"And I declared that the dead,
who had already died,
are happier than the living,
who are still alive.

But better than both
is the one who has never been born,
who has not seen the evil
that is done under the sun"

-Ecclesiastes 4:2-3

Thunder rolled in the sky behind a curtain of angry black clouds, crashing overhead like huge icebergs breaking against one another, or great beasts clashing violently over a scrap of meat.

It was little wonder that the ancient people saw storms as being caused by wars between vengeful Gods. A heavy crack of thunder, rolling low enough to vibrate one's very bones, was followed through the night by a flash of stark white-lightning.

An icy wind, caught up in the storm, blew across the rooftops and wound its way down into the city, a gale strong enough to knock over the trash cans in the alleys. Rain fell in frozen sheets, eery colors contained within the watery curtain, lit now and then by the lightning, flashing so brightly that night seemed turned into a depthless day.

A haunting black shadow figure slid through the night, as invisible in the dark as in the light, a ghostly but all-pervading presence, an unyielding and malignant pressure against the tremulous will of the hunted. A creature of the hunt, running swift and low, eyes glowing in the blaze of lightning which struck down to the Earth from the sky.

The hunted, fleeing from the hunter, terror in every nerve and sinew, driven by a fear beyond that which held place in reality, a consuming horror of nightmare. From this, there could be no escape.

Yet, above the chaos of fear, there raged another sensation, one which held power over the living in a way that it could not with the dead. A fierce desire, burning like angry flame. The desire to survive. Desire outweighed fear, leading thought to govern action instead of panic.

Thunder cracked the silence, lightning shattered the night, a prelude of that which was to come.

In the brief white-light, dark eyes hidden behind a black mask looked up to the rooftops, guessing at the location of the pursuer. A moment of insight, knowledge almost preternatural in its intensity, told the pursued all they needed to know. There could be no escape, there would be no reprieve. Only the imminent violent clash, and then it would be all over.

The hunter paused, seeing that the prey had turned to fight. A not unsympathetic glint came into his eyes, which were also partially hidden by a mask. The prey was smart. He'd stopped before being run into the ground, while he still had the energy to fight. Panic had not rendered him blind to all threats. He had chosen his ground carefully, cornered himself because he knew there was no escape, preventing his pursuer from coming in behind him. He did not startle at every sound the rain made, keeping his senses trained upwards, in the direction he knew the hunter to be.

Was this wisdom innate, or had it been learned somewhere along the way?. The hunter had to wonder this, even as he questioned the truest origin of his own prowess. His own training had begun so early that he could not recall a time when it had not been coming into place. He did not allow the question to slow his advance, moving even as his brain shuffled his thoughts into their proper order, focusing his mind and body on the fight at hand.

He was larger than his adversary, but knew well that size made difference only in fighting style, not in who would in the end achieve victory. He was stronger, and faster. And he had to believe that he was better trained, until proven otherwise. He allowed confidence to show in his every movement, as he tread on the line between unseen and not, darkness and light.

For the first time, he allowed the lightning to cast his outline into the light, revealing himself to his prey. A calculating stare fell on him, taking in his height and weight, size and form. He let it happen, just as he let the cold rain pour down on him, seeking no shelter from the icy waters which drenched him to the skin. And too, he looked upon his prey in new light.

Standing defensively, a small body in the torrential downpour, looking almost frail as the wind buffeted the lithe frame unmercifully and tore at the black cape. The sight had an effect on the hunter, devastating in nature. For a moment, he seemed to be repelled by it, yet savagely fascinated.

The two figures stood staring at one another, as though neither quite believed the other to be real. It was the hunter who broke the silence, an uncertain undertone to his fiercely spoken words.

"You... you're dead. You died."

"You cannot kill an idea," the other spoke with equal measures of fear and confident wisdom.

"But an idea can be corrupted. That is what you've done."

"I had no choice."

"Everyone has a choice," the hunter said roughly.

"Not me."

A sense of puzzlement rippled through the figure in black, his eyes searched the one whom he had hunted for what seemed like ages. What did that mean?. He wondered if it were truth or lie, wondered how he could tell. He decided that he did not care.

"I will not let you use my brother's name in this way."

"Stop me. If you can," the caped figure challenged, having to shout over a sudden crash of thunder.

"I can. And rest assured I will."

The time for words had now passed. It was time to do battle. The fight as natural as that between winter and summer, predator and prey, light and dark, the future and the past. What had been, and what would be. It was also a conflict between two sides of the same coin. As though thunder and lightning had at once come to be at odds with one another, for reasons unknown.

They came together, and the one who had been master of the hunt could feel the wildness in his opponent. Untrained, but in no way uncoordinated, the boy was every bit as ferocious as his words had been. There was caution in his eyes which spoke of fear, yet that did not translate into action. But the boy was hopelessly outmatched, his every move betrayed his inexperience.

What I would not give to have this one on my side, to be trained as I have been.

Such were the thoughts of the older one, who had driven the other into this corner, had forced this fight. Yet he felt he had no other option, unless he were to betray everything which he wanted his name to stand for. Both his present name... and his past.

The boy used only a bo staff, though he wore a utility belt not unlike the fallen hero whose name he had stolen. He understood the concept of multiple tools with which to defend himself, but was unable to switch fluidly from one method of defense to another.

In deference to the boy's obviously limited ability, his adversary stuck to his own preferred weapons, twin eskrima sticks. He felt his victory was assured, yet somehow wanted to give the boy a fighting chance. He didn't understand why that was.

He'd come after this thief in anger, this one who had taken his former title and the name of his brother, dragged them through the mud and tarnished the long unspoiled monicker which had once meant something, stood for something, yet now was reduced to nothing at all.

Just a name, the ideal behind it now lost because of what this one had done.

But he didn't feel anger towards the boy now. There was something of himself in the untamed way the boy fought, the bold way he whirled to face his attacker time and again, giving no ground but that which was forced from under him. In fact, he kind of liked this kid.

It might have bewildered onlookers to see such a fight, between two opponents so clearly unevenly matched, one fighting his losing battle bravely, while the other seemed reluctant to end it. What looked most strange, however, was not what was happening, but who was involved.

For any passerby, had there been any on this dark and stormy night, it looked as though Nightwing and Robin were locked into a death match, where only Nightwing could emerge victorious.

But none saw, not even those who knew the truth. Robin had died less than three months before. It was an open wound for Nightwing, who would not let this imposter live long enough to tell of the things he had done using Robin's name.

Yet there was a side to the story which Nightwing did not know.

The boy had always believed in the power of heroes, not just as protectors and avenging angels, but as symbols. Living monuments of valor, honor, loyalty, and (perhaps most of all) hope. In that respect alone, he was like virtually any child. Believing in the impossible, trusting to a fate which adults have deemed to be a cruel and unpredictable thing, seeing value in that which grown ups thought worthless.

But there was one thing which he could not see the worth of. And that was himself. He was small, weak and insignificant. Nobody needed him or even wanted him. He existed solely by the questionable grace of a mother who cared not at all for him and a father who would have been better off not having any children.

The boy's favorite hero was, naturally, the one which he could most relate to. Even though we may not understand or even realize it, most of us tend to like characters which we can either envision ourselves as being, or who possess qualities which we most favor, or have some small detail about them which is like us or someone whom we know and like very much (many a favorite character reminds one of their best friend, father, sibling or themselves when they were young, just as a hated character is like that one bad teacher, or super annoying classmate). To the boy, the single most interesting and wonderful hero in a lineup of strange and fantastically disguised saviors was the Boy Wonder himself, Robin.

There was something about the little red-clad imp standing beside the looming figure of the Caped Crusader that was endearing and familiar. Then too, there was the Boy Wonder's way of moving which denoted a high strung and easily bored individual, whose chosen occupation must be something truly special to keep him fascinated with it.

Of all the millions of people who watch television and surf the internet for their news, the boy alone was the one who noticed it, and knew what it meant. He knew in his head, in his heart, in his bones, in the very fabric of his being. Reports on superheroes were always frequent and often false, and, though seldom mentioned, Robin was often pictured vaguely in shadows alongside Batman or that other bunch, the ones who were like the Justice League but not. And then, he suddenly wasn't.

The hero who had inspired the boy from the time he was so young he could barely talk, the seemingly immortal masked hero, the vigilante who had always inspired him and given him hope, was dead.

The world spun on, oblivious, but the boy... the boy was shattered to his core. It was as if his best friend, his only friend, had died. As if the world had suddenly opened up and swallowed him whole. The boy was utterly alone, with no way out, nothing to look forward to. He knew as surely as he knew his own name, that he would never see Robin again.

What he did not know, could not have known, was that the end was also the beginning.

The boy's name was Timothy Drake, and this is his story.

A/N: This story is set pre-season 2, after season 1. It was written with total and gleeful disregard for Tim's comic book back story (I have read about it, I just didn't feel like writing it). Recall that Tim's back story is at no point discussed in the Young Justice series. This story is meant to be only slightly AU, mainly to allow for the series timeline.

This story is completely written, 20 chapters in all (including prologue). As per usual, I will upload one chapter per day (Barring anything out of the ordinary. I will attempt to give readers a head's up via A/N). This was written for my entertainment, and is being published for yours. If you find yourself not enjoying it, then you should feel perfectly free to stop reading. Heap praise or criticism upon it, whichever may suit you best. Or say nothing about it at all, if you would prefer.

While this story clearly takes place in the same universe as Fear the Dark, it is a stand alone story and not truly a sequel.

I believe the T rating to be sufficient, but I may well be mistaken. Please, don't hesitate to inform me if you think the material discussed ought to be rated M.

Brace yourselves, Batgirl fans, because you're not gonna like this :P