A dangerous sorcerer named Felix Faust has come to Sunnydale, intent on raising an ancient demon to subjugate all of humankind. To succeed, he must perform a powerful curse to displace his enemies, transporting them from one time and place and exch...
"He's all ready for you, Batman," Black Canary said as she strolled toward him. Her cuffed leather boots echoed across the floor of the Justice League satellite, which had grown chillier since he was last there, even in his full costume and cape. How the Canary could handle monitor duty in her leotard, jacket, and fishnet stockings was beyond him. "Zatanna cast a spell on him to filter out his speech. She said Faust can talk, but he won't be able to cast any spells for the next two hours."
"Good," Batman said, facing her, noticing her warm smile and sparkling eyes, beautifully framed by the field of stars visible through the window behind her.
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
She cocked her head in a way that seemed flirtatious, though he knew it was how she approached everyone. "You're welcome, Bruce." She stepped away, then stopped and turned back to him. "Oh, I forgot. I'm confusing you with the name of my cat." She giggled to herself and walked away.
He cast an involuntary glance at her shapely blue fishnets as she strode off. He shook it off, annoyed that Xander's juvenile fantasies had gotten into his head for a moment. In any case, the Black Canary's boyfriend, Oliver, was a lucky man.
He returned to his cellphone call. "I'm back, Alfred. What is it?"
"Something rather concerning, sir," his trusted butler replied. "There's someone who's been leaving messages for you. He seems to somehow know about your, eh ... more private activities and wants to meet both you and Master Dick. It sounds like a young lad. His name is Timothy Drake."
Batman chewed on the information, wondering what sort of threat this stranger might pose. "Timothy Drake. Did he make any demands? Any threats to expose anything? Or hint at any proof he has?"
"No, sir," Alfred replied. "In fact, he seemed quite friendly and forthright. Appears to want nothing more than to meet with the two of you. Frankly, I fear he wants to involve himself in your affairs somehow. I'm sure you won't want him getting too close, after what happened with ... ah, that is ..."
"With Jason," Batman finished. He considered the mysterious caller further, knowing in his head he shouldn't trust him, whoever he was. Yet his gut told him something different. Perhaps because Alfred viewed this boy as an innocent, with no plans for extortion. And perhaps that was enough to determine that this boy posed no actual threat to anyone except himself.
Unless he received some guidance.
"Whoever this Timothy is," Batman said. "He's not Jason. I'll look into it when I get back and see what develops."
"Very good, sir," Alfred said, preparing to hang up.
"And, Alfred," Batman said, stopping him. "In case I haven't made it clear ... I couldn't do this without you. Thanks for everything you do."
He heard a slight catch in Alfred's throat. "Ah ... thank you, sir. It's my pleasure."
He clicked off, and Batman marched toward the holding cell. The room felt even colder and more sterile than the rest of the satellite, with a few chairs around a long table. The sparse furniture was anchored to the floor, to prevent their use as a weapon, and Felix Faust sat imprisoned in a chair that had manacles around his forearms and lower legs, a device that one clownish League member, the Elongated Man, had nicknamed "the straitjacket."
