The DCFutures FanFiction Group recognizes that Batman
and all related characters are property of DC Comics.
These stories are written for no profit, but rather a
strong desire to peer into the future of the DCU.  The
stories and concepts presented herein, however, are
property of the author.  So there.

****

Tim Drake had had a trying week.  In addition to the
fact that he had been to Hell and back (literally,) he
had also come to find that there was a citywide APB
out on the Batman.

Apparently, Isaacs had decided to get hostile.

Tim wasn’t worried about that at the moment; although
Jon Isaacs was more formidable than he let on, Tim was
sure that he could handle things for now.

Or, he could move to New York.  Either or.  It wasn’t
really a priority at the moment.  Now that Alfred was
safe and – as near as he could tell – Neron had
decided to leave him alone for the time being (like
he’d strike a week later, when Tim was still on edge.
Bah, he was too smart for that.)  Tim’s mind wandered
back to the image that the imp had shown him, the
source of his genetic heritage.  Well, one part of his
heritage, anyway.

Yeah, it was weird.  It was proof, undeniably… the imp
was acting under his own rules in showing Tim that
face that he had only seen one other place… the
computer records down in the cave.  He needed to talk
to someone.  Talking – it was a great catharsis, and
one that had always done right by him – Tim was a
talker born and bred.

Now he just needed a listener.

****

BATMAN: DCF #41

****

Written and Directed by Erik Burnham
darvey@rocketmail.com

****

BATMAN created by Bob Kane and Bill Finger
BATMAN: DCF created by Erik Burnham

****

"Cloning Around"

****

The house looked to him as though it had been vomited
from the mind of one of the Goth nuts that sometimes
attended The Rave.  Hell, it was a gargoyle’s wet
dream, and full of conflict as well.  The architect
must have been a touch insane.

But it was impressive, yes.  Wayne Manor was never
considered anything less, not now, not ever.

It was even capable of impressing him, and he’d seen
all kinds of things in his time.

Superboy flew closer, mentally shifting and slanting
microscopic bits of water in the air, causing them to
become slightly reflective and grant to him a closer
look.  Another quick shift allowed him to see through
the fibers of the wall as he flew along.  Nice digs,
that was for sure; the inside complemented the outside
quite well.

Maybe he was being overly paranoid; but after all this
time he didn’t go anywhere with checking it out first.

“Yipe!”  Surprise!

There was a man in the window six feet ahead.  He was
just sitting there on the sill like it was his place
in the world, gently cradling a glass of what Superboy
discovered to be iced tea (after telekinetically
bringing the scent to his nose.)

The man was dressed in a black turtleneck and blue
jeans, staring out into the sky as if he was expecting
something to drop out of thin air and capture his
attention.  Turns out, that was the case exactly.

“How you doin’, old man?” he asked Superboy before
taking a healthy swig of tea.  “Thanks for coming.”
And then he was gone, back inside the house.  He never
even glanced at his visitor.

Superboy, his ‘what-the-hell’ sense going off like a
fire alarm, quickly followed inside.

****

Jon Isaacs had been awake with the pain for seventeen
hours straight.  Clayface, as he called himself, had
performed some unlicensed surgery on John’s bum leg.

A few years back, John had gotten word of some Patriot
hijinks.  There was a bomb.  No civilians, luckily,
were hurt – but his leg was torn up pretty good by
some shrapnel.

Richard Drake, he’d heard, had arranged for the
services of one of NorAm’s top microsurgeons to work
on him.   Later, he was told it was a miracle he still
HAD a leg; despite medical advances, there was more
damage than they knew what to do with.

He had to face a nagging pain for the rest of his
life.  More than he could let on, if he ever wanted to
return to his job.  So he sucked it up.  Everything
was fine, even when he had to break out the cane.

‘I can predict weather with this thing,’ that’s what
he used to say.  Now all he wanted to do was cry.

Clayface had poked and prodded his leg with a knife,
before applying pressure to the most sensitive spots,
places where shrapnel had necessarily been left
behind.

And he did that for almost two hours.

The pain never stopped.  And it was all for three
extraneous passcodes.

‘This is just to show you,’ Clayface had said, ‘what
could happen.’

He started the torture before he told Jon what he
really wanted.  The way he’d gone about it, you’d
think he wanted security access.  No.  All he wanted
was the code for the vending machines down the hall.

Jon had to admit, the conditioning was brilliant, in a
sadistic manner of speaking.  If he was willing to do
that for a Tasty Cola, what would he do for access,
say, to the evidence lockup?  And how could Jon be
sure?

Answer: he couldn’t.

****

“Nice place you got here,” Superboy said when he
finally found his host inside.  “Real old school.”

The man nodded lazily, obviously used to compliments.
“Have a seat,” he said, indicating a large leather
chair, a twin to the one he was sitting in.

Superboy sat, recalling a small taste of the comfort
riches had to offer.

“So what’s up?  You want an autograph or somethin’?”
Superboy grinned.  In truth, he had no idea why
Gardner had asked him to visit this man, although he
did have his suspicions.

“You know who I am, old man?”

“Yeah you’re Richie Del Rich, am I right?  And cut the
‘old man’ cracks, pal.  Do I look ancient t’you?”

“I’ll make you a deal, Kon – yeah, I know the name –
you keep your wisecracks to yourself, I’ll keep mine
to myself, and we’ll have a nice civil conversation.
Deal?”

Superboy thought it over and decided to act his age,
for once.  His real age.

“Deal,” he agreed, leaning back in his chair.  “So why
am I here?  Gardner wasn’t specific.  He just said it
was important.”

“And it is.  I asked Guy to send you ‘cause I need to
talk to someone.”

“See a shrink, then.  Looks t’me like you can afford
it.”

“I need to talk to someone, Gramps, that’s gone
through some of the stuff I’m going through… someone
that can understand.”

“…What kind of stuff could you possibly be going
through that I would understand?”

“I’m a genetic construct created to be the perfect
replacement Batman. Is this starting to sound
familiar?  I’ve been given everything – an identity,
parents, every advantage money can buy…”

“And you’re complaining?”

“No, I’m not complaining, I’m... I don’t know what I
am.”  Tim paused.  “It all seemed like a nasty prank,
you know, when I found out that my parents weren’t
really my parents.  I was told I was premixed, just
some experiment put together out of bits of borrowed
genes.  And then I was implanted in my mother – for
natural incubation.”

Superboy just nodded quietly, drawn into this man’s
pain.

“So I disassociated myself from it,” Tim continued, “I
did a pretty good job of convincing myself that I was
being lied to, and everything else was just a
coincidence.  Then I found out the truth.  I found out
my genetic code was taken and modified from…” he
paused, staring at the floor as if it held the secrets
to life itself woven into the patterns of its
carpeting.  “Can I offer you anything?”

“What?” Superboy asked, as if he’d been broken out of
a trance.  “No, no thank you.”

“Are you sure?  Alfred.”

“Yes, Master Tim.”

“Get Mr. El here a…”

“I’m… fine, really.” Superboy said, apprehensive at
the sudden digression.

“Get him an iced tea, huh?”

“Of course, Master Tim.  Would our guest care for
anything else, or would you prefer to wait until you
grow uncomfortable again?”

“Just the iced tea, Alfred.”

“Very good, sir.”

“And quit eavesdropping.”

“But of course, Master Tim.”

Superboy glanced around with his X-ray vision.  “Who’s
there?”  He asked when no one became visible.

“That was Alfred.  Another long story.  Speaking of
long stories, do you remember when you were younger,
back in your days with – what was it – Young Justice?”

A wry smile and faraway gaze took over Superboy’s
face.  “Yeah.”

“Then you remember Robin.”

The smile disappeared as long-buried memories
painfully wore their way to the front of Superboy’s
mind.  “Yes,” he replied.  “I remember Robin.”
[editor’s note – eventually these memories will become
apparent as soon as Jason Tippitt writes ‘The Last
Young Justice Story.’]

“Robin was, for all intents and purposes, my
grandfather.”

That was it, right there.  Superboy’s jaw dropped, and
not even the power of his tactile telekinesis could
make the words come out again.  Eventually, he managed
a grunt of surprise.

“And my namesake, by the way,” Tim added.

“Perhaps it would help ease the tension if you
introduced yourself properly,” Alfred suggested, as a
robotic tentacle snaked near Superboy’s chair,
delicately balancing a platter with two glasses of
iced tea upon it.

“I think Alfred may be on to something,” Tim smiled.
“I asked Guy to send you here for a lot of reasons.  I
mean, as soon as I found out you were still… with us…”

“You’re sounding sinister again, Master Tim.”

“Yeah, right… look.  I have two purposes, here.  One
is to get a handle on the clone thing.  The other is
to maybe get a chance to understand my grandfather a
little bit better.  That’s all.  By the way,” Tim
smiled.  “My name’s Tim Drake.”

****

For a moment Jon Isaacs thought sleep may be coming to
claim him.  Or death.

He could no longer feel his leg; whether that was a
good sign or not was lost upon him.

“Jon!  Jon, you’re not going to sleep, are you?
You’ll never get up if you go to bed now!”  Clayface
said with a grin.

“I’m gonna bust you.”  Jon managed before he was
finally blessed with unconsciousness.

“Hmph.  And how are you going to do that, cripple?”

****

Man, this place is cool.  That’s what Superboy thought
the few times he visited the Batcave in the past.

The more things change…

Superboy noticed a cluttered desk to his left as he
floated down the stairs.  Books on forensics took up
most of the large oak desk’s face, with only a couple
of magazines to keep them company.

“Say,” Superboy said, examining the magazines.  “Ain’t
this that GUESS chick?  Shannon something?”

Tim, who was several feet beyond Superboy – and
obviously expecting the young man to follow him –
whipped around quickly.

“She’s hot,” Superboy continued, his eternally
teenaged hormones kicking into gear.  For a moment,
the kid considered trying X-ray vision on the cover
model’s luscious portrait.  But before the analytical
side of his brain could kick in and remind him that
that was beyond the scope of his power, the magazines
were snatched from his hands.

“Don’t touch anything!”  Drake growled.

“Gee, sorry,” Superboy smirked, belying his initial
burst of anger.  He looked at the other books on the
table.  “Home study?”

“Yeah.  I’ve been told I’m not living up to the job.”

“By who?”

Tim shrugged.  “Ghosts, mostly.  Myself.”

“I got it,” Superboy agreed.  “Its tough living up to
a legend.”

“You have no idea.”

Superboy cocked his head to the side.  “What’re you
talking about, I have no idea?  Do you really know who
I am, Richie?”

“Yeah, I do.  I know a lot.  Some of it I don’t care
to know, but I do.  That’s life, right?  And every
time I think I know how things are going, they change.
 I hate that, I’m sick of that, but that’s what I
get.”

“What are you babbling about?  If I wanted riddles I
could’ve stayed home and played Final Final Fantasy.”

“Look,” Drake clicked a button and a portrait appeared
on several screens.  It was a crippled woman, perhaps
in her mid-thirties.  “There’s the template.”

“That’s your number one?”  Superboy laughed.  “No
wonder you’re all screwed up!”

Tim’s eyes clouded over.  Don’t try to kill him, Tim,
it would make a mess.  A big mess.  “Don’t you suppose
I wonder, now, where exactly my extra chromosome came
from?  Rewriting and erasing – that I understand.  You
can’t pull something out of thin air, however.”  Tim
sighed loudly.  “I was hoping for some kind of insight
on this from you.  I dunno, expertise… but Guy was
right – you’ve got nothing to offer.”

A bubble of rage popped into Superboy’s chest.  “Who
do you think you are?” he yelled.

“I’m the genetic result of Barbara Gordon and… brand
X.  I’m Tim Drake.  I’m Batman.   Take your pick… but
don’t even think about getting into it with me down
here, junior… or I’ll make you wish you’d stayed in
exile.”

Tim then muttered something about ‘this Drake can see
what’s comin’’ and ordered more iced tea for himself
and Superboy, without skipping a beat.

****

Detectives Kylie Roarke and Paul Chandler sat in the
first booth they could find at Hogan’s Hamburgers, a
nice little eatery just across the way from the Police
Station – one of the (relatively) few businesses that
didn’t go underground when Lowtown was first put
together.

Neither felt like talking; they were more interested
in mulling about all the information they’d just taken
in.  After all, as two wayward souls recently
returning to Gotham, they had much to catch up on…
old police reports on the Batman; his escapades New
Year’s Eve, for example, with the Sandman…

Newspapers, audio reports, everything and anything
that they’d missed in their time away.

Detection is about seeing what’s not there after
seeing everything that is.  Roarke and Chandler were
among the best when it comes down to the wire… but
neither could see why Isaacs would decide to go on the
offensive against a Batman that had started doing more
and more good. Or, for that matter, why his limp had
decided to occasionally disappear completely or vary
from its former consistency.

Two detectives came up with one answer that led to
more questions.   What had happened to Jon Isaacs?
What could they do about it?  And most importantly,
why hadn’t anyone else noticed?

These questions stuck in their minds as they sat in
silence, nibbling lightly on their meals.

****

Bradley Carrington was counting his blessings.  There
was the blessing that his brief League ‘incarceration’
had not been logged and distributed to the other
embassies.  There was the blessing that neither had
his ‘escape.’  There was the blessing that the
insufferable Alucard Holmes had vanished and was
presumed dead.  And lastly, there was the blessing of
an overheard comment about a woman in the League’s
Philadelphia embassy that matched Maria’s description
with startling accuracy.

He would not fail this child.

****

“You’ve received another telegram, Master Tim.”
Alfred’s voice echoed through the massive cavern.
“From your estranged grandfather.”

“Broadcast it to our guest a little louder next time,
huh?”

“My apologies sir.  He seems to be held up in Miami,
something to do with the authorit--”

“OKAY!  I’ll take a look at it in a minute!”  Tim
grunted, silencing Alfred.  “Kon, I can’t thank you
enough for listening, but I gotta go now.  Alfred,
could you show Mr. El here out?”

“So you say, so shall it be,” Alfred replied gravely,
even as Superboy watched his host melt into the
shadows, heading towards a wall of computer screens.

“Knock it off.”  Tim’s voice – slightly deeper –
answered back.

“Alfred?”  Superboy ventured, addressing the ghost in
the machine.

“At your service, Master Kon.” Alfred’s voice sounded
like it was right next to the kid, or so he thought as
a tendril pointed the way up the stairs.

“Why did he want me here?”

“I don’t follow you, sir.”

“What’s this guy’s deal?  What was he, bragging?
What?  He didn’t need to talk to me.”

“You knew the original Batman, correct?”

“Yeah, so?  This guy’s nothing like him.”

“Appearances can be deceiving, sir.   Master Tim is
indeed a different animal than his predecessor… but
one of the things they have in common is; they always
have a reason for what they do.   Master Tim’s logic
isn’t always quite as easy to understand, but it is
there.”

“You’re trying to tell me he had me sent up here on a
whim, aren’t you.”

“Mine is not to second guess,” Alfred replied as they
reached the front door, a smile firmly entrenched in
his electronically reproduced voice.  “Mine is but to
serve.  Godspeed, Master Kon.”

Meanwhile, in the cave below, computers quickly
categorized and indexed all the information gleaned on
Superboy from multitudes of hidden sensors, saving
that knowledge for a rainy day.

****

END!

****

NEXT ISSUE: More stuff, folks…

****

GOING BATTY

****

Letters! Here we go! (Keep ‘em coming!)


From:   "Davis, Gregory (Greenville)"
<Gregory.Davis@aimco.com>

Subject:        Bats 40
Date:   Wed, 24 Nov 1999 15:41:25 –0500

Great issue... enjoyed Boston's appearance... Just
wanted to make my prediction about Tim's heritage...
The Joker? Hence the humor...

Gregory Davis

****Actually, no.  Dick may have been partially
insane, and Alucard a little bit ruthless, but neither
of them would even come close to consenting the use of
someone they both hated that much as the template for
a Batman.  Man, that’s been a popular guess.****

From:   "Jason Tippitt" <scarcrest@hotmail.com>

Subject:        Bats 40

Erik,

A satisfying finish to this two-parter. Tim uses his
mind to outwit Neron -- whodathunkit?
The main hook for me was the revelation about the rape
of Tim's mother. If I ever knew what was in mind
for that one-shot (I only vaguely remember hearing
about something named Scherezade or however you spell
it), I've forgotten it.
You said in your note at the end that you weren't sure
whether such dark material was in fitting with
this book. Well, it certainly worked here, in this
context. I mean, what better place to have Tim
confronted with this than in hell?
It's also a piece of information that gives us a
little more insight into who Tim is and why he does
some of the things he does. The scene in an early
issue where he really goes ballistic beating up a
would-be rapist rings with a much deeper meaning now.
Looking forward to next issue's storyline about Tim's
lineage. Send in the clones...

-- Jason

****Yeah, I’ve been planning for this one in one form
or another for a very long time – and Hell is indeed
the right place to show this bit of backstory.  And,
in conjunction with Infinity Inc. #3, this is, I
think, one of the best recent examples of the Batman
Tim can be when he allows his mind a little running
room.  It doesn’t make him the world’s greatest
detective, but hey… my boy’s still wicked smaht.****

From:   "Tommy Hancock" <spenser1@cei.net>

Subject:        Bats 40

I loved it.

****Thanks, Tommy… (What, are you saving all the big
words for Ren de Novo?)****

And with that, I bid you adieu until next time!

-Erik

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