This story was one I started years and years ago, before I even delved at all into Marvel and Loki! And these days it's just not leaving me alone. So, I might as well post what I have. May or may not continue depending on feedback, etc.
I definitely respect the canon and use bits and pieces of it to put together a story of my own based on what I like about the Batman canon, which I think it's fair to say that's what most comic writers do, since it's all so varied what with all the history and characters and multiple timelines and universes and what not. When I started this before the new 52, Bruce Wayne was dead, Dick Grayson was stepping in and Damian was a little shit (to say the least lol). This follows that thread but ages up Damian a bit and plays with the other stories I've read since stepping back into Bat Family land. Well, with all that, here it goes! If you did stop in for a read and still want to read, after all my blabbering, I appreciate it!
Wash.
Rain fell from the sky in sheets, covering the city of Gotham and it's outskirts in a grimy deluge. Streets were flooded, as the muck that gathered in small heaps along the sidewalks and through alleyways day in and day out was pounded into a swill that sloshed through steam grates and filled the sewers below. Gutters and drains bubbled over, as drops seemingly the size of a fist plummeted to the ground, drenching cars and pinging loudly through the ever darkening night. Those without homes and those desperate to get back to them sought shelter under awnings and in stores. But the hour was growing late and soon, there would be no place open left to hide. Steam caught waves of neon light in every color from foreboding reds to warm fuchsias, bathing the streets and melding together like so many different spilt paints.
Past the northernmost point of the city proper lay the affluent Gotham Heights community. Sitting at the top of the infamous hill was the grandiose Wayne Manor, where a storm of a different sort was only just beginning to brew. Inside, the air was thick and still and warm. Stifling. A robust fire raged on in an intricate hearth at the center of the east wing great room. Flames licked at the surrounding grey brick, smoke staining it black, siphoning heat into the room and smoke up and out into the wet, bleak night. Damian Wayne, son the of the demon - or the bat depending on who you dared to ask - stood before it. At fifteen, he was still considerably short in stature compared to both his mother and father, a lingering side effect of time spent confined to a lab during his formative years, no doubt. The sweeping size of the fireplace only exasperated his atomity; making the news he had just been told all the more harrowing. For though he did not talk like one, the young Wayne was still very much a boy, with years of growing still ahead of him. And now, he found himself able to relate to his father in a way he never thought he would.
"It's not true," He said, green eyes sharpening as his focus zeroed in on the shuddering flames. Heat flowed from the pit, enveloping him. But he couldn't feel it. His insides had turned to ice, colder even than the swirling winds outside. "It can't be. I don't believe it."
"Neither did I," Dick Grayson stood by the window, a healthy distance away from Damian, hands stuffed deep into the pockets of his leather jacket. "There's a part of me that still doesn't. But...we've lost Bruce on comms, Damian. And there were witnesses. On both sides. Superman said-"
"Superman isn't a doctor." Damian spat, his fists were itching for a good swing, longed to feel something - anything - break under the force of his anger. This couldn't happen. Not now. All the effort and time and the sacrifices he had made. "He's nothing but an alien tank. He wouldn't know how to-"
"He's gone, Damian." Dick shot back. There was an edge to his voice that silenced Damian. It was unlike anything he had ever heard from the original Robin before. Usually Grayson was far more amiable, no matter what was thrown at him, insult or otherwise. Now he sounded...almost like Bruce himself. Attention peaked, Damian turned his eyes away from the fire and ventured an over the shoulder glance in Dick's direction.
"There's no body to find." Dick continued, the words coming out in spurts heavy with heartbreak. "Just...ash. In a tattered suit."
Damian spun around, hands turning to fists at this sides. Anger and adrenaline broiled under his skin, anxious to rip through him. He needed to quell it. Somehow. "That's...it-"
Dick turned as well. He hadn't known Damian for long. But then again, It hadn't been difficult to get a read on the boy after that first meeting. Egotistical, aggressive, seemingly incapable of empathy. Possessing a mouth smarter than any titan or villain Dick had ever come across. As a child, Dick had thought it impossible to breach the aura of calm that Alfred Pennyworth was blessed with, but Damian had managed to dispel it in a matter of days.
Which is why I wanted to be the one to tell him. Dick thought, calmly adapting a more defensive stance. He could feel Damian's rage and disbelief as easily as he could feel it in himself. If the kid wanted a fight, he'd get it. They both needed the release, after all.
A gentle cough sliced easily through the growing tension, catching the eye of both the current and former Robin.
"Alfred." Dick said, slowly lowering his hands. Speak, err - think of the devil, I suppose.
"Master Grayson. Master Wayne." The butler said, offering each a curt nod. "I thought some tea may take the edge away."
Dick's shoulders fell as a ghost of a smile spread across his face. "Thanks, Al-"
"Tea-?!" Damian repeated, incredulous. "If you think that a-"
"So happens now?" Alfred said, his tone clipped. That, and the very apparent rise in volume, was enough to silence Damian's building barrage.
Dick considered the question. Twenty-four hours ago, when he had been given the news of Bruce's death, he had no answer. But now, seeing the firelight reflected in the eyes of last surviving Wayne, he was certain there was only one course of action. He set his cup down, swallowing hard as the porcelain clinked loudly against the glass table top.
"We keep moving." Dick said, shooting a glance to Alfred. He never thought it would come to this. Now he knew he was foolish to be so optimistic. There was a time, several times, during his tenure as Robin that he had dreamed of this day. Yearned for it with every fiber of his being. Now it just felt wrong. But...he knew this was what Bruce would have wanted.
It's not forever. Dick thought to himself. A temporary solution...to a much bigger problem.
It didn't matter that he had no clue what the future would hold. It didn't matter that he didn't see a way out of this. Dick caught Alfred's eye. The butler, seeming to know exactly what was floating through his head, only nodded once. It was all the encouragement he needed. With Tim still entrenched in his own battles across the country in San Francisco with the Titans and Damian still very much a child...there was no one else. So with a sigh, he locked eyes with Robin. His Robin.
"Bruce may be gone." Dick said, "but Batman can never die."
Alfred stepped forward, and nodded towards the tray in his hands. Dick looked down. Next to the silver teapot and Damian's untouched serving sat a piece of dark cloth. The cowl. Bruce's cowl.
Dick blanched, a swell of battling emotions swirling inside his chest. Nevertheless, he reached out and took the piece up into one hand, a shiver racking through him. Alfred set the tray down. Straightening, he placed a comforting hand on Dick's shoulder, a genuine smile proudly spreading across his face.
"I knew you would make the right decision, Master Dick." Tears welled in the corner of the elderly man's grey eyes. "There was never a doubt in my mind."
Dick turned to Damian, his fist closing tightly to it.
"Patrol begins in twenty minutes. Suit up."
Across town, a similar scene was unfolding. Flashes of red, blue and amber light shone bright against the rain-battered pavement outside of the Mackenzie Pub, one of the many well known watering holes that dotted the borders of Gotham's East End. Despite the rain, a crowd of locals were beginning to gather, as several policemen and women were dispatched to cordon off the entrance to the pub. Hushed whispers were drowned out by the clatter of rain drops against a barrage of police cars as people huddled under umbrellas and clung tightly to their coats.
"What happened?"
"What do you mean what happened? Can't ya see? They haven't even cleared the body yet."
"But who is it?"
"Looks like Mackenzie to me."
"Not Frank, I hope."
"Nah, couldn't be Frank. I'd eat my, well...my shoe. Morris was the one-"
A rookie officer lifted his hands in the air, bellowing to the crowd. "Nothing t'see here folks, please move along, we need room for the ambulance."
"Ambulance?" One of the onlookers scoffed. "Ain't no point in that."
"Move along, ma'am," The officer repeated pointedly.
The woman rolled her eyes, but allowed her husband to drag her along. "Those poor youngin's, what a thing to witness, you don't think they got them all do you?"
The crowd began to disperse, realizing that soon enough there would be nothing to see.
A civilian car pulled up to the curb and a tall, lanky looking detective stepping out from the passenger side. He reached into the pocket of his overcoat, pulling out a lighter. But, taking a one look up at the cloudy sky, thought better of it and slipped the flint back inside.
"Detective Miller." One of the officers greeted. "This way, sir."
Miller nodded curtly and following the young officer. "What happened here?"
"Another shooting sir." The officer relayed. "Only one casualty though."
A sea of officers and forensic specialists parted as the officer waved him through. Miller, a tall man to most, could see all he needed to before stepping up onto the curb. He was no stranger to Mackenzie's. He could remember many a failed date spent at the bar. It had once been a frequented venue for many a cop, but in the past few years the service had declined as the elder Mackenzie brother had grown miserly and gruff after the market crash. Miller looked to his watch, 11:35pm. Only just after closing. The front door had clearly been forced open. To the left of it, the front window - a panel of glass bearing the Mackenzie name in aging gold leaf paint - had been smashed through, leaving nothing but a few jagged shards remaining at the top. Below it, lay a bullet ridden body still hanging over the edge of the window pane. Blood slunk down from the corpse, rain water carrying it to the sidewalk and snaking down the block towards Green Street. It was Morris, alright. Miller recognized the balding head.
"Body ID'd," The officer reported, unaware that the detective already had the information he needed. "Morris Mackenzie. He was the listed as the co-owner of this establishment."
The detective grumbled. "MmHmm, who ID'd him?"
"His brother sir, Frank Mackenzie, they're business partners."
"And he's-?" Miller began.
"Injured sir, but up and talking. The paramedics are seeing to him now."
"Injured, how?"
"His leg, sir. It's...well it's in bad shape. Other than that just a couple lacerations to the torso and to the back of the head. He tried to step in and stop the attackers."
The mob, no doubt. Detective Miller had worked for the Gotham police force long enough to recognize that this was a hit. And long enough to know that no matter the work he put into finding the attacker, there was nothing to be done. It was a shame that was for sure, but a single death in such a harry area of town wasn't going to be all that high on anyone's priority list. Not with the likes of Two Face and the Joker still holding tight to the headlines. He had never been particularly fond of Morris Mackenzie, but his brother Frank, he had always been a jovial sort of man. No doubt this would break what was left of that friendly spirit.
"Any other victims?" Miller asked.
"Frank Mackenzie's wife, sir. At least...we think. She's currently unaccounted for." The officer said, rifling through his notes. "Alice or Alyssa. Something like tha-"
"Alicia." Miller finished for him, reaching again for his lighter out of habit. "And the kids?"
The officer pointed sheepishly with his pen. Miller's gaze followed.
Sitting on the curb, hunched over and pressed together to remain under the shelter of the umbrella, he could see two shivering figures.
"Excuse me," Miller muttered, before taking his leave of the officer and shuffling over to the sidewalk's edge. He rounded to the right of them, peering around the umbrella.
Sure enough, it was the Mackenzie girls. The elder of the two, Christine, couldn't have been of age to serve in a bar, but a small black apron was tired across her waste. Her ash blonde hair was dyed blue at the ends and completely soaked through. She held tight to the umbrella, her free arm wrapped around the shivering form of her younger sister.
"Molly." She whispered, unaware of the eavesdropping detective huddled just over her shoulder. "Talk to me, please."
The younger Mackenzie, only three years Christine's junior if Miller was remembering correctly, only shook her head. Her arms were wrapped around herself, threads of light coppery hair falling over her face and well past her shoulders.
"She left us." She finally muttered in a hushed whisper. "She left us."
Christine tightened her grip, a forlorn sigh escaping her lips. "I know...I know."
Detective Miller stepped down into the street, water rushing through to the drain squelching loudly underneath his boot.
"I don't mean to interrupt-" He started.
The elder Mackenzie jumped, nearly losing her grip on the umbrella. "Oh. no...it's fine."
Miller didn't bother to smile. There was no space for pleasantries in the presence of the dead.
"Nor do I mean to eavesdrop," He continued as gently as he could manage. "But, your mother-"
The younger Mackenzie rose suddenly to her feet, knocking her sisters arm aside. She was clothed in nothing but a black jumper and a pair of cotton leggings and red sneakers. A policeman's fleece lined jacket hung around her shoulders. At her side, her hands turned to fists. Even in the low light, Miller could see blood staining her nail beds.
"She's gone." Molly seethed, pulling her hair aside in three violent swipes. She looked up at the detective, but her gaze was far away. Clouded. Empty. Drops of water fell down her face, but Detective Miller couldn't be sure whether they were tears, or nothing but rain. "Right when those...those men came through the door. She ran for the back. She...left us all behind. She didn't even hesitate."
Christine rose shakily to her feet, her arm returning to her sisters side. "C'mon, Molly. We should go inside."
She looked to Miller, her eyes gently pleading.
Miller shook his head, running a hand through his drenched hair. "That you should. Thank you for your time."
Christine turned her attention back to her sister. "C'mon."
Molly's shoulders fell; all the fire and fury draining out from her as quickly as it had come. "S-She left us. How could she-"
"C'mon," Christine coaxed, guiding her around. Not bothering to cast another glance back at the detective. "Let's not think about it now."
Miller watched them shuffle passed the yellow tape, taking no time to regard the body of the their uncle.
"Screw it," He muttered before reaching back into his pocket and pulling a cigarette from the crushed box tucked against his hip. He stuck it in between his lips and flicked at the lighter, but the rain paid him no mind and he couldn't catch a flicker of light. No matter how hard he tried.
Just an intro! Mostly to get a handle on the characters. Thank you for reading! I'd love to hear from you. :0)