This is the start of my Fem!Nightwing story. It's the prologue, and the letter should explain a lot. Any questions, feel free to PM or leave a review. It's been on my computer for a while, and I've debated on publishing it. Then I had a to-heck-with-it and published it.
The genderbent name of Fem!Nightwing is Richille 'Rickie' Jean Grayson.
I regret nothing. On with the story!
DISCLAIMER: I own nothing.
The figure of a proud, well-muscled man stood behind a desk, shrouded in shadows. He was well-dressed in a dark grey suit, with shiny black shoes and a blood red tie. A candle sat on the desk next to man, who had chosen to ignore the light switches.
He was only a fan of modern technology when it suited him.
Besides, he liked the shadows. He was reborn in them. The shadows were his one friend when no one could be counted on. Not his wife. Not his son. Not his daughter. Or both of their children, his grandchildren, but of course one of his grandchildren was unaware of her history. His eldest granddaughter.
The man studied the tapestry on the wall, the design picturing the crest of an owl. The owl had its wings in flight, and held a sword in its talons. It was at least four centuries old, but time was meaningless when you were members of the court that the man belonged to.
The man continued to study the tapestry. Behind him, the nervous messenger cleared his throat nervously. Good. He should be frightened.
The proud man turned around. He asked, "Yes?" in the most impatient tone he could muster.
The messenger trembled, quailing under the cold look that the man was sending him. He dimly noted that the man was slight, and small, with dark brown hair, the usual gold eyes, and skin that could've once been tan. He wore a black shirt bearing their crest, his rank under the crest, and black cargo pants with black combat boots.
The messenger's golden eyes nervously darted around the stone chamber, feeling the chill in the room. The man stayed as still as a statue, waiting for the messenger to get over his shock. Clearly, the messenger was from the lower levels of rank, not high enough to be given certain privileges.
But, he dimly noted, he had been sent to deliver a message to him. That likely meant that this messenger was moving up in the ranks, and relatively trustworthy. Now, this man would not bother pretending to be modest, but he was not adding to his self-importance when he said that he was an important court member.
In . . . ah, their, absence it was his job to make sure order was enforced. The man did his job well, and anyone who saw the cruel glint in the man's yellow, grey flecked eyes could be certain they did not want to know what happened to those who broke the order.
The messenger's hands shook barely unnoticeably as he brought out an envelope, but he had keen senses. Inhuman senses, one might say. In the dim, flickering light of the candle, the man could see everything perfectly, from the stone walls and floor of the room, to his bare dark brown desk, which was completely empty.
The man trusted no one. He had not trusted anyone for a very long time, and saw no point in leaving important information, records, and files where a thief could creep in and steal a look. He took the offered envelope, and read its contents, after making sure that it had been unopened.
The man raised his eyebrows as he read, and the messenger privately found that more terrifying than the cold look. "Is this true?"
The messenger nodded. "Y-yes."
"Very well. Retrieve Feliciano. I must have words with him. There are many plans to be made. It is time for us to retrieve our property that was . . ." The man's lip curled. ". . . misplaced. Go, at once."
The messenger nodded, thoroughly terrified of the man.
Alone, the man reached into his coat pocket and took out a picture of a family of six. His no good daughter's family, along with her nephew, half-sister/sister-in-law, brother-in-law, and husband. But it was the youngest figure in the photograph that interested the man the most.
A blue-eyed, black haired little girl with a smile so bright that, for a man to whom happiness was a forgotten emotion, it hurt. His granddaughter. She had been set to return to him, and claim her inheritance, but an unexpected monkey wrench was thrown into his plan before it could come to completion.
She had nearly been lost in the system, forgotten by public media, until that no-good Wayne came along, and took her away. After that, his granddaughter was impossible to retrieve, seen as a failed investment. She was too well-known to the public to be quietly taken away.
Then she had grown up, poisoned by the ideals of Wayne, and his friends, becoming cemented in her ways. On her own, she was vulnerable, and an attempt was nearly made to rescue their investment, but before it could start it was ended. His granddaughter was too forgiving. It was a weakness that made recovering her not worth the effort it would take to rebuild her.
That would have to be taken care of once she came to him to begin her retraining. It would be difficult, especially since she was an adult. Adults were so much harder remold, which was why he never went after his granddaughter when she was left alone for a second time, this time for good. Adults were set in their ways, while children were easily impressionable.
That was why he intended to get his granddaughter when she was young, and easily manipulated. Everything was perfect, but unseen forces got in the way. Not this time, the man was determined to get what he wanted.
She would be harder to control, her retraining would be so much harder, but it would be worth it. He had followed her career throughout the years, and while she was talented, there was more potential that he could unlock. So many things he could teach her.
The man chuckled darkly. After all, wasn't it his duty, as her grandfather, to teach her about her heritage?
Finally, all the puzzle pieces had fallen into place. "We will meet soon, Richille Grayson. May you not be as disappointing as your mother."
The scratching sounds of a pen against paper filled the air as a lone girl – a young woman, really, easily at least twenty-two - hunched over a piece of paper, writing furiously. Her black hair hung in a messy bun, and she was barefoot, wearing a pair of sweatpants, and a loose-fitting, old gray T-shirt.
Batman,
I have no idea if you'll ever read this. I hope you don't, because if you do it most likely means I'm dead. Enclosed is an explanation of the things that happened to me these past years for you and everybody else I used to know that haven't been in my life.
Since I was nineteen. Since the invasion ended nearly three years ago, at the end of December after I turned nineteen. I'm twenty-two now, almost twenty-three, or was if you're reading this and I'm dead.
Okay, let's get one thing straight. My first year was the time period I was 19 to 20. My second year was the time I was 20 to 21. My third year, this year, is the time period I'm 21 to 22.
The first year was rough. I felt so much guilt and self-loathing, it was overwhelming. I still do, but I can deal with it better now. My friends have helped me deal with it, even if they don't realize it.
Before the invasion, you and I still weren't on the best of terms. Never talked outside of the mask, except when Robin 3 and I hung out. Things were pretty tense. I have no clue if they'd still be, if you've had the chance to see me before you read this letter. I doubt it, but oh well. That part comes later.
Point is, I never told you where I lived (I'm pretty sure you knew) and didn't tell you what my job was. Or what else I was studying in college. At the time, those things would have just given us more subjects to fight about.
They still will, if you somehow pulled a miracle and saved me before I ended up six feet under. And if you found the letter any way, but that is not what we're talking about right now. My job was a bartender at a cop bar.
Batman, stop freaking out, and pacing back and forth while muttering nonsense.
I'm still a bartender, but I work part-time now since I started my actual job. During those few months after the invasion, one of the things I felt guilty about was that while I was studying for college, I eventually chose to attend the police academy.
I never had the chance to tell you, or anyone else that.
I finished the police academy with flying colors. I also studied some of the things required to be a cop and a detective, along with my other classes. Technically, I could hold the position of a cop in the field, a CSI, a detective, BPD's child specialist, or run Wayne Tech.
But I chose to be a cop in the field. I sub for the child specialist when he's not here, because his assistant sucks. The official child specialist himself sucks, too. He gives me some of the harder kids he has to deal with.
My cop partner is awesome. They are like my Uncle, or mom. Nagging me about my health, how I have to think of my needs, make the right choices, blah, blah, blah. You know, they remind me of Agent A. My cop friends are pretty cool, and after a while I started to get to know the usual offenders who came into the station. They're OK, and fun to banter with. A few of them are good people in a bad spot.
But I was suffocating. I didn't know any of them well-enough yet to consider them close friends, they were more like acquaintances than anything else. This is where my bartender friends come in.
My fellow bartenders at the cop bar really helped me during that first year. I was hurting, Batman. And the people at my apartment building helped, too. My landlord is really nice to me. In fact, I'm positive he has a crush on me.
That brings me to the dating field. I have had no steady boyfriend, or any one night stands. I guess I'm just waiting for the right partner, and I've been too busy. Have I gone on dates with a few guys? Yes. Has it lasted? No. And no, I'm not lesbian. I'm not against them, either.
College wasn't fun, but I survived it. As for my alter ego life as Nightwing, I was busy. Like I may have hinted at, I was pretty depressed that first year. My ability to fight crime just sort of went POOF! And I was struggling. Roland Desmond, AKA Blockbuster 2, was taking over. He really doesn't like me. At all. Especially since I made that bust when I first started that crippled a third of his empire.
But my first year after the invasion . . . I was a wreck so many times. How I still have my job is a mystery to me. Words can't begin to describe the pain I felt during that first year.
I stopped believing in myself, and I was drowning. But my friends helped me keep my head a float. They brought me out of a dark place, Batman. I owe them. Don't worry, none of them know I'm Nightwing, or any other hero IDs for that matter. They'll never know what they did for me, but I'm grateful to them all the same. Even if they have no clue what for.
The most they know is that I had a big fight with you, my 'family', and my friends, and we broke contact with one another. I pulled myself together sometime in November, a little while before I turned twenty (Which my non-hero friends helped me celebrate, by the way. Thanks so much for wishing me a happy birthday, you and everyone else). I started to turn the tide against Roland Desmond, and I started to pick up the pieces of myself, trying to fix the broken part of me. I started to make some friends at my BPD precinct.
It's hard to say which year was the roughest. The second, or the first. The third year, this year, has been pretty easy. The second year . . . I was constantly a roller coaster of emotional ups and downs. I was also a bit of a nervous wreck.
I kept hoping one of the people I knew from my hero life would drop by. I also feared it. What if, when you guys dropped by, it brought all the emotions back and I became depressed again?
As much as I wanted to see you, I was uncertain if I was ready to see you. My friends knew it, too. I'm pretty certain had any of you shown up, especially you, Batman, they would have kicked you out before I knew you were there. Maybe beaten you up. As if they could, but that's not the point.
They were really concerned for me, and knew that any of you showing up would make me lose my fragile control over myself.
Like I said, my friends put a lot of effort into forcing me out of my depression. Even if the reason they thought I was depressed was not the whole truth. They didn't want any of you showing up and ruining any of their hard work if I wasn't ready.I'm touched that they would defend me from you. And they have no clue what I did to piss all of you off.
I was wracked with nervousness about how I was fighting crime, what I did in my daily life. Would all of you approve? For all I knew, you guys were going to come over there and make me stop being a hero. But then I kept thinking how you only banned me from receiving League help, or other hero's help excluding a world crisis.
(A little harsh, guys)
You said nothing about whether or not I had to stop being Nightwing. At some point, I stopped caring about what all of you thought of me. It's hard to say it, but it feels nice to admit it.
I remembered the reason why Nightwing was created. Nightwing was created when Batman tried to stop me from being Robin. I didn't let him stop me from being a hero then, I wasn't about to let everyone else stop me now. Life is life, and my life is my own to live.
And I let go.
I loosened up. You guys didn't want to talk to me, didn't want me around. I realized that away from it all, the pressure, the glares, the insults, I felt so much better. I stopped worrying about a place where I wasn't wanted or welcomed.
It felt like taking my first breath of air after I had been drowning for who knew how long.
I was, in a sense, reborn. I started acting like myself, and just tried to be the best I could be. I was careful to keep my civilian ID and Nightwing apart, so no one would guess that we were one in the same. Before I knew it, the second year was flying by.
Being Nightwing was still tough during the second year, but not for the reason's it was tough during the first year. Roland Desmond was increasing his efforts to take over Bludhaven, and only I stood in his way.
It would have been really helpful to have you there, but the terms of my exile were that I could only call the League, the Team, or other heroes (Unlikely, since most of them are in the League) if it threatened the world. Like if I had knowledge of an alien invasion, or another Light plot to conquer the world.
Unfortunately for my health and sanity, I had none of those things, so I made do with what I had. I have no clue how I'm still alive with all of his attempts to 'remove' me out of his way. But I made it through my second year. I finished college, too.
My second year was also the year Agent A got in touch with me again, after one particularly nasty near-death experience, him and Doc patched me up while the other Bats were on patrol. I had sort of panicked and called them for medical help. Then Fox was needed for some tech thing, so he contacted me. Or rather, Agent A had him contact me.
Before I knew it, all three of them joined the 'Let's Keep Nightwing Sane & Alive' club.
And I had three more mother hens on my ass to yell at me for nearly dying, and this time they knew about both sides of my life. Which meant they had twice as much near-death experiences to yell at me for. Lucky me.
When I finished college and the Police Academy, I became a rookie cop at 21 in my second year. I'm turning 22 in a few months, or should be. Still am a rookie cop, it's kind of become my nickname. I love my job, and that was when I started becoming a part-timer for bartending.
Funny thing is, me and my fellow bartenders actually see each other more outside of work now. It's because we don't have as much time anymore to catch up after work when the shifts, depending on which day for each person's shift. Being a cop is fun, and Agent A is my emergency contact in case I get injured.
He's been keeping me up to date on things that have been happening inside the hero community. I desperately want to see Jaybird, but from the sound of it, he hates me too and wants to kill me. He'll have to get in line and join the club.
I'm starting to think they should make t-shirts and hand out membership cards to people who hate me. It might actually make a profit from selling t-shirts, and paying for memberships.
There could be a club for people who want to kill me, too, but a lot of the people who hate me want to kill me, so starting a club for people who hate and want to kill me would be pointless. Of course, a club like this could exist and I don't know about it. And there are a lot of newbies who can't hate me, really, since they don't know I exist.
But we'll get back to my thoughts on the newbies at the end of this lovely letter. I got shot in my side once, on a bust by the BPD, and the paperwork was hell. I'm now convinced hell is wall papered with the stuff. As you can tell, my third year has been so much fun so far. And it's only about halfway done.
I got so many old cold cases and cases 'only you can solve' that I was ready to scream, long and loud. They could lock me in a rubber room for all I cared, at that moment.
BPD itself is possibly more corrupt then GPD, which is saying something. The guys - and few girls - at my precinct are pretty awesome and supportive. Some, at least. A lot of them have joined my circle of normal friends. The Chief of my precinct, like other precincts, is definitely dirty, and I do not like my Chief at all.
I have no clue whether or not Agent A told you I'm a cop when he got the call informing him I was hurt. It happened a little while after I became a cop. I'm guessing not, and he ended up mad at you for a week and you had no clue why. This I because you didn't storm into my place demanding I resign.
That's pretty sad, Batman, that I can predict what you would've done had Agent A told you. This year, I didn't have much time to think about you guys (until this thing came up and I decided to write this). Frankly, I found it easier that way. No point in thinking of you guys when you didn't spare a thought to me. The invasion was my fault.
I deserved everything I got for it, and more, but the exile was never meant to be permanent. You just forgot about me. To my own surprise, I found out I was happy doing my own thing, if a little lonely.
Life kept me busy, between both my jobs, Roland Desmond, petty crimes, talks with Agent A, Mini-Bat's Wednesday visits, Doc, and Fox, not to mention my social life with my friends. The wound created by my exile, by everyone's hate, became a scab, and then a scar after almost three years.
Hard to believe it's been that long.
I moved on more completely than I had in my second year. In my second year, it was for the sake of my sanity. Now, it was because I no longer needed you, especially since you didn't affect my life.
On some level, I knew I'd always care for you (all of you were once considered friends or family to me), but I needed to let go. And it needed to be my own choice, not because I had to let go of you for a certain reason.
This year . . . I found a lot of interesting things this year. Not counting, of course, my stupid sprained wrist that gave me more paperwork, and a freakin' wrist brace. It's hard to write in, too.
If I'm dead and you're reading this, hopefully this can shed some light on why I'm dead. You remember Roland Desmond, right? I mentioned that he hates my guts earlier. That's a bit of an understatement. Well the Light, yes, that Light, decided that it was long past due to wreak havoc on the heroes. Plus, Desmond has resources they could use.
They made an offer to Roland Desmond that, for him, was really too good to pass up.
If he joins the Light, then they'll kill me. Obviously, I'm alive so far, but I have no idea how long that's gonna last. I don't know, maybe I'm already dead and you're reading this letter after I died. That was part of the reason why I made this letter, so you could understand why I died.
It's a win-win for both the Light and Roland Desmond. The Light wants to do more than kill me. They want to make an example of me, of why you should not go up against the Light. I guess they found out the plan was my idea after nearly three years. Little late, Light. Glad to know they haven't forgotten me. Unlike some people.
(Sorry, did that sound bitter? No matter how much I hurt you, you guys also hurt me. I'm not inclined to forget that, letting you guys stay in my past or not. Some wounds go too deep, some words hurt too much)
They're also trying to send a message to you guys. If I'm dead and you're reading this, I guess you got their memo. TRANSLATION: Bad idea to mess with the Light. As for how it benefits Blockbuster 2, I did mention that I'm, like, the only thing that stands between him and taking over Haven because BPD is Corrupt, with a capital 'C'.
With me out of the way equals Roland Desmond with nothing in his way. This allows him to expand his 'empire' without it being constantly threatened by me. How am I a threat? I've been the only person to openly go against Roland Desmond and put some actual effort into it.
I'm not afraid of what he'll do to me if he catches me. I have nothing left worth losing, or at least that's how it feels. The people around me have everything to lose, and maybe I risk losing them, but they don't know about Nightwing, so they should be safe. I hope. I can't lose them.
It would probably break me completely.
Blockbuster should leave them be. He's going to go after anyone who's connected to Nightwing, not my alter ego.
So, yeah. My year was going great, my life looking better, and then after a few months, life throws a curve ball. The curve ball is the Light and Roland Desmond's deal. The most I know is that it's Deathstroke the Terminator coming after me. He'll be here in a few month,s by the end of September, start of October at least from what I've heard.
I'm writing this letter some time at the end of June. If you doubt me, because in the words of Lagoon Girl I'm a traitor and a liar, then check the date of this letter. If I'm dead and you're reading this, my dying request is that you give Roland Desmond and his 'empire' hell. Take him and his 'empire' down, and at least try to protect Bludhaven.
If you don't do it for me, for our history together, fine. Do it for the people left at the nonexistent mercy of Roland Desmond. If not for me, then for them. Please. They did nothing to you, they're innocent, and deserve your protection.
I've done what I can, but I can't do anything now that I'm dead.
OR if I'm not dead and you somehow found this letter and are reading it, do me a favor and leave me be. Seriously, I mean it. You'll be doing a favor for both of us. If we saw each other again, it'd bring up too many raw feelings, too much hurt, too many bad memories.
I miss you guys, and will always consider you family and friends, but I'm done. I'm just tired, I'm done, and I don't want to go back to being the punching bag.
If you're gonna hate me and insult me, the best thing you can for me and everyone else is to forget about me. Like you already have, considering I haven't had any contact with anyone from the hero community for about three years, a little over that.
This includes League and Team villains, and all the heroes' Rouges. I've kept to myself and fought my own demons. It's time to for you let me go, like I've let you go. Move on. Please. I'm no one to you guys, and I know that none of the younger heroes know me. The only thing they know is what I did to piss all of you off enough to get exiled.
The only reason you're likely thinking of me for the first time in years is because I died, and you found this letter. Whatever family the heroes used to be when I was younger, we aren't that anymore. There is no family now, only lies and secrets, and I don't want any part of that anymore. I'm done with that schist.
Speaking of family, this brings me back to the new additions to the Bats. Agent A has been keeping me up to date. I wasn't kidding earlier when I said I wanted to see Red Hood. I know he's the second Robin brought back from the dead.
Red Hood, I'm talking to you directly. I still think of you as my little brother, even if you hate me. And I'm both proud and disappointed in you. You kill people, and you know how I feel about that.
On the other hand, you're still fighting crime, in your own way of course. The only thing that I ask of you is to quit the cancer sticks. I know you won't believe me when I tell you that all of us missed you, even Batman, but I'll say it any way. And try to talk to the rest of the Bats. At least talk to Agent A. He misses you for sure.
I know that you got your own place and you attend school to finish your senior year. Getting taught by Batman and Agent A has allowed you to get by with passing grades so far, but still. Eventually you'll need a tutor, and as I said before, at least talk to Agent A.
Agent A can help.
Another thing, and I know it's silly. Happy fifteenth birthday, happy sixteenth birthday, and happy seventeenth birthday. Sorry I wasn't there for all of them, and any future one's as well. Being dead is kind of an obstacle to that.
Knight . . . Technically, you're not a new addition, but I haven't talked to you in a while. I remember when I found out you became Batlad, it was shortly after Red Hood became the second Robin.
Honestly, I thought Batlad was the stupidest name you could have picked. I was incredibly happy that Batman got you to change it to Knight before the press got wind of you.
Especially since you weren't really a boy, more of a teenager. A fifteen-year-old Batlad. When you turned eighteen, we would've had two Batmen running around. The villains would've had a heart attack. Or died from shock. Either one. Not that that would be a bad thing. It'd make our jobs, and lives easier. I might've lived to be thirty if that happened.
Now you're twenty-three, you're Knight, and you have your whole life ahead of you. I guess I just have one thing to say to you. You taught me that life's much to short, and at any time it could end. But know that no matter where you are, you will always be my best friend.
Or guy friend, at least.
And Knight, happy twentieth birthday, happy twenty-first birthday, and happy twenty-second birthday. Sorry I wasn't there, but I guess we're both at fault there.
Robin, you're the third to bear that name, and you've worn it well. I'm immensely proud of you. I heard of your bad relationship with Mini-Bat, and I hope that someday you give him a chance.
I'm so sorry. For everything. I never wanted to hurt you. I still don't. You're my little brother, always have been. I've known you since you were eight, and I've watched you grow up. But I haven't these past two (nearly three) years, because of everything.
Don't worry, and try to be more confident. I know you well enough to know that if you want to do something, you can do it. Stop doubting yourself. Schist, I sound like some old cheesy inspiration video played in school gyms at assemblies.
Do I really have to write some cheesy long essay to get my point across, Robin?
On a different note, happy fourteenth birthday, happy fifteenth birthday, and happy sixteenth birthday. You're in, what, sophomore year? Junior year? I remember sophomore year. Don't even get me started on junior year.
Damn. That makes me feel old.
Batman, you're a stubborn ass. There, I came out and said it. But . . . You're still my mentor, still my father in a way. Even if you are a stubborn ass. Even when we fight.
I hope that you're not mad at me, but I know that's unlikely. The most I hope for is that you at least, like me, see the stupidity of the fight that caused us not to talk. You were the only hero I had still sort of on my side after the invasion.
The others were the anti-hero Catwoman, Doc, Agent A, and Fox. Then we had a fight about, well, that. If I'm dead, it means we most likely never made up, and you'll blame yourself.
I'll admit, I'm still pissed at you, Batman. But I also don't want you blaming yourself to the point where you shut people out. I'd like to believe that even downright furious and pissed off at me, some part of you still cares.
Agent A, you're incredible and no way would I have made it through these past four (nearly five) years without you. I can never thank you enough for everything that you've done.
Doc, you are amazing, and you sincerely helped me out when Batman had no clue what to do. Like with Agent A, I can never thank you enough.
Fox, you're a genius. And you are an incredibly patient person to deal with Batman. So are you, Agent A and Doc. All of you helped me survive, even though you shouldn't have been talking to me at all.
Spoiler, you seem like a nice person. I heard that you're living with Apollo's Mom in Gotham. I'm sure she loves that. You also seem like the kind of person that, had I ever or should ever meet you, would become like my sister.
I know you've never met me, and most likely if you're reading this never will. But . . . Keep on being a badass, and represent the girls in a man's world. Let's face it, because we're girls, we are underestimated by the guys. Show them why we shouldn't be underestimated.
Black Bat, I heard that Batman took you in and Spoiler is your best friend. You seem pretty nice and kickass, and I wish I could meet you. I'm repeating some of the same things I said to Spoiler, but I don't care. The be-a-badass-girl part applies to you, too.
As someone who also had to learn English, I know how hard it is to learn if you don't speak it. English is actually my third language. The first is Romani, language of the gypsies, and the second is Romanian.
I know your story, and how the only people you trust are limited to Batman and Spoiler. But when I was learning English, Agent A really helped me out. You can trust him.
Doc has saved my life more times then I care to count, and Fox gives great advice. So does Agent A, but he's one of those can-do-everything people. I don't mean that as an insult, but as a compliment. Agent A is amazing.
I-I can relate to some of the struggles you're facing. Before Batman took me in, I spent time in Gotham Juvenile Detention Center. Or Mini-Arkham, as the inmates call it. I know what it's like trying to learn to trust, but please, try. Try and don't stop trying.
I also know some things are different. I already knew a language, even if it wasn't English, and I've been told that I naturally trust people easily. I've also been told that is one of my best and worst qualities. Never give up, Black Bat. Fall seven times, get up eight.
Last but in no way least, Mini-Bat. Also known as: the random kid who showed up at my apartment at three in the morning on a Wednesday. You're so lucky none of my neighbors saw you, you little shit.
Of course, you'd say something right now about how you're superior to them and it comes as no surprise the simpletons did not notice you. For me, it was a surprise for you to show up demanding to fight me to prove your worth. With all the shouting going on, you'd think the neighbors would notice. I'm amazed they didn't.
I can't believe you showed up at my place to meet, in your words, an unworthy outcast to understand why Batman took me in. In a way, my fears someone from the hero community would pop up at my place randomly was justified, because you showed up, Mini-Bat.
Is it wrong to feel some small amount of satisfaction from that because I was right?
Never mind. I just didn't expect it to be someone I didn't know who's half my height. I'm pretty sure even I wasn't that short as a seven-year-old. . . . Nah, I probably was. Unfortunately for me, Mini-Bat, you'll probably end up taller than me.
I have to say, you are an awesome little brother. You keep me on my toes, ever since that first Wednesday. Is it bad when you come to expect your little brother popping up in your place at three in the morning on Wednesdays as part of your life? Then again, my normal is different than a lot of people's.
You're the only Bat that I've seen face-to-face. I haven't seem Doc, Fox, or even Agent A face-to-face in a while despite how much I talk to them. I wish you the best of luck, Mini-Bat. Though you'll probably say it is impossible to wish for things and call me an imbecile.
But I've gotten used to you, you adorable little ball of death. You've got nothing to prove, Mini-Bat. You're one of a kind. Trust me, I mean that as a compliment.
I hope you someday loosen up and let people in. And discover your own sense of humor. When it comes to us Bats and Birds, our humor tends to go out the window and explode when it hits the ground until there's only ashes on the ground.
In other words, our senses of humor suck, and are a bit warped.
My friends, who had no clue why I was depressed, kicked my ass and got me to laugh again. But it took a while, and for a long time I was on the edge of breaking down with no one there to save me.
I guess all's I'm saying is that you don't have to act like the other Bats just because of who you're related to by blood. All of the other Bats have personalities, they just tend to be dark. What they need is a light to guide them from the darkness.
Someone to remind them that it's OK to laugh. From what I've been told, you have your own darkness. Fight it. Don't let it consume you. As someone who has had to deal with my own demons, I wish I was there to help you. This, however, is your fight. It's your call to ask for help fighting. Just remember there are some fights you can't win on your own.
You're a good kid, whether you believe it or not. I believe in you. There's good in this world, Mini-Bat, and it's worth fighting for. If I'm dead, don't let me die for no reason. Don't kill Roland Desmond, or Deathstroke, or anyone else. Prove you're better than them by showing them what they didn't give me: Mercy.
I'm taking a guess on that, because I have no idea how much you trust me or care whether or not I live or die. But over the nearly two years (You showed up in December about two years ago; I had been 20. You scared the crap out of me) I think you've warmed up to me.
I have no idea if the others have noticed it, but I have. Judging by the multiple attempts to kill Robin, I'm guessing both of you haven't warmed up to each other. Give everyone time. Eventually, they'll trust you.
Happy ninth birthday, Mini-Bat, and happy birthday to any after that. Sorry I'm most likely not gonna be there. Being dead and all kind of wrecks any plans I have. I love you, little bro. Stay gold.
I give you permission to yell at me if I'm not dead. Not that you need it.
I'm going miss all of you, the League and the Team included. Whether or not you miss me, I don't care and I really don't want to know. Twenty-one years (nearly twenty-two) on this earth are not, but I think it might be enough for me.
I had a good run. It's just my turn for death to come to me, albeit a little earlier than I'd hope it would. I never expected to live long after seeing so much in the years I've been a heroine, but I at least hoped to make it to twenty-eight.
I guess we all have to deal with the hand life has dealt us, no matter how crappy. I don't really care about what you guys do for a funeral, just as long as my body is buried six feet under. Or cremated. The thought of being worm food makes me shudder. I don't deserve a memorial, so if you're considering one, don't put it up.
I might have to come back to life just to destroy it. As for what you choose to do with this letter . . . Either hide this letter really well, or burn it. It's kind of my last parting gift to all of you, even if it's a pretty sucky gift, but I couldn't leave you with nothing.
Burning it is totally understandable, especially because of the rather revealing info in here (and if you don't want my final gift, either, but it's my way of offering you an olive branch in death, a way to make amends with each other when I can't be there to do it).
I know there are things in this letter that could possibly be used to discover heroes IDs. And add fuel for G. Gordon Godfrey's argument that the League is bad, that they're secretly plotting against the world.
As if.
After all the times they've-Team included-saved the world and keep people free and safe, we'd take over the world. In my own opinion, that is a load of bullshit.
Sadly, everyone always seems to believe the bullshit.
Signing Off for the Last Time,
-Nightwing
Rickie Grayson sighed as she finished the letter. She glanced over at the clock from her spot at the table, and saw it was nearly four in the morning. She shook her head, and went to her room to sleep. She seriously could use some.
Please review. It's great incentive to update again, especially since I already have the next chapter. Seriously, though, let me know what you think. Review.