As a precaution, he kept his activities within the city itself limited. It had enough protectors, and unless things skirted too close to those he held dear--places like Nill's orphanage--he tended to keep his nose out of things. Because he could do more on a world stage, save more lives. And part of him was still haunted by this place. But something about it was lodged in his mind. It was as close as it came to Gotham in this world. So some nights, he couldn't resist.

He had gotten sloppy, he reflected as he jumped over the rooftops, trench-coat/cape flapping behind him. He should have gone straight to Nill's, then left a note for Dick and left the city. Maybe he should never had come at all. But he had, and now he had to deal with it. He'd gotten wrapped up in trying to take out a government storehouse, and the security detail had caught up with him. Now he leapt through the city with a knife wound in his side.

He never made the conscious decision to go to Helena and Dick's place. It was as if a strand of home just pulled him there. He hesitated, at first; he didn't want to bring trouble down on them, and wanted even less to admit his weakness to them. But he had no choice. In the cold night air he pried open a window, and lowered himself in, stripping off his cowl and coat. And he collapsed in a heap on the ground, clutching his side as the blood pooled between his fingers.

"Damn it."