"McGinnis?" 
	Terry wasn't listening. 
	"McGinnis, where are you?" 
	"Not now," Terry groaned.   What time was it anyway? Not like Mr. 
Wayne would really care. He groped for the alarm clock. The glowing LCD 
read 4:30. Two hours of sleep. Stupid Jokerz  had kept him out until 
2:30. Mom was going to love this one. Muttering to himself, he pawed 
through his bag and picked up the incessantly ringing cell phone. "What 
is it?" he slurred, trying to rub the sleep from his eyes. 
	"Where have you been? I've been trying to contact you for over ten 
minutes!" Wayne cajoled. 
	"I was asleep at 4:20 in the morning. Silly me." Terry shot, 
dripping with sarcasm. Geez, whatever it was probably could've waited at 
least until 6:30, couldn't it? 
	"Don't get smart with me, McGinnis." Bruce warned. 
	"I know, I know. Whaddaya want?" 
	"Gotham Museum. A reported disturbance there." 
	"On my way," Terry yawned. He slung his bag over his shoulder and 
tiptoed out.

	"Looks quiet." Terry said over the comlink. 
	"Check again." 
	With a heaving sigh, Batman loped over toward the hulking 
building. No lights, no movement.  Nothing. "Look, Wayne." Batman 
started. 
	But Bruce could see more than he could. "Watch out!" he yelled. 
	"You're the boss." Batman used his hoverjets and gained a little 
altitude. A pale blue lightning bolt split open the double doors, and a 
silhouette walked cautiously out. "Hel-lo" Batman said softly, his eyes 
widening. When the initial dust cleared, he could make out the shadow. A 
kid. "Hey, this is a little kid!" he said incredulously. 
	"Can't be any older than fourteen." Wayne agreed. The kid was 
wearing a long black trenchcoat, tannish construction boots, and a light 
beige, corduroy, beret-type hat that covered his hair, if he had any, 
and hung slightly down his neck. He looked more scared than villainous, 
and Batman thought that maybe he'd get a little sleep tonight, after 
all. He was wrong on both accounts. With a quick fling of the wrist, 
he'd let out about thirty feet of cord, which bound the kid's arms to 
his sides, and made him fall over frontward. Turning off the jets, 
Batman landed a few feet away from the young-looking newcomer. "Hand it 
over," he said firmly, holding out one gloved hand. The kid looked 
frightened half to death. 
	"Please," he begged. "You've gotta help me!" "Huh?" 
	"Please! I don't want to hurt anybody, he's gonna make me!" 
	"Look, kid," Terry said with an exasperated sigh. "Just hand over 
whatever you stole, and . . ." 
	The kid wiggled furiously. "Don't you understand?" he cried 
pleadingly. "He's gonna make me kill you if you just stand here!" "Who's 
gonna." Batman never finished his question. The kid screamed in pain, 
and his neck flew back with some unseen impact. Tiny sparks danced 
around his neck, and he screamed again. "Whoa! Wayne, are you seein' 
this?" Batman looked for some way to help this kid, but it was like he 
was being shot by some invisible gun. The sparks abruptly halted, and 
the kid shivered. "Kid?" Batman started. "Are you okay?" 
	"Please," the younger boy said softly. "Just go. I don't want to 
have to kill you." 
	"I don't think you could kill me if you tried," Batman retorted. 
"Come on, we're getting you out of here." 
	"I tried," the kid sighed in resignation. The sparks returned, 
engulfing the teenager, making him seem to glow in the misty night. His 
screams were drowned out by a crackling noise, and the low moan of a 
collapsing lamppost. "What the." Batman began, and backed into the light 
pole, using all his strength to hold it up. 
	"Forgive me," the kid implored, then tilted his head back. His 
huge, black, almost puppy-like eyes became only tiny, golden-colored, 
slits. Just by flexing his arms, he snapped the cord that had held him 
so still less than a minute ago. He snarled, and shot out streams of 
electricity at the occupied Batman. 
	"Yaaah!" Terry shouted, and barely dodged the sizzling projectile. 
The light pole smashed into the blacktop, sending shards of 
still-glowing glass scattering across the street. "What the . . . ?" 
Batman thought. Up until a minute ago, this kid had been downright 
terrified of him. Now, well, now he was tossing lightning bolts at him 
from across a parking lot. 
	"McGinnis?" Wayne buzzed over the radio.  "What's going on? Some 
freak electrical anomile just ruined the transmission of pictures". 
	"You wouldn't believe me if I told you," Batman answered shaking 
his head. 
	"Try me." 
	"You remember that kid? That innocent little harmless kid?" 
	"Yes." 
	"Well, looks like he's got a nasty temper problem." 
	Just as Bruce Wayne could again see the picture through the tiny 
camera in the cowl, he could see the teenager rushing toward him, 
streams of pure energy flowing out of his fingertips. Batman yelled in 
surprise and pain as a burning streak caught him in the back. Abruptly, 
the screen blacked out. 
	The kid wasn't through yet. His eyes glowed a pale blue, and he 
gestured at the Dark Knight. He could stop The Batman with a thought, 
which he proceeded to do. "Hey!" Terry hissed. "It won't move, what'd 
you do?" 
	"Me?" Wayne's tinny voice sounded startled over the comlink. He 
glanced over at the button just across the control panel. He'd pushed 
that once. Bruce Wayne shook his head. Those were old problems. This was 
important. Clearing the thoughts of his early deactivation, Wayne 
pressed, "What happened?" 
	"The suit," Terry whispered fiercely. "It won't move. I think Mr. 
Lightning Bug might've had something to do with it." The kid stood over 
him, a ball of thunder materializing in his hand, ready to knock Bats 
out of the picture, permanently. 
	"It's remarkable how easy this was," the boy marveled. Then that 
same conflict from the seemingly invisible gun. His body seemed jerked 
around for a moment. "No!" He cried, holding his head in his hands. "No, 
I won't do it!" The electricity died on his hand, and he started 
running. Away from Batman, away from the museum, away from everything. 
Just running.

	He tore into a squat, one-story building, about a mile away, and 
slammed the door behind him. A voice crooned out of the inky blackness. 
"Why have you come back?" 
	"We have to talk!" the kid demanded. 
	"You were slow tonight, Jason," the voice purred. "Disobedient." 
	"Why did you make me hurt him?" Jason cried. "I could've outrun 
him, easily!  You almost made me kill him!" 
	The voice personified itself in a tall, red and black clad man, 
holding a strange, white, glowing eye. "I have . . . my reasons." The 
man shifted uncomfortably. 
	Jason glared defiantly back. " I felt something tonight," Jason 
said, making a fist. "I felt." he became frustrated, as there was no 
word to describe it. 
	"Mechanical error," the man known only as the Spellbinder sang. 
"Much to my deep chagrin." 
	"But." Jason never had a chance. 
	"Not only a will, but quite an attitude as well." The tall man 
muttered, letting the eye float off his hand. The sphere hovered toward 
Jason, but when the bright pupil flickered at him, it spat out a tiny 
dart filled with a translucent, green liquid. The dart embedded itself 
in Jason's neck, and before the teenager had a chance to react, it 
started slowly electrocuting him. The windows in the building were 
boarded up, so no one outside saw the flash, or noticed Jason slump to 
the floor, unconscious. "You'll be fine, kid," the Spellbinder said, 
kicking the limp body. " and you won't remember a thing." Jason's 
shallow breathing was the only response.

	Bruce had finally managed to get the costume back online. Batman 
made a fist, and smiled. "It's back to normal." Turning his head 
suddenly, he noticed something. The infrared had picked up a tiny hot 
spot in the doorway.  "Hm?" Terry turned to it almost as an 
afterthought, and scooped it up. A little tiny thing, almost like a tiny 
radio, or a hearing aid or something. A tiny needle protruded from one 
end. "Looks interesting," he said. "I'll come by later." 
	“Later? Why not now?" Bruce sounded impatient. Maybe it was just a 
bad connection. Or part of it could be due to the throbbing pain on the 
side of his head. 
	Terry groaned. "School," he answered. Rubbing his forehead, he 
jumped off of a park bench, and soared off into the gradually lightening 
sky. 

	“Hey, Wayne. You're a big success and everything, right?" It was 
around 5:30 p.m., about the time Terry went to "work" for Mr. Wayne. 
	"In a way." Bruce answered. "Well, did anybody ever ask you about 
the Pythagorean Theorem?" 
	Bruce shook his head. "Can't say they did." 
	"Tell that to my trig teacher," Terry muttered. Wayne almost 
smiled, and called Terry over. 
	"Have a look at this," he said, pointing to the huge computer 
screen. A scene from the recent battle, one with the mystery kid's face, 
was projected onto the monitor. "Have to admit," Bruce said. "This is 
the most original robbery I've ever seen." 
	"I don't know," Terry said doubtfully, pushing a button, and 
zooming in a little closer. "That kind of fear's pretty hard to fake." 
	"How he does it isn't worth looking into." Bruce said sternly. 
	"Aren't you even going to look at the. . . the. . . the thingy?" 
Terry asked. Bruce shook his head. 
	"Probably some hearing aid or other intravenous medication, from 
some older visitor. Not worth getting all worked up over." 
	"Come on," Terry insisted.  "Just check it out." Wayne looked at 
him, stony-faced. "Please?" Wayne sighed deeply, picked up the object, 
and placed it on the microscope. 	"See?" he said grumpily. "It's just 
a . . ." Bruce's eyes widened. 
	"What is it?" Terry asked. 
	"It's a kind of mind control, a lot like the Mad Hatter used to 
use." Bruce started. 	
	"Mad Hatter?" 
	"Never mind." This kid wouldn't get it, Wayne thought, shaking his 
head. The Mad Hatter had gone out with the sub-machine gun. "I just wish 
I could get a better look at it." Wayne didn't finish. The object on the 
microscope vibrated, then caved in on itself, and exploded. Tiny shards 
of metal and plastic were strewn across the table. 
	"Well, so much for that idea," Terry said, rubbing his head. "Got 
any good Plan B's?" 
	Wayne didn't seem bothered by the exploding chip, and was hunched 
over a disk drive in the computer. When Terry looked curious, Wayne 
explained "There was blood  on the tiny needle on the chip. I was able 
to salvage some, and I'm running a DNA scan now." A tone sounded and a 
picture flashed up. 
	"Hey," Terry cried. "That's him! That's the kid!" 
	"Jason Whitlock," Bruce read. "Fourteen years old. Disappeared 
from a Gotham Orphanage almost four years ago. Apparently had some kind 
of eerie power, psychic abilities. Nothing else, except that the circus 
sideshow's been wanting him for quite awhile now." 
	"This thing was his?" Bruce nodded. 
	"So," Terry was rubbing the back of his neck, looking more 
confused that ever. "What was a fortune teller-wannabe doing robbing 
Gotham Museum and trying to electrocute me?" 
	Wayne looked up at him, and almost cracked a smile again, and 
said, "That's where you come in."

	"So, tell me again why I'm here?" Terry asked sardonically. The 
warehouse was an ordinary building. Low to the ground, probably had a 
nasty rat problem, but otherwise, a normal, everyday building. 
	"That's where the tracking device said our friend is," Bruce's 
husky voice crackled. 
	"Tracking device. Right." 
	"Whosit's employer probably included it so he could tell whenever 
his little helper went awry, or wandered off-course." 
	"But how can you get all that from a couple of little pieces of 
plastic?" Batman whispered. 
	"I've had a lot of practice." Wayne answered. "Keep your eyes 
open." 
	"Believe me," Terry yawned. "That's a lot harder than it sounds." 
A shower of sparks appeared inside the warehouse, illuminating even the 
darkened windows. "There's my diversion," Batman said with a smile. "If 
you'll excuse me." He hurriedly camouflaged himself, and snuck around 
the back of the building. Kicking in a window, he let his eyes adjust to 
the light. The lone conscious inhabitant heard the crash, and raced to 
the back room. Batman's eyes widened. "You!" he cried.

To Be Continued