Bruce Wayne watched the sun rise over the trees and sighed softly. It had been a long night for the young billionaire, who had narrowly escaped death at the hands of the psychotic ring leader, Jerome Valeska. He had went home, content in knowing that the psychopath had been apprehended, only to get a call from Detective Gordon that he had escaped again. Naturally, Alfred was in lock-down mode.

He hadn't been able to sleep when he got home. Instead, he helped Alfred pick up the mess Jerome's cult had left behind. Together, they picked up all the pieces of the owl statue that Jerome had shattered. It was now stored away. Together, they had picked up the pieces of Wayne Manor and put it all back together like a puzzle. The house was mostly clean again. Some furniture was unrepairable and had to be thrown out. It didn't bother Bruce very much. It was just furniture.

Alfred had told him to go rest, but Bruce had been unable to sleep much. He had lied awake in bed thinking of what Jerome had said. The point is that all these people out here, looting, robbing, killing, they're the people who wash your car, who pour your coffee, who take out your trash. And what happened the moment the lights went out? They showed their true faces. They showed how quickly they want to open up your rich boy veins and bathe in your blue blood! He could hear Jerome's raspy voice, close to his face and threatening as ever. Face it, kid. Gotham has no heroes.

The memory had certainly made it impossible to sleep. It became even more impossible when the call that Valeska had escaped came. Bruce now sat in his father's study, watching the sun rise with a tired expression. He absently scratched at his arm which Alfred had bandaged from Jerome's stapling.

He squinted at the morning light and released a soft sigh. He shook his head. It was no use to worry about it now. Jerome Valeska would be captured again soon enough. There was no need to worry.

Bruce groaned in frustration. He was exhausted. He walked over to the couch and plopped down on it, laying on his back and holding a pillow to his chest. He rubbed his head. Alfred had gone to make sure the house was secure. Surely, he should try to rest. It would only be for a minute or two. He just needed to close his eyes.

The young billionaire shut his eyes and rubbed his temple. His entire body felt heavy. He tried to push out the sounds of the carnival. He tried to push out the cries of the people being tortured by Jerome's demented games. He tried to push out the shriek as the man fell into the tank of piranhas. He tried to push out Jerome's laughter.

Bruce felt his body become too heavy for his mind to hold. He passed forth into oblivion, where there was only darkness.

When he came to, it was because someone was shaking him lightly. Bruce squinted his eyes shut. "Alfred?" he mumbled softly. "What is it? Is something wrong?" There was no answer, mere shaking. His arm was being squeezed, and Bruce became alarmed. Was something wrong? "Did Detective Gordon call? Has-" Bruce opened his eyes and froze. It was not the butler who was looking down at him, but Jerome Valeska, grinning like a madman.

"Your butler's taking a nap," the ginger said conversationally. Jerome had apparently gotten ahold of his face, because it had been stapled back into place. "As for the detective," he added, standing up straight and looking at the odd group of goons watching their prophet in amusement, "Well, I haven't heard from him."

Bruce was frozen in time for a moment, and then he came to and suddenly, instincts kicked in. He brought his leg up and kicked the older boy hard in the chest. It sent Jerome stumbling backwards with loud laughter. Bruce was up in a moment. Concerned to find his guardian, he dashed for the door. Jerome gestured at him and two of the strange cultists lunged forward, grabbing hold of Bruce by either arm. "No! Let go of me!"

"Kids these days," Jerome grunted, clambering to his feet. He looked at the other men and women standing and awaiting orders and shook his head. "There is no respect in today's youth."

"You are not going to get away with this," Bruce hissed, thrashing in the arms of the two men. "You're going to get caught, and then you're going to spend the rest of your life in Arkham."

Jerome spun to look at Bruce and narrowed his sight on the young billionaire. "You think so, Brucie?" he asked, walking over slowly. As Jerome took the first step forward, Bruce began to struggle harder. Jerome paused and smiled in a demented manner. "Aw. Look. I left an impression."

"Where's Alfred?" Bruce snapped, pulling at his arms.

The red haired psychopath rolled his eyes. "He's fine. He'll probably wake up with a major headache," Jerome shrugged, "but he's fine. And he'll remain that way, as long as you behave yourself."

Bruce slowly stopped struggling at those words and stared at the resurrected lunatic with furrowed brows, unable to mask his confusion. Jerome smiled gleefully. He did so enjoy that look Bruce made. It was quite a hoot. "What are you talking about?" Bruce asked slowly. "You're here to kill me, aren't you?"

Jerome looked off and gave a little shrug, tilting his head back and forth in a manner that was both shaking his head and nodding it at the same time. "Well, initially, yes," he admitted, and admired the way Bruce immediately tensed up. "On the drive here, though, I started thinking." He pointed his finger at his head and spun it around as if to signal the cogs turning in his mind. "I started thinking about that conversation you and I had about Gotham having no heroes-"

"And you were wrong," Bruce said pointedly.

Jerome pointed at him. "Don't interrupt me," he said immediately.

Bruce's mouth snapped shut.

"And I thought about how you rushed right in to fight me. Some would even say that was admirable." He sighed dramatically and clasped his hands together. "If you ask me, you looked like a complete ass." He dropped his hands and took another long step forward. Bruce winced and tried to move backwards. Jerome reveled in the boy's fear. "But what you looked like is beside the point," Jerome said finally. His hands moved as he spoke. He was very theatrical, Bruce noted. He really would have been quite the showman if he hadn't been such a lunatic.

"Then what is the point?" Bruce asked haughtily.

Jerome gave him a dangerous look and took out a pocket knife. He pointed it at the boy. "Hush," he said in a warning tone.

The young billionaire glared daggers at Jerome and huffed. Jerome seemed to take some amusement in that, because he giggled happily. He suddenly skipped forward, causing Bruce to gasp softly and struggle to move back. He couldn't, of course, and Jerome was soon standing directly in front of him. Bruce froze and stared up at Jerome wide eyed, like a deer caught in headlights.

"The point, my little conquistador," he growled, "is that Gotham really doesn't have any heroes. The sooner you learn that, the better." He smiled. "And who better to teach you than yours truly?" He tilted his head and held out his arms wide as if presenting himself. Valeska's eyes gleamed with madness. It made Bruce shudder.

"You tried that already," Bruce whispered. He narrowed his eyes at Jerome. "It didn't work. I have faith in this city, and in the people in it."

"Exactly," Jerome rasped, nodding his head in agreement. "And that's what you and I are gonna fix."

Bruce gave him that confused look yet again and Jerome chuckled in his raspy voice. "Take him to the van, boys!" he ordered suddenly, and Bruce's eyes widened as the two men began to drag him away. "And you! Here." Jerome reached into a bag held by a tattooed man and tossed a can of spray paint to a woman with dyed red hair. "You know what to do."

The woman grinned widely and caught the different paints Jerome threw at her. She walked over to the wall and went to work spraying the large, menacing smiley face with HAHA's for a mouth. Jerome sighed dramatically and looked around happily as the two men began dragging the young boy out of the study.

"No! Let go of me! Hey!"

Bruce growled and kicked at the two men. One of them hissed in pain and hopped on one foot. "Damn it! You little brat!"

Jerome rolled his eyes and called over, "Brucie, what did I say about behaving yourself? Unless you want a certain hard headed butler to get his brains smashed all over the nice, shiny kitchen floor, I suggest you go outside with my boys there and get in the van." The last few words came out in an absolutely menacing growl. His eyes darkened at the boy and Bruce flinched slightly. He stopped kicking at the men. "There's a good boy. Off you go now."

The two cultists shot glares at Bruce as they yanked him out of the study. He was led down the familiar halls and out the front doors. A line of vans were waiting for them.

"Where are we going?" Bruce stuttered.

Neither answered, but both smiled widely and giggled.

Bruce found himself being thrown into the back of a van where two more cultists - a woman wielding a massive machete and a man sporting nun-chucks - were waiting to grab hold of him. Bruce winced as they shoved him in a seat.

He sat anxiously as he saw Jerome's goons filing out of the house. Jerome came out with them, looking incredibly cheerful for someone who had only been alive for less than a day. He practically skipped his way over to the van Bruce was sitting in and jumped into the back. He swung around, leaned forward towards the driver's seat as someone took that empty space and started the car. "You comfy back there, Bruce?" he called over his shoulder.

The younger boy didn't answer. He watched with widened eyes as the other vans filled with the cultists. One more climbed into their van and shut the doors behind her. "We're all set," she chimed.

"Excellent," Jerome said with a pleased expression. "In which case, let's get the hell outta here."

The proclaimed prophet stepped back and fell into the seat across from Bruce. He looked over at the young billionaire with a dark expression in his eyes. Bruce stared back, pursing his lips and refusing to show just how afraid he was. "Where are we going?" he asked.

Jerome Valeska smiled widely and leaned his head forward, looking out at Bruce in a demented manner. "Home," he replied.