My name is Bruce Wayne.  But that name has become a mask to all but a select few.  There are very few people who understand who I really am, and until recently I thought the members of the Justice League of America could be counted among those few.  I am serious in my quest for justice, and that means protecting against the possibility that one of us—one of the elite crime fighters—could turn against justice, either by mental failure, or by an outside force beyond our control.  I recognize the fine line on which I walk.  The line that on any given night I could cross unwillingly.  I have left instructions for my son in the event that that may happen.

Many people consider me arrogant.  But I consider it extreme arrogance to ignore the possibility that such tremendous power could be abused without my consent.  The current seven core members of the Justice League have such arrogance.  I used to count myself among that core group, until they discovered and took exception to the plans I had drawn to counter each one of us.  I wonder if it would have made a difference if they had known that I included myself in those plans.  It matters little to me.

That was a month ago, and the only reason I think of it now is because, of those in the JLA, the man I thought understood me most of all is at my front door.  I see him on the monitors as I sit at my station below the mansion proper.  The killing blow was that this man—Clark Kent to some, Superman to others—cast the tie-breaking vote against me.  I thought he felt the same as I, for he had even given me the red Kryptonite ring in case he ever turned against humanity.

I watch as Alfred offers access into my home, and guides my one-time teammate to the hidden access. As I watch the clock slide aside on the monitors, and I hear the portal above me release.  I hear Clark descend alone, and, amused, I think to myself that Alfred didn't want to be anywhere near us when we make first contact.  I don't turn around—he knows I hear him—as he approaches me from behind.  I still don't turn around as I say rather coldly, "What can I do for you, Clark?"

I hear him sigh, and he hesitates.  I can tell he's stalling when he states, "I wanted to see how you were doing.  Dick's worried about you."

I still don't turn around as I answer, "Dick's always worried about me."  I hear the touch of scorn in my voice, but truthfully it doesn't belong there.  I'm more grateful to and for my son than words could ever express—even if I had the normal capacity to express.  And I know I must have let some of my true feelings show through, because in the reflection of the monitors, I see the sympathy in Clark's expression.  I'm getting soft.

He gets to the point, saying, "I.. we.. need your help."

Now I do turn to give him an incredulous expression.  My cowl is pulled back from my face, so that my expression is clear.  "Funny, you didn't seem to need my help a month ago.  I've refocused my priorities.  I no longer have time for you or the JLA.  I'm sure that's who you meant by we." As I finish that last sentence, I show him my back once again.

He nods and thinks a moment.  "We need a detective."

"Get Oracle to do it for you.  He's still a member."  Not even Clark knows that Oracle is a woman, let alone who she is, and I'd like to keep it that way.  At least I still have some secrets from him.

"Oracle is an information gather, not a detective," he responds.  He's right, of course. Barbara is the best at what she does, but what she does is not detective work.  He continues, "This is a world-wide problem, which means eventually it will reach Gotham."

He knows how to get me involved.  Involve my beloved city—tell me that she's in trouble—and he's got me.  He's known that weakness for a long time, and he's used it before.  I turn around again, studying him.  After a moment, I spin my chair so that I'm facing him fully, and I allow, "Tell me."

He sighs and doesn't take a seat.  And I don't offer one.  He starts, "There's an extraordinary amount of violence escalating world-wide."  I give him an annoyed expression as if to ask if he's wasting my time.  He sighs and continues, "It's bad enough that we've noticed.  It's not in just the traditional war zones.  It's everywhere.  In fact, I'm surprised it hasn't hit Gotham yet.  Arthur reports that even Atlantians are becoming violent."

Mention of the underwater king causes my eyes to narrow—I know that he was one of the members to be most adamant in his vote against me—and I see in Clark's eyes that he's noted my reaction.  Verbally ignoring the monarch, I ask, "Any particular kind of violence?  Murder? Rape?" I get the impression that he's shocked at my ease at mentioning such violence, but honestly, he should know better.  He should know that I can, out of necessity, turn off my emotions when talking about such things.   I'm surprised that I haven't noticed the escalating violence.  Perhaps I've been more distracted than I care to admit.  No, that isn't it.

He answers me with, "No, not really.  All kinds and levels of violence are being reported."

"Any kind of signals detected?  Maybe from space, or at least bouncing off the satellites?" I ask.

"None that Oracle can detect," he answers.  That's good enough for me, at least for now, and I nod in satisfaction.

I think a moment. One thing I have noticed was an extraordinary amount of people complaining about not being able to sleep and I wonder if there's a connection.  Many of those people that have complained are of the idiot social circles that would have no cause to lose sleep on any normal day. Even Dick has mentioned it, and I know that my son has learned my ability to fall asleep at a moment's notice.  A skill that is essential in our line of work.  And he said that even when he does fall asleep, he doesn't feel like he's slept at all when he wakes.

Automatically I try to sort the pieces, and I notice Clark's expression.  He sees that my mind is working, and he dares not interrupt me.  Which is good.  Suddenly I remember something Robin mentioned to me in passing the other night.  He said he couldn't concentrate because his felt like his brain wasn't being told enough stories; that while usually he could remember his dreams, the memories of which kept him entertained in the daytime, lately he wasn't remembering any of them.  At the time, I took it as an off-the-wall excuse for not getting his work done, but now I wonder if there's a connection. I ask, "Any reports of no remembered dreams?" 

I see his surprised expression, and I know he wonders how I ever came to ask that question.  Which is good.  I'll let him keep wondering.  He says slowly, "No, but we haven't been asking.  We'll start asking around, and we'll get Oracle on the job."  I nod, but we both know that I'll have Barbara on it faster than Superman ever will.

I explain, "People need to dream.  If we don't fall into REM sleep—if we don't dream—we don't get the required rest.  Well most of us, anyway."  Truth is, I haven't been sleeping anyway.  But that's not uncommon for me, so I didn't notice anything out of the ordinary. 

Clark nods, and asks, "Ok, how did you ever come to ask that?" 

I'm a little surprised that he actually asked me, although of course I don't let it show.  Although I told myself I wouldn't reveal it, since he asked, I say, "Dick mentioned that he can't get to sleep—unusual for him—and Robin mentioned to me the other day that he wasn't remembering any of his dreams, and that usually he is a vivid dreamer."

He nods, although by the thoughtful, almost dazed, look on his face, I think that his mind has gone to another topic. He says carefully, "I'm.. sorry.. for a month ago."  His vagueness doesn't matter; he knows I know what he's talking about.

I hear my voice harden as I say, "It's been forgotten."

He looks at me and responds, "Bruce, we both know that it hasn't." I give him no acknowledgement, continuing to stare at him with an impassive expression, and I'm rewarded with a sigh as he moves to turn from me.  With his back to me, he continues, "There is an unbalance.  It's unspoken, but we all know it's there.  We all rely too heavily on our physical talents."  I don't know what to say, even if I wanted to say anything, which I don't.  He continues, "I really think we need your knowledge and mental skills, but the JLA is too proud to admit their mistake in this matter."  He turns to face me, and I give him a slight expression of mock surprise.  He responds with a slight smile of amusement.

Then I shake my head.  I repeat, "I meant it when I said I don't have time for the JLA anymore.  They made it clear that they don't want me as a member.  We both know I don't work well with others.  Anyone who knows me even a little knows that I keep secrets.  Anyone who can't accept that shouldn't even consider working with me." 

"But, Bruce, the kinds of secrets.. ?"  he says, as though it mattered.

"The kinds of secrets?" I repeat accusingly, my voice rising a bit.  "I took the same oath as all of you.  To protect humanity and the team above all.  Do you think I took that lightly?" Although my expression doesn't change, my voice rises as I say those words, so that by the time I end, I can hear the echoes returning from the unseen crevices of my cave.  "Clark, you gave me that ring!"  He nods, and I know that that has been pointed out to him before.  By Dick.  I continue, leveling my voice, "Would it make you feel better if I gave you the rest of that file?  The file that included instructions on how to kill me?"  I'm not going to do that of course, especially now, but I see that my words had the intended effect.  Abashed, Clark is looking at the ground.  My voice rising again, I continue, "How about how to kill Dick? Or Robin?  Or even Oracle?  Do you think I like having those files?  Do you think I revel in coming up with such plans?"

"No.. of course not.." he manages. 

Before he can defend himself, I continue, "You know how I feel. You know I will not allow any injustice.  But I thought you also knew that I take my alliances seriously.  I thought the JLA understood my priorities and methods."

Now Clark does defend himself, and his voice starts to heat too, "We do understand you, Bruce, and until a month ago, we grudgingly accepted your methods in favor of being able to harness your skills.  And we were never sure of your priorities, Bruce.  Never sure that you didn't have some dark purpose hidden from the JLA."

I silently glare at him, and he holds my gaze, reflecting my hard, angry expression.  Continuing to glare, I spit angrily, "My priorities were never hidden.  Innocents and Gotham first, innocents everywhere else next.  Nothing else matters.  If the JLA didn't know that about me, we should have never been teammates in the first place."

He sighs and breaks the angry glare on me.  He knows I'm right.  He nods and says, "Ok, Bruce.  Thanks for the information, I'm sure it will help to break the crisis."  He turns to go back up to the mansion, and then turns back to say, "I hope some day you'll accept my friendship again."  Hiding my surprise at his words, I simply nod,  allowing my expression to soften.  I watch him as he turns again and ascends the stairs.  What he doesn't know is that I've never denied his friendship.  I simply know that friends sometimes fight.