Descending from Darkness

by Nikoru-chan

As requested, a sequel to Monsters and Heroes. Robin comes into the 'gifts' that the monster left him with. Or does he? And who are the new players?

Descending from Darkness

By Nikoru-chan

Disclaimer: The characters portrayed herein belong to DC, Warner Bros, etc. Not to me. No profit is made from this work of fanfiction.

Notes:

This fic wasn't one I initially intended to write. Nor was its prequel, 'Monsters and Heroes'. I have no grand plot, no master plan, no roughly scribbled story notes in the back of my thought-book to look on and promptly ignore. Zip. Nada. Nothing.

I wrote it in gratitude solely and simply because a number of people who sent me feedback on the aforementioned fanfic requested a follow-up to that story. So, we're all in it alone together and nobody (least of all me) really knows where this is headed. How refreshing!

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ALMOST NOW - GOTHAM

            His hair, short black tendrils, splays across the pillow. A study in contrast, the dark strands flare against the white silk and the pale, almost translucent, skin of his face. Gently I brush those fine threads away from a visage that, even lacking consciousness as it now lies, still holds echoes of pain. Pain that I unwittingly have brought upon him, though it was not I who pulled the trigger.

            I do not regret the anguish I have used to fell him. I am a monster, and such is my destiny. Besides, pain makes us live, does it not? We are never so vibrant, so truly alive as when we suffer. He would thank me for it, if he knew how.

            He would be grateful, I am sure, if he still lived.

            When I found – no, say rather 'discovered' – him those few scant years ago, his purity fascinated me. His mind was intoxicating, his thoughts devastatingly untainted and noble. Heroic even.

            So I followed him, abandoned my own personal Hell to partake of him in his. To make him mine. With that single move I damned myself even more, swapped one Inferno for another. Irrevocable. Irredeemable.

            An odd thought for one who was fallen so far from grace, odd that there were still greater distances to sink. I had thought the depths of my depravity complete.

            Shows what I, monster that I am, knew.

            In my defence, I had intended it to be a gradual possession. Gentle seduction rather than sudden enslavement. I remain Knight enough for that. Say rather, I remain desperate enough for release not to wish destruction upon the purity of purpose that this boy possesses. The hope that is my one chance.

I am a monster, not necessarily an evil, despite my selfishness. Perhaps even because of it.

But the slow awakening I planned was not to be. A brightly patterned fiend, maliciousness at odds with the cheerful colours of his garb, had other ideas.

Shots in the night, an insane cackling laugh, and it had ended.

Say rather, it had begun. Sooner than I anticipated, far, far more prematurely than I'd hoped.

Three shots, sounding like firecrackers in the dark. Irrevocable. Irredeemable.

And now he is dead. Skin ashen, lips pale, dark hair caressing his brow in unruly waves.

Dead.

And I, though no longer bound by rules of Knighthood, will seek vengeance in his name.

It will be fast, and it will be brief. It will be very, very bloody.

The monster who killed him, who took such delight in his murder, the monster who derailed my carefully laid plans, that monster will discover what it is to anger one vastly more powerful than he.

For myself, I would butcher him slowly. For the sake of the boy whose life he ended, I will keep it short. But I will have his heart, feel his blood spill over my arms, know that I will partake of none of it. I will not have its foulness provide me sustenance.

He is blood to be wasted. Monster that I am, I will delight in destroying him.

The rapidity of the kill will, in fact, be useful. I will obliterate this monster, and then return to the boy's bedside.

The boy who is dead. Who lies so stilly on the pillow, no hint of disarray in his long limbs.

I will return and keep vigil over his corpse. For three full days, I shall keep vigil. Three days until those brilliant, so-innocent blue eyes flutter open once more. Three days until consciousness and a soul, now tormented but still pure, return to their rightful place in the perfected body. A mere three days until thought and movement return. But it will take an eternity - say rather a miracle - before breath ever quickens those lungs, a pulse ever graces that heart. I shall not hold myself vigilant for that. The return of the soul, the rising rebound of innocence and purity so strong that not even what I have done will taint it. That is what I attend.

For it is fitting is it not, that the first person an Offspring sees, when he Awakens, is his Master.

And what an Offspring he will be.

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ALMOST NOW – ELSEWHERE

            "Is he worth it? Is he really, truly honest-to-God worth it?"

            "You're asking the wrong question."

            "Am I? Are you aware he's a just a boy? And he was **murdered** for Heaven's sake! Also, while I grant you he's sitting in Limbo at the moment, he certainly hasn't approached us about the whole matter, let alone volunteered!"

            "We're aware of this. And it isn't the first time a rule or two has been bent."

            "No. No, it isn't. But it's the first time it's been nearly every rule at once, the first time it's been **us** doing the 'bending'!"

            Pause. Glare.

            "Alright then. Have it your way. But you do realise you'll lose your precious moral superiority over the Japanese Division for this."

            "I realise that. We all do. At any rate, it's not your place to question the choice, only the details."
            "Fine! Be like that. I'll arrange for a par-"

            "No partner."

            "WHAT!?"

            A second pause, this one longer than the first.

            "This is so . . . irregular. Without a partner, we'll just be . . . turfing him out and hoping for the best! No information, nothing! How do you know he won't go the wrong way? If he does –"

            "He won't. Not if we do it this way."

            "If he does, you'll have created an unbelievably powerful monster, one that'll be damn-near impossible to bring down! You know that, don't you."

            The silence stretched again, then once again the first voice spoke, slow comprehension replacing the angry confusion of it's earlier tones.

            "You said I was asking the wrong thing. It isn't about whether he's worth it, is it?"

            "Your insight improves daily."

            "Spare me the sarcasm and answer the question."

            . . .

"No, it isn't about whether he's worth it. The question is whether we can afford not to. Whether we can let the monster who holds him have it his way."

            "And the answer, I guess, is 'no'."

            "Emphatically so."

            "I'll arrange to have the body brought here. Marie will have it fixed in no time." The speaker hesitated, "Um, how soon do you want him in the field? I mean, do you want me to get his corpse after the funeral rites have been done? It usually takes Marie a bit longer if the body gets cremated."

            "No. Do it now. Before his family and fellow adventurers know he's dead. Before it fully sinks in in his own mind. And especially before the monster that has the body in its keeping returns to it. That particular creature would give even one of us pause, and I'd rather avoid the conflict."
            "Before his team mates know he's dead? Y-you can't seriously mean to redeploy him in the same city he was alive in?!"

            "That is not your concern."

            "But the poor kid's –"

            "Dismissed."

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NOW – GOTHAM

            He awoke stunned to find himself alive. A moment of disorientation, and he placed his surroundings. The ceiling was familiar. It was that of his bedroom in the downtown Gotham apartment he occasionally shared with his parents. He no longer lived with them for any great stretch of time, and his father had been all for converting the bedroom to a study, a move which his stepmother had unequivocally opposed.

            "You want him to feel welcome here, don't you?" She'd cajoled, and after some argument the room had been left in its original configuration. Tim had been extremely grateful for Dana's efforts, though he still felt uncomfortable in the apartment. An intruder in his father's happily gained new life. An unwanted reminder of the life gone by.

            His mind floated back to the present. Even when he was 'home', he rarely woke up looking at the ceiling. Normally he slept in a messy sprawl, but this time when he awoke he was lying straight, dead centre in the bed, his arms folded neatly at his waist.  Weird. But nowhere near as weird as that dream. Hazily, his thoughts flashed back over it. It had been so. . . real. His leap into action, the maniacal laughter of his foe, the flashes from the gun muzzles – don't look at them directly, they'll blind your night vision – the thud as the rounds impacted on his Kevlar vest. The shock as pain and bright, bright blood blossomed in their wake. Cop-killers the muzzy thought, faint tang of blood in the mouth, strangely compelling and strengthening in flavour as a cough forced more up. . . So much blood, so much pain . . . so alone. So very alone. Shouldn't have tried to do this on my own. Wouldn't have if I'd had half an option. Darkness.

            And then, here. Waking to an empty room, a thin breeze barely stirring the curtains over a too-neat student desk – no mess allowed, can't give Dad an excuse to turf me out of here – the faint sound of a radio turned low in the other rooms. Smell of breakfast cooking, eggs and bacon. Must be low-fat ham if Dana's cooking.

            Life.

            It was wonderful. And every bit as vivid as the dream of the night before. Strange that a dream should be so real, so very close.

            So painful. Unsure that that was in fact the dream and this the reality, he checked his chest for holes, bruises even. I wouldn't be surprised at all.

            Nothing.

            Absolutely no marks on the unblemished skin.

            He was as well as he'd ever been. Better, even. He marvelled, I can't remember the last time I felt this . . . rested. Refreshed. Ready to take on all the villains Gotham cares to throw at me and do it with a smile. Heh. Now I'm sounding like Dick! The thought raised a chuckle from him.

            Quietly, he slid out of bed, padded out into the kitchen.

            "G'morning, Dana." He yawned at the tracksuited figure leaning over the stove. She turned, startled.

            "Oh! Tim! I didn't hear you come in. Morning." Moving across, she gave him a bear hug before hurrying back to the stove. Both smiled, it was a little ritual for the two of them. A weekend ritual. So it must be Saturday. Funny. I seem to remember it being Thursday night when I went out 'roof-hopping'. Dana smiled encouragingly at him, and he grinned back.

            "You slept a lot yesterday. Feeling better?"

            "Hm?"

            "You were gone Friday morning when I came in to check on you because you didn't come down. Getting some early study done at the library?" At his hesitant nod, she continued, "When I got back from the clinic, I honestly didn't expect you to be here, but you were decked out on your bed, fast asleep. Still dressed, I might add," she added in mock disapproval.

            "Er . . . I was tired." Study at the library? I was on patrol Thursday night. Whatever I got up to, I guess it didn't finish early enough for me to get home.  Hence the invocation of the standard excuse. His brow creased as he tried to remember. He'd spotted the Joker early in the evening, and radioed Oracle for back-up. Unfortunately, Batman had descended on Bludhaven for a drug bust, joining his erstwhile sidekick there. Batgirl had been tailing a group of assassins, and was busy breaking up their hideout two hours upstate. Nobody knew what Spoiler was up to; she'd forgotten – again – to wear her earpiece.

            Unwilling to lose sight of the Arkham escapee, particularly this early in his break-out when the body count still rested at two, Robin had settled for following him at a discrete distance.

            That was where it had all come apart. Tailing was one thing. Sitting back and allowing the Joker to murder a busload of people was quite another.

            So he'd swung down, landing in a crouch on the top of the wildly careening bus, taking out two of the mad clown's seemingly endless supply of goons. And the Joker, unsurprisingly, had shot at him. Check that. Shot him. Using Cop-killers, Robin was sure, the explosive rounds shredding Kevlar, pulverising flesh.

            That was where reality seemed to become dreamlike. Had he truly been shot? But he was unmarked. Perhaps a new variant of the gas that the Joker was unquestionably brilliant at creating had affected his memory, yes, maybe. Something like that would explain why I'm so hazy on the details. If that's the case though, I'd better get to the Cave and run some blood tests on myself.

            "Earth to Tim! Helloooooo"

            "Hn? Oh, sorry Dana. I just spaced out a bit I guess." He gave her a half-hearted smile, to which she responded with a worried look.

            "Look, Tim, its Saturday. Go out and get some fresh air. Your father and I will handle the grocery shopping."

            "You just don't want me adding sugarpuffs to the supermarket trolley!"

            "Darn straight! Now, move. Enjoy the sunshine, check out the girls, and be home for dinner, okay?" Robin laughed. It felt good, this teasing banter. Not like with his dad,  with Dana I can tease and laugh. Because I know I'm welcome, I can enjoy the joke. It wasn't the first time he'd faced the odd ache in his chest as he thought of the widening rift between his father and himself. It wasn't even the only rift in his life. Problems with my Dad, problems with Bruce, heck, half the time the problems cause each other. But that betrayal of trust never really did heal, did it, Batman. Nightwing assures me it will with time, but how long do I have to wait? How many more times will Bruce – no, Batman – do this to someone who cares about him?

            He was broken from his reverie by Dana chasing him out of the kitchen. A shower and change of clothes later, and the current Boy Wonder was on his way to the secluded woodland area that housed one of several hidden entrances to the cave.

            Dana was right. A walk in the sunshine and fresh air was just what he needed, even if the end destination **was** underground. He swung into the Cave with jaunty steps and high spirits, only to be confronted by a babbling Stephanie, a stiffly tense Batgirl, a crying Barbara (who was trying unsuccessfully to comfort a fidgeting Nightwing), and a trembling, slumped Alfred.

            "WH-what's going on?"

            "TIM!!" "You're here! Oh, thank God, thank God, thank - " "You're okay!" "Tim – ALIVE!?"

            Staring at the tearstained faces in front of him, Robin said the first 'intelligent' thing he could think of.

            "Um, hi?" This prompted an unusual reaction. Shoving Steph out of the way, Dick grabbed his little brother and held him close, rapidly joined by Alfred, Cassandra and Barbara in one of the most heartfelt group hugs he'd ever experienced.

            "You're alive! You're okay?!"
            "Shouldn't I be?"

            "Don't you frighten us like that, young master Timothy!"

            "Will someone please explain what's going on?"

            The four pulled back and stared at him, surprise clearly etched in their features. Hesitantly, Barbara set about answering his question.

            "When I found out about the Joker's jailbreak, I contacted everyone. Batgirl headed straight down, Nightwing and Batman headed up. But nobody was less than two hours away. Well, except for you. Then you found Joker and radioed me, and I advised the others." She hesitated, "all of us were pleased at your common sense, that you were going to follow, but not engage. Then you went and did it."

            "I didn't have a choice. Joker was attacking a bus!"
             "We know that now. But you sure scared Barbara. . ."

            "Yeah. When I heard the shots, I was terrified, then you groaned out 'cop-killers' and made this godawful choking noise in the receiver." She shivered, knowing the sound of gasping breath thickened with fresh running blood would stay with her for the rest of her life, haunting her nightmares.

"I didn't know what was going on. When you stopped answering my hails, even with the line still open, I feared the worst." She took a deep breath, knowing Robin wasn't going to like what she said next. "So did Batman. He was listening in on his own frequency, had been the whole time." She stopped, obviously unable to continue, forcing Dick to take up the thread.

            "When Batman and I got there, the Joker was gone, the bus was full of corpses, and you . . . had vanished. We found your earpiece lying in a very large pool of blood on the side of the road, and I came here straight away to see if you'd somehow made it back, then checked over at your house. Batgirl, when she arrived a few minutes after us, searched every hospital in Gotham to see if you were there. Barbara managed to get hold of Spoiler eventually, and she went around the locum clinics. When we couldn't find you, we decamped back here, knowing this was where you'd go if you were in any shape to move." He stopped, obviously done with talking. Robin was silent, his brain whirring rapidly to process the information, compare it with his own hazy memories of the evening.

            There was, he realised, one major data point missing.

            "Where's Batman?" He asked, voice flat with false calm.

            After a moment's silence, it was Alfred who finally spoke.

            "We don't know."

            Robin turned to Barbara. "Find out." Was all he said. It was all he needed to say, in a voice eerily reminiscent of the Bat's.  Silently, she wheeled over to the Crays and, via her uplink, checked her own system for any news of their dark leader or anything else likely to be related.

            "Where's the Joker?"

            This time it was Barbara who answered, in tones awash with surprise and disbelief.

            "The City Morgue."

            "That freak! What's he up to this time?"
            "Nothing, apparently. The spycam pictures indicate he's been competently eviscerated."

            This attracted the attention of the Spoiler, "What's 'eviscerated' mean?"

            "It means that he's been murdered. It means that he's finally dead."

            "WHAT!?"

END PART ONE.

Whee! I didn't know how this was going to go, and it turned itself into a murder-mystery of sorts!

And, yes, the title is a homage and a hint all rolled into one (and used for a number of other reasons, not the least of which is my inability to think of anything else, what with having no planned plot and all), but more on that later.

Liked it? Hated it? Let me know – I'd really love any and all comments and criticisms people can provide, especially since this fic only exists because of previous feedback.