CHAPTER XIII

LET IT BLEED

I will not move from my meditation until each blade of grass under this tree is enlightened

-The Buddha

I will not accept the glory of Heaven until I have done all that I to free my people.

-Muhammad

-Friedrich Nietzsche

When they march out to battle

They shall write on their standards

Truth of God

Justice of God

Glory of God

Judgement of God

-The Dead Sea Scrolls, The War Scroll

GOTHAM CITY

The BHUYIAN COMMUNITY CENTER

DECADES AGO

Thomas Wayne, the wealthy non-believer, looked about the large yet room that the celebration was being held in, noted all the believers present, and reaffirmed his opinion that this would be a good first public event for his infant son to attend.

The Bhuyian Community Center gala was a success, by all accounts. The center, including the dining hall that everyone stood and spoke in, was as modest as it was equipped. Pools, kitchens, gardens, clinics, libraries, dojos, class rooms, and dance floors, were some of the public services offered by an administration, mostly consisting of Muslims of various nationalities, that seemed to embrace the oh so folksy belief in doing the right thing for other people simply because it was the right thing to do. In this case, providing valuable and costly services for free or for substantially reduced rates for the destitute.

Thomas provided hundreds of thousands of dollars to this center, primarily hoping to facilitate a new generation of Muslim and/or Middle Eastern immigrant Gothamites into the city he believed so much in, sometimes without even knowing why. These new Americans were now coming to Gotham in substantial numbers in order to seek opportunity, many of them most likely warned about the dark nightmare Gotham too often proved itself to be via television and newspapers. Having come from a lineage of immigrant ancestors who arrived in America with no guarantee that their leap into faith would be rewarded by diligence and tenacity, Thomas felt himself obliged to provide resources to his new fellow Americans, especially considering that too few resources were provided to his ancestors. He wanted these Arab, Iranian, Indian, and Asian immigrants to be treated the way they should be and not the way that Jewish, Irish, Polish, and Italian immigrants had been. Given everything that his forefathers and foremothers had been through, how could he not serve his fellow citizens?

The BCC was about thirteen stories high and covered 10,000 feet. The architecture, while largely of various Islamic traditions, felt traditional yet modern at the same time, familiar enough to encourage immigrants into entering yet modern enough to increase the chance that the immigrants might actually take a chance on engaging fully into a city that had once been described as "Metropolis' Ugly Twin Sister" (Thanks, Star City Herald). As someone who personally oversaw the construction of all of his businesses, Thomas found the Center to be a breath of fresh hair from a city that all too often looked like Edward Hopper had become a bitter alcoholic.

Glancing out of the corner of his eyes while still paying attention to the man he was conversing, Thomas saw the Center's Board of Directors weren't lying when they said that while the BCC was designed primarily to provide resources to Middle Eastern and Muslim immigrants, the Center would be available to all who desired to enter. Thankfully, only a few of Thomas' fellow blue bloods were in the room, and those whom he actually liked (It was unlikely Roger Eliot or Tucker Cobblepot would show interest in anything that wasn't guaranteed to line their pockets, but Thomas was grateful not to see anyone like them nonetheless. Not to mention that he and Marla Eliot got drunk and slept together before Thomas met his wife without Roger knowing. Best not to leave any breadcrumbs around for him to find…). Attendants included employment center representatives, Rabbis, homeless advocates, monks, food bank volunteers, priests, and several others dedicated to serving all Gothamites regardless of belief, race, or ethnicity. The more that the night progressed, the more confident he felt that this center was going to achieve everything that its board of directors said that it would, especially since the man with whom he was speaking was going to be the captain of the ship.

"Mr. Wayne, I cannot thank you enough for your support!" Professor Darius Babar said, his silver eyebrows wide in authentic gratitude, a slight Iranian lilt to his voice. He was a handsome middle aged man, probably older than he looked, with darker olive skin tone, salt and pepper hair, and trendy glasses. Thomas found him to be delightful (a word he rarely found a genuine opportunity to use): his enthusiasm was palpable, his demeanor was intellectual yet charismatic, and he seemed to possess a genuine, inner nobility Thomas thought rare. "Originally, with what money we had saved and combined with donations, we would have only been able to open the mosque, the library, and some of the classrooms. But with your astonishing contribution, we've accomplished far more than we could ever have expected! I don't even know how I can show you my gratitude beyond saying 'thank you', as mundane as that may be. What is the saying when it comes to getting things done and living up to your word? Walking the walk versus talking the talk? I wish very much to walk the walk by repaying you in whatever way I can!"

"Please, Prof Babar, the pleasure is all mine," Thomas replied with a loose movement of his hand politely dismissing Babar's invitation at compensation, using his other hand to hold a plastic cup of ginger ale instead of wine, just like the Center's Chief Director. When in Rome… " Truth be told, I've never been much of a believer: I was more or less raised by lukewarm Christians whose passion for secular humanism drove them to compassion and success. I have absolutely nothing against religion though. On the contrary, I believe that there are plenty of fine and decent people on this planet who use their beliefs to make this world a better place to live in. If Judaism causes a Jew or if Hinduism causes a Hindu to serve his fellow human being, then who am I to judge? I am aware, of course, that Islam is a distinct and unique religion, and that to ignore that would be disrespectful. I've conducted some research on Islam before deciding to make my donation, cursory research, sadly, but as much as time as my schedule would allow me. And, while what I've studied may have perhaps reinforced what I already held to be true… still at the same time, the more I studied the Prophet Muhammad (peace and glory be upon him), his revelations, and the persecution but eventual triumph of the new monotheistic people, the stronger became my conviction that people around the world have far more in common than they do differences. I believe that's somewhat close to your philosophy, Prof Babar? I crammed in as many dissertations of yours as I could the moment I first learned of the celebration's date, but I feared it was too little, too late."

"Ah, we must be kindred spirits, Mr. Wayne, as you have (How you say…?) hit the nail on the head regarding my writings and teachings," The Imam said, smiling at Thomas' earnest diligence. "It's not as though I believe Islam to be truer than Judaism or Christianity or Buddhism or any other faith. All of the faiths are true, its just that they use different symbols to say the same things and to express the same messages*. It's really up to the person experiencing the text what he will get out of it, depending on who he or she is. The book reads the reader, not just the other way around. That's why I first floated the idea of actively bringing in others not accustomed to Islam to the center's board so that all of us Gothamites can discover everything that we have in common."

"Well since I, an unbelieving agnostic have found that I agree with you on many things, I would say that that's definitely correct," Thomas said, suddenly seeming distracted, craning his neck to the side as if to try to see something behind the Imam. Babar glanced behind him.

It did not take the professor long to see what had suddenly distracted Thomas. A naturally pretty young woman with medium length wavy brown hair and freckles, dressed humbly and simply in a beige blazer, black v neck shirt and black jeans completed with a string of apparently faux pearls (Judging by how perfectly round they were), entered the room, adorned with a sling containing a tiny, wrapped pink creature inside. She was accompanied by a similarly aged man, dressed smartly in a suit and tie who seemed neither tense nor relaxed, but merely ready to react appropriately to whatever might occur, for better or for worse, for worse or for better. The woman seemed to radiate warmth: more than a few heads turned to her way, not the lunging of dogs ready to fight for a steak tossed at them, but the twisting of flowers that had grown as strong as they could with much dark but little light, now beholding the arrival of a sun, not seeing it for so long that they had even forgotten what it looks like, yet compelled all the same, twisting up to feel its golden rays.

"My apologies for being late, Thomas," the new man said in a rich British voice. "Traffic was tighter than I thought it-"

"Don't lie for me, Alfred!" The young woman exclaimed reproachfully. She turned to smile at the professor and extended her hand, saying, "I'm Martha, Thomas' wife. It's my fault entirely: I forgot where I put my good heels because I don't wear them often. I grew up in a duplex where good clothes were usually reserved for Christmas gifts, so I've been getting used to Thomas' 007 lifestyle. Hopefully my lack of fashion sense doesn't make me look too disheveled for your gathering."

Babar took Martha's hand with a warm smile. "You are much too hard on yourself, Mrs. Wayne," he said. "for it is written: Indeed, God is with the patient.* In any event, the celebration hasn't been going on for too long. Thank you so much for appearing! I know many of the guests here have been awaiting your arrival: I understand that you're quite the desired attendant at community services."

"Indeed, she is," Thomas said as the hands fell apart. "It was Martha who first told me about what you were trying to do. Indeed, she's the one who turned my life around when it came to finally serving others. She's helped, ah, please pardon the vulgarity, pull my head out of my butt when it comes to wealth and its functions. When I was in my 20's and still a child, everything was me me me me me me me, and I was spent my unearned inheritance that way. (Which, now that I think about it, got really old really fast. I never would have believed that you would have gotten tired of eating steak and lobster every day.) But then I met Martha, then I started using my wealth to serve Gotham, and now I get to make sure that Bruce learns lessons about character that my parents tried to teach me and that I failed to learn miserably. I'm confident because of that that Bruce here will eventually become twice the man that I am and learn that he, like everyone else, is just one small connected piece of the whole."

Prof Babar smiled at Thomas' sense of humor and Martha's reaction. "Ugh, he makes it sounds so dramatic," she said, rolling her eyes. "All I did was get him to volunteer and donate more often, and then he came to the oh so stunning realization that life is more fulfilling when you use your money to find cures for diseases and to build homes for the homeless than it is to live every day as though you're at some stupid MTV party. That's something I loved when I came across it in my research of Islam when I first heard about what you trying to build this community center : the generosity towards the poor that the Prophet Muhammad insisted on, especially with the zakat: "It is not righteousness that ye turn your faces to the East and the West; but righteous is he who believeth in Allah and the Last Day and the angels and the Scripture and the Prophets; and giveth his wealth, for love of Him, to kinsfolk and to orphans and the needy and the wayfarer and to those who ask" , If I remember the verse correctly? As a Jewish Gothamite, born and raised, used to profit being worshipped by too many people in this city as a Golden Calf, I always find it amazing when any religion demands serving others. How else can we possibly show God that we love Him when we don't even show it to each other?"

She paused, then laughed in a self-deprecating manner. "But I'm totally forgetting my manners!" She said with such a charming smile that the Imam half-expected an anime tear-drop to produce from her head (He prevented himself from giggling at the thought by biting down slightly on his bottom lip). "Prof. Babar, this is Alfred Pennyworth, Thomas' best friend and our son's godfather".

"A pleasure, Prof. Babar," Pennyworth said, shaking his hand. "I daresay, you've organized a most successful celebration! Not to dredge up any sordid business, but with the controversy surrounding this center from the more intolerant media personalities, I had feared that this would end up being a bust. Congratulations, sir!"

"Thank you, Mr. Pennyworth," Babar said smiling despite the fact that his hands detected a surprising amount of muscle on the eloquent gentleman. He looked more closely at Pennyworth's eyes: He was not surprised to see the eyes of the soldier in him*. Pennyworth's expression didn't change, and Babar would not have been surprised if he was attempting to read him as well. Well, Wayne was wealthy and prestigious: it only made sense for him to hide his sword inside of a harmless looking cane. At least the Imam's skills weren't failing him. After years of planning and hiding and waiting, he could hardly afford to slow down now.

The hands fell and Babar's eyes fell upon the baby with a soft smile. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Pennyworth study him with a slightly rigid smile. Ah, so he did detect the same kindred spirit and was naturally more cautious regarding his godson. Perhaps that was why Wayne selected Pennyworth for his son's godfather? A wise move. Anyway, it had been too long since he had had the privilege of looking upon a newborn, one of Allah's greatest gifts to Man, a reminder that no matter how dire things became, life would always find a way, and with new life, the future of humanity would always possess fresh potential for making the world a better place to live in.

"And who is this most charming young fellow?" Prof Babar asked in a playful tone.

The baby glanced at Babar with slightly wide, pondering, curious eyes.

"This is Bruce," Martha said with a heartwarming smile.

Babar's eyes met the baby's eyes and felt the breath leave his body.

It was a moment that existed beyond time and space to Babar. Everybody else ceased to exist. Only the Imam and the baby remained.

It was the baby's blue eyes that the wisely hardened yet wisely merciful sage fell into without hesitation, without reserve, without dread. In those two blue eyes he saw one, one Life, one Destiny, one Eternity. In that eye, he saw war born of Peace and Peace born of War.

The rotting soil choked by the weeds of murder, apathty, and hatred, yet still containing some seed of plant and herb and flower. The same lifeless soil bearing fruit with every reason to reject life, but still poseesing the concrete possibility of embracing it. In a universe of dark, empty chaotic matter, the Dark Lotus of Compassion rising still a concrete reality.*

The stars and the spirits they contained so much brighter because of the dark and the night that surrounded them.

Dark and Light combined. Light and Dark transcended.

The magic that penetrated all life and insured all potential for change. Things always changing and things always staying the same, things always staying the same, and things always changing, and the resulting equilibrium of the cosmos. The radical, incredible, unknowable transformations that all would endure and experience and enjoy, not of fate, but of destiny. The transformations of those who had not given life purpose but who had had purpse bestowed upon them.

The dark, tragic, excrutiating destiny of this child. The all consuming illumination that he could gain from it. If he so chose it. And the choice would be such a difficult one. Yet still the choice could be made.

And the wings that would carry this child through it all…

Babar snapped out of his revelation and noticed that the Waynes' were giving him odd looks. The lines in Pennywise's jaws had become more rigid. Babar cursed himself for not better controlling his perspicacity.

"… is everything all right, Prof. Babar?" Thomas asked, cautiously.

"Um, oh, yes, I'm fine, sorry about all that", Babar chuckled nervously, rapidly thinking what his next response could be. "I think I just… ah… I think I might have just… 'sensed' how special your son is. Perhaps… (*cough*)… perhaps unusually so…"

"… what do you mean?" Martha asked, sounding confused. "Unusual how?"

"Well… does he cry much?" The Imam asked.

Thomas and Martha glanced at each other.

"… I suppose he doesn't", Thomas eventually answered.

"And does he ever seem… deep in thought? More… curious about things than others his age?" Babar pressed.

"I… I suppose that he might…" Martha said, sounding like she didn't know where this was going and wouldn't feel much more comfortable until she started receiving some answers as to what this was all about.

"Well, it's… it's just that looking at your son, I am reminded of what an old friend of mine told me," Prof. Babar said. "A Buddhist monk, to be exact. He was the one who originally sparked my interest in Buddhism, which led to my studies in Comparative Religions. The story he told me was about the man who surpassed even the gods, but much more importantly, surpassed even himself, Prince Siddhartha Gautama, the original Lord Buddha. A man who was born a prince in an ancient Indian kingdom, but, after recognizing the pain and misery and suffering inherent in life, chose to forsake the power and wealth he could easily have obtained if he simply chose to accept the throne and his inheritance like everyone wanted him to. Instead, he renounced all that, sought Enlightenment, sough the true nature of reality, sought the deep, fundamental answer to that deep, fundamental question: What is this?* At the very heart and at the very root of all things, beyond all deceits, delusions, and misconceptions, beyond the lies and falsehoods we tell each other and the lies we tell ourselves… What is this?"

"That's a vast oversimplification of a very complicated man and a very complicated story, but that's the general set-up, if you don't know it well", Babar continued, speaking rapidly, praying that the Waynes' were following him on this. "Now, shortly after Prince Siddhartha was born, his mother and father, the King and Queen, had the sages of the Kingdom all visit the boy and give their opinions about his future. All agreed that he would become a great King some day, even greater than his father."

"But the last sage, the oldest of all of them, said something rather than different than the rest of the sages. He did agree that, yes, the boy would end up becoming an even greater king than his father. But, more so than that… the child would either end up becoming King of the entire World… or he would become the King of Himself. And in so doing, finally obtain freedom."

Thomas, Martha, and Pennyworth all gave him blank looks. Not what he was hoping for.

"So… you're saying that Bruce is special?" Pennyworth half asked, half said.

"… um, yes", Babar eventually stammered out. Technically, he wasn't lying if he only told part of the truth, no matter how (extremely) small that part was. "That's all I meant, really. Less said can really be more said, Mr. Pennyworth! Forgive my rambling and disjointed tirade, I fear that I may have had one glass of wine too many tonight."

"I thought Islam prohibits drinking?" Thomas asked.

"Ah, look, it's Prof. Abdallah!" The Imam exclaimed, pointing to another man across the room. "Mrs. Wayne, I believe your husband has told me that you're quite fond of poetry, especially Walt Whitman? Prof. Abdallah is the leading Gothamite authority on Rumi, Sham Tabrizi, Hafiz, and sufi poetry in general. Come, I've been meaning to introduce you to him all night."

Not at all unwilling to move on from this strange turn of events, the Waynes' and Pennyworth allowed themselves to be herded towards Abdallah. Though still rattled, Babar forced himself to carry on as though nothing had happened, and forced himself to keep his eyes off the child.

You only need to do this for about another hour more, Darius He thought to himself, laughing at some joke Abdallah told along with the others despite not hearing it. Then you make the call and alert the others. We've found him. We've found the Bat. We've found the Chosen One. We've found the Teacher of Righteousness.

DAYS LATER

Prof. Babar sighed as he sat leaned back in his chair at his desk. The past few days had been productive, but productive in the chaotic sense. With a promised minimum to himself of at least six hours of sleep a night (Though usually four), he had spent the last few several days teaching classes, hiring tour guides, leading meditation circles, organizing the curriculum, overseeing the last of the construction and painting, hanging up and installing the last of the art pieces, mailing all of the thank you letters, helping the secretaries with the flood of phone calls, paying all of the bills, and, of course, praying and thanking God five times a day, as per usual. Oh, and then he found the prophesied and destined child who his order had spent decades searching for in order to liberate humanity from the dark forces who currently controlled it. So… at least he couldn't say that everything was the same old, same old.

The Imam rummaged in his desk for an edible. Flowers were a no go. The American government was already not thrilled that an Iranian Muslim was in their nation; an Iranian Muslim who partook of herb would get the gavel landing on his ass hard.

Babar found the lozenge he was looking for, then popped it into his mouth. So the word was out now. Who among his allies would be the first to arrive? Probably that lunatic drunk monk, knowing his luck, and knowing that he was the next in line to train their apparent savior. God in Heaven, what if Bruce turned out to become every bit as demented as his master?

Babar closed his eyes, pushing the lozenge around with his tongue, savoring the cherry flavor. Maybe what he needed to do now was to clear his mind and relax. It would take the others a few days at least to arrive here from their respective nations. They would come as quickly as they could, felling whatever obstacles came before them with precision. The monk, on the other hand, would most likely drive his Bultaco Matador as fast as he could after gulping down one bourbon, one scotch, and one beer*, crash repeatedly, and then finally make it here after the others. It's not as if he could suddenly stop suffering the consequences of his own helter-skelter lifestyle just because one of the most important people to ever become a part of his life had just-

"Evenin', Darius," A hoarse voice croaked.

Babar cringed, regretting his thoughts immediately as he heard the voice. Then he opened his eyes calmly and glanced at the direction of the voice.

The shaved head. The Tibetan monk robes. The yellow aviator sunglasses. The cigarette holder and its attached cigarette burning red, lighting the man's face. Babar found himself grateful at least that the monk was not his enemy. That red light combined with a vicious snarl or deranged smirk might suggest that one could use his lunacy against him. But that somber, disciplined, straight line that was his mouth? That meant, at least for now, that the monk was in control of his madness and that he took the news of the child every bit as seriously as everybody else. He was never more dangerous than when he was in control of his madness.

"Evening, Hongse De Niao," Babar said, somewhat relieved to see his old, familiar comrade in spite of himself, somewhat concerned that his appearance in this city would cause guns to go off, bombs to explode, and skyscrapers to burn. To be fair, that would be pretty much that case wherever he went though. "You made impeccable timing. Normally the public intoxication, screaming laughter, death threats, and random shots from your colt at random locations tend to delay your travels a tad."

"Not this time, hoss," De Niao said. His voice was half deep mutter, half restrained passion. Babar was almost impressed by Hongse's unusual sense of self control… until the monk pulled a flask out from the insides of his robes and took a swig from it. Well, at least he wasn't gulping like in the past. (It took a rag soaked with ether to calm him down and then a brass knuckle punch to his face to knock him out after he started loudly demanding to know when Gandalf would put out a reggae album while shooting his luger at the moon. In his defense, anyone would have become that crazed after that much acid.) "Want some?"

"I'm Muslim, remember?" Babar asked, sounding tired, using a hand to rub his temple. For so many other occasions, he would actually like seeing his erratic brother in arms, against his better judgement. (He was actually pretty fun, once you made sure that he didn't have any guns on him). But when it came to the question of the Destined Child, Hongse De Niao was the last person that he wanted breaking into his office. (Babar glanced at the sliding door that led out to the balcony that Hongse must have entered through. He wasn't surprised in the least to see the electronic alarm smashed to pieces nor that Hongse seemed to be oblivious to his bleeding hand).

"Never stopped me," Hongse said, shrugging as he took a sip.

"Not much seems too," Babar muttered.

Hongse finished his drink, then gave the Imam a look. Not a dirty look, but a look.* Even through his yellow tinted lenses, even through his slightly reddened eyes, Babar could still see the same intense glint that he had noticed some time after they had first met, that striking mixture of both naked vulnerability and daring courage that the monk only showed to those he trusted enough to see him as he truly was, beyond the shades, beyond the drinks, beyond the guns, beyond everything he used to isolate himself from the man that he used to be.

"Where's the boy, Darius?" De Niao asked, his voice flat, devoid of any charm, only intensity remaining.

"Where any baby should be at this time of night, I would imagine," Prof. Babar replied. "Safe at home with his mother and father. But if you're asking me where home is… that would be Wayne Manor. Right where the county begins, out in the countryside. Maybe about a twenty-thirty minute drive from there to the city."

"A palace, huh?" Hongse said, beginning to smirk a little. "Filled with a prince, a king, and a queen. The similarities to the most famous prince in my tradition keeps piling on, Darius. I can see why you have so much faith in your premonition, even with all of our past troubles at understanding the promises of the Dead Sea Scrolls."

The smirk fell. "He's mine to train, you know", he said, almost snarling, as though expecting the placid and quiet professor to refute this. "All of the other houses have had their chances at getting the Teacher of Righteousness to prepare for his war against the Kittim. Well, it's my house's turn now, and I don't give a rat's ass if you or anyone else in the Children of the Light have a problem with it. I know that you all think that I'm crazy. I know you're scared that I'll make the boy every bit as unhinged and sociopathic as myself. You've all always wondered why the master of my house chose me to become his successor, especially considering that I'm the exact opposite of that new-age-kumbaya-we-are-the world-horse-crap those pencil necked geeks in LA have made us out to be. Under my wing, the boy will come out as mad as I deem fit to finally destroy the Children of the Dark, and there's not a damn thing you or any other lily-livered Nancy boy can do to stop me!"

"Yes," Prof. Babar simply answered.

The monk seemed to calm down. "Yes to what part?" He asked.

"Yes to the fact that you're crazier than a sack filled with cats, and yes to the fact that, due to the loyalty we all share for the Children of the Light, we will do nothing to prevent you from teaching the destined Teacher of Righteousness even if it means that the boy ends up becoming as stark raving mad as you, you severely dysfunctional drunk," Babar answered.

"Well… alright then," Honsge said, relaxing. He took another sip. "And before you start nagging me, I've been taking it easy on the hooch. I've been drinking fermented horse milk instead of vodka for a while now*. Not as young as I used to be, you know. And knowing you, you'll probably be happy to know that I have to drink buckets of this stuff before I can get a real buzz going."

"Praise Allah," Babar muttered. "His parents aren't going to like this. They respect religion, but they're not believers. I got lucky with the Waynes' generosity: I doubt I'm going to get lucky when I tell them that their child is the reincarnation of the warrior we intend to train, support, and utilize to finally win a centuries long war."

The monk's hands paused just as he was about to pull out a new cigarette from the insides of his robe. For a moment, he did nothing.

"… I'm not sure we're going to need to worry about that," he said at last. He did not sound happy about this likely difficulty not needing to be worried about.

Prof. Babar didn't like the mad monk's unexpected change in tone. Calling the Waynes' egg-sucking dogs and threatening to leave nothing but scorched earth where their house used to stand would have been far more his want. The solemnity to Hongse's voice sent a small chill down the professor's spine.

"… what do you mean?" Babar tentatively asked.

By this point, the monk had attached a new cigarette to his holder and lit it. He seemed to be thinking as he inhaled the smoke. Even through his yellow lenses, Babar could see that his comrade's eyes were neither slit with rage, bloodshot with intoxication, or dilated with hallucinogens as they so often were. The imam's intuition told him that the monk could be as drunk as a skunk or as high as a kite at this point but his eyes would not lose the dull, soft melancholy so uncommon yet so fitting for him. Babar, to his own surprise, realized that this scared him a little and that he preferred the brother who would calmly sip a long island ice tea with one hand and shoot his magnum at a shooting target silhouette with the other or who would take a blot of LSD before driving his motorcycle through the mountains while blaring The Rolling Stones to the frail, tired looking man standing before him now. That man's eyes suggested that in order to show his new charge the Road to Peace… he must first teach him how to bear the seemingly unbearable agony that broke so many and strengthened so few.

"… you weren't the first to sense this, Darius," Hongse said in a soft voice, the voice of a man who was half way though the race and had lost a step along the way. "I've been having dreams for the past few months, and I've been receiving visions when I meditate. Now that I'm here, and now that I know what you've seen, and now that I've taken a good look at your eyes and I can tell that this ain't no damned goose hunt but that what you have seen has shaken you to the core… it's all clickin' into place."

In spite of his violent, impulsive, and manic disposition, Hongse was a master meditator, who could spend days not moving. Like it or not, Babar couldn't write this off as hallucinations born of a plastic baggie of magic mushrooms.

"What have you seen?" Babar asked.

De Niao inhaled, exhaled wisps of smoke. They seemed to encircle him, smoldering fumes of calm revelation born from a furnace of high functioning dysfunctionality.

"I've seen a giant Bat," Hongse finally said. "A Bat made completely out of night. Pitch black except for the eyes. The eyes… those are white. Demon white. The color of funerals, of grieving, of death*."

"Then it swoops down underneath my vision 'till I can't see it any more", Hongse continued. Eventually it comes back up. But when it does, it ain't the same Bat as before. It's… it's no color that I've ever seen. It might have been a new color, too… 'celestial' for words. Hell, it might have been all colors at the exact same time or maybe… maybe that's what it looked like because it went beyond color, because it transcended it."

"And when that Bat swooped down…" Hongse said, sounding half transfixed, one part of him rooted in the material world, the other rooted in the world of spirit. "The agony that I could feel in it was staggering. But then when it swooped back up… it was as though… as though the reason it was able to soar so high up was precisely because of how far it had been forced to fall."

Inhale, exhale.

"If the boy ends up anything like his parents, he'll be a white American with beauty, wealth, and power," Hongse eventually said. "And a whole mess of spirits* are gonna resent him for being born into a world of privilege, of inheriting a kingdom through no effort of his own while they bust their butts without so much as a pot to piss in. But you and I know better, and so will the boy, eventually. Cause ain't that the worst thing in the world, Darius? Believing that the people at the very top are exempt from the natural cosmic laws that crap happens and that life is one damn thing after another, only to find out that the ivory tower bougies sweat and cry and bleed just like the rest of 'little people'? Cause at least if the Richie Richs' never got tired of living la dolce vita, at least if he who dies with the most toys wins* were true, at least if some self-entitled corporate welfare king Wall Street vampire's got a blonde bombshell of a trophy wife and a mistress young enough to be his daughter with a Camaro, a Ferrari, and a Lamborghini in a garage big enough to house an entire starving family and a mansion on a private island and private Springsteen concerts and a rocket ship and break dancing monkeys and his own name carved into the moon and because of all of that his life must be perfect and awesome and amazing and thus he must never be able to suffer like anyone else… at least then it would be so much easier to hate someone like him. And in believing that the powerful, the rich, and the privileged don't feel any kind of sorrow or anger or jealousy or loss or envy or anxiety… you could at least believe that if you were like those people, you would finally stop suffering yourself."

"And you believe that this child will learn these bitter truths of life because of what tragedy he will eventually endure and what you will teach him," Babar said, not asked.

"If he's truly the Teacher of Righteousness, then he'll come looking for me so he can liberate others, not so that he can become Mr. Big Time Hero and prove to everyone that he's a big fat important person" the monk said. "If he's the one, he won't resist against the facts. Don't matter if you're born god, devil, man, poor, wealthy, male, female, gay, straight, trans black, brown, white, yellow, red, or anything else you can think of. To live is to suffer and ain't nothin' ever gonna change that. But… to accept your suffering… to understand that suffering is what all beings have in common… to use your suffering to help you understand others better and to use your suffering to make you stronger and to be grateful for your suffering precisely because of that… that is freedom. That is liberation. That is bliss."

The imam's eyes opened slightly at this, in surprise at De Niao's wisdom and in surprise at his own surprise. So often had the monk's inebriation required the other members of their order to hold him down in order to prevent him from leaping over a bar counter headfirst at the bar tender who had the audacity to accidently pour two shots of vodka into his screwdriver instead of three. So often had he and the others resisted the urge to stomp him to death because whatever he took was either making him scream or laugh hysterically or a combination of the two. And so often did they all wonder if God was playing a cruel joke on them by giving them an ally in the form of a madman who thought it entirely reasonable to respond to a malfunctioning television by using a M-60 while screaming all manner of obscenities and blasphemies*. (To be fair, Honge's reaction to being told that the TV probably wasn't working was because it looked like it wasn't even plugged in was a big old grin and a "Oh well, what can you do?" Babar, after some deliberation, decided not to tell him that what he could do was to try to solve problems without weapons that could spray bullets as fast as Sonic the Hedgehog on speed. No point in kicking a hornet's nest, especially when the ecstasy had just kicked in).

But then Hongse De Niao delivered his wisdom, and all memories of drugs, violence, and insanity evaporated away like so much cigarette smoke upon a windy day. When Prof. Babar had first met Hongse, he thought that the monk was sagacious in spite of his erratic lunacy. Now, he knew better. But because he once did not know better, he could not possibly look down on those who also misunderstood him. The shotguns and the LSD and the frothing at the mouth, as loud and as conspicuous and as explosive as they all were, were but mere features of a far more complicated man, mere parts of a single, complex whole gained from constantly braving the storm of life while so many others merely existed upon its shores. *To the less perceptive, the gunfire sound and the unappeasable fury were the admirable qualities of an entertaining cartoon character, or a glib conclusion that doing whatever you wanted whenever you wanted would lead you to an higher state of consciousness where cauliflower tastes like candy and there is no such thing as bills. For others more disciplined, yet arguably as mistaken, De Niao was at best an amusing fringe Buddhist, someone who could at least perhaps be successfully used to lure in the curious, but not at all ever meant to be suggested in the same breath as "serious Buddhism".

To think either would be to miss the point entirely. High on booze, high on psychedelics, high on his high octane lifestyle… it was all just the surface. An appealing surface, to be sure. But if people knew the true reason why Hongse acted in such a way… why he would snort so much that you could expect him to don a top hat and a cane, why he would smoke enough to require the use of a chimney sweeper, and why he would drink so much that he couldn't even remember that he had been crying during his stupor… if they knew why the surface of the man existed, the frat boys and the party girls wouldn't see some wild and wacky sitcom character and the skeptics wouldn't see a contemptible charlatan who couldn't be taken seriously on the best day of his life. What they would see, if they looked beyond the veneer of fun and games and circus… would be a man who used it all as a way of protecting others as much as himself from the man that he used to be.

"When I first met you, I thought that you were a fluke," Babar said. "A horrible product of chance. A sad, cruel joke that could at best be endured, at worst have to be stranded on a desert island or thrown into a volcano or rocketed to the moon in order to stay out of the way of our order. I never thought I would resent my masters and my teachers before I met you. When my mentor first introduced me to you, you were lying in a hammock with a bottle of rum in one hand, a bong in the other, and a cigarette dipped in acid* sticking in your mouth while you blared the Jefferson Airplane's "White Rabbit" song on repeat as loud as you could. I hated you then, and I hated my mentor then for bringing you into my life."

"… unless you're about to tell me that the way I act is act is actually normal and healthy and that jelly beans can be used to cure herpes, you're not exactly telling me anything new there, Darius," Hongse said, shrugging while he prepared to drink from his flask again.

"And I continued to think that until the first night I heard you quote Samuel Johnson", Prof Babar said.

The flask stopped less than an inch from the monk's lips.

"You don't remember, do you?" Prof. Babar asked. "I don't expect you to. We had all finished that forty day meditation retreat in the desert, and you hadn't drunk or smoke or anything for that same amount of time. It was shortly after I met you. At first, I was a little impressed that you managed to stay sober that long. But then when we finished and you went for broke like a starving man at a buffet, and I hated you more than ever. When some of the others and I had to carry you to your room and you were laughing hysterically, I felt even more tempted to pummel you".

The flask was at Hongse's side now.

"We ended up just dumping you on the floor, and I didn't feel bad at all about the bruise that you had probably just gotten, because you were screaming and yelling about the most random and meaningless things imaginable," Babar continued. "Everything from gangster beavers to clown prostitutes to Kennedy's murder being plotted by gangster beavers and clown prostitutes. So, after forty days of intense concentration, only to see it end by you being lit enough and loud enough to drown out the sound of the Hindenburg crashing into the Titanic, I decided that you probably wouldn't remember my boot smashing into your jaw and knocking you out."

"It was the tears combined with the choking sounds that stopped me," the Imam said, staring straight at the monk's eyes. Hongse hated being looked in his eyes and usually considered it an invitation to throw down the gauntlet. Only on rare occasions did anyone ever look into his eyes to cut straight to his heart; only on rare occasions did any one other than his allies care enough about their brother to give him that look; and only on those rare occasions did that look cut so close to Hongse's heart that he would listen without interruption, without ire, without fury, his face blank, his body lax, his eyes so tired, so worn, so exhausted. "At first I thought that maybe you were laughing so hard that you were starting to cry. But then I took a closer look, and there was no mistaking that anguish on your face. You started babbling about an eighteenth century English writer you had been studying… Samuel Johnson. Dr. Johnson. And you kept saying over and over and over again until I finally poured the rest of your flask into your mouth to knock you out… 'He who makes a beast out of himself gets rid of the pain of being a man'."

Neither Prof. Darius Babar nor Hongse De Niao of the Children of the Light spoke for a while. Hongse looked older than ever. There had been so many times that Babar, a man of God, had wanted to hurt his comrade, to wound him, to drag his spirit through the muck and the mud and the mire in retaliation for spreading the dumpster fire of his life into the lives of his allies. This was not one of those times.

"When are you ever going to forgive yourself for what you did to the Tibetans, Hongse?" Babar quietly asked.

Hongse didn't move his eyes from Babar's for a few more moments. Then he moved them to the floor, and they stayed there for a few more moments too, as though asking it that himself.

"… I don't know if I'm ever going to be able to," De Niao eventually replied. He seemed to age years in a single moment and looked like a scared, lonely old man needing direction in a world that he was becoming too aged and too tired to keep running in. For all of the disasters that the monk was responsible for… Babar now realized that he generally preferred him to act so wild. There was genuine pleasure in seeing a man, especially a man as wounded as Hongse, insist upon drinking the water of life until he could drink no more. It was easier to bear this world knowing that there others who loved living in it so. "Have I earned forgiving myself? Maybe. Everything I've ever done since defecting from the People's Republic has been to make up for all the murder and torture and genocide that I was a part of, all in the name of the liberation of the proletariat. Hell, Lord Buddha himself could give me a laminated certificate or a golden plaque or an orchestra with a parade of elephants ridden by strippers on the moon, all meant to tell me that I should forgive myself… and I don't think that I would."

Babar chose to not tell Hongse that if he was guilty of participating in political murder, then so were countless others , and that the context of his severely disturbing past was that the Chinese Maoists, in being oppressed by the British and French and in suppressing their justified rage for far too long, enabled excruciating hatred to blind them to empathy, compassion, and the possibility of liberating others with their consent. What the imam wanted to tell the monk was that if he was guilty of acting as a part of a mob, more susceptible to evil in accordance to their growing size and if Nietzsche was right in saying that madness in individuals is rare but in groups, parties and nations, it is the rule… then so were the French during the Reign of Terror, so were the Nazis during World War II and the Jewish Genocide, so were the Americans during the Native American and African American Holocausts, so were the men of the Soviet Union who took revenge upon Nazi Germany via their women, and so too were the religious zealots responsible for hijacking the Iranian Revolution, a movement that deposed a dictator and once promised freedom, only to result in a new yet same form of tyranny, driving Babar from his home land.

Inexplicably, Hongse rolled his eyes back up to meet Prof Babar and smiled. Not the demented grin so often associated with drink and drug and danger… this smile was that of the belief in innocence and redemption and the belief that, no matter how long or hard the road ahead of one, they could always be achieved.

"On the other hand," Hongse said, "Bats are good luck in my country".

Prof. Babar's eyebrows moved upward in mild, pleasant surprise, and he felt himself smiling back. "Now that I will smoke a joint to," He said, beginning to look through his drawer. "You're more of a sativa kind of guy, am I right? Or were you hoping to get ready for your new charge right-"

Babar looked up. Hongse was nowhere to be seen. The patio door was left open.

"I hope he doesn't teach the kid that trick", Prof. Babar said.

NOW. THE PRESENT.

The sensation caused Batman to open his eyes for the first time in hours.

He had been sitting in his cave by a small, growing fig tree. There was a crevice within the roof of the cave that allowed some light to pour down on it. Batman decided to add the power of several UV lights and directed their beams at the tree. All sat and stood on a sand garden he had recently built himself.

For the past few weeks ever since he had encountered Yagami in Arkham, he had shocked everyone by spending far less time prowling the streets and far more time keeping his garden and meditating. He himself did not entirely understand why he was doing this, though he understood why Dick, Damian, Barbara, Tim, and probably Jason were shocked by the fact that he wasn't out stopping robberes and murderers, but rather staying inside the cave… sitting down… with his eyes closed… and that was it. Years ago, he probably would have been shocked himself that he wasn't engaging in his obsession. Now… now he just felt that he was doing what needed to be done. He had no intellectual reason to believe that… yet he still felt it to be true, deep down in his heart of hearts.

Still… this was one of the few things that warranted an interruption.

"He's coming," Batman said aloud, not moving.

Alfred looked up from the computer he was working on, not far away.

"Who is?" He asked.

Batman turned to look at his godfather. Alfred saw no tension in his adopted son, and it unnerved him. Once he watched in secret awe as he closely observed a child born in luxury and privilege reject it all in order to become more than a man, to become a myth and a legend, and in so doing deliberately choosing a life more difficult than most. What could he be becoming now?

"Superman," Batman said.

*I heard Reza Aslan say this when he was interviewed on the Young Turks.

*Quran 2:153

*I remember someone using the term "eye of a soldier" when referring to Philip Marlowe in Raymond Chandler's "The Big Sleep"

*I remember Swamp Thing telling the Great Evil Beast something like this during the American Gothic arc of Alan Moore's run.

*I remember the American Zen Monk Brad Warner describing a moment of surreal absurdity as he pondered what reality is during a crappy punk rock show. I highly recommend his books: his disdain for BS is inspiring.

*This was a blues song.

*I remember someone saying that this happened between him and Hunter S Thompson.

*The Dalai Lama told John Oliver that he got Mongolians to go from drinking vodka to fermented horse milk.

*This is apparently one of the functions of the color white in Chinese culture

*I remember a phrase like this being used in the Scalped comic series

*I remember hearing Warner use this term in his Don't Be A Jerk book

*A drug lord shot a TV believing that it was broken when it was just not plugged in in a GTA game

*This is deliberately similar to the quote by HST

*I had no idea that you could dip cigarettes in acid until I saw once Upon A Time In Hollywood