Truth & Justice II #5

[Spider-Man Beyond]

The Multiverse Presents

Truth & Justice II #5

Written by JC Roberts (Calamityjamie)

Edited by Daniel Dyer (Spider-Man Beyond)

Multiverse logo created by Tony Peterson (Starfall)

[Spider-Man Beyond]

Gren was placing the last Steri-Strip on the cut on Martha’s cheek when a tiny cloud of dust tumbled down her face. He pulled back his hands and snapped, “Leave her hair alone until I’m finished, Lian.”

“Sorry,” said Lian, as Grendel gently rubbed an alcohol-soaked cotton ball around the wound, fanned the area dry and re-applied the strip.

“Thanks,” Martha rasped. They had inclined the Jav's medi-couch to ease her labored breathing, but she was still having trouble. Lian slipped a tentative arm around her neck to give her a loose hug, but Martha winced and threw up a hand, gesturing for her to stop.

“Collarbone’s broken,” she said as Lian withdrew her arm. “And some ribs.”

“Why?” Lian asked worriedly. “Why aren’t you healing?”

“Your bruises haven’t changed at all,” Gren added.

Roy stepped past Batman, who was leaning on a bulkhead halfway across the shuttle, his eyes glued to the small, battered form on the medi-couch. Roy glanced at him casually, then did a quick double-take, this time allowing his eyes to linger on Batman’s intent features.

“She’ll be all right,” he said.

Batman didn’t answer, nor did he move his eyes from his wounded teammate.

Despite his reassurance to Batman, Roy looked worried as he approached the medi-couch. “We have to take off,” he told Martha apologetically. “Can we buckle you down without hurting you?”

“I’m OK,” said Martha without opening her eyes. Her struggle for breath suggested otherwise. “You smell like a cough drop.”

“I’m fine,” Roy said, sounding a little embarrassed. He looked at Grendel. “Be careful how you strap her in.”

—

[Spider-Man Beyond]

By the time they made it back to their upstate New York headquarters, Martha had diagnosed herself with traumatically induced swelling to the part of her brain that controlled her super powers. Sunlight and rest, she declared, would have her back to normal within a day or two, but it might not be a bad idea to give her a little Mannitol while her skin could still be broken by an IV needle.

“What’s that?” asked Lian. Gren scrubbed the back of Martha’s hand with an alcohol pad.

“A diuretic,” Martha replied, flinching as Gren pushed the needle into place. “It’ll help bring down the swelling.”

It would very shortly be dawn. Martha needed to get back to her apartment without her neighbors noticing. Everyone in their building knew that the crime fighter Quiver lived on the second floor. Martha kept a lower profile. She was content to be known as Quiver’s roommate. Her role as the Justice League’s doctor was not a secret, but it wasn’t common knowledge, either.

Had Meera been open to using more of her powers, concealing a stretcher-bound Martha and a contingent of internationally known superheroes wouldn’t have been a problem. But the telepath had already been pushed past her usual boundaries at great cost to her peace of mind and Arsenal would not even consider asking her. It was finally decided that Gren and Lian would sneak Martha into the apartment while Batman ran interference with any witnesses. The plan had the added benefit of seeing the League’s Gotham contingent home. The rest of the team could check on Martha later.

They managed to get her into the apartment without incident. Somewhere over New Jersey, Martha fell asleep on the green stretcher Gren had conjured. Her face contorted in pain when he and Lian eased her into her double bed, but she did not wake. Once Martha was settled, Lian followed Gren into the living room and looked out of the window. The taillights of the Batmobile were swerving around a corner. In seconds they had disappeared.

“Say good-bye, why don’t you?” she muttered.

Gren dropped into a kitchen chair and closed his eyes. “Got a beer in there, Lian?”

“At 5:30 in the morning?” asked Lian, appalled. She didn’t drink at all.

“Martha’s gotta have a few Coronas in the fridge,” said Gren. He started to get up, but Lian waved him back into the chair and brought him a mini-bottle. He regarded the small glass container with amusement.

“It’s probably expired,” she said. “She only drinks them in the summertime.”

“We should put one in her IV,” Gren said. “This stuff helps you pee.”

“What a role model you are,” Lian said wearily.

“Look who’s talking,” he answered.

—

[Spider-Man Beyond]

After the youngest members of his team and Batman left the infirmary, Roy rummaged through the medicine cabinet for a bottle of Nyquil. He unscrewed the cap and took a long slug of the gooey liquid without bothering to measure the dosage. He grimaced at the revolting taste, flipped open the tap at the infirmary sink and stuck his head under the faucet to gulp down some water. He was wiping his mouth with the back of his forearm when Meera came in.

“Midori’s going to give me a ride home,” she said.

Roy studied her face. She was still upset about what had happened at SuperMax. He put a hand on her shoulder. “We’ll talk,” he said. “You did good.”

“I almost stood there and let my teammate die,” she said. She smiled bitterly. “My teammate and my friend. And I’m still not sure I did the right thing.”

“You did,” said Roy. “And Martha’s going to be fine.”

Meera’s eyes met his. “It doesn’t take a telepath to know that you don’t know that,” she said. She rested her forehead against his muscular upper arm for a moment and said, “Take care of yourself, Roy. You need to get into bed for a couple of days.”

“Stop propositioning me,” Roy said. “I’ll tell your wife.”

Her smile this time was genuine. Roy leaned back against a cot and watched her leave the infirmary. When the door swung closed behind her, he looked down at the inviting white pillow and told himself he would just lie down for a couple of minutes.

—

[Spider-Man Beyond]

Roy flung an arm over his eyes to block out the rush of sun, but a green-gloved hand uncovered his face.

“Wake up,” Gren said tonelessly.

Roy reluctantly opened his eyes and sat up. “What time is it?”

“Eight,” said Gren. “Midori didn’t want to wake you.”

“But you did,” said Roy, noticing that the infirmary curtains had been opened. He rubbed his red-rimmed eyes and scowled at Gren.

“Yeah,” said the Green Lantern. “We gotta talk about Meera.”

“There’s nothing to talk about,” said Roy instantly. “She decides how she wants to use her powers – or not use them. It isn’t up to anyone else.”

“That’s bullshit,” said Gren. “Martha almost died today because Meera was too scared to act.”

“She acted at the expense of her own convictions,” said Roy. He shuffled over to the medicine cabinet and started rummaging through the bottles of medicine.

“At the expense of her own fears,” said Gren, annoyed to be talking to Arsenal’s back. He watched the older man pop open a large white bottle and shake out a few pills. “Nothing’s ever happened to suggest if Meera stretched her wings a little, she’d go power mad. You can’t let her consign herself to being Lt. Uhura when she’s got all that –”

“That’s up to Meera, not us,” interjected Roy; he downed a few Ibuprofens and stuck his head under the faucet again. Then he turned back to Gren. “You want to blame someone for Martha almost dying? Blame me. I should have had her wait for you.”

Gren shook his head. “Martha could have trashed the girl we fought in Minneapolis with one hand tied behind her back. Something’s happened to her.”

“Something happened to Pillan, too,” said Roy. He and Gren exchanged a troubled look.

“You think they’re experimenting on prisoners at SuperMax?” asked Gren in a less confrontational tone.

“We’ll find out,” said Roy darkly. He ran a hand through his rumpled hair.

“Meanwhile, you’ve got to do something about Meera,” said Gren. “A leader encourages people to make the most of what they've got."

"A leader," said Arsenal steadily, "doesn't force people to do things that make them uncomfortable."

"That's exactly what a leader does," snapped Gren. The look of concern they had exchanged a minute earlier had turned into a glaring match.

"I trust Meera to draw her own lines," Roy said finally. "I've seen people with powers like hers lose control and it isn't very pretty."

"Other people," said Gren. "Not Meera. She's fine. Look,” he added, “either you trust her or you throw her off the team.”

"I had a dear friend named Raven," Roy said. "What happened to her –" His eyes drifted across the room as he re-lived something unmistakably painful. "– can't happen again."

"I know about Raven," said Grendel firmly. "Meera's Meera. Not Raven."

"Don't dismiss the similarities," said Roy.

"Don't dismiss the differences," Grendel countered. "Meera needs to give us more. Not just for us. For herself."

—

[Spider-Man Beyond]

Some of Martha’s bruises had faded slightly by the next evening, but Lian wasn’t sure they were healing any faster than a normal person’s might. Martha’s collarbone looked worse – in part because she had tried to set it herself – and she had refused to let Lian see her ribs, which meant they were now probably sheets of mottled purple. There was something else wrong, but Lian couldn’t put a finger on what it was and Martha wasn’t talking.

Everyone on the team had been to the apartment to see how she was, except for Superman, whom Martha had insisted no one call, and Batman. Even Wally had shown up for a few minutes, sneaking off the cruise ship while Linda was showering. He had sped over the Caribbean and across the East Coast in order to offer his get well wishes.

“He felt kinda guilty,” Lian told Meera as they drank coffee together at the kitchen table. “You know – if he had been there, maybe it would have been different.”

Meera nodded. “He fought Chatichai last time. But she’s much stronger now. He would have had a hard time, too,” she said. A funny look passed over her face – Lian couldn’t tell whether it was discomfort or surprise – and her eyes flicked toward the bedroom door where Martha lay sleeping. Then she glanced out of the kitchen window into the dark night and said, “I wonder what’s keeping Grendel.”

“I’d like to know what’s keeping Batman,” said Lian bitterly. “You and Wally come from a thousand miles away to see Martha and he can’t spare the time for a 15-minute drive. After everything she did for him last year,” she added, the memory making her even angrier.

Meera hesitated for a moment, then stood up and gestured for a puzzled Lian to follow her out into the second-story hallway.

“He’s in there right now,” she said after Lian closed the front door behind them.

“What? He’s like – hovering over her bed?” Lian started angrily back into the apartment.

Meera grabbed her arm. “He’s not hovering over her bed. He’s standing in the corner by the window. He’s – upset.”

“Dysfunctional pervert,” muttered Lian, no longer meaning it. She cocked her head at Meera. Gren had been right about her. There was a lot more to her powers than Lian had realized.

It didn’t scare her. Like Gren, Lian trusted Meera. And she had no qualms about asking the reluctant telepath to barge into Batman’s psyche in order to answer a few questions that had been nagging at her all year.

“How do you know he’s upset?” she asked.

“I didn’t read his mind,” said Meera quickly. “It’s coming off of him in waves.”

Lian began to ask what else was coming off of Batman in waves when the sound of footsteps in the apartment made both women jump. Lian opened the door and peeked around it, hoping mightily that Batman hadn’t caught them talking about him.

She let out a sigh. “It’s only you,” she said to Gren.

“Who did you think it was?” he asked. “And what are you doing out in the hallway?”

“Nothing,” said Meera, stepping back into the apartment. “Are you ready to take me home?”

“Yeah,” he said, “and I’m gonna give you hell the whole way back.”

“I’ll wipe your mind,” Meera threatened pleasantly.

“Good,” said Gren. “That’d be a start.”

—

[Spider-Man Beyond]

It wasn’t the subdued laughter coming from the living room that woke Martha up, although that was the first thing she heard. There was someone in her room. Years of training prevented her from panicking, but she couldn’t hold back a jerky intake of breath as her eyes strained against the darkness.

“It’s just me,” said Batman quietly.

She slumped against her pillows, feeling the anxiety ooze out of her. “Section 1210 of the penal code… ever hear of it?”

“I’m not stalking you,” he said, moving a little closer.

“I know,” said Martha. She nodded at a chair that had been placed next to her bed. “Sit down?”

It was the same chair she had been sitting last April, when he awoke to find himself still alive and in possession of both of his legs. He sat restlessly on the edge of the wooden seat. Neither of them spoke for a while.

“You’re not getting much better,” he said finally.

“A little better,” said Martha. She tried to remember to keep her breath shallow so her ribs wouldn’t hurt quite so much. “But you were smart to come while it’s dark. I don’t look so hot.”

“I can see you,” Batman said. Silence fell between them again.

“How’s Alfred?” she asked, groping for a topic that would make them both feel more comfortable.

He eased back onto the chair. “Completely ignoring doctor’s orders. He’s running around the mansion at full throttle.”

Martha smiled. “That’s my boy.”

“I… um…” Batman’s eyes moved from Martha’s face to a pile of shadows at the foot of her bed. It was probably her collection of stuffed superhero dolls. “I haven’t told him that you… you know, that you...” He didn’t finish the sentence.

“Good,” said Martha, “I don’t want him worrying about me.”

“Greenberg must be pretty upset. About how beat up you are,” he added, his eyes still fixed on the dolls.

She sounded surprised. “I can’t let him see me like this. Lian called Josh and Persky and told them I was away on Justice League business.”

He nodded in the darkness and she asked hesitantly, “You were… here last night?”

There was a scuffling noise on the other side of the bedroom door. Batman rose in a single fluid motion. Martha managed to grab the tips of his fingers before he stepped away.

“Come back tomorrow,” she said. “In the daytime. Lian’s really pissed at you for not showing up.”

“I don’t care about Lian,” he said, as Martha’s fingers slid away from his. He backed toward the window and his eyes moved from the door to her battered face. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he mumbled, and disappeared.

—

[Spider-Man Beyond]

Fray hadn’t minded killing a couple security guards, but he’d wished it had been for better digs. There were no beds in the abandoned Catholic school Joker’s increasingly trying sense of whimsy had led them to, and the criminal clown insisted they hole up in the basement, even though most of the classroom windows were encased in plywood. But there was a kitchen and a large gym in the basement, and once Fray got the boiler going, it was fairly comfortable. A few of the Joker’s goons had complained that it was too hot, but fuck them: After weeks in that frigid halfway house, Fray was going for the tropical experience.

While the Joker amused himself in a closet full of dusty plaid cobweb-encrusted girls’ uniforms, Fray supervised the setting up of their new headquarters. At least Joker had given him that much authority. Fray guessed that the criminal community’s exposure of itself as a great big bunch of pussies had made the boss appreciate him more. He was the only one willing to have anything to do with this wonderful plan of the Joker’s.

“They’ll get no Christmas cards from us this year,” the murderous jester said, when Fray reported to him later in the musty boiler room. The Joker reconsidered. “Or maybe they will.”

“If you’d listened to me in the first place, we’d be dancing on those Justice League fuckers’ graves by now,” said Fray, eying with distaste the small pleated skirt Joker had draped shawl-like around his shoulders. “How much time did you waste trying to bring those has-beens on board?”

"Seannie,” said the Joker sourly. “You're beginning to sound like a broken record.” As an afterthought, he added, "You do know what a record is? They outlasted the eight-track but lost the battle against the compact disk."

"Of course I know what records are," said Fray. "DJs use them all the time."

“Oh, yes, those rap people," said Joker. "I'm afraid I stopped listening to that sort of music during that dreadful period where they were so disrespectful to women."

Fray stared at him. "You've offed thousands of women."

"Yes," agreed the Joker. "But I was always a gentleman."

Fray wasn’t sure how to respond to this. As he opened his mouth to return the conversation to its original subject, a flat voice boomed out from behind the boiler, causing Fray to spin around and the Joker to raise an arched green eyebrow.

“I guess I don’t make your A-list,” the intruder said. Fray goggled in disbelief.

"Well, you would have, definitely,” said the Joker. A maniacal leer traversed his mangled features. “Except for the teensy little fact that we thought that you were dead."

—

[Spider-Man Beyond]

Lian let Bruce into the apartment without a word and led him to Martha’s bedroom. When they were halfway across the living room, she noticed the white pastry box dangling from his fingers by a slim red ribbon that held it closed.

“That for me?” she asked.

He shot her an annoyed look and asked, “How is she?”

“I don’t know,” said Lian. “Her bruises are lighter and the IV is starting to push itself out of her hand. But she’s hiding something.”

The door to the bedroom was open. Martha was propped up on a pile of pillows, her eyes closed.

Bruce took a step back. “She’s sleeping.”

“No. She’s meditating.” Lian tapped lightly on the door frame. “Hey, Buddha Girl. Someone’s here to see you.”

Martha’s eyes opened immediately and she smiled. “Hey,” she said weakly.

Lian left him standing in the doorway. Bruce took the seat by Martha’s bed and set the box down by her right hand. Lian was right: the IV needle was staining against the tape that held it securely against the back of Martha’s hand. She had already detached the plastic line that had been infusing her bloodstream with Mannitol.

“You want help getting that out?” he asked, lifting his chin towards the needle.

“The IV?” asked Martha, holding out her hand. “Please.”

Something about her response bothered him. He gave her a quick, calculating look, then reached over to cradle her right hand in his much larger left one. He used his free fingers to peel away the loosening tape and carefully withdraw the needle.

“Thanks,” said Martha as she felt the needle slide away. He continued to hold onto her hand for a moment as he scrutinized her face, then he deliberately placed her fingers against the bottom edge of the pastry box.

“What’s this?” she asked, perking up.

“Without moving your hand,” he said through gritted teeth. “Describe it to me.”

She dropped her head back against the pillows and sighed. “It’s no big deal.”

“You can’t see,” he whispered furiously. “That’s a big deal.”

“I can see,” Martha protested, turning towards him again. “Everything’s just – blurry.”

“How many fingers am I holding up?” he asked, without raising any.

Martha rolled her eyes and conceded, “Very blurry. Please don’t tell anyone. Everyone’s worried enough as it is.”

“Maybe you should be a little more worried,” he snapped. “How the hell could Lian miss something like this?”

“Because I’m hiding it from her,” said Martha quietly. “I wasn’t really trying to fool you.”

Disarmed in spite of himself, Bruce leaned against the chair and searched her unguarded face. “Is it at least getting better?”

“It really is,” said Martha. “It’s just taking a lot longer than I’d hoped.”

She nodded toward the small window on the opposite side of the room. What little light was spilling into the room fell short of her bed. “I failed to consider a few things when I was shopping for apartments.”

He looked at the window thoughtfully, then leaned over and opened the pastry box. “Here,” he said, touching her fingers with the upper corner of the box.

Martha slipped her hand inside and her face brightened. “Oh, you are so good,” she said fervently as she withdrew a chocolate-covered strawberry. “Don’t let anybody tell you differently.”

Amused, he said, “I don’t know how to make pancakes.”

She sank her teeth into the strawberry and bit back a moan. “Don’t tell Alfred,” she said. “This is better.”

—

[Spider-Man Beyond]

Lian sauntered through the doorway and found herself taken aback by the completely foreign sight of Bruce Wayne grinning – at her roommate no less, a woman he could not put up with for five minutes last year without igniting a firestorm of animosity. Said roommate’s lips were smeared with chocolate and her cheeks were bulging with something that was obviously bringing her great pleasure.

“I’m running out to the supermarket,” Lian announced. “Anyone want anything? Ex-Lax, Bruce?”

He lost the smile.

“You’re so mean,” said Martha, covering her strawberry-filled mouth with her hand. “You’re not getting any of this.”

Lian ran her eyes appraisingly from Bruce’s ebony crew-necked Armani sweater to his black Diesel jeans and said, “Oh, I already knew I wasn’t getting any of it.”

—

[Spider-Man Beyond]

“How did you know it was me at the door?” Bruce asked as Martha devoured the last of the chocolate-covered strawberries. He had declined her offer to share – he was too busy being entertained by her passionate enjoyment of them.

“You’re the biggest blur of the bunch,” said Martha. “And, I don’t know… I could sense your presence.”

His eyes rested on the purple welt above her collarbone as he considered what he was about to say.

“Wayne Manor has a rooftop atrium. Alfred’s got a bunch of plants up there. The ceiling, walls – all glass. All sunlight, all the time. I mean, except at night,” he added. “We could move a bed in there… I think you’d get better a lot quicker.”

The look of surprised gratitude on Martha’s face was even more rewarding than her reaction to the strawberries. But then she seemed to reconsider.

“I don’t want to be any trouble,” she said uncertainly.

“It wouldn’t be any trouble,” he said quickly. “Come on… Alfred would be thrilled.”

“Alfred…” Martha began cautiously. She exhaled slowly and shook her head, not sure she should continue. Bruce watched her curiously.

She ran a finger over the inflamed skin on the back of her hand, where he’d removed the IV needle. “Alfred wants us together.”

Bruce sat back in the chair with a jerk. He looked away quickly, opened his mouth, closed it and them simply gave a mortified nod, forgetting that she couldn’t see him.

“Are you dying of embarrassment?” Martha asked.

Bruce rubbed the palm of his hand roughly over his face. “Yes,” he mumbled.

“Don’t be. He’s worried about you. He’s afraid he’s going to leave you all alone,” said Martha. “I think his travel plans are a little premature, though.”

“I hope they are,” said Bruce quietly. He was relieved that she had changed the subject, but he wasn’t much more comfortable with this one.

“But he is 92,” said Martha. “So I have a question for you that’s absolutely none of my business.”

He fought the urge to sprint out of the room. “Go ahead.”

“This is not a reflection on your dad, who Alfred has described as completely devoted to you,” Martha said delicately. “But… in every way that really matters, Alfred’s been your father since you were eight years old.”

“No, that’s OK. I know that,” Bruce said, thankful that Martha seemed more concerned about his relationship with Alfred than she was about the old man’s preposterous matchmaking scheme.

“Have you told him?” she asked.

“We don’t… That’s not… I’m sure he knows,” he said uneasily.

“Of course he knows,” said Martha. “That’s not why you need to tell him. Bruce, if Alfred was to leave us unexpectedly and you hadn’t told him how you feel… Well, some regrets you can live with. Others are almost unbearable.”

Bruce said wryly, “I’m not even allowed to compliment his cooking.”

“Yeah, he gets all English on you, right?” asked Martha. “Tell him anyway.”

—

[Spider-Man Beyond]

Meera cuddled the heavy mug of hot chocolate against her chest and savored the crackling noise the log made as Emma tossed it gingerly into the fire. Outside, the brutal winter wind rattled the windows of their suburban Montreal ranch-style home.

“My parents moved from one of the warmest countries on the planet to here,” Meera complained. “Why?”

Emma smiled. “You ask that every winter.”

“I wonder every winter,” Meera replied, staring thoughtfully into the fire.

“What else do you wonder?” asked Emma, sitting next to her on their plush apricot-colored sofa. Without taking her eyes off of Meera’s pensive features, she took the mug from her wife’s hand and brought it to her own lips for a quick, careful sip.

“Same thing I’ve been wondering for the last few days,” Meera replied as Emma handed back the mug. “Is Grendel right? Am I so afraid of losing it that I’m hurting the team? Will someone die next time while I just stand there?”

“You didn’t just stand there,” said Emma. “You saved Superwoman.”

“Because of Batman and Grendel. And Roy,” Meera said. “I’ve kept my powers down so deep for so long, it never occurred to me to use them. Not like that.”

“And nothing bad happened,” Emma said.

“Not this time.” Meera took a sip of hot chocolate and set down the mug. She crossed her arms behind her head and leaned back against the couch, her eyes tracing the stones lining the top of the fireplace. “I can’t imagine that if I start routinely plunging into people’s minds that it wouldn’t become second nature.”

“So don’t plunge,” said Emma. “Tip-toe.”

Meera frowned, offended that her worries were being taken lightly.

“No, I’m serious, sweetie,” Emma said quickly. “I mean, expand your range just a little bit and see how it goes.”

“That’s what Grendel says,” the telepath replied. “He thinks I should find someone to help me learn to control my powers, some sort of Yoda person.”

“Oh, yeah, ‘cause they’re all over the place,” Emma said.

Meera chuckled.

“You’d never hurt anyone,” Emma added earnestly. “You’re too good a person.”

“I can give you a whole list of good people,” said Meera, “Who ended up trying to take over the world.”

Emma gave her hand a squeeze and asked, “So what’s the other thing?”

“What other thing?” asked Meera.

“The other thing that’s been on your mind since Gren brought you home last night.”

“Hey,” said Meera. “Which one of us is the telepath?”

Emma leaned back on the couch and folded her arms in mock severity. “Give.”

“Well I can’t say much,” Meera said. “It involves a couple of my teammates who have secret identities.”

“But?” Emma lifted an inquiring eyebrow as she reached across the coffee table for the mug of hot chocolate.

“I think life is about to get really, really interesting in Gotham City,” Meera said.

—

[Spider-Man Beyond]

Bruce had awakened to the smell of coffee every night for the past thirty years, but the rich aroma of Kenyan AA never got old. He rolled onto his back with a grimace and pushed himself up to a sitting position against the headboard of his king-sized bed. Alfred silently placed a cup of the steaming black liquid on the right-hand night table and waited for his employer to speak.

Bruce looked toward the shaded window and saw that it was dark outside. “Did Dr. Kent get here?”

The old butler nodded. “Yes, sir. Mr. Gardner brought her on one of his special stretchers a few hours after you returned from patrol.”

Annoyed, Bruce ran a hand through his hair and said, “I told you to wake me.”

“She wouldn’t allow it,” said Alfred. “She said you needed your sleep.”

Bruce rolled his head back against the mahogany headboard and closed his eyes. “She’s going to be a pain about not wanting to be any trouble.”

“Yes, I’ve already noticed,” Alfred said. “I suppose a physician is naturally inclined to prefer giving care to receiving it.”

Bruce swung his legs over the side of the bed. “That and it makes it easier for her to insist that there’s nothing wrong with her.”

He headed into the shower without touching his coffee. Alfred watched the bathroom door close behind Bruce, returned the cup to the breakfast cart and started rolling it to the elevator that would take him to the atrium.

—

[Spider-Man Beyond]

“Not a bruise on you,” said Bruce, studying Martha’s face with an almost clinical fascination. It was a slight exaggeration: A tinge of yellow discoloration lingered below her eyes, but she looked a hundred times better than she had the day before.

“The miracle of sunshine,” she said with playful pomposity. “Thanks to you,” she added.

Without speaking, he held up two fingers.

“I can see your hand,” Martha said. “As far as the fingers go, I’m guessing between one and five.”

Bruce dropped his hand. It was still a significant improvement over the previous day.

“Any idea – Thank you,” he said to Alfred, who had quietly handed him his cup of coffee, “–why the loss of sight?”

“Apparently the back of the half-Kryptonian head is not designed to withstand a high-velocity shot with a wrecking ball – and what was the other thing, a dump truck? It caused some swelling in my brainstem and occipital lobe,” she said. “They’re –”

“The parts of the brain that control vision,” said Bruce.

“Right,” Martha said, “and from the best we’ve been able to tell, they also control my superpowers. It was sort of a two for the price of one thing.”

Bruce ignored her joke and scowled at his coffee cup. “This is cold,” he complained to Alfred.

“It wasn’t cold twenty minutes ago, when I served it to you in your bedroom,” the butler retorted. But he took the cup from Bruce’s hand and re-filled it. Then he tilted the spout of a green ceramic teapot into the flowered mug he had brought up for Martha.

“I’ll do it,” said Bruce, waving Alfred out of the atrium. The old man’s hovering was getting on his nerves. Alfred gave him a resentful look, pointed to a covered silver serving dish and hobbled out of the room.

Bruce lifted the lid of the tray. Alfred had prepared a plate of roasted vegetable Panini sandwiches.

“Want a hamburger?” he asked Martha.

“We’re taking that sense of humor right back, because you’re just abusing it,” she replied.

—

[Spider-Man Beyond]

It was still dark when he brought the Batmobile back into the cave after a dead-slow night. His underground sanctum was quiet – only the soft humming sound of a battery of computers and the occasional flutter of bat wings broke the natural silence of the spacious cavern. Batman pulled off his mask and headed for the shower. Alfred probably wouldn’t be up for another hour. By then Bruce Wayne figured to be long asleep.

There were only two flights of stairs between the cave and his bedroom and he usually took them, but this morning, as he toweled off his head, he found himself standing in the elevator, contemplating the button to the upper floor of the mansion. He thought he should probably check on Martha. Her bruises may have healed, but those ribs might still be giving her trouble. He was also concerned about her collarbone, which she had reset herself because she hadn’t wanted Gren to see her topless. If it didn’t knit right, it was going to have to be re-broken, which posed an assortment of complications Bruce was trying not to think about.

But as soon as he walked through the doorless entrance to the atrium, he was paralyzed by an onslaught of uncertainty. She was fine. There was no reason for him to be here; he should just go to bed.

He had started to turn away when a sob broke through the darkness. His eyes found the hospital bed where it sat alone in the middle of the atrium. Even from twenty feet away, Bruce could hear the restless rustle of starched sheets and the desperate hitch in Martha’s breathing.

He dropped into the chair by her bed and examined her rigid form in the glow of the setting moonlight. She was curled almost into a ball, with her injured side facing up. Her face was contorted and silent tears ran freely down her cheeks onto spots of darkness spreading over the white pillowcase.

Bruce did not have a lot of experience with other people’s nightmares. Alfred usually woke him from his own by opening the bedroom curtains or turning on the lights; neither of those strategies was an option in the atrium; besides, Bruce did not want to jar her.

“Martha.” He reached out to shake her shoulder, remembered her broken collarbone, and instead found one of her hands in the tangled sheets. He stroked the inside of her palm with his thumb, hoping the gentle pressure would awaken her. “Martha?”

She started and her eyes flew open. Bruce watched her blink herself awake. She touched her wet cheeks with the hand he’d released and then vacantly rubbed her damp fingertips together.

“Did I wake you?” Martha asked, confused by his presence. His bedroom was three floors away.

“No, I came to check on you,” he said sheepishly. “Do you remember what it was about?”

She pushed herself up to a sitting position, wincing slightly and Bruce found himself impressed at the rate her bones seemed to be mending. “Did I say anything?”

“No. You were just…”

“Crying,” said Martha.

Bruce nodded, then realizing she still might not be able to see him, he added, “Yeah.”

“Could have been about anything,” she said resignedly.

“When did you start having nightmares?” he asked. Martha’s eyes grew distant and he added quickly, “None of my business. Sorry.”

She was quiet for a long time, her features lost in the shadows of the darkened room. Bruce was sure he had intruded into a place where he had not been invited. He started to stand up. “I should let you get some –”

“Lex Luthor’s last attack on Metropolis,” Martha said softly. Bruce sank back into the chair, his eyes drawn irresistibly to her forlorn face.

“He launched a few missiles at the Metropolis Bridge. It wasn’t rush hour, but there were a lot of cars on it. My dad and I, we thought we got everyone, but –” She looked away, tears pooling in her eyes. Bruce realized he must have taken her hand; he was holding it again. “We found a body crushed under the wreckage. He was so little. He was four.”

“How old were you?” asked Bruce dully. He already knew the answer.

“Fourteen,” she said.

He wondered how he could ever have thought this woman was some sort of super-powered Pollyanna. “Gidget Goes to Gotham,” he had told Alfred, shortly after she had arrived. He had said it with contempt. Now he was sorry it wasn’t true. He slipped his hand from hers under the pretense of having to readjust the chair. Touching her suddenly didn’t seem like such a good idea.

Martha pressed a palm against her face and shook her head, as if to shake out the painful memory. “I’m sorry. It wasn’t fair to unload that on you,” she said, in what seemed close to her normal voice.

“I asked you,” he said.

“I owe you a better one,” she said. “Something a little less heavy.”

He started to tell her she didn’t have to do that – attempt to boost his spirits after laying herself out so raw – but then he noticed that this new memory was making her smile.

“When I was little, I used to be afraid there were monsters under my bed,” Martha said. “My mom gave me a baseball bat and said she’d give me a quarter for every one I knocked unconscious.”

“Are you serious?” asked Bruce.

“Yeah, she was sorry,” Martha said. “The next day we had to go down to IKEA and pick out a whole new bedroom set.” She grinned and Bruce found himself fighting off a smile.

“My mom used to spray the room with monster spray,” he said. “I guess it was probably Lysol, but it kept the monsters away.”

“Tell me about her,” said Martha.

“My mother?”

“Yeah,” she said. And for the next hour, he did.

When Alfred rolled breakfast into the atrium later that morning, he found Martha propped upright against her pillows, enmeshed in a kinder world of dreams. Bruce, who the butler had already discovered was not in his bedroom, sat straddling a chair backwards so that he could rest his folded arms against its sturdy back. His head was buried in the crook of one elbow and Alfred could tell immediately from his employer’s steady breathing that he was sound asleep.

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