A Fic I've Been Working On

[miss_yt]

Title: Confluence

Continuity: Batman Beyond, after the end of the series and the Return of the Joker movie.

Rating: PG-13 for violence, profanity, and creepiness

Canon characters involved: Terry, Bruce, Dana, Max, Barbara, Stalker, Terminal*

Pairings: Terry and Dana - strictly canon here, folks.

Episodes referenced/Spoilerfied: Rebirth, Blood Sport, Plague, Spellbound, Eyewitness, Hidden Agenda, Rats!, Return of the Joker and the Epilogue of JLU.*

Disclaimers: DC owns the characters, the WB owns the show, and Bruce Timm, Glen Murakami and Paul Dini created this particular continuity. I'm just borrowing from them.

Summary: Terry must contend with a new gang, the return of Stalker, and a powerful villain whose machinations put Dana's life - and Terry's secret - in jeopardy.

*This list may change as the fic progresses.

Chapter One

It's the social event of the season at Gotham's sumptuous Century Ballroom atop the five-star Genevieve Hotel. The available selection of food and drinks is both extensive and exquisite; the music is provided by a small orchestra of a band; everyone who's anyone in the city is here, dressed in their finest clothing and jewels.

As is Terry McGinnis, who desperately wishes that he were somewhere else. Anywhere else. This isn't his kind of party.

Once again, he's lost track of Wayne somewhere in the crowd. He looks around to see if he can catch a glimpse of his boss somewhere in the vast white-marble ballroom, but fails to find him. Not for the first time he wonders, spitefully, if Wayne might have just ditched this whole affair and quietly slipped out.

Terry makes his way towards where he last saw the old man, weaving around conversing clusters of industrialists, shipping magnates, high-profile lawyers and celebrities. He finds some ironic humor in the knowledge that most kids in his high school would give anything to trade places with him right now - they just don't know better.

At long last he spots Wayne, who is engaged in a conversation with three or four other people near the western frontier of the room – the part with all the floor-to-ceiling windows. Terry heads in his direction, only to be halted by a man who appears almost directly in his path with the obvious intention of talking to him. With in inward curse, Terry gears himself up to be pleasant and sociable and not betray his frustration.

“Ah! You're Bruce Wayne's assistant, aren't you?” the man asks. He's a hair taller than Terry and built like a heavyweight boxer. Terry thinks he may actually be trained in the sport, too, for he carries his weight well and his movements have a graceful, fluid quality. His clean-shaven face is round, but not what you'd call fat; his skin is of a milk-chocolate color; his hair is cut as short as can be without looking like stubble growing from a recently clear-cut scalp. He almost looks imposing, but his physical presence is offset by unremarkable - though cheerful - hazel eyes. Something about his face rings a bell, but Terry can't quite place him.

“Yeah. Terry McGinnis,” Terry answers him, extending his hand for the anticipated handshake. Batman aside, he's really a glorified errand boy and not an assistant, and he's pretty sure that the dozens of people who've called him an "assistant" are perfectly aware of that. But he couldn't care less about what they think.

The man shakes his hand. “Nice to meet you. I'm Gregory Lannaman,” he says. He has a friendly, cheery voice, which Terry finds irksome: he's come to share Wayne's distaste for people who seem too cheerful.

It takes a moment, but Terry clicks on the name. “Doctor Gregory Lannaman? The hypnotist?” The guy's become something of a celebrity through his groundbreaking work in behavior modification and what he calls "cognitive tuning."

Dr. Lannaman assumes a look of mock lament. “'Hypnotherapist,' Mr. McGinnis. 'Hypnotist' makes me sound like a quack.”

“Sorry,” Terry says. "I can never keep them straight."

Lannaman smiles, flashing brilliant white teeth. “Well, you're not alone there. I hope one day to change that general misunderstanding." He chuckles. "But don't encourage me to go into details, or we'll be here all night."

Terry just nods, hoping that the doctor will lose interest and let him get back to finding Wayne. No such luck, though.

"So, what about you? Working for Mr. Wayne must be interesting," Lannaman says.

That's one Terry's heard about a million times in the past two hours, and a zillion times before that. "It has its moments," he answers with a polite smile.

"But your job must keep you pretty busy," Lannaman remarks. "Especially now that Mr. Wayne's running his company again. But it must be a good learning experience." His attention briefly turns to something over Terry's shoulder. "Excuse me," he says. "I just saw a friend of mine I've been looking for all night. It's been nice talking to you, Mr. McGinnis."

"You too," Terry says, breathing an inward sigh of relief as they shake hands. As soon as Lannaman has departed, Terry gets a fix on Wayne again and makes a beeline for him. Terry sees Wayne glance at him out of the corner of his eye. Acknowledging him with a brief wave, Terry places himself at a discreet distance from his boss, waiting while he wraps up his conversation with an oil baron and a news media producer.

Once Wayne has extricated himself, he goes to meet Terry in the secluded space behind one of the ballroom's columns. "Enjoying yourself?" the old man asks with a knowing smirk.
"Let me get out of here or kill me right now. Please," Terry implores him.

Wayne shakes his head. "This may not be your idea of a good time, McGinnis, but it could be a valuable learning experience if you pay attention to what's going on"
Terry grimaces. "'Learning experience,' right. Wayne, I've heard that so many times I could just..."

"Terry," the old man interrupts, silencing him. "Like it or not, you're in a high-profile position now. And after you earn your degree I'll be assigning you a lot more responsibility."

"Thanks for the reminder," Terry says sourly. He just barely made it through high school with decent grades: the prospect of attending Gotham University in the fall, while trying to balance his other duties, makes him nervous.

Wayne ignores the remark. "This is the best time for you to start cultivating a public image – and learn how to manage it," he continues.

Terry blinks. "I can't believe you just said that."

"It come as such a surprise to you. Covering up is part of the job. If you don't fulfill certain expectations, you draw the wrong kind of attention to yourself."

"Hide in the open, huh?"

"Exactly," Wayne says.

Terry sighs. "Now that I understand what I'm doing here, it makes everything even worse."

"Sorry," Wayne says, looking entirely too amused at Terry's expense. "I'm afraid you'll just have to resign yourself to a few more hours of boredom."

The words have barely had time to leave his mouth before the sound of shattering glass is heard over the conversation of the party guests and the ambient music, both of which come to an abrupt end. Terry and Wayne both turn towards the source of the noise: they have missed the inward explosion of one of the Century Ballroom's great windows, but there are still twinkling shards of glass flying through the air, accompanied by the object that has just smashed through it from the outside.

No, not object – man. A familiar man. Stalker.

He lands crouching in the center of a rapidly widening clear space created by the retreat of frightened party guests, some of them gasping or crying out in fear or shock. A few of them have been cut by shards of glass from the window. Stalker unfolds from his crouch and draws himself up to his full height, scanning the room with piercing eyes. Terry can't see Stalker very well: there is too much distance and too many people between them.

"Looks like you spoke too soon," Terry says to Wayne. The party guests, now getting over their initial shock, break into a panic and flee screaming towards the ballroom's main entrance or emergency entrance. Terry joins the exodus. He needs to get out so he can find a place to change.


Bruce doesn't join the stampede for the doors: he can't move that quickly anymore, so he would risk being crushed or trampled by the crowd. He's not Stalker's intended target, nor is he in the man's way, so he can afford to stay where he is. And he wants to see what Stalker's next move will be, maybe find a clue as to what he's doing here.

He's pretty sure that Stalker isn't after Batman. Though he knows Terry's face and very probably his identity, he wouldn't go after him in a place like this. He definitely would not have made such a dramatic and conspicuous entrance. He'd have called Terry out so he could fight him on a terrain more to his advantage, or he'd have shadowed him until he had a good opportunity to attack. This is not his style at all.

Stalker's eyes fix on something: he detaches his collapsible metal pike from his belt and with the press of a button extends it to full length, then makes a spectacular flying leap into the air and lands on one of the party guests. The people closest to him scramble over each other in their haste to get away, giving Bruce a clear line of sight. Stalker is standing with one foot on the chest of a man who lies prone on the floor. It's Dr. Gregory Lannaman – Bruce spoke to him earlier this evening. The sharp end of his pike is inches from the doctor's throat.

Now that Stalker is staying in place, Bruce can make out a small patch of newly formed scar tissue on his back, in the region of his left kidney. It looks like it came from a burn wound, conceivably from a laser pistol; since he's all of twenty feet away, though, Bruce can't resolve it well enough to be sure. He bears other new scars, ridge lines on his skin, where he suffered lacerations of some kind.

"A hunter should always kill his prey quickly," Stalker growls, loudly enough to be heard by everyone in the hall. "You made a mistake when you didn't."

"I never did anything to you!" Lannaman protests. "Please, you've got the wrong man!" Bruce can see armed security guards pushing their way through the crowd of guests, some of whom are watching the goings-on in horrified fascination instead of fleeing.

"Liar!" Stalker shouts. "I know what you are, and I will see that the rest of the world does too. Confess, and I will let the police have you. Otherwise you will die. Make your choice."

Bruce doesn't think Stalker will wait all that long for his captive to talk. The security guards certainly won't reach Lannaman in time, and Terry's not back yet. It seems an intervention is in order. Taking his cane in both hands, Bruce moves forward. The watching crowd and the security guards are too focused on Stalker to notice him, and Stalker himself is quite preoccupied. Bruce gets right up behind him, draws back his cane, and lets Stalker have it right in the back of the head.

The hunter stumbles and tries to wheel around, tripping on Lannaman in the process and almost falling over. Bruce is already backing up, getting ready to take another swing or block one if necessary: Lannaman is scrambling backwards on all fours in the opposite direction. Stalker turns toward Bruce, narrowing his eyes and barding his teeth. He lifts his pike, obviously intending to repay Bruce in kind for the blow he was dealt. Bruce can make out yet another scar, this one from a deep wound stretching diagonally from above his left eyebrow to the outer edge of his cheekbone. Whatever it was sliced the eyelid and presumably the eye underneath, too, which has been replaced with a prosthetic - not a very high-quality one, easily seen for a fake. Especially since it's light blue while Stalker's right eye, his remaining natural one, is dark brown.

While Bruce makes these observations as he and Stalker face off, a few of the security guards have managed to extricate themselves from the mass of party guests. Three of them draw pistols and take aim at Stalker: one yells "Freeze! Put the weapon down and turn around slowly."

Unsurprisingly, Stalker does not follow instructions. Irritated, he shoots a quick glance over his shoulder before springing into the air, twisting in mid-leap so he is facing towards the security guards. They are too dumbfounded to do the sensible thing and shoot at Stalker while he's still in the air, or scatter so they can be a safe distance away from him when he lands – which is bad, because he looks like he's going to land right on top of one of the guards.

Stalker doesn't make it to the ground: a black-and-red blur shoots out of the ballroom doors and slams him in midair, carrying him out through the same window he used to get in - but a little lower down, effectively demolishing whatever glass Stalker's dramatic entrance left intact. Although the blur is there and gone in little more than a second, its passing touches off ripples of recognition in the crowd. “Batman! It's Batman!” Most of the party guests who are still in the ballroom rush toward the windows, despite the efforts and protests of the security guards. They peer out into the night, exclaiming to each other in surprise and wonderment as they try to catch another glimpse of Gotham's hero.

Bruce does not join them. He hangs back, reassuring a concerned security guard that yes, he's perfectly all right, and no, he shouldn't have attacked Stalker like that, what was he thinking? Meanwhile he eyes the exit, hoping he can shake the guard off and slip out somehow.


Terry didn't really think about what he was going to do after crashing Stalker through a window seventy stories off the ground: at the time, it had just seemed like a good idea to get him away from all those people. He has to think of what to do next - fast, because having Stalker as a hood ornament makes flying problematic, especially since the guy is struggling and trying to get a good grip on Terry. Even for a person with his abilities, all this squirming around is suicidal.

Since there's no nearby rooftop to land on – they're all above his level - Terry must use a creative strategy to solve his problem. He abruptly cuts his boot jets and folds his wings. At the same time he wraps his left arm around Stalker's waist, holding him securely, and fires a grapple with his outstretched right arm. The grapple embeds itself in the wall of an office tower. Terry does an old-school swing, angling around the corner of the building and upwards. At the apex of the swing, he disengages the grapple and retracts it into the arm of his suit, then activates his boot jets and wings again, carrying him and Stalker up towards the building's roof.

Unfortunately for Terry, he doesn't manage to make a smooth landing thereon. Stalker manages to twist out of his grip and grab hold of one of his wings, sending him into a downward spiral. While Stalker drops and lands on his feet, Terry more or less plows into the roof and skids for what seems an embarrassingly long distance until he hits the waist-high barrier around the roof's edge. He's used to taking abuse, though, so he pulls himself together quickly and is up on his feet, in a fighting stance, before Stalker can attack him.

Or not, as the case may be. Terry is dumbfounded to see Stalker sprinting across the roof away from him. He curses himself for allowing his confusion to delay him and sets off in hot pursuit. Stalker is heading for the edge of the roof facing an adjacent apartment complex: it's a nice one with many terrace gardens and balconies that make it look like an irregularly scalloped wedding cake. There are lots of big trees in those gardens – Stalker could easily hide in there. Terry hopes he can catch the man first. He fires off a bola at Stalker's legs just before he reaches the edge of the roof.

The shot misses. Stalker takes a flying leap off the the roof. Terry gets there just in time to see him land in the branches of a tree on one of the terrace gardens and swing through the branches. Without hesitation he leaps from the roof as well, firing his grapple again. It wraps around a sturdy tree branch and Terry swings in, retracting the grapple cord as he does. He disengages it as he swings beneath the branch and then allows gravity and momentum to carry him until he hits the ground running. Much better than his previous landing.

Unfortunately, he has lost track of Stalker. Terry stops in the relatively open space of a small playground and switches his optical sensors to infrared: the world around him becomes a grainy monochrome, punctuated here and there by the red or yellow glow of a heat source. Most of the glows he finds are from water pumps or gardener robots recharging in their concealed hutches. The few organic glows he detects are much too small to be human. Terry also strains his ears, listening through the whisper of leaves in the breeze and the soft hum of irrigating machinery for some irregular noise. Stalker ran away before, but he might take advantage of the plentiful cover here and launch a sneak attack.

Unfortunately, Terry neglects to look above as well as around. By the time he hears the rustle of branches above him, it's too late to dodge. Stalker lands on him, knocking him to the ground. He pins Terry under one knee and presses his staff against his throat. Terry tries to push the staff away, but Stalker's strength is about equal to his - it's all Terry can do to keep his windpipe from being crushed. He gasps desperately for air, to no avail.

In spite of his distress, Terry has the presence of mind to switch back to normal vision, as infrared is a hindrance in close-quarters combat. He notices something: Stalker looks like he recently got dragged through the bad part of hell. When Terry focuses on the scar across Stalker's left eye, his vision sensors automatically scan it and peg it as a prosthetic.

"I did not come here for you - this time," Stalker says. "But this is a personal matter. I cannot let you interfere."

Terry's vision is starting to go dark at the edges. He takes a gamble, letting go of Stalker's staff so he can catch him with a right hook. Stalker jerks sideways with an "oof," and the pressure on Terry's throat is lifted. He rolls away and gets to his feet, almost falling back down when his head swims from the sudden movement and lack of oxygen.

"I figured...as much," Terry replies between ragged breaths, "but...since you've got my attention..."

Stalker charges him, drawing back his staff for a swing. Terry moves out of the way and brings his joined fists down between Stalker's shoulderblades, turning his charge into a stumbling run towards the edge of the terrace. By that time Terry is already in motion, following up with a charge of his own.

That turns out to be a mistake. Stalker regains his balance quickly, dropping his staff and dodging away from Terry. He grabs Terry's arm and before he knows what's happening, he's been tossed over the low wall at the edge of the terrace. He crashes into the branches of a large tree planted in the garden one level below, smacking painfully into the larger limbs and splintering through the smaller branches on his way down. Worse still, he lands face-first on the back patio of one of the apartments, tripping the security sensors and setting off an alarm. He's barely gotten to his feet before half a dozen armed security guards burst out of a nearby door and surround him, guns drawn.

Terry puts a hand to his aching head and surveys the baffled security guards, wondering how he's going to explain this one to Wayne. It really hasn't been his night.