They stood silent. The battlefield had been selected, and the warriors stood ready to engage. Honors were at stake, and Justice hung somewhere in the balance. He let the weight descend down upon him. He had always worked best under stress, always excelled when the pressure was at its greatest. Today would be no different.

The attack began as a simple feint, a sharp right cross that missed wide, and from that moment forward, everything slipped into slow motion. The movement, however, was fluid, attracting the eyes even as his body arched backwards, dodging. This provided a slight distraction as his attacker wheeled back with the left elbow, hoping to land a crashing impact against the back of the skull. Batman ducked beneath the blow, countering with a flat-palm to the small of the back, concentrating the brunt of his energy at his opponent's spine. A wheezing sound filled the room, high-pitched and drawn-out, as his enemy fought to catch his breath. Batman rounded his a kick, his heel catching the man at the side of his neck and sweeping him from his feet. A sickening thud resounds as the man's head ricochets against the concrete floor. Billowing his cape backwards, Batman turned to the rest of the assembled crew and challenged, "Anyone else want a go?"

She sauntered forward with a confidence that belied her situation, the tank-top clinging to a torso that was suffused with femininity and physicality. A patch covered her left eye, adding a touch of danger to her seductive demeanor. Shifting gears entirely, she sprung into the air like her namesake, attacking with a lithe, flying kick that glanced across his shoulder. She landed behind him, spinning from her crouched position to face him once more. Speaking with defiance in her voice, she commanded attention, saying, "You are foolish to immerse yourself matters which do not concern you, Batman. You are toying with the honor of my organization."

"Your people broke the law," he countered, brushing off the blow and retaliating. His hands balled into fists, racing forward like a steam engine on a broken track. The first came from the right, followed closely by the second. "I will not stand for this in Gotham. There will be justice"

"There is no true justice. Only in your black-and-white world, but not in the way that the real world runs. Society doesn't just scuttle back from the ashes," she responded, ferrying his first punch away with an open palm, but taking the second square in the shoulder. Stumbling backward, she said, "Only a fool believes that good deeds are repayed in kind. In this world, you pay your debts...in blood or in money. And no court in this land would deliver a guilty verdict on your say-so, even if you had the urge to show."

Lynx pressed back with an open attack, lunging forward with a flat-footed kick aimed at the insignia on Batman's chest. He caught the foot easily between both hands, twisting sharply to the left. She rode the momentum of his twist, drawing her body close together and bringing the upper portion of her other foot to bear with the side of his head. The twisting motion carried her to the floor, and she rolled to the side, springing back to her feet, as she watched the Bat fight for his momentum.

He stared back at her, unwilling to continue the debate. He wasn't here to argue semantics, nor to debate their differing views of justice. His hand twists forward as he opens his fingers wide, a barrage of mini-batarangs flying from his palm and clouding the dimly-lit room with a sea of reflective black metal. She shrieked and turned to duck, turning her back on her enemy, and he pressed that advantage, dropping his good shoulder and slamming it into the soft of her stomach. The impact carried her off her feet, and sent her skidding across the cold pavement. Slowly, he advanced upon her, lashing out with a kick as she trembled in an attempt to raise a small pistol in his face. Lifting her from the ground, he said, "Your war ends here."

She spat in his face, maintaining her defiance even in the face of her defeat. The sound of sirens climbed in the distance, and she smiled vaguely. "You can intimidate me another time, Batman. Only now, you are left with two options, and I doubt that you wish to expose yourself, even if the police and most the city know of your existence. But do not worry, the Dragon rises again, and the Triad shall clash with you again."

Pulling her close his face, he grumbled, "Count on it."

She waited for the jolting impact of his final assault, for it would never come. Slowly, she slinks back down to the ground, opening her eyes to find that the Batman has already left. She pushed away from the ground, trying to convince her body to stand, even as the lights of the sirens filled the windows. Gently, a hand ushered its way under her upper arm and pulled her to her feet, saying, "Come little cat, we take our leave to make plans for later."

"You ready?" he asked, looking directly at his partner and ignoring the score of officers lined-up behind them. He noted the tense rise in her shoulders and the stiffness of her neck as she nodded, tightening the grip on her service-issue. Leisurely, he inhaled and exhaled on more time to quiet his nerves, trying to steel himself against the unknown to come. "Okay, let's do it."

Together, Montoya and Allen assaulted the double doors, bursting out onto the roof with with their weapons drawn to an aiming position, leading the way. Montoya led the way across the rooftop, directing patrolmen to break-off in smaller groups at every cross-corridor or cubby hole. Circling around their target, the Gotham police formed a tight knot, and Montoya called out, "Come out with your hands in the air!"

The signal stood in the center of the circle, the golden beam casting the Bat insignia against the thin layer of midnight clouds. Aside from the whining of the air-conditioning rotors, the night was silent. Confused, Montoya approached the the signal, waving Allen off as he moved to walk with her. The outer casing was untouched, and there were no signs of tampering. Looking back across the silent roof, she whispered, "The signal...There's nothing here."

"It doesn't turn on by itself," Crispus countered, watching as the confusion played out across her face. He was a man of reason, of explanation, and the unknown was just another unsettling chink in his armor that would need to be repaired. "And the Bat wouldn't use the signal to call our attentions. What gives?"

"Actually, the signal is equipped with the ability to auto-ignite, but more for my purposes than your own," a voice began, startling Montoya and forcing her to take a few uneasy steps away from the polished-steel cylinder. The voice was mechanical and flat, yet oddly feminine, undulating softly as the words progressed. "As you can see, this is a remote transmission, but even so, I am mindful of who receives it. If the foot patrol could vacate the premises, I'll continue with the information I have come to divulge upon you."

Allen nodded briefly as Montoya glanced his way, unsure about placing himself at the risk of a mysterious voice, especially in a place where ambush was acutely possible. With a wave of her hand, Montoya gestured for the removal of the extra officers, leaving Crispus and herself alone on the roof. Carefully, she tucked her service-issue into her shoulder holster and awaited further instructions.

"Thank you for the hasty compliance," the voice noted, beginning only seconds after the roof access door closed. "Firstly, I want to assure you that you're entirely safe in this position. This is not, nor has it been intended to be, an ambush of any sorts. My name is Oracle, and I am an associate of Batman's, here to provide you with information which you may deem useful."

Allen, ever skeptical, countered, "Why didn't he bring the information himself? He's never hesitated with Gordon, before."

"Batman is indisposed currently, working towards the conclusion of the same venture you are, I imagine. He has, instead, sent you these tidbits of information to further enable your investigation."

"I don't like this," Allen said to Montoya, casting his partner a wary look and wearing his contempt on his face. "He's playing us for fools again, like puppets that he can pull the strings on whenever he feels like it..."

"Detective Allen," the voice interrupted. "If you're through, we're on a timetable, here. Your murder investigation has already run the course of several days, placing the likelihood of solution at further risk with every passing hour. I suggest you listen to what I have to say."

Montoya stepped forward, placing a rough grasp along Allen's left bicep and squeezing. It was clear that she was anxious for the information, despite her partner's trepidation over working alongside the Bat. "We're ready, Oracle. Please go ahead."

"As you know, with the collapse of Gotham following the quake, the city was left in the hands of its criminal factions, each vying for control of assorted partitions of the city. Over the days that followed, the GCPD and Batman were able to resecure those lands and drive-out or incarcerate a good amount of that criminal element. When Lex Luthor and Bruce Wayne rebuilt the city, we were given a newer and shinier Gotham, one free of crime and disaster. That left a void in our city, and as you can imagine, there are groups and individuals that will seek to fill that void."

"Are you telling us that organized crime is returning to Gotham?"

"More or less, yes. Aside from short-lived attempts by Bane and Black Mask, there have been no true organizations bent on the reaping of the Gotham market. Not since before Harvey Dent's fall from grace. Now, as you have seen, there are distinct elements of a rising Russian faction in the waterfront district. As we speak, some of your officers are cleaning-up a scuffle in that district. If you press those men for information, particularly with the threat of Batman behind you, you'll likely find them willing to talk of their involvement in Simon Westlake's murder and disappearance. However, the Russian's were involved only in the cover-up..."

"They sold Westlake to someone else?"

"The Lucky Hand Triad, one of the few groups remaining from pre-No Man's Land. Both groups had helped to finance Westlake, enabled him to rebuild his empire from the inside. Only thing is, the Triad weren't as lenient with their repayment schedule as the Russians, and ultimately, they had more of a power-backing than the upstart Russian groups. The Russians cut their losses, figured they wouldn't try and make any new enemies this early in the game, and turned Westlake over to the Triad for a large portion of their original investment."

Shaking Montoya's grip, Crispus rubbed his arm. He wasn't happy being yanked around, figuratively or physically, and the anger was present in his voice as he asked, "But Westlake had to have something to gain if he was going into hiding, and my bets on a lump sum. Where's that money now?"

"Being taken care of," Oracle responded, taking a moment to catch her breath, a moment that echoed across the airwaves as furtive silence. "Downstairs, you will find a map coming across the Commissioner's private fax. Further advisement will arrive, if necessary, but for now, I would suggest proceeding to the location indicated on the map. Oracle out."

Interlude.

She would be the first.

He watched from a distance, comfortable enough in his separation, but also glad to know that he was there with her. Her movements were his sole concentration, every fluidity captured in his mind's eyes in a slow-motion that could be played-back for future recall. Even now, as the evening hours grew late and her movements slowed, he knew that she was the one. He had them each selected, all his research prepared. Every mold cast in just the way he wanted it.

She was perfect, everything that he wanted for this first night. Her body was soft and supple, languishing between the hard emergence of youth and the comfortable release of early middle-age. All her curves were finally coming into play, making her a feast for the eyes. And yet, her demeanor advocated something kindler and gentler, something more attentive to the needs of those around her as opposed to her own, and that was the quality her liked in her.

Stifling a yawn, she approached him with an uneasy regard. He was alone in the bar, the last of a series of stragglers that had pressed the hours until closing. Raising his glance from the table, he smiled at her, watching as she smiled back and her lips parted softly, her melodic voice saying, "Sorry that I have to do this to you, but we're getting ready to ring last-call and close shop. Was there anything I could get you before then?"

"No," he replied, burying his hand deep in his pocket and layering her tray with two twenty-dollar bills. "I think I've had enough for one night. Still need my wits about me for the drive home. Thank you for the hospitality, for quenching my thirst."

"Probably a good idea. Would you like change for this?" she asked, splitting the bills from one another with a rub of her fingers. Her body language was soft, non-insistent, as she awaited an answer.

"No, no. For you."

"Thank you, and have a good evening, sir. Make sure you come back and see us."

His smile returned to his face as he gathered his coat and made his way to the exit, muttering to himself, "Oh yes, I do believe I will be be back much sooner than later. You can count on that."

His words carried him out the door and into the street beyond. At a stiff, but leisurely pace, he strode toward the parking lot, unlocking his car slowly and climbing behind the wheel. Now, the wait would begin. Seconds would tick by like tempered mercury, exciting his heartbeat with each passing, and soon, the game would follow.

End Interlude.

She came here to collect her thoughts, a place to be alone, if only for a moment. The seconds passed slowly, the cold and the quiet only amplifying her trepidation, further lending credence to her unease. How could it have come down to this? Something so large in scale, all because of one man and his greed. It was hard to imagine, and even harder to grasp. The answers had been right there, the solutions laid bare for them, and yet, they were powerless to do anything with them.

"Coffee?" he asked, lowering himself to the step alongside her and offering the steaming cup. His white hair shone in the fluorescent light, reflecting the years that have passed since he first joined the force, back in Chicago. "Things didn't go too well today, did they?"

"That apparent, huh?"

"I've seen enough in my time to know that most officers don't sit in the back stairwell unless they're troubled."

She shrugged deeply, accepting the coffee and letting it rest in her hands, the steam wafting up toward her face. "I don't know what to say, sir. We pursued this investigation like a bat-out-of-hell, and still, we ended-up with more of a loss than a win, even with Batman working the dark side for us. Westlake was robbing himself, because he took dirty money to refinance what he had lost. But he wasn't making it back fast enough, and he thought it would be better to pay off the Russians, and organize his disappearance, then collect the windfall from his embezzlement scam and his insurance investments. Then, the Russians sold him for a higher price, just because the Lucky Hand were feeling impatient that day. And the hardest part? In the end, we can't prove a lick of it. Even Westlake's money is locked in a trust fund with no beneficiaries, resting in some foreign bank. Makes you wonder why we go to all this effort, only to fail."

"You have a badge, right?" he asked, unbuckling his from his belt loop and holding it high to reflect in the light. He turned it over in his hands, examining the edges, and then holding it up for her to see.

"Yes, sir."

"And you earned that badge?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then, that's all the answer you need, Renee," he concluded, winking to her as he finished the sentence. There was almost a paternal feeling between them, as Jim Gordon looked upon his charge and offered a pat on the shoulder. "You can't win them all, but we pick ourselves back-up and head for more punishment the next time it rears its head. Why do we do it? Because someone has to, and what right do we have to assume that the next someone will accept that responsibility if we don't? Today was a rough loss, but we've lost cases before. We'll lose them again. But for now, we look to the ones in the win column and smile. That's why we're in this business: to clean-up what we can."

"How do you do it?" she asked, tilting her head in his direction.

"Do what?"

"Keep pretending that everything's going to work out in the end. Doesn't it worry you that things are starting to slide back into the old ways?"

"Yeah, it worries me, but that's no reason to hide from it. The future's going to come, whether we barricade ourselves against it or not. Might as well stand and face it," he conclusdes. For a moment, she thought she saw a wink in his eye, but then the light shifted and it was gone.

Taking her cue from him, she climbs to her feet and heads to the door, asking, "Are you coming, sir?"

"In a moment, Montoya. I think I'm going to spend a few quiet moments away from the phones and thing about how I'm going to deal with the crime families coming back to Gotham."

Next Issue: The focus shifts to some of the other stalwarts in the GCPD as a killer begins leaving a terrifying mark across Gotham. The crime is senseless, seemingly random, and the city is up-in-arms. But is there a method to the madness, and will Bullock and Bock be able to rain in the killer before the death toll grows too high?