Prologue
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A couple of men surround the lone man, big and burly in their leather jackets. His father, the man encircled by these gangsters, tried negotiating, asking for more time to get the money he owed them, but John could tell from the men's faces that they wouldn't wait any longer. Ever since his mom had died, his father quit the circus and floated around, looking for easy jobs and throwing away the money he and John's mom saved in hopes his father could gamble back a fortune, but his father was always better at jumping from great heights than reading people. John knew this day would come, the day his father's gambling problems would come back to bite them, but he still jumped at the crack of a bullet entering his father's heart. The gangsters ignored the little boy who watched everything from the side, who didn't run to his father's dead body or collapse and sob like others did. He stoically watched as the gangsters simply disappeared down the alley, back to wherever they belonged. Certainly not the shadows, John would think grimly. Those belong to me. How long had he stuck to them, hidden in them, whenever those men came drunk and searched for someone to take out their frustrations on when John's father wasn't around? While his father couldn't read people well, John had tagged along to his father's games often enough that he could read even the best poker faces; the child knew when to send his father on a random errand so the gangsters would conveniently miss him when they came by to check if he had the money, and the acrobatic skills and stealth John learned from his father and the street life respectively allowed the child to keep out of harm's reach so long as the men didn't have guns.
Once the gangsters were gone, John checked his father's body, just to see if the man was still alive, and the boy closed his father's eyes and whispered a small prayer his mother had taught him before she died. He got up, resolutely ignoring the shaking of his knees, and he left the alley, searching. It was a block away when John found a sleeve to tug and someone to send for his father's body, and as several police officers left for the location John gave them, the man whose sleeve John tugged knelt down and offered his own police jacket to keep the boy warm in the chilly night. "My father's dead," John found himself blurting, and the officer nodded. "I know," he assured, and John, the boy who could read even the best poker faces, felt bemused yet comforted at the look this officer held in his eyes as the child tugged the jacket around him tighter for more warmth. These were the eyes of someone who had done this before, of someone who really cared. That was the first time John met James Gordon.
XxXx
Crack!
"Agggh!" There was the clutter of the wooden weapons being dropped, followed by the wielder falling on his knees, cradling his ribs. "Yeah, yeah, no pain, no gain!" The taunter laughed, followed by the roaring laughter of others, and a crowd of men pushed the injured man and his weapons off and out of the ring. It was dark and damp in the stadium, but none of its occupants cared. The underground Arnis competitions were one of the best ways to get quick money, if one knew who to bet on. It was like boxing, only there weren't any rules, time-limits, or breaks, and Modern Arnis didn't rear its head here, with its practice of hitting "cane-to-cane"; the bottom line was make your opponent go down, before you do.
"Who's next?" the man in the ring roared, raising both of his arms in the air with the two long, straight sticks, or "canes," in his hands in a sign of challenge. John gulped down the last of his water and tossed the plastic bottle aside as he headed towards the ring. "Woah, there, bird brain," a man with copper skin and dark hair, a Filipino, grabbed his arm, squeezing through the crowd to come to John's side, "going against that ox up there is just asking for suicide." John looked at him. "I've been winning all my matches the past months, Pedro," he shouted through the noise of the stadium. His Filipino friend, Pedro, shook his head. "This guy has been in the competitions longer than you have. You're a quick learner, I'll give you that, and you have amazing intuition and all, but I'd rather see talent like that fulfil its fullest potential than get broken before it does." John pulled his arm out of Pedro's grasp, before slipping through the ring's rope and readying himself for his opponent. "Idiot!" his friend called after him, but John just laughed. "This is why you're a bird brain; you have nothing going on in there except wondering where you can next peck around for trouble!"
John's opponent whistled at his new target. "Aren't you a little short?" he chuckled, before shrugging and sending a confident look to the crowd. Bets were made, some in favour of John, as they had witnessed his previous fights before, while the majority gambled in favour of the veteran. The referee whistled, signalling the start of the match, and the veteran barely turned around to face his seemingly easy opponent when something struck his chest and abdomen. Angered, he caught the next blow with his canes, and John was overwhelmed with a succession of blows as the man got up, pushing him to the edge of the ring. John blocked and parried every strike, however, protecting all of his body while sneaking in quick blows to his opponent's wrists and elbows, but those watching knew that putting up with that many strong and fast blows would quickly tire one out, and the crowd chanted, waiting for John to slip and get hit. His opponent, meanwhile, winced at every strike, discovering that John actually had acknowledgeable strength. "Just get hit already!" his opponent growled, before suddenly smirking. John raised a brow, confused, before he read through his opponent and his intuition kicked in. The man swung his canes at John when his defence would have collapsed after running into the rope of the ring, but John read through his opponent. He flipped backwards, landing on the rope with perfect balance, before springing forward and using his opponent's shoulders to vault himself over. As he landed, he struck at the back of the knees, and the crowd shouted in excitement as his opponent fell.
The big man got up, nursing his injuries. His eyes blazed with an angry fire. "I never lose," he claimed. John shrugged, a boyish smile on his lips. "Famous last words." They engaged, and John discovered that the man wasn't a veteran of the competitions for nothing. He didn't just focus in his muscle power and the protection of his build, but the snap-fast reflexes ingrained into an Arnis fighter were definitely present as he fought, and John began to struggle against the rage of an experienced underground Arnis fighter. A blow caught the shorter man on his thigh, and John quickly responded with one at his opponent's knees, emphasising on an injury already given, and the two broke apart, catching their breath a moment. "What are you doing?" Pedro shouted from the edge of the ring near him, frustrated in knowing how well John could fight and watching him ignore opportunities for taking down his opponent for good. John glanced at him. "I have a no kill policy," he shouted back. The Filipino cradled his head and moaned. "Not everyone here shares the same sentiment! Take advantage of the openings when you see them, or he will kill you first!" John ignored him as he engaged with the veteran again.
They exchanged more blows, each more painful than the last, and when John saw opportunities to potentially kill his opponent, he ignored the openings and instead struck and counter-attacked somewhere or somehow else, refusing to use them. Each time, his opponent squinted at him, confused on John's actions, but he didn't show mercy, and instead continued taking advantage of every hole and slip in John's defence, even nearly cracking his ribs in one blow. "What are you doing, idiot?" the veteran shouted, striking again with a painful hit. "Don't go pussy on me!" Another blow, this one the harshest, caught John up his chin, and the crowd roared in adrenaline as he stumbled. John shook his head, clearing his vision up, and his opponent laughed. "Where's your anger?" Suddenly, in a move too fast to be seen, John disabled the veteran of a cane, sending it flying to the side where it bounced off the post holding the nets up and hit the back of his opponent's knees again.
John quickly kicked the cane aside before the other could pick it up, and he smiled back as his opponent realised what had happened in only seconds. "Oh, I'm always angry," John replied, and then he struck. The veteran attempted to deflect the blow with his one cane, but it only slipped from hitting his chest to his shoulder, and he grunted at the pain. They fought once more, the veteran a major threat even with one cane, but in a flash of seeing through his opponent's moves, John was a blur again before he hit the back of the man's knees, followed through, and pushed the man down with a blow to the chest, sending the veteran flat on his back. John's opponent groaned, his cane now joined with the other at the side, and with a checking glance of the referee, John was deemed winner. The crowd erupted in an earth-shaking roar of excitement and wonder, a countless number of hands clapping John on his back as he descended from the ring, and money was passed around as the minority of the crowd won the bets. Pedro approached him, gleefully carrying stack loads of money.
"I always knew you could do it, bird brain!" Pedro laughed, and he began splitting the money to hand over to John, but he shook his head. "I don't do it for the money," John smiled as he dabbed his broken lip with his sweat towel. Pedro shook his head. "That's what you always say," he said, "but in the end I'm buying your food with the money you earned. You don't even have a place to stay; don't act like I didn't see you on the streets!" John shrugged, not answering. Pedro sighed, clapping John's back as the two retreated to the exit of the stadium. John was silent the whole way, until he surprised Pedro with a few words at the exit. "I'm leaving." Pedro looked at him, brow raised, before shaking his head, aware of John's seemingly impulsive decisions. "Here," Pedro said, slapping a wad of cash into John's hand, "that's enough to get you anywhere across the continent; New York, Los Angeles, you name it. I don't have a reason to spend all of this money anyway." John nodded in appreciation. "Thanks." The two split ways, before John stopped Pedro for a moment. "Oh, and say hi to your wife and children for me, would you?" As John disappeared down the street, Pedro chuckled. John had purposefully given him his earnings and slept on the streets so that Pedro could support his family.
XxXx
Gordon sighed, staring at the rows of white tombstones before him that honoured the lives lost from the "Reckoning." A few other people were there, placing flowers at a loved one's grave, others simply kneeled before one, praying. The commissioner flicked a gaze at the sky, recalling days when a searchlight lit the clouds and displayed the symbol of Gotham's loyal hero, who took the fall even for Dent's actions. One shouldn't live on the past, he learned, so Gordon looked away, instead observing the people at the graveyard. He raised a brow when he saw a young man with his back to the commissioner, playing with something before holding it up, revealing it to be a sticky note with a single line of writing on it, though the print was small enough only the man holding the note could read it. The young man held a lighter up to it, allowing the flames to eat up the paper and the winds to steal the ashes away. He wasn't in front of any particular tombstone, simply keeping the dead souls company as if hoping a certain one would find him and place a comforting hand on his shoulder as the ashes floated away. Gordon moved his gaze elsewhere to give the man privacy, and he marvelled at the stained glass windows of the church nearby instead, his thoughts now turning to a certain young man who quit the police force and disappeared to who knows where for the past six months. He had such potential; it was sad to see it go to waste.
"Sir."
The commissioner jumped, turning around to see John standing before him. Well, speak of the devil. "Blake," he greeted, before recognising the man who burned the note as the ex-detective before him. The young man seemed to have gone through some sort of change; a toughness and wisdom had ingrained themselves into John's skin, a sort of confidence yet humility colouring the once hothead's posture. "Long time no see," Gordon chuckled. John smiled back. "I needed to go away for a while," he explained vaguely. "I came to the graveyard to bid farewell to a dead man's note, and it's just now that I've seen you in several months." Gordon blinked. "I thought I felt someone's eyes on me, Commissioner. I figured you were curious about what I was burning," John's smile widened, a playful twinkle in his eyes. Gordon sighed. "Being around a youngster like you makes me feel like an old man," he confessed, and John clapped his back in good humour. "I'll see you around, sir."
XxXx
Alfred, Lucius, Gordon, and John had attended Bruce Wayne's burial shortly after the Reckoning six months ago, just the four of them, but the sorrow there was enough to fill four-hundred people. Everyone left the Waynes' graves, and Alfred stayed behind, weeping and apologising for not being able to protect the Waynes' baby boy. Now, months after disappearing to the underground world—and soon enough, its Arnis competitions—John had returned, and he listened to the reading of Bruce's will before receiving what the man left for him. John had arrived quite late for the reading and missed Gordon.
John didn't mention to Gordon that the note he just burned came along with the ridiculously large money inheritance Bruce Wayne left behind for the ex-cop. After visiting the coordinates the note pointed to, John understood what the billionaire trusted him with, and he got to work tuning up the tools and customising the gear in the Batcave. Everything had been neatly organised so that John figured out how to work everything soon enough, and he felt honoured Bruce entrusted his beloved city to John with obvious time and thought put into it. The suits left behind were modified to fit John, and everything password, fingerprint, or voice protected opened to him when he used his birth-given first and last names, Robin Blake. After burning the note containing the coordinates to the Batcave and bidding goodbye to Gordon, John visited Bruce's grave the second time that year, where he gave his regards. Alfred spotted him and said nothing, offering only a smile that John returned, the two comfortable in each other's presence. They simply stood there for a while, honouring the life of a man greatly misunderstood and deserving of both the peaceful life he should have had and the final rest he received.
After, he entered the Wayne mansion given to the Gotham City Orphanage John had been raised after his father's death. It was to revisit a part of his childhood, John felt, and he could already feel how lighter the atmosphere felt now that the orphans were given a bigger, brighter living space. Laughter filled the air as sunshine poured in, and some of the children were playing with the grand piano, but several keys were missing due to the destruction done on Bruce Wayne's property by thieves and criminals. Officially, the billionaire was tied up by the criminals as they looted and destroyed his mansion, before he was mauled and set on fire. There wasn't much of him left, none of which was recognisable, but there was enough evidence to confirm that it was the remains of Gotham's Prince by the DNA results the investigators gathered. The truth and the lie of Bruce's death hurt either way, and John sighed at that. He had a sneaking suspicion, though, that Alfred had purposefully disabled the piano of the keys that allowed the elevator to the Batcave open, as John had discovered the broken elevator and connected the dots when he realised Wayne Manor was just above the Batcave.
A crowd of children ran past him, bumping into his legs as they chased each other into another room, and John smiled at the scene, when a paper caught his eye. He bent down and picked up the fallen drawing no doubt having slipped out of an orphan's hand while running past John, and he raised a brow at the childish art. A mix of marker, crayons, and colouring pencils portrayed what first appeared to be a blue arrow against a black background, until John realised he was looking at a bird with its wings spread apart, as if in flight. More scribbles showed the bird doing a variety of things, one with yellow light coming out of its eyes while a moon hung above it, another doodle showing it morphing out of shadows. An orphan ran up to John, the crowd of children from earlier tagging along when they noticed the absence of their friend, and John bent down when the child obviously wanted to look at the paper.
"You found my drawing!" the child exclaimed. John handed it to him. "Yes, I did." Noticing similar sketches on other papers in the room, he added, "This bird must be pretty popular." "Everyone knows the Nightwing isn't just a bird." More young orphans gathered around as the others began chattering when they heard the name. "Don't you know, Mister? It has night vision–" "–is super fast!" "—can blend into the night like Batman…." "Batman?" John echoed, and the children nodded. He should have known—Batman had been a symbol of hope and an idolised hero among the youth of Gotham. For these children to make up an animal that could be like the caped crusader was no surprise; the telltale chalk silhouettes of a bat that graffitied the orphanage and family parks only reinforced the idea. "Do other kids know about this Nightwing?" "Of course." This time, a caretaker answered for him. "Everywhere we go, be it the movies or parks, we hear about this bird." The old woman chuckled. "It's been the talk between adults these days, how fanatical the children get about it." John thanked the caretaker for replying and bid the orphans farewell, before heading out, an idea forming in his head. A smile lifted his lips.
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A/N: I hope that was a good start! After watching The Dark Knight Rises, I immediately wanted to write my own take on how John Blake would continue the legacy. I've looked forward to posting my own fanfiction about it for a while!