Dead.
He's dead.
What am I going to do?
His wife and his grown child stare at me with those empty green eyes.
They blame me.
They always do.
I listen to the preacher. Words. Empty words.
I have never understood his interest or belief in this.
"I am the resurrection and the life. Where, Death, is your victory? Where is your power to hurt?"
It is here. In the eyes of a young woman, raven-haired, her golden skin gone white, standing next to the one she has chosen to love; his hand trembling as he watches her tears; powerless, impotent. He can do nothing.
Here. In the eyes of her mother, a woman who cheated death only to have it find someone she loved.
Here. In the small soft sounds of his infant son, too young to understand or to remember.
And here, in this breast. In this heart of mine which has ceased beating. For the space of a single moment I am suspended in time.
There is no God.
There is only Death and he is laughing once again.
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ONE
"Bruce?"
"Bruce…. What are you thinking?"
Bruce Wayne glanced up from the hard copy of the Gotham Times. They laughed at him but he stubbornly refused to accept obtaining all of his information from a monitor. There was something about holding the paper in your hand. Feeling it…
"Earth to Bruce. Are you in there?" Dick Grayson grinned at his mentor, noting as he did how the lines of care and age which had altered his handsome face had managed to soften him, as though the passing years were finally something he could welcome and not yet another obstacle to overcome. As he switched his infant son from one arm to the other, a whispered word of thanks crossed his lips. Then the baby cooed and gurgled and his mind flew from his mentor to the little blessing in his hands.
Bruce Wayne held still, watching the pair for a moment and then said softly, "I might ask you the same thing. How is John?"
"Beautiful," his former ward breathed. "Absolutely beautiful."
The older man laid the paper down and crossed to where he could look directly at the child. So serene and beautiful. Nestled in his father's arms, safe and secure. He was not asleep, but murmured quietly, his large cerulean eyes opening and closing lazily.
"So like his mother." Bruce traced the golden skin with a long thin finger, ending with its tip in the child's madder-red hair. As the baby responded, gazing vaguely in his direction, he chided himself again for finding the absence of pupils unnerving.
"Another gift, yes. Like Kory's return." Dick took a breath and looked up to meet the other man's pale blue eyes, "I haven't told you lately how grateful I am for what you did. If you hadn't— "
Bruce's hand came up to silence him. He remembered still that day nearly twelve years before when Koriand'r lay dying, the day when he had decided Death had had enough victories and had made the decision that he would not have one more. Without consulting her husband, he had filled the Tamaranean's ravaged body with a volatile mixture of chemicals based on one of Victor Frieze's experimental formulas. He remembered as well attending her doleful funeral, which for him had been a travesty. Then, years of research, moments of hope and, ultimately, failure after failure...until finally the hand of yet another megalomaniac—new to both his ward and him—had brought his indiscretion to light and granted her another chance at life.
Resurrection.
"I did what I had to do. You know that." Bruce hesitated a moment and then disentangling his hand from the baby's hair, lifted it to lay it lightly on his son's black head. There were no streaks of gray in it now, no sign of age due to the restorative powers of the Lazarus Pit. The risk they had taken—he, Ibn, Nightstar and Koriand'r—to save the life of this one who was more precious to them than anything had paid off. Bruce sighed. "You are my son. My firstborn in every way that counts. I love you and—through you—all that is yours."
Dick felt his eyes grow moist. His free hand found his former guardian's and lingered there a moment. "Bruce, I have never seen you so content."
The aging man controlled the shudder his son's words sent snaking down his spine. There were still times—even in the midst of the peace and security the end of the Metahuman conflict had engendered, in the heart of the joy that came from settling differences and taking off the masks—times when he still experienced the sensation of someone walking over his grave. Or rather, the graves of those he had loved and lost; the heroes who had walked and worked by his side who had gone before. Green Arrow. Black Canary. All the others who had died on that field in Kansas. Jason. …his parents. And this one—who stood whole and healthy before him now—whose first death he had been unable to prevent. Only an odd quirk of fate that bound them both to the deceased madman, Ra's Al Ghul, had preserved his life, allowing him to rise like a phoenix from the liquid fires of the Pit.
The man who remained the Batman took a deep breath and forsook the shadows, consciously choosing to walk in the sun. Still, words escaped him. He simply nodded and then changed the subject. "Come on, the others are waiting."
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Clark Kent stood next to his beautiful wife, aware with each passing second of the precious nature of the gift beside him; of her beauty and wisdom, and of the fact that she was his. He still remembered Lois—would never forget her—but time could heal wounds no matter how deeply felt, and in fact it had. She was talking with Dick's wife on the stone steps of the newly reconstructed Wayne Manor, once more a home, and was busy trying to disentangle young Bruce's fingers from his 'Aunt Kory's' incredibly long and voluminous madder hair. The Tamaranean was laughing.
It still did his heart good to see her here. She had to be a constant reminder to his old friend that life could win. Death did not always have to be the victor. Not until it was time. That was something his friend needed to acknowledge. Should have acknowledged years before. There had been so many long wasted dark years for him. Now…now there was hope and renewal. Little John Bruce Grayson was the promise and seal of that. They didn't know yet whether he had inherited his mother's powers or would simply be a good man like his father.
It didn't matter.
He had the best of this world—old and new—to rear him and more than enough love for any child.
"Clark, are you leaving?"
Bruce and Dick emerged from the darkly wood-paneled interior of the Manor with the young man in the lead. His infant son was balanced on his shoulder like an acrobat while his father gently patted the small golden back. John was cooing and laughing with delight. The man who had been the Batman, who no longer chose to wear that mantle for reasons of his own, trailed a few steps behind him and though the sun shone mightily in a clear blue sky, his old friend sensed a dark cloud hanging over him. This was something the Kryptonian had not seen in quite a while and it troubled him.
Nodding to Diana, he moved past Dick to confront him "Bruce…."
The silvered head came up. Caught unawares it took him a millisecond to mask the pain in his light blue eyes. Half a millisecond too long to fool his friend. "Eh? Oh Clark, I was thinking."
Clark frowned and looked over his glasses at him, his grey and white eyebrows arched to touch the s-shaped lock on his forehead. "About nothing good it seems. Are you all right?"
The older man glanced at his son where he stood at ease next to the alien princess, raising his own son high over his head and making him seem to fly.
"What? Oh, yes…." Bruce's mouth turned up in a wry smile. "Spooking myself, that's all."
"There's a new twist on an old theme." Clark placed his hand on his friend's shoulder. "What is this? You've been so happy. At peace. Is there trouble?"
There was a pause and then he answered, "Nothing I have not created for myself."
"Would you like to talk?"
Bruce glanced again at the man before him, one it seemed he had known forever. One he called friend. He could be honest with him, no matter how much it hurt. Pulling back into the shadows so his voice would not carry to the laughing quartet on the lawn he asked, "Have you ever felt that…. Well, that somehow what you have is more than you deserve, and that somewhere out there someone is waiting to take it away?"
Clark was taken aback. "Bruce! What is this?"
His old friend avoided the superhuman's eyes and instead looked at the toes of his boots which were black as usual. Old habits died hard.
"Clark, do you believe in God?"
A light feminine voice spoke with sudden irony. "You are getting old."
"Diana!" Clark lowered his glasses and frowned at her. Sometimes she was not the most subtle of women. "This is important."
She laughed. "You're telling me?"
As soon as the words left his mouth, her husband realized his mistake. He had met her Gods. She had insisted they dedicate little Bruce to them while her mother Hippolyte and several other divine beings had looked on.
"Bruce," Diana spoke, her tone serious and colored with concern. "The important question is: Do you?"
He looked beyond her to his son and daughter-in-law, at their laughing baby and then, at the older couple before him. There was something there. Something he didn't know, couldn't understand. Somehow, no matter how hard he tried, he was always on the outside of it. As if he was afraid.
Now, wasn't that something? The Batman afraid?
"Princess, I just don't know."
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Later that night the man who had been the Batman lay in his monstrous bed wide awake. His small grandson lay nearby, sheltered in a warm haven of blankets and pillows, safely nestled so he would not fall. Koriand'r and his father had gone on patrol with several of the other guardians of Gotham and its surrounding areas while he had stayed home to baby-sit.
Baby-sitting. The Batman.
No, not baby-sitting. Surrendering. Letting go.
All a part of growing old.
Of death.
Disturbed without knowing why, but having a sense of what needed to be done, he dialed another old friend and asked for a favor.
The feminine squeal on the other end of the line was enough to tell him she was on her way.
Leaving Barda, one of the New Gods, to watch over his son's treasure, knowing the child was in capable hands—probably more capable than his—he left the mansion to slip behind the wheel of one of his multitudinous vehicles and sped down the dusty road toward Gotham. Checking the monitors, he made certain the Bat-bots were in place as back-up. Then, confident with his security measures, he turned his attention to the task ahead.
Soon an ebon-winged figure emerged from the cockpit-like seat of the sedan to move with lightning swiftness over the roof-tops of the darkened city, making his way towards one particular spot. In reality, it was a moment in time he flew towards, one that was forever written upon his heart in blood. A dark place. Or rather, a hallowed place.
If his black heart really knew what hallowed was.
This place. Crime Alley.
The years had actually been kind to it, for it was no longer a stinking filth-ridden byway where good people need fear for their hard-earned savings and their lives. Instead it had been reborn and was once again what it had been when he was a child: A place of light and laughter, a flower-strewn avenue which led to the newly renovated theater district. Most nights it was filled with Moms and Dads, with children, lovers and fools.
Tonight though, it was empty, as if it had known he would come.
Silently he landed, retracting the mechanical wings which had borne him aloft and stepped into the ebon shadows of a newly renovated building. The brilliant blue neon sign atop it, less than three months old, sparked and buzzed, its death gasps casting an eerie glow over the expensive Paver stones that now lined the street.
Here, in the shadow of what had once been a movie theater, Bruce Wayne's life had ended and the Batman's begun. Kneeling he reverently placed a gloved hand on the precise spot where so many years ago his parent's blood had run thick and red. He closed his eyes and listened to the sound of the shot. It still haunted him more than forty years later. So did the vision of his mother's white pearls spilling onto the red ground, rolling far and wide as though seeking to escape the insanity.
This was where he had lost his gods. His parents. It was the place where any faith he had had died as well.
"Mom. Dad," he whispered, tears spilling down his thin lined cheeks. "I'm so sorry."
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Nightwing raised his head, glancing at the woman who waited beside him. She nodded, a grim determined look on her beautiful heart-shaped face. And then he sighed. This was one of those nights when he had to step back, to let her go in before him, and it was no easier now than it had been the first time he had agreed to do so. But she had insisted. And he understood. Her own return from the dead was miraculous. So had his been. Roy and Donna and so many others had not been so lucky. Their deaths had hit her hard. And then after John's birth, as he held the small wonder in his hands, she had made him grudgingly promise he would learn to recognize his limitations: learn to admit that his human body was no match for the likes of many of the rag-tag metahuman villains who still ran wild on the earth, venting their anger and frustration in mindless destruction.
The trouble was, he felt really good. Externally and internally he was twenty-five again, rejuvenated thanks to the age-reversing effects of the Lazarus Pit. He could run faster and breath easier than he had in years. He could jump and somersault like a boy of ten. But he also knew these were not his only strengths. He was a master at thinking and planning. Discovering. Detecting.
And being a father.
Kory had held his face in her hands and gazed into his crystal blue eyes, her own jade-green ones full of tears. She wanted him alive. Well. Whole. Not only for her, but for his son. She had argued powerfully—and he smiled at the word—that she was both stronger and faster than him. That the powers she had were given to her for a reason, X'Hal knew, and she should use them.
To defend her city. To guard her children.
To protect him.
"I have watched you die once, my love," she had whispered, kissing his lips, "I do not intend to do so again."
He could have said the same thing.
He nodded to her now and watched her take off, a fiery crimson trail lighting the night sky as she passed. Soon she was lost from his sight as she descended, dropping down behind one of the supposedly abandoned warehouses below. He drew a deep breath and sighed. Every time he became anxious or frustrated she had told him to hold the image of his young son's face before him and to remember what his own life had been without his father; to consider the man he might have been had the Graysons not plunged to their deaths on that fateful night. And even more, to consider the fate of the man who had taken his father's place. Not all little boys survived. Some did, but others died a little everyday.
Like Bruce.
Waiting for Kory's signal his thoughts turned to the older man and he smiled. Babysitting…. Who'd have believed it?
A sudden cry and blast of red-hot solar power alerted him that something was wrong. Kory was not to have attacked but only scouted the area below. Standing tall, he aimed his night-vision glasses at the warehouse, hoping to catch a glimpse of what was going on inside. A second blast erupted and shingles flew off the roof as a solid form burst out and flew away into the night.
It was not his wife.
Telling himself to trust her he waited…about ten seconds...and then swift as thought the Night-line snaked out into the darkness and he was gone.
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Not far away Nightstar, the striking twenty-something daughter of Nightwing and Princess Koriand'r of Tamaran, paused in her patrol. She had recognized the red star power that illuminated the night and knew her mother was in the midst of a battle. Nodding to the others who patrolled with her and signaling them to go on, she bent her arms toward the glow and her will towards arriving at the scene of the conflict as quickly as possible.
Gliding silently over the old section of Gotham that was her regular beat, she hesitated as she noticed a dark still figure emerging from the shadows of what used to be one of Lex Luthor's prize properties and into the false dawn of the well-lit avenue which led to the Leslie Thompson Memorial Park.
"Grandpa?" she called as she descended to the paved avenue.
"Kory! Kory, where are you?"
Nightwing landed with ease outside of the vast warehouse they had targeted and glanced about warily. Just because he had seen one metahuman take flight, that didn't mean there weren't others left behind. Still he had not received the agreed-upon signal from his wife and that had him worried. Moving through the shadows he found an open window and quickly slipped inside.
Everything was quiet. Too quiet. He drew a deep breath and tried again to place the creature he had seen fleeing the warehouse as he had winged through the dark night towards it. There had been a trace of purple on its costume, like his wife's, but no glow, no power seething from within. It had flown, swiftly, drawing up into a ball and then spurted forward almost faster than his eye could follow.
Someone new no doubt. Another disgruntled grandchild of a hero, or worse, the old hero themselves. Some were down and out, without support, living on the streets. More had perished in that last battle between Captain Marvel and Superman than the ones whose bones had littered the battlefield. Some of the survivors had gone mad, unable to cope with what they had seen.
A sudden noise drew his attention and he halted. Behind a tall stack of wooden crates he spied a thick lock of deep red hair.
"Kory?"
There was a pause and then he called again.
"Kory, is that you?"
"Dick." The word was whispered, curt and short. "Get out of here."
"Kory, I…." He glanced left and right and then moved into the shadows cast by the stack of boxes he was near. "I'm coming over."
"Dick, no! Stay where you are." Her voice was urgent, frightened. Then he saw her stand straight up and step into the light. "No!" Hers eyes fastened somewhere above him and she screamed as her starbolts flew. "Get down. Now!"
"What?" His lips formed the question, but even as they did, he obeyed her without thought.
It saved his life.
Seconds later he awoke on the concrete floor, his head throbbing and pounding. He was nearly blind. As he heard his wife's star power lash out again, he raised a gloved hand to his head and brought it away covered with blood.
That shocked him. Someone or something had shot him. Plain shot him. No super powers. No metahuman surprises. No starbolts or lasers. Just a bullet.
Just a bullet? Quaint in 2022 perhaps, but just as deadly.
From the corona which surrounded her he could tell that Koriand'r now stood in front of the wooden crates nearest him, her hands blazing. She had forsaken her hiding place to protect him. Feeling guilty, as though he had somehow let her down, he tried to crawl towards her, but found the effort left him breathless. He hadn't realized he was that badly hurt. It was just a bullet wound after all. He raised his head to try to tell her that, but found that he had lost his bearings. His head pounded furiously. His vision was blurred. Still, he knew she shouldn't be that hard to find with the power of the unbridled sun pouring through her. Lifting his head again, he found her face and concentrated on it.
It was grim. More so than a bullet grazing his forehead should have made it, but then again…. He grinned. She was rather possessive.
An instant later he regretted grinning and passed out.
From somewhere behind a pile of twisted and burning boxes a pale hand drew back, holstering the automatic weapon it held. A sick grin twisted its already twisted face and a voice low-pitched and surly snarled, "Next time, boy."
Then it was gone.
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"Dick? Dick?"
The man in question opened his eyes slowly and tried to focus. Someone was bending over him demanding his attention.
He didn't want to give it.
"Dick. X'Hal," they breathed. Turning to someone else nearby, they said with emotion, "there's so much blood."
"He'll be all right. He's strong," a gruff voice spoke with authority, it's tone harsh as though anger could mask the emotion within it.
He didn't recognize either of them. Or did he? Someone from his past?
Another out of focus face came into his line of sight and a cool hand touched his hot cheek, "Dad? Can you hear me?"
Dad?
Nightwing blinked again and tried to sit up.
"No, you don't." The first voice returned. "Lay back down. You mustn't move. Understand?" Strong hands forced him to obey as they pinned him to the floor. A whispered question was directed toward the owner of the other voice. "Can he be moved?"
"With care. I'll call the Bat-bots. They can carry him to the Manor and keep him steady." It paused. "We wouldn't want to leave him here long. It's drafty. Cold."
Cold? He felt like he was laying on a bed of fire.
"Besides, whoever did this might return."
"With all of us here?" The out of focus face spoke again. "They'd have to be crazy."
Another pause and then, "That's what I am afraid of."
Something beeped, seemingly far away. Nightwing raised a hand to try and chase the sound away and felt cool fingers encircle his. Then he heard a sudden intake of breath.
"Oh, my God."
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"I can't believe you left him here unattended. Bruce, what got into you?"
Dick Grayson awoke to harsh whispers that he supposed were meant to be too low to disturb him. He licked his lips and opened his mouth to call his wife's name, but his throat was too dry and it came out as little more than a soft croak.
"I didn't leave him unattended. Barda was here. Barda. I left the robots outside as well, standing guard. You saw the condition they were in." Bruce hesitated, drawing a breath. "I doubt if even you could have stopped whoever it was."
There was a moment of icy silence. "If I had been here, I would have stopped them...or died."
"Barda almost did." He ran a hand over his forehead. The tall dark-haired woman had been carted off by Diana the day before, taken to the Isle for healing. He hadn't been able to reach Scott yet or her daughter.
Koriand'r watched him, trying to reign in her temper. They had been through this before, several times, the first only moments after they had arrived at the manor with Nightwing's wounded form in tow. She glanced at the hardwood floor near the entrance to the room and frowned. The hole she had blasted through it had been hastily patched and a rug tossed over it.
"I'm sorry—for that," she replied, tight-lipped.
Bruce stared at her, almost frantic. "Do you think I wanted this to happen? Don't you think I live every day knowing some crazed maniac may try to take me down, or worse yet, destroy me by destroying what I dare to love?" He hesitated and glanced at his wounded son, feeling the dark shadow hanging over him. "Don't you know they already have?"
A silence fell in the room during which Dick tried to raise his head, desperately wanting to intervene, needing to stop these two people whom he loved from tearing each other apart, but as he did, a severe pain shot through his temples which almost made him black out. Through the ebon night that sought to overwhelm him, he heard his mentor's voice break with emotion.
"If I could take his place I would."
Koriand'r was silent a moment. "I know that," she said at last, though there was no acquittal in her voice. "Bruce, forgive me. I know you are doing all that is humanly possible…."
Grim words interrupted her. "No. I won't forgive you. There is nothing to forgive. I have failed. It is I who need to be forgiven, but not now—not yet. Not until we find whoever did this! And if I have done everything humanly possible, then I will just have to do what is beyond human strength." He drew a breath and Dick heard his booted feet move swiftly across the floor. "Excuse me, Princess, I have work to do."
Koriand'r's deep voice was strained. "Let me come with you— "
"No. You have work as well, here. Keep him safe. You are probably the only one who can. And don't let him get up." The footsteps moved away and out the door. They seemed to disappear but a moment later they were back.
"Koriand'r?"
"Yes, Bruce?"
She was closer to his bed now. Her voice caught and broke on his former guardian's name. He could tell she was crying. Why? Was he worse than he thought? Dick forced his eyes open and turned his head just in time to see his mentor strike away a tear and turn from the door.
"I am sorry."
The movement made him nauseous and he moaned without meaning too. His wife pivoted sharply, suddenly realizing he was awake. She glanced at the hallway but the old man was gone, and then she approached the bed, wiping her eyes quickly and planting a faint smile on a face worn with worry and fatigue.
"Dick? Love, are you awake?"
"Kory?" he whispered hoarsely, swallowed and then tried again, "Kory, what…?"
"Shh, be still. You have lost a great deal of blood."
He frowned. That hurt too. "It was just a bullet, " he rasped.
"A bullet, yes. But just? Not quite." The tall red-head laid her hand on his forehead and shuddered at the fever raging there. "Bruce and Clark agree, there is something more to it. Some new technology. I think the word the STAR doctor used was 'nannites'. Apparently the bullet contained them. They are like microscopic living machines and they began to burrow into your veins shortly after the 'bullet' deposited them underneath your skin. They work very quickly and were wrecking havoc with your system. They think they have them stopped for the moment, but…." She paused and drew a shuddering breath. "You could have died."
For some strange reason he felt the urge to comfort her. "But I didn't. Kory, I'm here." Her chin trembled and she sobbed once before regaining control. Dick stretched out his hand, refusing to give in to the wave of fatigue that was washing over him, threatening to carry him away. "Kory, what is it?" There had to be more. "Tell me…."
She sniffed and for a second her great green eyes grew distant. Bruce had warned her not to. Told her it would be a mistake, that if she told him, she would lose him because once he knew, nothing short of Hell freezing over would keep him off the streets and in that bed where he belonged.
Still, she loved him too much to pretend or lie. And he had a right to know.
Leaning forward she kissed his brow where the bandage covered the damage left by the near fatal shot and then ran long golden fingers through his thick black waves.
"Dick…. It's John."
He knew before she said the words. "Oh, God," he whispered.
"The baby is gone."
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TWO
Dick Grayson sat in the sun near one of the massive windows that fronted the vast southern lawn of the newly restored Wayne Manor, watching the sunlight play off the roof of the solarium and bounce from treetop to treetop, casting long shadows across the lush green grass. Diana was outside with her son, Bruce, attempting to keep him quiet and out of the way. Or perhaps just trying to keep another little boy out of mind.
As if that would be possible.
Clark as Superman was out looking for John. Had been looking for John. Every minute. Everywhere. But he had found nothing. No sign. No demands. And thank God, no body.
The man who spent his life winging off skyscrapers and playing tag with super-villains felt his knuckles go bone-white as once again a wave of impotence swept over him. They would not let him go. At times it seemed they would not even let him think. He was being drugged. Oh, it was for his own good—doctor's orders—to keep him immobile so the now dormant mechanical 'bugs' in his system would not wake, but still it angered him. No, it infuriated him. This was his child. His fight.
His right.
Since he had awakened there had been a constant stream of x-rays technicians and specialists from STAR labs parading through the recreation of his old room. They had all certified him as healthy, but none would take the responsibility of swearing he would stay that way. None would say for certain that the small creatures which had been planted in his bloodstream were not simply ticking time-bombs waiting to explode.
He had begged Clark to burn them out. Pleaded with Bruce to use the high-tech medical equipment in the cave, to let him make that decision—to take the chance—but he knew by the look on their faces that they were afraid.
Superman and Batman, afraid.
Afraid he would die.
Bruce had told him he believed the nannites were merely lying dormant. He had looked at one of them in the cave and believed the technology far too sophisticated for them to have mastered its complexities so quickly. And so, while others searched the air, sea and land for his tiny defenseless son, he had been consigned to a chair like an invalid, forced to watch the sunlight play off the tiles and the wind sweep the grassy lawn, and to wait.
If that wasn't death, he didn't know what was.
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No more.
Seventy-two hours before his son had disappeared.
Twelve hours after that he had awakened to find his life forever changed. Awakened to find a bevy of doctors buzzing about him and his family treating him as though he were made of fragile clay.
Twelve hours after that he had begun to systematically skip every other dose of medicine they brought him, allowing his mind to take over controlling the pain.
Today he had taken nothing. No drugs. No food as well, for he couldn't be certain they were not lacing it as well, fully expecting that he might try to do exactly what he was going to do.
Escape.
He was hungry but his head was clear. It was also pounding like a jackhammer on concrete.
Good. A grim smile lit his face. It would keep him alert.
Today he went after his son.
He hadn't seen his wife in two days. As soon as she had known his condition was stable and that he wasn't going anywhere, she had joined the hunt. His daughter Mar'i had volunteered to look after him, but even at twenty-two, she was still a child. It wouldn't be hard to deceive her. Dick Grayson closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He really didn't want to trick her, but they had left him no choice. Their compassion and concern were killing him. He couldn't just sit here sipping sodas and staring at shadows as if his life was already over. He had to be on the move. He needed to be on the move.
God willing, he would survive long enough to find his son.
Eyes still closed he offered a silent prayer to the One he had made peace with years before. After Kory had been returned. After his own death and resurrection. His wife had always been deeply religious. Her belief was an inspiration to him. After long years of rebellion and pain, he finally understood that it was simply no good to be alone. "God. X'Hal…. Whatever you choose to call yourself. My child is out there, somewhere. In the arms of a madman. Grant me the time to bring him home."
Bruce and Clark were good, probably the best, but there was something they were not.
John's father.
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Dick shifted in the chair and started to rise, but then he heard a light footfall outside the door and knew Nightstar was on her way in. Relaxing his white-knuckled grip on the arms, he leaned back and adopted a dreamy air.
His daughter entered, her long black hair waving behind her, the usual tray in her hands. Placing it on the table beside him, she leaned down and kissed him on the forehead just above his scar. "How are you today, Dad?"
He glanced at her absent-mindedly and then turned back to the view through the windows. "Just fine. And you?"
"Great." She couldn't look at him. Her heart was breaking, both with fear and hatred of what she was forced to be a part of.
"Any news?" he asked quietly.
Mar'i frowned and looked out the window. The lawn was empty now. Diana had either joined Clark and the others on the hunt or come inside. Little Bruce was going to stay with his Aunt Barda. She was mending and they all felt it would do her good to be trusted with her friend's small son. She had not forgiven herself for failing or for forgetting. When she had awakened, she had found her memory blank. All she could recall was a curious noise at the window and a faint blue glow about the child. And then nothing.
Nightstar sighed. " 'Fraid not. Ibn has added his forces, but so far there is nothing. No clue. It's like John's just disappeared without a trace." She turned to look at him finally, tears in her blank green eyes. "God, Dad, why did this have to happen?"
Dick Grayson gritted his teeth against the pain.
"God only knows."
She moved to face him and knelt in front of the chair. His apparent weakness disturbed her almost as much as what she was doing, though she knew it was right. It was the only way to keep him alive. He could be so, well, stubborn some times. Noting the pain that pinched the corners of his blue eyes she asked, "Are you in pain, Dad?"
He drew a breath. "A little."
His dark-haired daughter frowned. "Is it your head?"
"No." He bit the word off. "I was thinking of your brother…."
She bit her lip. "Clark is looking for him. And Diana." Her hand went to his knee and she gazed up at him, looking as she had when she was only ten years old and he had still been her world. "Dad, you couldn't do any more than they are…. Grandpa said so."
Dear Bruce, he laughed silently, still trying to best the Grim Reaper. Without warning, he changed the subject. "How is your Mom?"
"Worried about you." Nightstar answered instantly, meeting his keen blue eyes. She held them, her beautiful young face deadly serious. "Dad, don't even think about it. Don't try to do anything dangerous. Mom's beside herself already. If something happened to you…." She hesitated, lifting her hand to his cheek. "Dad, I almost lost you in the war. I had to watch you die in that cave in Africa. I don't know if I could stand it if anything happened…."
"Nightstar…." His fingers closed over hers.
"Dad, please? Promise you'll stay put?" Her enormous jade-green eyes grew moist and she sniffed as she took his hand in both of hers. "Daddy? Please?"
Dick Grayson stared out the window again, his brow deeply furrowed in spite of the fact that it hurt like hell. Glancing at his shaken daughter he made a decision to do something he had rarely done in his life.
He lied.
"I promise," he whispered and then thought, "God forgive me. She never will."
Nightstar stared at him a moment and then beamed. She rose and kissed his hair, then handed him the tray and headed for the door. "There's a big meeting tonight here at the Manor. Everyone is to be gathered. I think Grandpa might let you come. I'll ask…" She stopped, looking at the dejected figure by the window. "No, I'll tell him he has to let you come.
"Dad?"
He turned slowly and looked at her. What she said went straight as a dagger to his heart.
"Thanks. I love you."
Swallowing hard, he nodded. "I love you too, Mar'i. Always remember that. I love you too."
Half an hour later he was gone.
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THREE
"Dick?"
Thin-skinned knuckles rapped on the heavy wooden door and long fingers showed through the crack as it opened into the room. A dark head followed and then the slender ramrod-straight frame that carried it, swathed in deep green and gold. A silken waistcoat flashed momentarily as the cape was swept aside, like a summer sun settling in the dark night's embrace. "Dick, the meeting has begun and Mar'i said…."
Ibn Al' Xuffasch hesitated just inside the door. His keen eyes, deep in color and razor-sharp as a falcon's, surveyed the empty room noting the open window and the perfectly preserved bed linens.
The son of the bat sighed.
Then he smiled.
The night they had brought Dick to the manor, wounded, perhaps dying, he had listened to the doctors, to his father and to the older man's wife. Even to his lover. Still, he had argued against the decision they had made. He knew Dick too well. He understood their fear, even shared it, but it was wrong. Dick was a man. A man among men. This was his child. His son.
He had a right to choose.
Slowly Ibn backed out of the room and closed the door, turning the knob. A moment later as he descended the broad staircase into the elegant entry of the newly restored manor, he literally ran into the one he had claimed for his own. She was looking towards the parlor where the might of the several worlds was gathered and not watching where she was going. He halted and caught her in his arms as she stumbled and lost her footing. Her jade-green eyes were bright and her black hair fell about her shoulders in an ebon wave. She smiled and reached for him.
After a slow kiss, she pulled away. "Where's Dad?"
Ibn's eyes met hers. "Asleep," he answered quickly.
"You should have awakened him. He wanted to be here…." She started to move past him, towards the hall that led to her father's room. He caught her lavender-covered arm.
"I tried." His piercing eyes held hers, searching them. "Did you drug his food?"
Nightstar looked down. She knew his opinion on this. "I didn't.
"Then someone else?"
She bit her lip and nodded. "The butler."
The young man tilted his dark head and almost laughed. "The butler did it?"
She hit him on the chest. Hard. "One of those mechanical things Grandpa programs. You know, the Alfred clones."
"Oh." He took hold of her arm and began to walk her down the steps. As she protested, insisting she should go to her Dad's room and try to rouse him, Ibn took her by the waist and whispered, "Let him be. The choice has been made."
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Some time later as they sat in the immense dining room of Wayne Manor, half a dozen of the galaxy's mightiest heroes gathered at one long mahogany table, something began to gnaw at the back of Nightstar's consciousness. She sat with her fists to her chin, listening to the report of Big Barda's daughter and her friend, Avia. She was facing her grandpa and Clark and Diana. Avia reported that her mother was doing well and that she had managed to remember one minor detail. Just before falling unconscious she had seen the house grow unnaturally dark and she had heard a sound, like the wind, or some sort of beast howling. Then the light on the Bat-bots outside the window faltered.
After that she remembered nothing.
Her Dad's surrogate father then spoke up informing them that the Bat-bots had been infected with the same infinitesimal nannites that were threatening the life of his son. They had disrupted the complicated systems, working their way through the built-in defensives, literally shutting the giant guardians down. He mentioned as well that he had found indications that something had been placed over the windows and a noxious substance introduced into the ventilation system, traces of which still clung to the fibers of the new carpet. A substance which when ingested was deadly, but when inhaled produced either hallucinations or a mild form of amnesia.
Clark and Diana spoke next, reporting that they had flown far and wide for three days without finding anything. The beautiful Amazon was still speaking and had begun to draw something from a small pouch tethered to her white gown, when it hit her.
Nightstar's head came free of her hands and she turned to glare at Ibn. Her fists came down on the table hard enough to rattle the boards beneath its carved feet. Everyone in the room, except her lover, looked at her as if she had gone mad. Diana stood open-mouthed, a small piece of paper dangling from her fingers. .
Bruce rose slowly and looked at his grand-daughter. "Mar'i?"
She was fuming. Her breathe coming in short gasps. "Ibn, you tell him."
Slowly all eyes turned to the sleek young man who silently occupied one of a pair of high-backed winged chairs near the fire. He had not joined in, but sat listening. With inherent grace he rose and leaning on the wolf's head cane he carried, looked at her, his eyes a dark mask.
"And what should I tell them, my sweet?"
Nightstar's fists were glowing violet, smoldering like her deep green eyes. "I don't believe you did this."
"Did what?" Diana glanced at Clark and he shrugged, signaling her to wait.
Bruce rose and walked towards his son, towards the young man who was a part of him and yet so much more a part of his power-crazed grandfather and his beautiful child, Talia.
"Son, what is it?"
Ibn tilted his head and ran thin fingers through shoulder-length black hair.
"Nightwing is gone."
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Bruce stood in the room, gripping the arm of the chair his eldest son had recently occupied. The bones were white beneath his thinned skin. The great window before him stood open to the night.
"How long?" He could hear his grand-daughter's toe tapping behind him. "Nightstar?"
She growled low in her throat. Her hands were glowing powerfully enough to illuminate the room. "Ibn?"
The young man shrugged. His cape was thrown back over one shoulder and the gold watch-chain at his waist glinted like a cat's eye. "I do not know for certain. When I arrived to retrieve him before the meeting started, he was gone. The chair was empty as you see it now. The bed un-slept in." He lifted his cane and pointed toward the table to Bruce's left. "As you can see, his food is uneaten."
The older man fingered the chicken-salad sandwich and frowned. "Two hours at least then. Most likely more." Lifting his graying head, he glanced with concern at his half-alien grand-child. "When did you bring this to him?"
Her mouth was set in a hard line. The white teeth cutting into the rosy field of her lips. "Four-thirty."
He nodded. "It's past ten now. I would imagine he left immediately after you did."
Her nostrils flared. "X'Hal," she breathed as she began to tremble.
"Almost six hours." Bruce added as he turned back to the open window. "He could be anywhere by now. And if he doesn't want us to find him. We won't."
Ibn stared at the woman he loved, aware that something was wrong. She was furious with him as she had a right to be. But there was something more. He raised his hand and took a step toward her.
Out of the corner of his eye Bruce noted the familiar flare-up. The light that had pulsed gently in the room began to throb like a carnival ride gone haywire. He glanced at the center of the storm and saw Dick's daughter, her lithe formed bathed in purple light, and then launched himself without thought in the boy's direction. A moment later a deep violet star-bolt split the air where he had been, bursting through the thick wood paneling to shatter the large leaded window at the top of the stair.
Ibn lay on the floor beneath his father, shaken. Bruce rounded on the girl, his blue eyes narrowed with fear and rage. "Mar'i, there is no excuse for that kind of loss of control! I don't care what you think—"
He stopped. She was sobbing like a child with a broken heart. He glanced at his son who nodded, indicating he was well, and then rose to go to her side. She had fallen to her knees and had her head in her hands. Kneeling, he laid his hand on her shoulder and leaned towards her. Through the heart-deep cries, he heard her speak, but couldn't catch the words.
"What?" Bruce petted her head like she was five years old. "Child?"
As Diana and Clark appeared in the doorway, with the others trailing close behind, she fell into his arms. "You lied. You son of a bitch, you lied!" She beat Bruce's arm with her fist, bruising it, and turned to stare out the open window into the anomalous night.
"Dad, how could you lie to me?"
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Dick knew he was taking chances. Big chances. This was the first place they would hunt for him. But he had to go back. Back to where it had all started.
Back to the warehouse where he had been shot.
Oh, he knew Bruce had most likely turned the place inside out, had undoubtedly been over it with something finer than the finest-toothed comb, but he had to see for himself. The yellow police tape, seemingly quaint in this latter day, was still in place marking the spot where he had fallen. He carefully stepped over it where it was sagging and examined the floor. It was still blood-stained. Beyond his outline lay a pile of singed and blackened crates. He advanced and turned a couple of them over with his gloved hands, sifting through the ashes of what seemed to have been a cargo of toys—something akin to a slinky or other metal gyro, though their fused skeletons were nothing now but twisted unrecognizable scrap. With a booted foot he pushed the last box out of the way and then stopped dead.
Someone had left him a note.
He sucked at his teeth and squatted beside the burnt debris. Bruce had to have looked under the boxes. If he had thought of it, then the Batman certainly had. And that meant someone had to have returned and put them back in place, leaving this on the floor for him to find, knowing he would return.
That was not a pleasant thought. Whoever it was, they knew him.
Really knew him.
His blue eyes narrowed as his finger traced the letters on the floor, written in red as though to emulate the blood he had shed.
'YOU ARE MINE,' it said simply. And it was signed not with a name but with a sigil or sign, something like a lop-sided smile or a two tossed on its side with an eye winking above it.
Suppressing a shudder he wondered who it could be. Who was alive who knew him so well? Most of his old enemies had perished in the Metahuman conflict or died of old age. He looked at the sick grin and thought of the Joker. But he was long dead. There was always Two-Face, whereabouts and mental condition unknown…. but this wasn't his style.
Standing and stretching, he lifted his hands to the sky, glancing out the hole in the ceiling his wife's starbolts had left. Thinking of her brought a bittersweet smile. If she hadn't been so worried about him dying, she would have wanted to kill him for—
A sudden explosion in his brain sent him to his knees. He gasped and sucked in air. Falling to the ground, he curled into a tight ball, resting his right temple on the hard cool cement as fireworks exploded behind his clenched eyes.
Somewhere, not very far away, someone was laughing.
Nightwing coughed and a small trickle of blood ran from his nose.
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FOUR
Diana advanced into the center of the room, staring at the old man and his grand-child. Old, she thought, because he looked it. Old and tired. She turned back to her husband and met his bright blue eyes. He followed her and then moved beyond her to lay a hand on his friend's shoulder.
The man who had been the Batman looked up, tears in his eyes. "We were wrong, you know. We should have let him go. We made him choose." He stroked Nightstar's hair. "I made him choose."
Ibn had regained his feet and as Bruce rose to face his friend, he slipped in and scooped Mar'i from the floor. She didn't resist him, but clung to his neck, still sobbing. Her green eyes were red and raw with tears and as he met them, she acknowledged the fact that there would be time enough for him to pay—tomorrow.
Tonight she needed him.
She needed to grieve.
Clark said nothing. He turned to his wife and took the paper from her hand. "Bruce."
His hand was on the back of the chair. If it had not been for his exo-skeleton, he might have fallen down. "Yes? Clark," he answered, pulling himself together. "What is it?"
"We found a note."
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"What is this, a sick joke?"
Clark shook his head, pursing his lips as was his habit. His hand reached for the glasses that were a part of the disguise he no longer wore. Diana walked to his side and faced her son's god-father. "We had followed a trail. A woman had been reported struggling with a small red-headed male child. A strong child." She paused. "They had been spotted on the west side of Gotham."
"Here?" The grey-black eyebrows rose. "In my city? Impossible. I have eyes everywhere. My sentinels…."
"Are fallible. And even they cannot be everywhere." Her blue eyes narrowed. She knew the pain he was feeling. If her son had been missing…. "Even they cannot see everything."
Bruce growled low in his throat. "Like Hell they can't."
"Then they can be disabled. Perhaps controlled."
He was sitting before the fire now, the thin slip of paper clenched in his fingers. The words were written in a curious cursive, slightly askew, indicating a troubled but clever mind. On it there was a grotesque representation of his former ward's costumed form and the words, 'For sale, cheap. One crime-fighter, slightly used and much abused. Going fast. Won't last.' There was a break where the paper had been folded and then it ended, 'If interested, call Hell and ask for me by name. But come quick, the merchandise will begin to smell after twenty-two hours.'
Bruce sighed and opened his mouth to speak.
Someone else beat him to it. "So John was only the bait."
Bruce looked up quickly as did the others. The front door stood open. The night had disintegrated into storms and lightning flashed beyond the rectangular portal. Silhouetted in it was the form of a tall strong woman. On Earth she would have been referred to as Amazonian, but he knew better. She was from Tamaran. And she was his son's wife.
Soaked to the skin, her bright copper hair pressed to her form, she stood dripping on the high-priced Persian rug. Her mouth was set in a line and her green eyes were at once savage as the night and tamed by sorrow. She explained that she had been delayed by a boat which had overturned with the approach of the storm. Seven lives had been saved because she had stopped, and yet each second she had been delayed had taken a year from her life.
"It was Dick they wanted all along."
Bruce gestured away the Bot-butler who was fretting over the wet carpet. "I'm afraid so."
Koriand'r's fingers folded into fists. "And who are they? Or who is he or she?"
Diana moved to face her. "Koriand'r.…"
The Tamaranean's hand rose to stop her. "No. No kindness. No sympathy. This is not a time for softness but for steel." The princess's head was held high. Her back stiff as a pike. "Tell me."
"We don't know—" Bruce cleared his throat and Diana stopped. "What?"
The older man stood and walked to face his alien daughter-in-law, knowing the beliefs that separated them were bridged by the love of one man. He held her eyes and then indicated she should follow him to the cave which still lay buried deep within the earth beneath Wayne Manor. He had had the familiar haunt recreated as well. It was, after all, a part of his soul.
She refused to move. "Bruce? What is it?"
"You may not know, but I think I do."
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She had held her tongue as long as she could. Once they had left the others upstairs, she turned on him, her green eyes blazing. "I feel as if the world is closing in on me. X'Hal, how could this have happened? He was in your care, old man." She left unvoiced the words, "They were both in your care, " but he heard them anyway.
Bruce laughed. A hard bitter laugh. Old man. That was about right. Impotent old man. He didn't answer her but asked, "Have you spoken to your daughter?"
Koriand'r's toe was tapping. Like her daughter's. "About your son?"
The gray head nodded. He glanced at her hands and saw they were still golden, if somewhat pale. "He was right, you know."
"Right? Right?" She could still see her child's jade eyes, wide with grief and worry, trapped between her own disappointment with Ibn and her fear for what her mother might do to him.
Koriand'r had not been gentle when she questioned him.
"Yes. Right."
The princess drew a breath. "About what?"
Bruce shook his head. "We tried to cage a tiger. We were wrong. Strong creatures die in captivity."
"He is not an animal or creature. Dick has a mind. We tried to protect him. He is not well," her voice broke, " now…."
"No, we were killing him, as sure as whoever it is sent this note and did this thing." He faced her, his blue eyes earnest. "He had to go. Had to— "
"Be pig-headed and single-minded as the man who raised him?" Her temper was flaring and scarlet lines ran round her nails and fingers. "Why are we standing here debating this? Where is he?" She took a step forward. "Do you know?"
"Not where, not yet, but…." Bruce deliberately turned his back on her without acknowledging her anger and turned to the computers. Then he began to punch a series of letters and numbers into it in a systematic pattern. "Even though it makes no sense, I may have an idea of who."
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Nightwing opened his eyes. The air was close and still. He couldn't see anything, but he could hear water rushing by, as if he was by a riverfront or inside some sort of power plant. He rolled over and drew a breath and then regretted it instantly as excruciating pain shot through his frame.
"Awake at last. Sleepy boy."
The voice was quiet. Calm.
Demented.
"Are we comfy?"
Dick spit out blood and whispered, "Yeah, I'm just great."
"Oh," the voice seemed to pout, "too bad. We can remedy that."
A tiny explosion in his arm made him scream and glance down. Even though the lighting was dim, his eyes had adjusted enough that he could see a thin black river of blood running down his forearm onto his hand.
"Better?"
The crimefighter clamped his mouth shut. Somehow it didn't seem prudent to answer.
"Better."
Silence overtook the room. He listened intently trying to determine his tormentor's sex and size from the footsteps as they shifted from side to side, twisting knobs and pressing buttons. It was impossible. They made very little sound and what he did catch, made no sense. He lay on the floor, stifling a groan, and then finally asked—because he couldn't stand it. "Is my son here?"
"Oh, goodness, no," came the instant reply. "No place for a child. Know that all too well. Parent bleeds. Child sees. Nasty. Nasty. Psychosis. Obsession."
Nightwing frowned. Who was this madman?
He swallowed. "Am I going to die?"
A shadow moved through the deeper shadows that masked the room until it drew close. As it did, a hidden skylight opened in the ceiling above, inviting the moonlight to enter the small cramped space. He couldn't see much, just dingy concrete walls and wooden rafters over head. He was bound, hand and foot, and unable to move. As he pulled against his restraints, his captor came to his side. The figure silhouetted against the evening sky was slender, almost feminine, but tall and rangy like a man. One arm of its curious costume was bare, the other clad in a stylish tweed such as Bruce had often worn when playing the fop. Its hair, backlit by the stars, stood up as if being held for ransom. It wore an air of menace like a second skin and Dick forced himself to continue to stare as it reached out and turned on a light.
One side of its face was smiling, the blood-red lip turned up with a quirk. The other side frowned. One cheek was white as chalk and the other bronze, as though its owner had fallen asleep like Rip Van Winkle for twenty years only under the false light of a tanning bed. Its disheveled hair shone a tawny yellow, with a sick greenish tint, and gleamed like old gold.
"Who are you?" he whispered, wanting to move away but unable to shift even the tiniest bit.
The face came closer and he could see it was a jester's, split in half, as if its creator had been unable to determine what it wanted: a smiling clown or a harlequin gone made.
"You may call me, the Pretender."
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END PART ONE
