"What's in a name? That which we call a rose

By any other name would smell as sweet."

- Romeo and Juliet (II, ii, 1-2)

When you're a Super, you have this thing with names. You're fascinated by titles, words you call another person when you're sparring or laughing, or maybe when you're lying on the floor, halfway bleeding to death. Names mean more to you than to the Average Joe.

Maybe it's because we have so many of them. I've gone through some nine or ten in my life, and that's not half as many as Bruce or Tim. They're downright ridiculous. Me, I've tried to stick to a few common ones. Robin, Nightwing, Dick Grayson.

That last one's my favorite.

For the first two years of my life on a team, I never told anyone my real name. Bruce didn't want anyone to know, and I was at a point in my life where I didn't question his judgment. Not much, anyway.

Wally was the only one who knew—he'd known me since I lost my parents—and the others on the Team didn't pry. We respected each other that way, the way you leave your parents alone when they're having an argument. The way you let a secret stand, when you know it's an issue, but no one wants to face it.

So I took advantage of nicknames. I was notorious for that in my early years. Kid Flash became "KF" or "Kid Mouth," Miss Martian became "Miss M," Superboy was "Supey" or "SB." I, myself, got used to being "Robin." I liked the name—the simplicity, the ties to Robin Hood, the way it procured both an image of a bird and an image of myself. I liked the nicknames that came along with it, "Rob," "Rob-man," "Robster," I didn't even mind the occasional "Birdboy." I liked the idea of being a Robin, of being wild and free and flamboyant, unlike the dark-eyed Bat by my side. Unlike the shadow that covered Gotham City. Unlike the unsure future I was walking towards.

When I was Robin, I could be me.

So I slowly sloughed off the Grayson name. It had ties to my family, and part of me was afraid of that. I didn't want to go back or look back, so I kept running forward at a mile-a-minute, flying at break-wing speed, ignoring the looming cloud of screaming PAST that followed me.

"Dick" took me by surprise. Bruce only said it every now and again, and that was usually when he was exasperated with my antics. "Dick, this is serious. Dick, you remember what happened. Look at this, Dick. Stop fooling around."

But even then, the significance of my name didn't stick. I was Robin—that was my definition of myself. I was Robin, protégé of the Bat, the Boy Wonder.

Whatever that meant.

But my name—my real one—killed me once. It meant something once, and it's meant something ever since.

Let me take you there for a minute—it'll be easier if you can see the scene for yourself. The setting is complex, the events even crazier.

I'm no storyteller, but I'll do what I can.

Imagine you're me. You're dressed in your Robin get-up, tight-fitting, armored shirt and slick black pants. The clothes let you breathe, let you move. Your cape snaps against your back, because the wind is powerful, a barely-contained vortex. Your mask hangs above your nose by a thread—it's been cut. A knife grazed your left brow, and it's pooling small streaks of blood down your cheek.

You're livid. It's very rare that you get this angry, because you've learned by now that rage never solves anything. But you can't help it. The mission is torn to shreds, falling around you in pieces.

You're crying. Not from sadness or even frustration, but because the asphyxiating wind is clawing at your face and squeezing tears from your eyes. It's almost impossible to see anything.

You keep moving. A string of rapid fire bullets light up the factory, as you leap from crate to stairwell, coughing from the smoke that pollutes the air. Sweat pours down your face and makes your mask wet, sticky and uncomfortable. The fire, two levels beneath you, continues to scream. The wind feeds it, oxygen fueling a giant orange beast.

You're in charge here, because Kaldur is in Atlantis. Kaldur is dealing with his father. He left you with the responsibility of the team.

And you've lost absolutely all control.

You shout into your radio, because Miss Martian has fainted and telekinetic communication is moot. Conner responds immediately, but you can tell he's in pain because his voice is strained. You try not to let that get to you. Conner may be Superman's clone, but he still feels pain like a normal person. No big.

You send a string of commands, all the while flying from stairwell to railing, railing down to concrete. The fire hasn't spread over here yet, and you start planting extinguishing devices, cursing the fact that you only brought ten. That's the thing about utility belts. You can only pack so much, and there never seems to be enough.

You try to stay in contact with Conner, but the transmission fizzles out and all you can hear are choppy messages before communication is cut off completely. You grit your teeth and keep sprinting, turning right.

"Robin!"

You run into Wally, and Jesus, you're glad to seem him. He's gasping too, but he's functioning and fully engaged. He looks a little crazed—the whites of his eyes are bloodshot—but you've seen him like that before and you know he'll be fine. You grab his arm and pull him down as another machine gun pierces your ears.

"It's literally a minefield out there, Rob. I don't how many bombs Ridder's placed around here, but this is extreme, even for him. Like Joker extreme."

You ignore this; you already know. You ask about Conner and Megan.

"Megan's out cold, but Conner's got her in the North quadrant, I think. That's the last place I saw them."

You ask about Zatanna but another explosion drowns out Wally's reply. Shrapnel is suddenly everywhere, like dust—it's trying to creep into your lungs and your heart and your skin, melting into your suit—and the two of you duck and cover. Wally tightens his arm around you, holding on.

There's a weird semi-silence as your ears ring and the world tumbles in vertigo. Shapes mix and match, elongate and snap back together. Colors meld and transform, and there's a deep, deep darkness on the other side of the factory. You can barely see it through squinted eyes.

Part of you hopes it's the black of Bruce's wings.

Then you snap out of it, remember where and who you are. Here, in this labyrinth factory you were sent to protect, you are Bruce. You have to be the leader.

"KEEP RUNNING!"

Artemis' voice hurtles into your mind, and you look up to see her jumping over you, bow string taut and ready. You can't help but be proud of her, because she's brought her own gadgets. She shoots extinguishing arrows into the blaze, and then into the sandbags above, hanging from rusted pulleys and looking like teardrops. They spill their weight onto the fire, and the flames in the right wing of the basement diminish.

Then she whips around like the goddess Diana herself, and sends an exploding arrow tip towards the source of the machine gun fire. You decide she's obviously doing fine on her own, and keep moving forward.

You later regret this decision.

You manage for a while. You locate Conner and Megan—Kon's got his head hit pretty hard, but he's running, Megan in his arms—and Zatanna, whose force fields have kept her mostly undamaged.

You're starting to regain control of the situation. You've located the Riddler, as well as Orc and Flamethrower, new additions to the Rogue Gallery who prove more lethal than they sound. They're backed up by an entourage of drones, splattered throughout the west quadrant. Each of them carries some sort of gun—AK-47s, Winchesters, M15s, missile launchers—likely stolen from the army base two miles away. You take account of every man and weapon, drawing up a map on your wrist computer. Your hair is singed and your chest is heaving, but you're still in command of this mission.

You give everyone their respective jobs, organizing a plan of attack. You charge. You shout. You laugh in triumph when the bombs work effectively, when the drones start to retreat. You watch as Conner keeps the fire contained, pulling massive pumps of water out of the wall and directing them at the blaze. You see Wally circle the Riddler—your heart wrenches as he skirts around a layout of miniature mines. You admire Zee blowing weapons to bits, driving streams of concentrated magic into the barrel of each gun. One at a time. She takes two bullets—one in the shoulder, one in the calf. She keeps fighting anyway.

You see all of this.

What you don't see is the gunman behind you, with the cocked pistol pointed at your heart.

You don't see that at all.

You just hear something. It's a sound you don't think about until later, until you have time to sit down and realize exactly what happened. After several hours, you finally have time to put your face in your hands and cry, because you're still just a kid and you never wanted to hear that sound. Not like that. Never like that.

That shrill, echoing scream.

"DICK!"

You whip around with perfect speed; that's how you've been trained. Little Birdboy, the Boy Wonder. You're already reaching for the Birdarang in your left pocket, your fingers cinching around the cold metal. It's your last one. The idea of running on empty makes your stomach drop. You're only human, after all.

Only human.

THUD

You barely even see it happen. You're later glad for that. The single glimpse is enough, a glimpse that happens in a five-second slow motion. It takes you weeks to erase it from your memory.

Artemis in free-fall, her face turned away from you. Her hair shot straight up, ignoring gravity, her arms reaching out for an invisible object. It feels as if you have time to count every scar and scrape on her skin.

She drops like a lead weight.

She's dived in front of you, you realize, in a shock of sudden horror. She was the one who screamed, jumping before you, trying to save you. You didn't even see her in the shadows.

You told her to go with Conner, you remember. The thought is murky, weighted, like its coming from the back of your brain. That was the plan. She disobeyed your orders.

She saved your life.

It doesn't register at first. You were almost killed. Instead, Artemis was killed for you.

It's simple, Dick. The bullet was too fast for you to see. She was dead in an instant.

I can't tell you how many times I've watched that scene in my head. I can't tell you how many times I've heard her scream my name. Somehow, it's almost worse than the nightmares of my parents. Perhaps because I feel responsible. I shouldn't, but I do.

I didn't even realize it until later—she said "Dick." Not Robin, but "Dick." She knew my name.

I never told her, Wally never told her, Bruce never told her, but she knew my name.

Somehow that only makes it worse.

I don't know what happened after that. I remember Wally speeding by me, I remember his mouth moving but not speaking, and I remember thinking he'll never forgive me. I remember running, little flashes of pain and color that burst before my eyes like popped blood vessels. I remember carrying her body—imagining it was still alive, still pumping blood; that's what kept me moving. I remember yelling things, but I don't know if they were commands or cries of pain.

I don't remember how I got everyone out of there, but I did. Even Artemis' body. We buried her outside Mount Justice and watched her mother's tears fall to the grass.

I was commended after the mission. I saved everyone else on the team. It was practically an impossible feat—Conner had taken Kryptonite bullets, for God's sake, and Megan was unconscious for hours. But none of us celebrated, least of all me. Bruce busied himself investigating how and why we were so brutally attacked. Wally stopped talking to me for a few weeks. Megan tried, but would break down crying, and in the end it was me comforting her rather than vice versa. Conner didn't know how to talk to me. Zatanna would meet my gaze and I would look away. Kaldur told me it wasn't my fault. I told him I already knew that, but it didn't matter. He left my room so I could drown in peace.

I don't remember a month of my life where I ever felt more alone.

Young Justice stayed together. I don't know how. It's like a silent promise between us, a thick steel cord wrapped around our legs. We can't walk away from one another. It just doesn't work like that.

After a while, I became leader. I hated the idea at first. I associated "leader" with two things: becoming the Bat and murdering Artemis. The word tasted like poison on my tongue. Like treason.

But it was soon easy to see that it was a natural role for me. I understood group dynamics; I appreciated group bonding. I managed optimism in face of adversity, yet I made decisions with an iron fist. I was democratic and I was bold.

I was a fool.

I told myself I was leading for Artemis, to make up for my mistake. I don't know how true that is, but it seemed to work. I lead Young Justice, went on to lead the Teen Titans, and became a trusted member of the Outsiders. I found my own name as Nightwing, and lost it again when Bruce disappeared and I adopted a protégé in Damian Wayne.

I've heard my name spat from Damian's gritted teeth. I've seen it scribbled in Bruce's handwriting on a discarded Post-It note. I've felt it on the lips of a woman, as her fingers brushed the nape of my neck. It's been announced on GCRN and CNN, on the tongues of Superman, Wonder Woman, and Green Lantern.

You're a good guy, Dick. A good guy.

But I've never forgotten the way my name drifted into the wind, with Artemis' last, dying breath.

Author's Note: It isn't like me to end on such a depressing note, but this story is most definitely not over. I'm going to have multiple parts, and may even make it a full-length, multi-chaptered deal. This is something of a prologue, but it's important enough to be a chapter 1. Regardless, I hope you enjoyed and please stay tuned for more! :)