Author's Note: This takes place two weeks after the previous chapter. With the Riddler's latest escape from Arkham already three days old, Bruce once again finds himself on the wrong-end of a would-be death-trap. Fortunately, this is Bruce.

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Houdini

I learned the art of escapology in Paris during my formative years. My instructor, the famous stage magician John Zatara, told me that the most important characteristic of a good escape artist was not humility or even patience: it was experience. He stressed humility and patience, and even intense practice and study, can only aid you so far. The real key to being successful, to escaping from situations others cannot, is experience. In my career as Batman, I expected the need to escape confined spaces, locked rooms and handcuffs would be a regular occurrence. I practiced those skills meticulously. However, whilst these skills are now a formality, they are almost superfluous in comparison to what is required in the remainder of the escape.

As the legend of the Batman grew, those individuals serious about their criminal enterprises and their desires to protect it became far smarter. Their traps for me grew from simple holding facilities and locked warehouses to elaborate death-traps designed to kill me. The complexity of the death-traps, their design and methods of execution, are limited only by the architect's imagination. To date I have encountered one hundred and sixteen unique death-traps in my career. In total, I have faced almost three hundred. Robin has been involved in eighteen of them. I will admit to barely surviving my first ten, escaping almost as much by luck as skill. During the last twenty, I have always emerged unscathed and in good time. I am trusting that streak will continue this evening.

"How do you get yourself into these messes?" Edward Nygma's voice says over the loudspeaker. "Your riddle for this puzzle is simple: some try to hide, some try to cheat, but time will show, we will always meet. What am I?" The answer is death. Nygma simply expects me to die. As the silence lingers on, he gloats. "Oh my, stumped are we, Dark Knight? How sad. Very well, let us begin." The room is hermetically sealed. Nozzles lining the walls slowly release purple smoke. I can only assume the agent is an airborne toxin, likely to kill on being diffused through the lungs. There are no windows and the door through which I came has been shuttered to the floor. The floor itself is tiled which suggests either concrete or wood lies beneath. Judging from the dimensions of the room and the speed at which the smoke is filling it, I estimate less than two minutes of breathable air. After that time, the only thing left to inhale will be the smoke.

If these were my only facts, I would be attempting to exfiltrate through the floor, despite the danger of the smoke. Fortunately though, I know the architect well. Edward Nygma may be a genius, but he is also cheap and predictable. He lacks the finances to properly shore up this room against my arsenal. The weak point of his structures is invariably the same. That weakness is always the entrance. With that in mind, I don my respirator, attach two remote explosive gels to the shuttered door and stand clear. Detonation punches a large hole in the shutter frame, wide enough to stoop through. The door beyond the steel shutter is plywood. One strong sidekick separates it from the doorframe. I then wander through without incident. I already know this is far from over.

"Well done on your easy starter for ten! Whilst you struggled to solve a puzzle a three-year-old child could master in seconds, I have no doubt this next one will prove too much for your feeble mind." I find myself unable to imagine a three-year-old child being capable of escaping a room filled with poisonous gas when the door is locked. Perhaps he meant the riddle, but even then, it is unlikely. While I do not take Nygma's next attempt to end my life for granted, I cannot imagine it involves anything but revolving blades or electricity. His second-tier of death-trap design always features such elements. Upon entering the next room, I am confronted with an electrified floor and three walls of rotating saw blades. At present, I stand on the only non-electrified floor panel in the space. I anticipate the side and rear walls will slowly start moving towards me in a generic pincer movement I have encountered fifteen times before. They fail to move after almost twenty seconds of waiting. I am unimpressed.

"This is only the beginning of your end!" Nygma exclaims over another loudspeaker positioned in the room's far corner. His rhetoric is becoming tiresome. He has made the same threats on seventeen separate occasions. I am still alive. "There is literally no escape from this room!" He adds as if I have already been eliminated from play. The weakness in these rooms is typically the floor as it no doubt leads to another trap. Nygma usually works in threes where death-trap design is concerned. I see no reason to delay proceedings and fix explosive gel to the floor I am currently standing on. I then fire my grapnel directly up where it finds purchase on support struts. After landing on the strut, I detonate the explosives. As expected, the floor gives way to a dark and ominous-looking ventilator shaft. It is at this juncture that I hear mechanical rumblings from below and witness the rear and side walls slowly beginning their pincer movement, perhaps in response my actions.

This would be alarming if not for the fact the wall mechanisms do not extend as far as the support struts. As such, when they are fully closed in approximately one minute, I will still be unharmed. If Nygma had hostages in his possession, he would have already declared them to be in jeopardy and supplied clues to their whereabouts within the trap. His psychology is as predictable as his traps. Whilst disabling his final death-trap would not doubt be of yet more valuable experience, it is far more prudent to simply escape via the roof, courtesy of my final complement of explosives.

"I have hostages! Don't…don't you dare think of escaping early! I'll kill them! And you'll be responsible!" The panic in his voice is obvious. He does not have hostages. If he did, he would sound far more composed and arrogant. He is desperate for attention, it would seem. I can admit to having a certain degree of pity for such an empty man. However, it is of little consequence. I affix the charges to a weak section of the roof, adjusting the yield so that it does not destroy the struts as well as the roof panels. "I mean it! Don't you leave! They'll all die if you do, all…all…fifty of them! You have to play my game!" I have always found Nygma's motivations for his criminal activity to be nothing but an exercise in intellectual vanity and just as transparent. Kidnapping innocents and placing them in mortal danger merely to match wits against his pursuers is inexcusable. I detonate the charges, shielding myself from potential fragmentation with my cape.

The resulting exit point is smaller than I expected, but not narrow enough to cause problems escaping. If I could go back and speak to John Zatara now, I would tell him explosives are of near equal value with experience in the art of escapology. He would no doubt respond he is a stage magician, not a demolitionist, and he would of course be right. I sometimes do lack flair in my escapes from certain death, but, as I crawl out of the hole and emerge onto the exterior of Nygma's warehouse, I compensate by always escaping the trap. There are no loudspeakers outside the building, but I have triangulated the broadcast signal using Wayne Enterprises satellites and the car's onboard computer system. As soon as I am clear of the dampening field operating within the warehouse, I get into the car and begin to drive.

"Master Bruce?" My communication's link with the cave is now functional again.

"Yes, Alfred?"

"Are you alright, Sir? You were unavailable for almost thirty minutes upon arrival at the docks."

"Edward Nygma had something he wished to share with me."

"I see. Are you injured from his latest…'exhibition'?"

"No. The trap proved very tame. I am currently on route to detain him for the GCPD."

"Should I alert Commissioner Gordon as to this imminent delivery of yours?"

"It would be prudent to have prisoner transport standing by to escort him back to Arkham. I'm sending you the location now. Please pass it on accordingly." I say punching into the coordinates and sending it to the central mainframe. A single beep indicates receipt.

"Do you require assistance? Master Dick is willing to meet you…"

"Has he done his homework?" I ask. Due to the quality of the link, I am aware they are both present. The boy is faint, but apparently explaining the situation to the old man, who is in turn relaying it to me.

"He…says he has finished his English and French homework…but he still needs to do his maths and…cooking? What do you need to cook? What bake sale? When is it? Tomorrow?" I allow a small smile to cross my lips, at the exasperation in his tone, very conscious of the fact no-one can see it. A bake sale? The very notion of Dick in an apron making confectionery is amusing. The boy can barely make toast. I collect myself.

"Sounds like you have your hands full. I shall return shortly." I break the link as I close in on Nygma's location. Interestingly, it is an apartment complex just inside the Bowery. This brownstone building is usually a hub for low-level trafficking of firearms, narcotics and occasional illegal slave labour. Despite repeated attempts and measures to discourage these activities, they persist or restart every few months. It seems highly likely Nygma would hole up in a place like this for cover. I leave the car in an adjacent alleyway and enter the building with caution. I already know he will not be on the first three floors because he has always preferred height for his transmitting equipment to function without signal degradation. With the complex only being six floors in height and the right-side of the building too close to a steel mill, again interfering with signal quality, there are only a finite number of rooms to search.

Since he also requires large servers to remotely operate his traps and therefore large air conditioners to keep them from overheating, the noise will be audible from the corridor. Within three minutes, I have detected a low, but regular hum from my current position. It takes only a further twenty seconds to locate the correct door. The door will be booby-trapped in some fashion as a last line of defence. Since I have no desire to injure myself so close to this investigation's conclusion, I exercise restraint and examine my supplies. All explosives have been depleted in the last hour. Batarangs, CS gas grenades, flashbangs and smoke pellets are still available, but largely ineffective against a wooden door. Fire might prove useful though.

I calculate Nygma's likely routes of escape from this building and his assumed current location. He will not be using the front door, but he may attempt exfiltration out the window and down the adjoining fire escape. Estimating the GCPD response time to this complex, I would guess he will be forced to move in less than two minutes to evade authorities. I have parked the car over the nearest manhole cover, eliminating any hopes of escape via the sewer system. He will expect such measures from me and be prepared for them. He may anticipate my thinking he will not use the door to escape and call my bluff on the matter. Since I cannot physically cover both exits simultaneously, and with time running out, I elect to split the difference.

After stringing three CS gas grenades, 1 flashbang and six smoke pellets across the length and breadth of the door and surrounding frame with generic wire, I jump out the nearest fire escape and circle around the building on my grapnel line. I estimate less than forty seconds remain for Nygma to engineer an escape. I shall reach the correct window in twenty seconds, providing I maintain airspeed and momentum. GCPD transport and a fireteam will arrive on scene in just over forty seconds if they use blue lights and sirens. Timings are growing tighter with each passing moment. For Nygma, it is now or never.

When I crash through the window with a double-footed kick, I find the room already clouded with thick smoke. My respirator is on within three seconds as I manoeuvre towards the open doorway. Nygma is lying on the ground, tangled in wire and waste from the incendiaries, and coughing profusely. Moments later, I hear sirens wail in the background to signal an end to proceedings. He did call my bluff. I make a mental note of this for next time in dragging him by his shirt collar out of the smoke cloud and into the hallway. He flails at me with whatever remains of his strength, but is quickly subdued and handcuffed.

"You cheated." He coughs at me in a hoarse voice, "You should've played my game. It isn't fair." He stops talking long enough to be hauled to his feet as I escort him down the first flight of stairs. "How did you know? How did you know I didn't have hostages?" He practically demands before another coughing fit silences him. I do not answer. There is no need to justify him with a response. He keeps asking how I knew he did not have leverage, how I knew he did not have another trap as we reach the foyer and exit the building to a small army of blue-clad police officers. I remain mute in handing him over. When I speak, it is only to communicate the number of the apartment and the address of the warehouse. Then I leave. The whole process since arriving has only taken ten minutes to complete. It is a satisfactory effort on my part as I head out of the city.

When I arrive at the vehicle park in the cave, I find the boy sat on the bonnet of the alternative car to my right. He is showered, going from the damp look of his hair, and in his pyjamas as I turn off the ignition. He looks at me inquisitively as I exit the car.

"Did you know he'd stick you in a death-trap?" Dick asks without moving off the bonnet. I round the car and nod in pulling back my cowl.

"Yes."

"And you told me you still didn't know where he was and were doing routine surveillance because…?" I sense anger underpinning his words. It is understandable to a certain extent, considering my deception. Still, my reasoning is sound as I head towards the armoury.

"It is a school night. Your presence tonight would have been an unnecessary risk. I will not risk two lives when one is sufficient." I say removing my gloves. Light footsteps echo mine.

"So then why train me at all? Pretty sure you can handle everything on your own, going off this performance." Now he sounds petulant as well as angry. I turn sharply and point a finger in his face.

"Do not get testy. Not tonight. I am very tired and your hurt feelings at not being involved in a potential fatal trap masterminded by a murderous sociopath are really not appropriate. Understand?" Now my tone is curt. I do not like being curt with him, but I will not tolerate a teenage rebellion at this time of night. He bites his tongue and nods. I nod back. "Good. Now," I resume walking towards the armoury, "The investigation with Edward Nygma is concluded for the time being. With that in mind, kindly tell me of your progress baking this evening. When exactly did you start?"

"About forty minutes ago. They're still in the oven. Alfie was not happy with me."

"I am hardly surprised. How is it tomorrow and Alfred has not been informed of its staging days in advance? When did you get the notice?" I ask in scaling the stairs to the upper levels. The boy hesitates in answering immediately.

"Last Thursday."

"A week. You have had a week to tell him about this. What exactly were you encouraged to bring?" I say entering the armoury and shedding my cowl, gloves, gauntlets and belt.

"They wanted me to bring twenty-five cinnamon buns. You know, the ones that Alfie makes me when I want a packed lunch?" He calls from outside as I swap my survival suit for a dressing gown and slippers.

"And have you made twenty-five cinnamon buns tonight?" I say emerging from the armoury. He shrugs.

"He only had enough to make fifteen. I've kinda screwed this one up. I know." An admission of blame is good. However, this situation should not have warranted such an admission. He should have just told us earlier. The boy needs to learn actions, regardless of size, always have consequences, whether good or bad. I sigh.

"Were you simply encouraged again this week to bring them, or did you actually promise to do so?" I inquire. He hangs his head and sighs back.

"Yeah, I…I promised. What's my punishment?" He asks raising his head back up. Acceptance of consequences is also good. This is not the first time we have had conversations like this. With his adolescence set to run at least another four years, it will not be the last either. I am succinct and skip the generic lecture.

"You know what it is. All chores this weekend. You can have afternoons to yourself, but you belong to Alfred during the mornings. Are you going to make a plausible excuse or just accept the penalty?"

"I…don't have a good excuse. I'll just take my licks. You know you have like, ash and dirt all over the bottom-half of your face, right?" He says circling the bottom portion of his own face with an open hand. I counter this by leaning forward.

"I am aware. Are you aware you still have soap in your ears?" I say displaying the small sample of it I have just gathered between my thumb and forefinger. The boy examines the phenomenon for himself before grinning sheepishly.

"Guess we both look stupid. At least you have a cool story for your dirty face though. How'd you escape Eddie's trap this time?" He asks as I head towards the suit-up area of the cave.

"I employed the usual tactics." I reply running the sink faucet.

"Lots of explosives, huh?" The boy checks as I splash my face half-a-dozen times with warm water. I smile in reaching for the nearby towel.

"Precisely. Every one of Nygma's traps has proved to be structurally unsound. It is merely a case of locating the weak points. I rub the towel vigorously over the bottom-half of my face until the fabric is stained black. "Better?" I ask. Dick indicates for me to bend down slightly. I oblige and wait while he scrutinises my face.

"Not bad. Just got a little smudge here…" Before I can object, the boy has licked two of his fingers and started rubbing at an area of skin just above the right-side of my jawline. "That's got it. You're still going have a proper shower though, right?" He asks as I return the favour, using the clean side of the towel to excavate his ears of soap.

"Of course. And you are going to apologise to Alfred, aren't you? Is he still waiting for them to finish baking?" I say, finishing the task and motioning for him to join me in ascending the stairs to the library.

"Yeah. I said I'd watch them, but he didn't trust me not to burn the whole lot." The boy informs me as we begin our ascent. I nod my head in both agreement and understanding.

"Neither would I. What is this bake sale in aid of? I thought teenagers of your age would never organise something so…labour intensive." This provokes a brief chuckle from him.

"It's for the am-dram society players. They're funding a trip to see Shakespeare in the Park in New York next month."

"And the girl you are attempting to impress with your generosity?" I say as we reach the summit. I know he is not involved in amateur dramatics, nor has he ever shown any interest in acting for anything but undercover surveillance missions. He hates Shakespeare plays for their dialogue and general lack of action, despite Alfred's attempts to convert him with Macbeth and Hamlet. So, it must be a young lady in the society that has focused his attentions. And, if he has not managed to impress her thus far with his athletic prowess or alleged charm offenses, he is hoping a gesture of goodwill and selflessness will sway her. He sighs.

"Melissa Whelks. She sits two desks over from me in English and History."

"I see. What happened to Miss Watts?" Only last week the boy was infatuated with his Geography classmate, Heather Watts who sits two rows behind him. Secretly, or perhaps not given Alfred and I are full aware of it, Dick pines for Barbara Gordon. I do wonder sometimes if there is a girl at his school he does not plan on courting at least once before graduation. This year alone has seen him stepping out with five different girls. Naturally, I have met none of them. The old man tells me they were all very nice.

"She dumped me for Brian Connolly. Well, not really dumped, more like…fizzled out. She wasn't a fan of my comic-book collection."

"You couldn't think of anything intellectual to say, could you?"

"She really liked opera, which is fine. And she also liked classical music, which makes sense. You remember what I thought of those things?" I took the boy along to an Italian opera four months ago in support of Gotham's performing arts program. He fell asleep less than forty minutes into a three-hour production. Despite waking up at intermission and stuffing his face with snacks, he fell asleep less than twenty minutes into its resumption. The two classical music recitals he has attended are not mentioned in this house. Alfred was…less than impressed with his conduct. I nod my head.

"I remember. And does Miss Whelks share your passions of extreme sports and comic collecting?" I ask as we traverse the library and head towards the kitchen. He shrugs.

"Probably not. She does like me though. Thinks I'm funny and sweet."

"So, she does not know the real you then." I say opening the kitchen door and finding the old man hunched over the oven in his own dressing gown and slippers combination. The sweet aroma suggests they are nearly ready. "You have a helper this weekend, old friend. Satisfactory enough?" I say as he straightens up.

"Yes, Master Bruce, adequate in the circumstances. I believe he has something to say in front of us both now before going straight to bed?" Alfred says turning to look at our child expectantly. I look at the boy too. He clearly does not like the added attention.

"Should I get up on a chair or something first?"

"An apology without any sarcasm would be just fine, young man." Alfred replies acridly. Dick, looking suitably scolded, nods in understanding.

"I'm really sorry for not telling you about this in advance, Alfie. And I'm sorry to Bruce because he shouldn't have to punish me after escaping from another death-trap." It is as conventional as admissions get in this house. The old man nods in approval.

"Very good. Now, off to bed. You may collect your cinnamon buns tomorrow."

"Thanks, Alfie. Night, Bruce." I am about to bid him goodnight in return only for him to suddenly latch around my waist in an unexpected hug. "I'm glad you're safe, big man." He whispers before letting go and leaving without another word. I watch him go in silence. Once he is out of sight, I turn back to Alfred. The old man's disdainful expression has not left with boy.

"Forgetting cinnamon buns for a bake sale is irritating, but it is not life-threatening: you went off to subdue a very dangerous man on your own and did not tell anyone of a potentially lethal trap you could be involved in. If Mr Nygma had succeeded in killing you this evening, when would we hear about it? Tomorrow or six months from now? Where would we even begin to look for your body? What absolutes would tell us whether you were alive or not in those circumstances?" His tone is stern and accusative.

"The term 'death-trap' is a misnomer, Alfred. There is always a way to escape." I tell him leaning against the nearby countertop. "I'm sorry that I misled you and the boy this evening as to my intentions, but I saw no reason to involve either of you."

"We don't want 'involvement', Master Bruce. We only want to know what you are doing on a given night should something go wrong. Deliberately deceiving us does not help matters in the long run. Where is your trust?" I fold my arms in distaste at being ambushed this late in the night.

"Not misplaced, I hope. I told you both this was my crusade. How I conduct it is my own affair. If I were to die prematurely, it is better for you to have no knowledge of how I met my end than to deny it by lying." I say. The old man rolls his eyes.

"Be that as it may, your most fatal error in any solo venture is assuming neither I nor Master Dick will mourn you. We don't especially want you to die when such situations can be prevented. Mutual knowledge would help alleviate that possibility. Surely you see the logic in that, Sir?" I close my eyes for a moment. I am too tired to stage a debate with him, far too tired. "Were you injured tonight, Master Bruce?"

"No, old friend. I am just tired." I open my eyes, "Whilst I have no doubt you were again making a salient point about my recklessness, I would appreciate if we redressed this matter in the morning. Do you mind?" Alfred does not look pleased at my cutting him off mid-sermon but offers up a defeated sigh. "You do know that Houdini died, don't you, Sir? Despite all his marvellous feats of escapology, he was still just a man: Death ran him out in the end." This is somewhat too on-the-nose for my liking, especially when using one of my childhood idols as a metaphor for me. I remain nonplussed in responding.

"Death will outrun us all eventually, Alfred."

"Without doubt. However, if you continue at your current pace, the reaper will outrun you very quickly. Bear that in mind. The boy could not handle losing two fathers." That last remark is beyond cutting. Whether it is truthful or not, there is no need to say it when I am fine and well. My approach to Nygma tonight was measured and proper for the circumstances and occasion. I glare at him.

"That was uncalled for." I practically snap off the words at him. Alfred clears his throat.

"Yes. Forgive me, Sir. I just…it would break his heart. Literally, break his heart if you died. I daresay mine would not fare well either." Emotion threatens to break his veneer if pushed any harder. So, I relent.

Broken hearts can be mended. You fixed mine all those years ago when I deemed it impossible. However, to spare you having to write my eulogy in the near future, I will refrain from going on secret missions for now. Goodnight Alfred." I turn back towards the door and begin to walk.

"Master Bruce?" The old man calls when I reach the door. I stop in place.

"Yes, Alfred?"

"Breakfast will be served at seven, Sir." Alfred says to assure me our conversation has had no effect on the status quo of this household. I remain silently grateful and incline my head.

"Very good."