sensation of screaming, and then of some great pressure releasing.  And then everything goes black.
	
> The Six O' Clock Lounge
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

The Six o’ Clock Lounge.

If there could ever be said to be such a thing as a neutral territory within the war-torn streets of Gotham City, then it would be the Six o’ Clock Lounge.  Two stories of unrepentant steel, cinderblock, and concrete, the Lounge was one of the largest hole-in-the-walls in Gotham.  It was also one of the most heavily frequented.  At any and all hours of the day, the sounds of clinking glass, raucous laughter, and drunken revelry filled the Lounge wall to wall, as did the smells of alcohol, bile and sweat.  The Lounge was a working man’s bar, and that was precisely how the working men who drank there liked it.  They’d come in at all hours of the day or night: cops and muggers, plainclothes and wise guys, strikers and scabs; it didn’t matter who you were or what you did, as long as you paid your tab by closing time.

The cops and plainclothes liked the Lounge because it was one of the few bars in Gotham that was open—and more importantly, served food—24/7, and also offered them the opportunity to earn a little extra money on the side.  The thugs and wise guys liked the Lounge because they could talk ‘business’ freely without fear of eavesdroppers against the cacophonous backdrop of barroom camaraderie, and it also offered them the opportunity to find out which cops were bribable.

Bruce Wayne liked the Lounge because it was an excellent source of information.

Once, on one of the exceptionally rare nights when the Lounge had been occupied by only a few lone stragglers, Bruce had gone up to the bar in the guise of Matches Malone, a street-walking, smart-talking wise guy, and asked the bartender on duty about the Lounge’s unusual moniker.

The bartender, a large, heavyset man with lumberjack arms and a beer gut that hung out over his waistline, smiled like a catfish.  “Now that’s a story to tell, friend.  Buy us both a round and pull up a stool, because it’s a long one.”

Bruce returned the smile and slapped a bill onto the table.  “Make it a bottle.  Bartender’s choice.”

The bartender’s smile grew wider as he stared at the note.  “I like your style, friend.  Bartender’s choice it is.”  He took the bill and disappeared behind the bar for a moment, and came back with a large mason jar filled with clear liquid.  “The house best,” he said simply.

He pulled out two glasses and filled them.  Bruce took one and tipped it down.  It felt like he was drinking acid.  “Strong,” he managed to spit out after a fit of coughing.

The bartender—who, Bruce had learned later, was actually the owner of the Six o’ Clock Lounge—downed his own drink and broke into a croaking laugh.  “Now that’s the kinda drink’ll put hair on yer chest, friend!”  He refilled his glass.  “But if want something a little weaker, I won’t say I blame you.”  He made as if to put the mason jar away.

“Like Hell,” Bruce grabbed the jar, “I paid for it, I’m drinking it,” he said, refilling his own glass.

The bartender chuckled.  “That’s the spirit!  Alright then.  You ever hear that song?  The one about it being ‘five o’ clock somewhere?’”

Bruce nodded that he had.

“Well, with all due respect to Mr. Buffett, that song’s full ah more shit than a pigeon coop.  You know what I did before I started this place, friend?”  He continued on before Bruce could reply.  “I worked in a factory.  A leather factory.  You ever work in a leather factory, friend?”

Bruce shook his head.

“Well I did,” he said with an air of self-importance.  “And let me tell you, it wasn’t no picnic.  I worked in the old leather plant on 34th and Main; smack dab in the center of the old industrial park, for ten years!  You know anything about makin’ leather?”

Bruce lied that he didn’t.

“Well it ain’t easy.  See, in the factory where I worked, there was four floors: the ground floor, where we boiled the leather, the second floor, where we treated it; the top floor, where we did all the cutting and stitching, and the basement, where we kept the furnace burning.  If you was a women, then you got a nice cushy job on the top floor, stitching and cutting leather into belts and boots and coats, but if you was a man, then you worked either in the basement, shoveling coal, or on the factory floor, shoveling skins.

“We’d get the skins straight from the slaughter house; they’d bring ‘em in every morning in huge truck, piled up to the ceiling—God, the smell was something awful—and we’d shovel ‘em outta the trucks and into wheelbarrows to take into the factory, and that’s what I did when I started there.”  He said it with an air of pride, as if shoveling piles of slaughterhouse slough was some grand occupation.  “I was sixteen when I started working there, and for two years I spent every morning shoveling skins and wheeling ‘em in to the boys on the main floor.  “But when I turned eighteen, and was legally declared a man”—he winked as he pronounced ‘legally’—“well then I got to do the real work.”

The bartender paused to take a gulp of what was now his fifth glass; Bruce was still nursing his second.

“See, they skin ‘em over at the slaughterhouse because ain’t nobody alive that wants a slide of steak with the hair still on it.  But after a while you got a whole mess a crap to clean up, and ya can’t just throw it away either thanks to them bigwigs in the government.  So they’d skin em’ and we’d buy the skin.  Win-win.  But see, no one wants a leather jacket with the hair still on it either.  And plus, those animals are filthy!  You ever been to a farm?  Well I used to work at my uncle’s farm for the summer—before I started working at the plant, mind—and let me tell you, it was something Goddamned  awful.  Whole place smelled like three kinds o’ shit, and looked even worse than it smelled.  Was almost enough to make me go vegetarian.  Almost.

“But that’s the thing, see?  We had to get the hair and dirt and crud off o’ all that skin ‘fore we could we could treat it proper.  So we boiled ‘em.”

More than half of the large mason jar’s contents had been emptied now.  The bartender wasn’t drunk, but he was well on his way.

“See, after I shoveled the skins in on to the boys on the main floor, there was another batch of trucks that would show up.  Only these would be filled with coal.

“See, in the basement, there was a huge furnace, and I mean huge.  Must have filled up half the basement.  And right above it on the main floor were these big tubs of water.  We would throw the skins into the these big metal cages—kinda like giant colanders—and drop ‘em into the tubs for a bit.  When we pulled the cages up, the skins would be clean and ready for the ol’ treatin’.  But to keep them tubs boiling, we had to keep that furnace burning.

“See, if you was too young to work in ‘a potentially hazardous working environment’”—the bartender said the last three words with undisguised contempt—“meaning if you wasn’t eighteen, then you were stuck heaping skins onto wheelbarrows and later shoveling coal into the chutes  that led down into the basement.  But if you was old enough to sign a release form, then you got to go into the cellar, and make the big bucks keeping them fires burning hot.”  The bartender leaned in close to Bruce and whispered secretly, “Unless you was colored, then you got paid pocket change.”

This hadn’t surprised Bruce.  Gotham City was not a civic-minded place at the best of times and threats to the status quo were usually dealt with brutal efficiency.  If Rosa Parks had refused to give up her seat to a white man on a Gotham City Bus, it would never have made the news, and Miss Parks would probably have never been seen again.

The bartender continued, “But anyways, I worked front of that furnace ten years shoveling coal, stoking those fires.  The only way you weren’t getting burned is if you didn’t show up for work, and you had to keep your face clean shaven or you were liable to catch fire!  It was hard, backbreaking work.”  The bartender emptied the last of the jar’s contents into his glass.

“And you know what I felt like at five o’ clock, after shoveling coal for eight hours straight?” he asked suddenly with a grim smile.  “Hot, sweaty, burnt and covered in soot.  When that whistle blew at the end of the day, I felt like a one-legged man at an ass-kicking contest.  I’d punch my ticket and wander out into the street with my the rest of the working schmucks, and I’d stop at the first bar that looked like it had some empty seats.  He raised his glass to his mouth, and looked surprised to discover that it was empty.  He looked from the empty glass to the empty mason jar for several seconds, looking almost mournful, and finally said, “Now we was at the back of the park, over by the harbor, so all the closest bars was usually filled up by the time we got our sorry carcasses outta there.  But we’d eventually find a place before too long, and after that, we’d all gather ‘round and drink ourselves stupid.  Good times.  But anyways, you wanted to know why I named this place six o’ clock, right?  Well it’s because five is when you clock out.  You’re stiff and sore and beat all to Hell.  But six o’ clock?  That’s when you’ve had a couple of rounds with your buddies.  When you’re warm and drunk, and all the crap life throws seems miles away.  Now that’s the moment Buffet should have written a song about.”

Bruce Wayne pretended to contemplate these words of pseudo-wisdom for a moment, and then raised his empty glass, “Amen to that,” he said, and slapped another bill on the countertop.  “Let’s drink to it!”

The bartender smiled with the warmth of a cordial drunkard.  He produced another mason jar and refilled their glasses, and they toasted to six of the clock.

They talked for a long time after that, discussing things of much greater interest to Bruce.  The bartender, his tongue thoroughly loosened, had been very forthcoming.  He never noticed that Bruce never actually drank his third glass, and by the time Bruce walked out into the street the next morning, he’d learned more about the various crime families that ruled Gotham’s underworld than he’d been able to glean from six months of surveillance.

It had been a very productive evening.

“I can’t believe this place is closing down.”

Bruce was broken out of his reverie by a voice behind him.  He turned around to find a women standing behind him: tall, slender, with porcelain white skin and raven black hair.  Minimal makeup and real jewelry.  Tight black dress to accentuate her figure, and designer high heels that made her taller than most of the other women here.  She wanted to be seen.  Most likely either a mobster’s mistress, or an ex looking for a new beau.

Bruce smiled, “Yeah, it’s hard to believe.  I’ve had some good times here.”  He held out a hand to her, “Matches Malone, good to meetcha.”  He saw a flash of recognition in her eyes as she offered her own hand.

“Selina Kyle.”

“So, Miss Kyle, what brings a fine women like you to a place like this?”

Selina smiled and tossed her hair back over her shoulder in a practiced motion.  “I just came to pay my respects to the Lounge; it won’t be the same once Cobblepot takes over.  Word on the street is that he has big plans for this old hole-in-the-wall.”

Bruce nodded in sympathy.  Oswald Chesterfield “Penguin” Cobblepot had purchased the Six o’ Clock Lounge just over a week ago, and his “plans” for the bar were exactly what Bruce had come here hoping to find out.  From what he had heard about the man, Cobblepot was not the most savory of entrepreneurs.  He gestured to the empty stool to his left, “Buy you a drink, sweetheart?”

After a moment’s hesitation, she sat down.  “White Russian, no ice.”

“You got it.”  Bruce waved the bartender over and ordered her drink.  “So what exactly have you heard?”

“About Cobblepot?  Oh, a little bit of this and a little bit of that: he plans on turning this place into a luxury restaurant, or Gotham’s premier casino, or both.  I even heard someone say he’s going to build a zoo!”  She leaned in closer to him, “I talked to a guy, swore up and down that Cobblepot was bringing in an actual iceberg from Canada.”  She rolled her eyes and laughed.  She had a nice laugh.

Bruce.

Bruce went still at the mention of his name—his real name.  He looked around, eyes scanning the crowd for familiar faces.

“Is something wrong, Malone?” Selina asked.

Bruce turned back to her and smiled.  “Nah.  I just thought I heard someone calling my name.  In my line of work, that’s not usually a good thing.”

Selina cocked an eyebrow.  “Oh?  And what ‘line of work’ are you in, Mister Malone?”

Bruce widened his smile, “Insurance.”

Bruce . . . the voice came again, louder this time.  Bruce ignored it.

“Insurance,” Selina said flatly.  “You know, usually when I ask a man what he does for a living, they tell me that this isn’t a dream.” 

Bruce froze on the spot, “What did you say?”

Selina took a sip of her glass.  “I said that this isn’t a dream, Bruce Wayne.” she smiled, her eyes blazed with a cold blue fire.  “It’s time for you to wake up.”







Bruce Wayne woke up with a gasp.

The few sheets that he hadn’t kicked off the bed were dark with sweat, and his body felt like one big bruise.  His legs, his arms, his chest, his head.  Everything hurt.

“The usual dream again, Master Bruce?” came a voice from his doorway.

Bruce groaned.  He felt like a corpse in a coffin.  “Surprisingly, no.”

Alfred Pennyworth walked over to the bedroom window, and pulled the curtains aside.  Sunlight streamed in, blinding him for a moment in a flash of red and yellow floaters, and made the pounding in his head worse.

“Really?  I honestly couldn’t tell the difference.”  He placed a folded newspaper on the bed.  The line BATMAN: METROPOLIS’ NEW HERO? was captioned on the front page above a blurry photo.  “News of your escapades last night are all over the morning news.  You’ve made quite an impression on the good people of Metropolis."

Bruce groaned again, rubbed his eyes, and sat up.  “This city . . .” he sighed.  “Metropolis doesn’t have many lightweights.”

Alfred looked at Bruce’s body, covered in bruises and bandages, then out through the window, at the plumes of smoke where large portions of Metropolis were still burning.  “Yes.  It must pay dividends to be a contractor in this city.  To say nothing of job security.  Though I do hope that Master Kent returns from his honeymoon soon, Master Bruce, for both this city’s sake, and yours.”

Bruce stood up, winced, and smiled grimly.  “You and me both, Alfred.”

The corners of Alfred Pennyworth’s lip twitched in what might have been a smile.  “But I digress, Master Bruce.  You have several of the ‘usual’ appearances to make this morning; Lucius Fox called to tell you that our meeting with Lex Luthor will have to be postponed indefinitely—hardly surprising considering recent events—but he was able to schedule you for an interview with Modern Life Magazine to fill the space.  Also, the Daily Planet is going to be throwing you a party tonight in commemoration of their new owner.  You will be expected to at least make a cursory appearance.  I’ve already taken the liberty of having a fresh suit pressed and drawing you a bath.”  Alfred gestured in the direction of the master bathroom.

“Thank you, Alfred.  I could use a bath.  Fetch me in thirty minutes.”

“Of course, Master Bruce,” Alfred said, bowed curtly, and walked away.

Bruce went into the bathroom, and collapsed into the tub; the water was scalding hot, immediately dulling the pain in his muscles and bones.  Bruce tilted his head back on the rim of the tub, using a washcloth as a makeshift pillow, and closed his eyes.  Around him, the world seemed to float away, setting him adrift in a calm, soothing sea of black silence.







“Wake up, Bruce!”

Batman’s eyes flew open as a hammer blow slammed into his chest.  A stream of water flew out of his lungs, and he began to cough and hack wretchedly.

“Phew.  For a minute there, I thought you weren’t going to make it,” a familiar voice said from the edge of his vision.

Batman looked up, to see Superman staring at him concernedly.

“I thought . . . that I was . . . supposed to be . . . saving you,” he said in between gulps of air.

Superman smiled grimly and placed a hand over the bleeding hole in his chest, where a kryptonite bullet was inching its way towards his heart, like a carnivorous worm, eating through his flesh.  “You’ll get your chance, I’m sure.”

“How long was I out?” Batman asked, getting to his feet.

“A minute.  Maybe two.”

“And Metallo?”

Superman gestured at the ceiling, “Still topside.  I don’t think he’s following us.”

“You know that for certain?”

“No.  The kryptonite—”

“Then we can’t stay here.  Can you walk?”

“Barely.”

“Then I’ll help you.  There’s an entrance to the Batcave not far from here.”  Bruce placed Superman’s arm over his shoulder, and they made their way through the sewer in silence.

Superman laughed, though there was no humor in it.  “Is there any place in Gotham that isn’t close to the Batcave?”

“It’s possible, but not likely.”

"That was a joke, Bruce."

"I know."

“Bruce?” Superman asked, after they’d left the tunnel under the graveyard.

“Yes?”

“Do you remember Magpie?”

“Yes.”

“Whatever happened to her?”

“She died.”

“What!?  Are you sure?”

“Reasonably.”

Superman was silent for a minute after that, and then asked, “Bruce, why is it that the good villains always die?”

Batman looked over at Superman, “Clark, what the Hell are ‘good villains?’ ”

They walked in silence after that, until they came to a thick iron gate.  WARNING: HIGH VOLTAGE was emblazoned in bright red paint on the door.  “Your place?” Clark asked.

Batman nodded.  “I left my keys in the Batmobile, can you?”

“Yeah.”  Superman shrugged Batman off and shakily walked over to the gate.  He took a breath, and grabbed the gate with both hands.  Immediately his body was engulfed in blue crackling fire, Superman roared, and wrenched the door free from the gate.  He tossed it into the water behind Batman and said, “Door’s unlocked.  How much farther?”

“Not much, it’s only a few—” There was a CRACK!  And suddenly the floor beneath Batman split open wide, pulling him down into its cavernous depths.

“Bruce!”  Superman yelled after him as he fell, falling farther and farther, faster and faster . . .







I’m falling too fast, Batman thought as he plummeted through the air.

Someone had cut his line, mid-swing, high above the streets of Gotham.  And now he was plummeting to his death, the city that he had protected for so long rising up to meet him in its familiar embrace.

There was no chance of recovery—his line had been cut at the point of maximum downward momentum.  Unless he did something soon, he was going to meet his end on the pavement below.

There, not even twenty feet below him, was a stone gargoyle jutting out from a precipice into the cool Gotham night.  It was his only chance.  He outstretched his arms, and caught it.

His body failed him first, as his arm pulled loose from its socket.  His city failed him second, as the stone gargoyle pulled loose from its precipice.

There was no time to do anything else but cover his head with his uninjured arm before he landed.  He struggled to maintain consciousness and his traitorous body refused to move.

“Well, well, well, look what just fell into our laps, boys.  The Batman.  It must be our lucky day.”

Batman looked over to see a group of men coming towards him.  At a glance, they appeared homeless, but they were too clean.  They were dressed in rags, but their necks were clean shaven, their faces lacked the telltale gauntness of men who went hungry most nights., and they didn’t smell like men who’d been sleeping in refuse.  The lead man smiled through tobacco stained teeth.  “How much you think we could get for the Batman’s head, boys?” he asked.

“I don’t know, boss, but I’d bet a lot,” said one of the goons.

“Yeah.  We turn his head in to Penguin or the Joker, and we’ll be rich!” said another.

Not likely.  Penguin would them and take credit himself, and the Joker would just kill them.  They were almost upon him now, and his traitorous body wouldn’t heed his commands.  This wasn’t going to be a long fight, but these men had the look of common thugs; he’d have to work quick and try to scare them off.

The leader stopped and bent over him, “Hold on a sec, fellas.  I want to see who’s behind the mask.”  He reached down and took ahold of Batman’s cowl.

Big mistake.

The countermeasure in Batman’s cowl springs forth with a hiss, spraying the head goon’s face with tear gas.  He bellowed, clutching at his face.  Batman brought his legs up and kicked into his chest, sending him flying into a nearby trash heap.  A stunned silence descended into the alley.

“The Bat’s alive!”

“He got the boss!

“Let’s get him!”

The mob charged at Batman.







Bruce Wayne’s eyes shoot open; he sits bolt upright with a gasp.

He’s in his bedroom, at Wayne Manor. 

“The usual dream again, Master Bruce?” a voice comes from behind him.  Alfred Pennyworth walks into his view and parts the curtains covering his window, revealing a cool night sky outside.

“Alfred!?” Bruce asks stunned.  “Is that . . . really you?”

Alfred raises an eyebrow.  “I don’t know who else I would be, Master Bruce."

“No, no.  It’s just . . . I had the strangest dream.”

“Really?  That doesn’t happen often,” Alfred says with an air of disinterest.

“I was in Metropolis.  It was During Clark’s honeymoon.  The day after the LexDrone attack, and then I was in a sewer, and then I was falling, and then . . . and then . . .” Bruce holds up a hand to his head.  “I can’t remember.”

“How nebulous,” Alfred says.  “But if we don’t have any more dreams to discuss, then you have several appearances to make tonight, Master Bruce, and I must insist that you make yourself presentable.  I’ve already taken the liberty of drawing you a bath—is something wrong, Master Bruce?  You look a little unwell, all of a sudden.”

“I’m fine Alfred, but I just had the strangest sense of déjà vu.”

“Really?” Alfred asks.  “That doesn’t happen very often either.  Are you sure you’re feeling all right?  Shall I schedule a visit to Gotham Presbyterian?”

“It’s nothing to worry about, Alfred.”  Bruce waves Alfred off and goes to the master bathroom.  Inside, the bathtub is filled with clear steaming water.

“If you need anything else, Master Bruce, just call.”

“Thank you, Alfred.  This will be all for now.”

Alfred smiles, and closes the door behind him.  Bruce waits until he hears the sound of Alfred’s footfalls receding, and then walks over to the bathtub.

Five minutes and forty-two seconds later, the bathroom door flies open with a crack and Alfred Pennyworth storms in with a double-barreled shotgun leveled at the bathtub.  “Die!” he screams, unloading both barrels into the bathtub with a sound like roaring thunder.  Water spills out over the bathroom floor in a torrent, and stone-grey dust fills the air in an explosion of porcelain.  Alfred keeps the gun leveled at the space where the tub is, unmoving.

Bruce Wayne, standing silently behind the pseudo-butler, watches this all transpire with cold detachment.  No chance to miss at that range, with that gun, with him wedged into a bathtub like a stuffed turkey.  Quick and simple but unquestioningly effective.  Professional.

“You just made one mistake.”

The gunman spins around on his heel, bringing the rifle up and into Bruce’s waiting hands.

“You picked the wrong butler.”

Bruce jerks the barrel down, sending the stock into his assailant’s face, breaking his nose with a sharp crunch.  As his assailant screams, Bruce rips the gun from his hands, and swings it into his chest, sending him sprawling into the remains of the tub.

“Now, you’re going to tell me, who you are, why you just tried to kill me, and what you’ve done with my butler.”

The imposter spits out a gob of blood and says, “Screw you, rich boy.”

“Wrong answer.”  Bruce brings the rifle down onto one of his kneecaps.  Hard.  After he stops screaming, Bruce asks again.  “Now tell me: what have you done with Alfred?”

“Is this how you get off, rich boy?”  He asks through bloody teeth, clutching his leg.  “Is this how you get your kicks?”

Bruce doesn’t bother to reply; he brings the rifle down on assailant’s other leg.

“Now, I’m going to say this one more time and then I stop being nice.”  He stoops and picks up “Alfred” by his jacket lapels, hoisting him into the air.  “Where.  Is.  My.  Butler.”

The imposter looks up at him and smiles through bloody teeth.  “Dead,” he says, and slams a fist into Bruce’s chest.  There’s the sensation of flying, of slamming into the bathroom wall, of going through the bathroom wall, of landing hard on the carpet of the bedroom, and then pain.  Exquisite pain.

Bruce lays there stunned; his visions blurred, he can’t breathe.  He’s just been punched through a wall.  Metahuman.  From the pain he guesses that he has a broken sternum, several broken ribs,  and possibly a collapsed lung.

“You couldn’t just leave well enough alone, could you, rich boy?”

Bruce tilts his head up to see the Not-Alfred stepping through a hole in the wall.  He’s limping badly, but after what Bruce did to his kneecaps he shouldn’t have even been able to stand.  The hand that he’d used to punch Bruce through the wall is a bleeding mass of broken bones and torn flesh.  Unstable metahuman.  He has strength, but his body can’t take it.

“What did they promise you?” he asks, trying to get up.  “A serum to stabilize your powers?  They won’t give it to you.”

Not-Alfred smiles.  “Oh, rich boy.  I was going to make it easy for you.  But you caused me pain.  So much pain.  And now you’ve caused me more pain.  So now I’m going to cause you pain.  I’m repay each wound you inflicted upon me tenfold.  I’m going to make you beg for death.”

“Good luck with that.”

“I’m getting tired of your empty bravado, rich boy,” Not-Alfred growls.  He brings back his leg and kicks Bruce square in the chest.  The pain is excruciating, but it’s exactly what Bruce is waiting for.  He grabs ahold of Not-Alfred’s leg with one hand—holding him immobile—and swings his other fist into Not-Alfred’s crotch.  Not-Alfred lets out something between a croak and a shout and crumples to the ground.

“And I’m getting tired of you calling me rich boy!”

“Why won’t you just die!?”  The false Alfred screams, bringing his good hand up to claw at Bruce’s throat.

Bruce grabs barely manages to hold Not-Alfred’s arm down with both of his.  He reaches over and grabs his broken fist, and squeezes.  Not-Alfred shrieks in pain, and his arm slackens.  “Because,” Bruce breaks his wrist with a quick jerk, “I’m not afraid of nightmares, Depriver.”

The false Alfred’s—The Depriver’s—face goes slack.  “What?” he whispers.  “You remember?”

“I remember everything,” Bruce growls at the him.

“That’s not possible!  How could you possibly remember!?”

“When I looked into your eyes and you said that you’d make me 'beg for death,' I remembered.”  He pins The Depriver’s good arm with a leg, trying to get his arm around his neck.

"That’s not possible!  The spell can’t be broken!”  The Depriver wails, flailing wildly in Bruce’s grasp.

“Too bad,” Bruce says, swinging his fist into The Depriver’s face.  The pain in his chest is getting worse.  Can’t keep this up for much longer.  He punches The Depriver again, and still he doesn’t go down.  Changing tactics, Bruce wraps an arm around his throat, trying for a choke hold.

One of The Depriver’s elbows finds Bruce’s chest.  He coughs up blood.  “You’re nothing!  You’re a maggot in a rotting corpse!  A Worm!  Nothing!  Why won’t you give in!?”  The Depriver screams, his face twisted in pain, fury . . . and fear.  “What are you!?”

Bruce Wayne looks into The Depriver’s black eyes and says, “I’m Batman.”

The Depriver glares at Bruce with hate filled eyes and opens its mouth as if to reply . . . and burst into flames.

For a single split second the world seems to go still with the shock of The Depriver’s spontaneous combustion . . . and then The Depriver lunges at him like a rabid animal.

“Nonononono!” The Depriver screams, swinging madly at Bruce with burning hands.

Bruce fights the sudden instinct to let go of The Depriver’s flaming body, trying to keep him at arm’s length.  The flames engulfing are working faster than any ordinary fire should; even as he watches, the skin and muscle of The Depriver’s face boils and melts away like wax, revealing something horrific and inhuman underneath.

“You have to die!” spews forth from the place where the burning thing’s mouth used to be.  The Depriver no longer even faintly resembles anything human; the fiery maggots eating away at its flesh have transformed it into something horrific, something that will—if Bruce manages to survive the next few moments—be the cause of many sleepless nights.

Bruce musters the last of his strength and raises a fist, “Go to Hell!”

He punches The Depriver in the face.  Something cracks as his fist connects; The Depriver makes one last inhuman wail, and crumbles into dust.  The flames disappear as quickly as they came.  After a few seconds, even the dust begins to dissipate into the air.

Bruce watches this all transpire, and then falls back onto the carpet with a gasp equal parts relief and pain.

It doesn’t take him long to figure out the cause of The Depriver’s sudden immolation: sunlight.  Outside the window, what had been a starry night sky only minutes before was now bright blue and cloudless; sunlight fills every corner of the room.

“HELLO, BRUCE  WAYNE,” a sound like the voice of God comes forth from outside the window.  “ARE YOU WELL?”

Bruce is too tired to be startled by the voice.  “Luna?” he asks.  “Is that really you?”

“YES.”

“Prove it.”

There was silence for a moment and then, “I JUST SAVED YOUR LIFE AND YOU WISH FOR ME TO ‘PROVE’ I AM WHO I SAY I AM!?” Luna replies indignantly.  “I WILL DO NO SUCH THING!  SUSPICIOUS HUMAN.”

Bruce allows himself the ghost of a smile.  Definitely Luna.  “Where are you?”

“IN THE WAKING WORLD, Luna replies.  I AM, AT PRESENT, UNABLE TO ENTER THE SLEEPING WORLD, THOUGH I AM STILL ABLE TO EXERT SOME INFLUENCE OVER IT.  WE ARE COMMUNICATING THROUGH YOUR PHYSICAL BODY.”

“I’m assuming this was your handiwork then?”  Bruce says, gesturing at the blue skies beyond the window.

“YOU WOULD ASSUME RIGHT.  I WITNESSED HOW YOU FELLED THE BEAST WITH SUNFIRE AFTER I DEPARTED.  I HOPED THAT IT WOULD WORK AGAIN.  I WAS RIGHT.”

“You ‘hoped’ it would work again?  You mean you didn’t know?”

Another pause.  “NO.  I DID NOT.  BUT I WAS VERY CONFIDENT THAT IT WOULD SUCCEED.  THE BEAST WAS BURIED DEEP, AND AFTER ALL, WHAT BETTER WAY IS THERE TO REMOVE A BURIED TICK THAN TO BURN IT?”

“‘What do you mean it was ‘buried deep?’” Bruce asks, shakily rising to his feet.

“AFTER I WITNESSED YOU PLUNGE YOUR BLADE INTO THE BEAST’S CHEST, I HAD THOUGHT IT DESTROYED.  BUT YOU DID NOT DESTROY THE BEAST, BRUCE WAYNE,” Luna replies.  “YOU DAMAGED IT, DAMAGED IT FAR BEYOND WHAT ANY NIGHT BEAST SHOULD HAVE BEEN ABLE TO ENDURE, AND YET IT DID.  IT BURROWED DEEP INTO YOUR MIND, AND DREW YOUR CONSCIOUS SELF IN WITH IT.  BY THE TIME I REALIZED THIS, THE BEAST HAD BURROWED TOO DEEP FOR ME TO FOLLOW.  ALL I WAS ABLE TO DO WAS INTERFERE WITH THE BEAST’S DESIGNS BY PULLING YOU FROM ONE MEMORY TO ANOTHER; IT WAS TOO WEAK TO STOP ME.”

“What was it trying to do?” Bruce asks.

“I KNOW NOT.  BUT IT SEEMED TO BE TRYING TO FIND A MEMORY IN WHICH YOU WERE NEAR DEATH—IN ORDER TO MAKE YOU EASIER TO KILL, I IMAGINE.”

Bruce considers everything that Luna’s said.  “What’s going on here, Luna?  What was that thing and why did it call itself ‘The Depriver?’  What’s happening to me?”

“THERE IS MUCH THAT WE HAVE TO DISCUSS, BRUCE WAYNE; WE WILL HOLD PALAVER WHEN YOU AWAKEN BUT NOW IS NOT THE TIME.”  There’s a flash of blue light to his left, and a door appears out of the wall.  “THIS DOOR LEADS TO THE WAKING WORLD, BRUCE WAYNE.  YOU NEED ONLY OPEN IT.”

Bruce walks to the door and places his hand on the doorknob.  “Luna, one last thing.”

“YES?”

“The Depriver . . . it’s completely gone?”

“YES.  THE NIGHT BEAST WAS TRULY DESTROYED.  THERE IS NO TRACE LEFT WITHIN YOUR MIND.”

“But this isn’t over yet, is it?”  Bruce says with a forlorn finality.

Luna does not reply immediately, and when she does, she sounds resigned.  “NO, BRUCE WAYNE, THIS IS NOT THE END.  I FEAR THAT THIS IS ONLY THE BEGINNING.”
	
> Doll Room
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

The house was empty.

The foal knew this as certainly as she knew her own name.  She’d known it the moment she awoken into the darkened stillness of her bedroom.  Yet despite her tacit conviction, she spoke out into the darkness.  “Hello?  Mommy?”  No answer came.  She called again, louder this time.  “Mommy?”

The house was empty.

But she was not alone.

This too the foal knew with the same dreaded certainty.  If asked, she would not have been able to say how exactly she knew this, merely that she did.

Suddenly, on the other side of her bedroom, came a dull scraping noise.  The foal yelped in surprise, searching for the source of the noise.  It was dark in her room, but not so dark that nothing could be seen.  The scraping noise came again, and the foal realized where it was coming from: behind her closet door.

She pulled the covers up to her muzzle.  “Mommy?  Is that you?” she called feebly.

The scratching grew more intense, becoming almost feverish.  The foal whimpered and squeezed her eyes shut.  Then, as suddenly as it had begun, the scratching ceased and silence flooded in.

It stayed that way—dark and still—for a long time.  But the foal didn’t move.  She stared at the door with bated breath; she knew, with that same terrible confidence, that there was something behind the door.  Something bad.

The handle turned.

The door fell into blackness.

Clutching her stuffed kitten tightly in her mouth, the foal kicked off the covers and got out of bed.

As she approached the entryway, the seamless black seemed to fade somewhat, allowing her to see the thin veneer of what lay beyond.  Not enough to make out her surroundings, but enough to see the floor ahead.

The foal crossed over the edge of nothing.

All at once, the meager light from her bedroom disappeared and the shadow enveloped her like black, viscous liquid.  There was no sound save the tender knocking of her hoof-falls on the wood and the swift, unsteady rhythm of her breathing.

Slowly her surroundings came into focus: she was in a long, black corridor.  Rows of hung coats and dresses surrounded her on either side.  They were much too large for her, and smelled of mildew and dust.

The foal strode forward,  hesitantly at first, but more surely as she progressed.  There was a faint light at the end of the corridor.  The foal stepped towards it, unblinking, like a moth to the flame.

Dolls.

The foal is in a room filled with dolls.  A doll room.

Hundreds of dolls lined the shelves, the dresser, and even the floor corners.  Garbed in white dresses, with bright blue eyes and bright red lips painted onto their smiling faces.  They all had white coats and lush golden curls about their manes.  Their features were petite, almost waiflike; they looked as serene and delicate as angels.  The foal stared at the dolls, her fear momentarily forgotten amongst the painted faces and porcelain smiles.

“Hello.”

The foal shrieked, jumping back as she did so.  “Hello?  Is somepony there?”  She called, looking for the source of the voice.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” said a voice from somewhere in the shadows.  “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“Where are you?” asked the foal.  She looked over the room, searching the porcelain faces.

“I’m right here, silly.”

“Where?”

“Up here.”

“Up?” The foal looked up, and froze.  Standing above her, on the dresser, was another porcelain doll, dressed and painted like all the rest.  But this one was looking down at her.

“Hi,” said the porcelain doll.  “What’s your name?  Mine’s Spangled Summer.”

Do not speak.

The foal didn’t say anything.

Spangled Summer tilted her head curiously.  “I asked you a question.  It isn’t polite not to answer when somepony asks you a question.”  The dolls tone didn’t falter in its politeness.  “I asked you what your name was?”

Do not give it your name.

The foal opened her mouth, but no words came out.

Spangled Summer tilted her head to the side.  “What’s wrong?  Are you shy?  That’s okay, you don’t have to be nervous.  But if we’re going to be friends, then you need to tell me your name.”

The doll is not your friend.

“Please?” Spangled Summer implored.  “Once we’re properly introduced, we can have all kinds of fun.”

“I’m Cutie Pie,” said the foal at last.

No . . . 

“Cutie Pie . . .” said the doll.  “You have a very pretty name.”

Cutie Pie smiled and blushed.  “Thank you.  So do you.”

“Do . . . you . . . want . . . to . . . play . . . a game . . . with . . . us?” Spangled Summer asked, her porcelain muzzle cracking with every word.

Cutie Pie said nothing, staring at the doll as exultance gave way to horror.

A hundred porcelain necks begin to crack and twist unnaturally with a sound like a cascade of glass falling to the floor, a hundred smiling faces deforming with vicious glee.  “We . . . know . . . lots . . . of games,” said the doll.  Its face was now a black spider web of cracks.  “But our . . . favorite . . . game is . . . playing . . . with . . . scissors.”  Her right arm jerked upward with a crack, then her left, and then her hind legs, and she was suddenly free of the stand on which she stood.  “It’s a really, really . . . fun game,” the doll said, jumping onto the floor.  “You’ll see.”

Run.

More than a dozen dolls had broken free of their stands now, walking towards her with cracked porcelain smiles.  Staring at her with dead eyes.  “We’re going to have so much fun together!” the dolls spoke in unison, like a cacophonous choir.

Run!

The foal didn’t move.  She stood there frozen in the black ice of terror.

RUN!

Several of the dolls were carrying scissors now.  Overlarge and crusted brown with age . . . or perhaps something worse.

RUN AWAY, YOU LITTLE FOAL!  NOW!

She snapped out of her stupor and ran.

“Where are you going?” said the dolls in unison.  “You can’t leave yet!”

The foal ran blindly back through the pitch-black closet; the clothes hung therein tearing at her like brambles.

“Come back!” cried the dolls from behind her.  “This isn’t how you play the game!”  From behind her, came the sound of a thousand porcelain hooves on wood.

Stop!

The foal stopped, skidding on the carpet.  The foal realized that she was back in her bedroom.

Close the door and lock it!

The foal stared back at open door, and understanding dawned.  She ran to the door, and slammed it shut.  No sooner had she turned the lock, however, then there was a terrible thump on the door, so forceful it threw her back on her haunches.

“YOU’RE NOT PLAYING THE GAME RIGHT!” screamed the dolls.  “YOU CAN’T RUN UNTIL YOU HAVE THE SCISSORS!” 

A pair of scissor blades pierced the doorway; the foal screamed.

“NOW STAY THERE AND WE’LL GIVE YOU THE SCISSORS!”  Their voices had changed.  They sounded like grown-up voices now, but horribly mashed together.

More blades pierced the door; blue eyes peered out at her from the torn holes.  “PEEK-A-BOO!  WE SEEEEE YOU!”

Get up, little one.

Sobbing now, the foal got to her hooves and backed into the farthest corner of the room.

The door buckled and groaned and finally broke, falling down in a crumpled heap.  For a second, there was silence, and then, slowly, the dolls began filing through.  “It’s time to play . . .” crooned the dolls in eerie unison.  Though they barely resembled dolls anymore.  Their porcelain bodies were menageries of cracks and torn clothing.  “We’re going to have . . . so . . . much . . . fun.”

The first doll crossed the threshold into the bedroom, and Luna felt it: the nightmare bringing itself fully into the foal’s mind.

The trap was sprung.

Luna revealed herself.

From out of the window she erupted, horn blazing.  She hit the nearest dolls with a lance of magic before her hooves touched the floor.  A dozen exploded in a shower of sparks and porcelain.  Luna felt the nightmare try to pull away—to retreat from the dream—only to impact against the ward which she’d left around the foal’s mind.

The dolls reared up towards her and roared.  “Don’t try to ruin our game!”

Luna stepped between the dolls and the foal.  “Your game is at an end, nightmare,” and lit her horn.  A brilliant blue light lanced forth into the remaining dolls; as one, they screamed and shattered.  Luna stood still for a moment, sweeping out with her senses for any remaining traces of the nightmare, and once she was satisfied that there were none, turned her attention to the foal.

“Are you all right, little one?” she asked.

The little foal was shivering like a leaf in a storm, but managed a nod.  “Y-y-yes.  Thank you.”

Luna smiled.  “Do not be afraid, little one.”  She lit her horn, and the darkened bedroom fell away in a haze of blue light.





“Tag!  You’re it!” the giant kitten yelled, tapping the foal upon her head and running away.

“No I’m not!  I’m gonna get you!” the foal screamed back, and took off after the kitten.

They were in a field of wildflowers.  The Sun was shining brightly overhead and the foal’s parents could be seen off in the distance enjoying a picnic.  Luna sat on a cloud above them, watching as they played and laughed.  If she still had any memory of the nightmare, then she showed no sign of it.  Luna felt only happiness coming from her heart, and saw no trace of the dark happenings in her thoughts.

Luna smiled.  Everything was as it should be.  This, was how children's’ dreams were supposed to be.  Joyous and carefree.

Luna.

Luna felt jerked upward on her cloud.

Luna, I need you.

With a start, Luna realized what was happening: she was being summoned.  She’d not been summoned directly since before the Long Night.  Luna lit her horn, and dissolved into mist.





Luna enjoyed flying in the rain.  She had returned to the Canterlot immediately upon exiting the dreamscape and had been pleasantly surprised to find dark clouds tearing open over the city.  It wasn’t until she had touched down on the balcony of the East Tower that she had realized just why it had been so surprising: it never rained in Canterlot.  The city had no need for rainfall, grew no crops.  Possessed no natural flora.  There was simply no reason why the weather ponies would expend the effort.

Luna threw open the door to her sister’s chambers and stormed in.  “Sister!  I have arrived.”  Nothing.  Celestia’s chamber was dark and empty.  Her sister's bed was untouched, her fire unlit.  Everything was clean and immaculate, as if nothing had been touched since the roomkeepers had come in the morning.  Curious, Luna thought.  She crossed the room and threw open the doors to to the exterior corridor, startling a pair of guards on the other side.  “Where is my sister?” Luna demanded.

They pair of stallions gaped at her blankly for a moment, and one said, “Princess Celestia?”

“Yes, Princess Celestia.  My Sister,” Luna said as politely as she could.  “Where is she?”

“In the dungeon.”

Before another word could be said, Luna was mist, traveling down through the floor, through the stairs, the antechamber, the throne room, cellar pantry, and finally, the dungeon.  Honestly, she thought, walking down the stone corridor.  Why her sister had deemed it necessary to send her most competent guard ponies to the Crystal Empire was beyond her.  Princess Cadence was protected by the Crystal Heart.  And Shining Armor was an aegismancer of the highest order besides.

Luna’s ruminating was cut short when she came around the corner and spied her sister, surrounded by an assorted group of guards and servants scurrying around her like bees on comb.  She cleared her throat.

Celestia looked up quickly.  “Luna!” she exclaimed.  “I’m so glad you’re here.”  She dismissed the assorted ponies with a word, and once they were alone said, “Did you have a good hunt?”

Luna shrugged.  “Twas successful.”  She paused for a moment, and then added, “I trapped the Doll Maker tonight.”

“Oh, that’s wonderful news, Luna!  You’ve been on that one’s trail for what, two months now?  You must be happy.”

“Yes, I am,” Luna lied.  It was not a complete lie.  She was pleased that the Doll Maker was no more, but the nightmare had been cautious, not bringing its essence fully into the dream until just before it could gorge itself.  Allowing such a beast to terrify a young foal before she could destroy it had left a sour taste upon upon her tongue.

“But I did not come here to exchange pleasantries.  Why did thou summon me, Sister?” Luna asked, returning to the subject at hoof.  “And why is it raining in Canterlot?”

Celestia’s smile grew wry.  “Always to the point, Luna.”  She turned to a wrought iron metal door set into the stone of the far wall.  “Shortly after you left for the night, there was a magical surge in the everfree.”

“What caused this surge?” Luna asked.  “Does a threat to Equestria loom on the horizon?”

Celestia shook her head.  “That is why I called you here, Sister.  When reports of wild storms from the everfree began coming in, I had a scouting party sent out to ascertain the cause.”  

“What did they find?”

Celestia opened the door.  “They found a creature.  Badly wounded and unlike any creature that I've seen before.”  She turned to Luna.  “And they found these.”

Luna stepped through the door.  At first, she wasn’t quite sure what she was looking at.  Luna could see in the dark better than she could in the light--or sometimes it so seemed--but strewn about the cell was as bizarre a collection of detritus as she had ever seen before.

There was a large black cloth, tattered and torn beyond repair, a coiled length of rope, a collection of small yellow saddlebags, black marbles of varying sizes, a glowing green rock, several items which Luna would have been hard pressed to describe at knifepoint, and finally, a dozen pieces of warped metal, scattered around the floor like crows on a carcass.

“Sister . . . what, what is this?”

“I was hoping that you could tell me the answer to that question,” Celestia said, following her into the cell.  “You did spend near a century exploring the lands beyond our borders after all.”

Luna paced slowly through the cell, glancing at the various accoutrements.  Eventually, she grasped one of the warped metal pieces.  “Well I can tell you that these are weapons.”

“A weapon?” Celestia asked, eyeing the metal dubiously.  “I don't see how that could possibly serve as a weapon.  Perhaps it could be used as a knife in close quarters but--”

“It has been warped by a great heat.”  Luna cast a minor spell over the metal; slowly, its twisted frame became straight and its edges sharp.

Luna held it out.

Celestia took the blade in horn.  “Admittedly, that does look more like a blade, but how would one use such a thing without magic?  Trying to stab or cut with such a blade would also cut the wielder.”

Luna took the blade back and held it above her head.  “During my travels I came across a curious species of sapient.  They looked not unlike rats, but they were the size of ponies, and thy traversed by hopping on their hind legs like hares.  We did not share a common tongue, so I christened them rat-hares.”

“And these ‘rat-hares’ hunted with such blades?” Celestia asked.

“No, they hunted with a curved piece of flattened wood.  More like a throwing club than a knife.”  Luna spun the metal piece and flicked it towards the far wall.  It spun through the air with a sound not unlike the flapping of tiny wings, and embedded itself halfway into the stone.  “But they were very effective.”

“Oh my,” Celestia said, staring at the cracked wall.

Luna returned her attention to the floor.  Every object on the floor had been burned, or warped by an intense heat, and yet she smelled no trace of smoke or charcoal.  “What manner of spell did your scouts use to subdue the creature?”

“They didn't subdue him.”

Luna looked up sharply.  “Explain.”

“According to the report he was unconscious when the scouting party found him.  And he was so badly burned that they flew him to the nearest hospital in Ponyville.”  Celestia paused a moment.  “It wasn’t until they started to remove his clothing that they realized he might be dangerous.  So they went to Twilight’s castle and sent me a message via dragonflame.  I came here and brought the creature to the castle where I had to teleport it off of him piece by piece.  And that leads us to our current position.”  She shook her head.  “I have honestly never seen the like.”

“Burned . . .” Luna said, stretching out with her senses.  “He was burned by something horrendously powerful.  I can feel the residual energies.  Strange . . . it feels not unlike the Dread Lord Tirek’s arcana.”

“Tirek?  Do you think that he could have been a casualty of the attack?” Celestia asked.

“For now I think nothing.”  Luna picked up the green rock in her aura and conjured a lead box around it.  “This rock is enchanted.  To what end I know not.”

Celestia took the box in her own aura.  “I'll take it to the university and have them examine it.”

“And these would appear to be grievers,” Luna said, taking two pieces of metal in her aura.  “What is the creature's shape?”

“Bipedal.  Straight spine.  About the size of a diamond dog.  Handed arms and supple feet.”

“Ah.  Definitely grievers then.  And that would make this a gauntlet, and this a . . . boot, I believe the word is.”  Slowly, Luna pieced the larger pieces together until she had a rough shape.  “It is an armor,” Luna said at last.”

Celestia pursed her lips together.  “Are you sure?”

“Reasonably.”  She placed a hoof onto the chest piece.  “This is not apparel worn for dancing, Sister.  It is worn for war.  The important question to ask, for war with whom?.”

Luna turned back to find her sister had put on her mask, staring at the curious collection with cold indifference.  “We will make no assumptions, Luna.  The lands and seas beyond the everfree are largely unexplored and populated by many dangerous beasts.  It is not implausible that he armed himself in order to traverse those lands safely.”

“Nor is it implausible that this creator of yours is the advance scout for an invading force,” Luna replied.

Celestia narrowed her eyes.  “It is the Equestrian way to offer friendship to all those we encounter, and until evidence to the contrary appears, so too is it the case here.”

Luna shrugged.  “As you wish.  But I would like to see this creature, Sister.”





The subject has proven very receptive to our healing magic,” said Dr. Bonesaw as he led the pair of sisters to the creature’s suite in the medical ward.  “But I don't think that it's going to be ready or even able to communicate any time soon.”

“How soon then do you believe the creature will be able to speak?” Luna asked.

The doctor opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again.  “The subject is in an induced coma.  The dermis has been regenerated fully, but a large quantity of what we think is glass has melted and fused into the eyes.  We’ll have to find a way to remove it or else replace the eyes outright.  And then there's the underlying damage to the nerves.”

“How awful,” said Celestia.

The doctor stopped still.  “He’s right through here, Your Majesties.”

“Is the creature cognizant?” asked Luna.

“As I said before, the subject has been remarkably receptive to our healing spells.  With continuous treatment he may be restored to consciousness within the week.  But to awaken him now would put him in terrible agony.”

“Duly noted, Doctor,” Luna said.  “But I do not need the creature to be conscious; I need it to be cognizant.”

Bonesaw looked back and forth between Luna and Celestia.  “I . . . I’m afraid I don’t understand what you’re asking.”

“Can he dream,” Celestia said simply.

Comprehension flooded the doctor’s features.  “Oh!  I-I suppose he could.  Yes!  Most certainly!”

“Good,” Luna said.  “You are dismissed, Doctor.  I have no further need of you.”

“Of course, Your Majesty.  Always happy to be of service.”  The stallion bowed curtly and trotted off.

“Ever the diplomat, Luna.” Celestia remarked.

Luna ignored her, and pulled aside the curtain, revealing the creature.

Luna’s first thought was of a large, hairless rat.  The creature laying on the table was completely pink, and completely devoid of hair.  It’s face was repulsively flat and squished together.  White bandages covered its eyes.

“Well, do you know what it is?” Celestia asked from behind her.

Luna shook her head.  “No.  I have never any creature such as this before.”  Her eyes fell between the creature’s legs.  “External penis and testacles.  A rarity in this part of the world.  I doubt that it is native to Equestria.”  She pressed her nose to its skin.  “Warm Blooded.  Soft Skinned.  It is mammalian.”  She grasped one of the creature's arms in horn and held it up.  “It does not appear to have talons or claws on its hands.”  She lifted its feet.  “Very supple feet indeed, Sister.  The creature is very likely indigenous to flatland.”

“But is he dangerous?” Celestia asked.

Luna cocked an eyebrow.  “Every animal is dangerous under the correct circumstance, Sister.  The question is whether he is dangerous to us.”

She lifted the creature’s head up and pried its lips open.  “Curious . . .”

“What?” Celestia brought her head closer to its mouth.

“The creature’s teeth are mostly flat—not unlike a pony’s—but do you see the two teeth on either side of the two front teeth?”

“Yes?”

“They are sharper.  Pointed.  They are the teeth of a predator.  This creature is probably descended from a race of scavengers.  Able to subsist on both plants and meats.”

“What does that mean?” Celestia asked.

Luna shrugged.  “Impossible to say.  But interesting nonetheless.”

Celestia’s eyes narrowed.  “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

Luna smiled.  “I take my pleasures where I may.”

She lowered the creature’s head softly, and pressed her horn to its forehead.  

It was raining in the dream, but Luna took no pleasure in flying through it.  It tasted rank, not unlike blood, and radiated the unlovely warmth of summer night.  She was in a city.  Not a city of marble like Canterlot, but stone and glass, like Manehatten.  How curious, Luna thought, as she flew above paved streets and between stone spires.  She hadn't known what to expect upon entering the creature’s mind, but it surely had not been this.

This dreamscape was far larger and more detailed than most.  All around her she could see the evidence of the dream’s exquisite detail: the cracks in the stone buildings and windows.  Roiling dark clouds filling the sky above her; lightning shearing through the clouds on its way to the ground below; thunder bellowing its victorious roar.  A vast and detailed cityscape that stretched out in front of her; a sweeping labyrinth of roads and alleyways below her.  It was truly something.

Luna could sense the creature’s presence some distance away, which was also surprising.  Usually the dream’s epicenter was the dreamer, and everything beyond a certain distance away from the dreamer held no more substance than fog.  She banked right, towards a brightly lit palace, to where she felt the creature’s presence.

She landed in the street with a dull splash, and after pausing shortly to again marvel at the lucidity of the demimonde, trotted briskly off.  Something was strange about this creature’s mind, she thought as she crossed a street on her way towards a darkened alleyway.  She could usually tell at a glance what lay within a being’s heart the moment that she entered their mind.  But this one’s mind was still closed off to her.  Guarded.  Almost as if—

Luna froze mid-stride.  In the center of the alley way, was a round mass of pulsating, roiling black.  A shivering sphere of darkness.  Nightmares.  Dozens of them.  More than she had ever seen in a single dream.  Swarming like parasprites atop carrion.  Curiouser and curiouser.

Luna moved closer to the swirling mass of nightmares.  If they noticed her they gave no sign.  They were gorging themselves, Luna realized.  So intent were they on their feast that they did not even realize that Luna was there.  She lowered and lit her horn to wipe the wretches from existence . . . and paused.  What could be so enchanting to these nightmares that would drive them to such a frenzy?

Luna touched the nightmares with her consciousness.

putthatdownsorrydaddybatsbirthdayicecreamalfredparkrowstrangergunshotpearlsfallingtothestonebabyscrymommyscreamingblooddeathbatsbatsbatsmommypleasewakeuppleasewakeupmommypleasemommymommymommybatsbatsbatspleasewakeupmommywearecomingforyoulittleboytofeastonyourpainandsufferingandtormentyourmommysdeadwekilledheryoukilledhertheykilledherandshesnevercomingbackandtheworldwillburnindarkenessandlaughandlaughandlaughhahahahahahahayourmommysdeadyourmommysdeadyourmommysdeadyourmommysdeadyourmommysdeadYOURMOMMYSDEAD!

“ENOUGH!” Luna screamed in the Royal Voice, incinerating most of the cravens and scattering the rest.  Luna shook herself and blinked tears out of her eyes.  The pain.  The torment.  So raw.  Like an open wound eternally bleeding.  It was no wonder that the nightmares had been drawn so.  Such pain.  Unhealed.  Marinated by the festering of time.  I would have smelled like a feast of delicacy.

The last remnants of the nightmarish penumbra faded into the natural shadow, and Luna looked upon the creature.

It was a child.  Small and frail, and covered in blood.  He was dressed in finery: a suit and tie, not unlike the nobles of Canterlot proper whence they took leave of their dwellings.  He was sobbing and grasping onto the limp form of another creature.  An adult.  His mother.  Luna knew at once that she was his mother.  Just as she knew that the dead body laying next to her was the boy’s father.  Without the nightmares’ obfuscating presence, she saw far too clearly.

Once long ago, Celestia had given one of her students a rabbit as a gift.  The foal had taken the rabbit everywhere she went—holding the snow-white hare in either hoof or horn.  The foal had loved the rabbit, as only one with the unbridled heart of child could love anything.  The foal had loved her rabbit so much, that she had unintentionally smothered it to death.  The child before her now was grasping at his dead mother as that foal had grasped the dead rabbit: with the incomprehension that what you love is no more, and that love of all things, could cause such torment.

Luna knew what she had to do.

There was a flash of light, and it was done.

Luna held up her hand to examine it, bending the fingers experimentally.  The child—the boy—had not noticed her, but no matter.

Luna put a hand on the boy’s shoulder.

She felt him stiffen, and then he looked up at her.  His eyes were blue as the spring sky, red and swollen from crying.  When they saw her they went wide.  He uttered a single word which Luna did not know but required no translation.  The mother’s dead body disappeared in an instant, and the boy threw his arms around her, sobbing with a hysterical mix of horror and elation.

“Do not worry, little one.  I am here.  I will watch over you.  I will protect you.”

Luna stood there, in the guise of the boy’s mother, and held him.