Summary: Following the announcement of the official adoption of Richard Grayson, the boy tragically dies due to a deadly attack from an unknown enemy. With the Dark Knight, GCPD, and Justice League hunting for clues and leads to no avail, the case of the Grayson murder is forced to close, the killer never found and murder never brought to justice. A year later, the League and their new covert team have a hard time deciding if a young, mysterious vigilante is an enemy or an ally, no matter how oddly familiar he might be...Set during Season One.
Why add a new project to my already large pile of not-finished projects? I have no self control, that's why. Will I ever learn? No, probably not.
Some notes before we start:
Richard Grayson died at the age of 12 here, close to the age of 13, and the fic takes place roughly a year later. More details about his murder and how it affected everyone in the story itself.
Characters from Teen Titans and other DC comics will appear, mostly because there will be another team, per se, on here and I'm not a fan of heaps of OCs in fics, so...yeah. But mostly Titans, with possibly Jason Todd.
There are still possible paths I could take with this that I'm unsure of, so I might add a few questions at the beginning or end of chapters for you guys to answer every now and then, so keep your eye out.
Will mostly follow Season One, but with twists, of course
And last but not least...I don't own Young Justice or anything else DC related.
Warnings: Violence, blood, cursing, mentions of torture and child abuse
| Chapter One: 14 |
Gotham City
June 29
The only source of light in the dark alley was the dim glow of a streetlamp.
He had sat there, in a low crouching position, for about an hour waiting for his target, who had entered a bar sometime around when the boy first started following him. He had yet to leave, probably downing every drink available or finding a cheap hookup; what else can someone do at a shady, cramped bar that looked just about ready to collapse from age?
Besides maybe business. The man certainly wasn't better than that.
The back door opened, and his target walked out, wearing a dark trench coat and equally dark clothes underneath. He kept his head low, as if trying to slink into the shadows, which might have worked were it not for the too loud tapping of his shoes on the pavement.
Yep, definitely business. No one would look that guilty or sober coming out of a bar if they came for binge drinking or finding a date.
The boy waited five seconds, when no one else exited from the door, to rise from his position on the roof of an adjacent building and swiftly jump to the ground.
The man halted his steps upon hearing the noise, and turned back to face wherever the landing sound came from. Only shadows met his stare.
Clearly startled, his eyes scanned every visible area of the alley, his hand slyly reaching for the waistband of his jeans under the coat. A glint of light reflected off his belt line from the streetlamp: a silver handgun barely concealed in its holster.
The boy grinned. As if that would stop him.
The other occupant of the alley critically eyed wherever he could see one last time, before deciding no one was around and slowly taking his hand off his gun.
That's when the cackling started.
He twisted around again, and again when he still saw no one. This time, he wasted no time in taking his gun out and pointing it in all directions. "Show yourself!" he shouted into the midnight air.
Finally, the boy stepped out into the dim light.
The man whirled around towards him, barrel pointed straight at his head. He took in the younger's appearance, the black hoodie with the hood pulled up, dark pants, gloves, and the mask that covered half of his face.
"Who are you?" the man all but barked, taking a step closer to the boy.
Heh, as if that would scare him.
He just cocked his head to the side, the tips of his lips perking up. "You don't remember me?" he asked coyly. "What a shame—I guess I'll just have to remind you."
"Look, kid, I don't know what you're talking about, but you better—" He cut himself off when the teenager reached up and peeled the mask off his face. The kid grinned as he watched the horror settle in the man's face.
"It sure has been awhile, hasn't it, Matthews?" the kid mused, a small chuckle in his voice. It only intensified when he noticed the gun waver in the other's shaking hand. "I guess you thought you wouldn't see me again. Sorry to disappoint."
"Kid," Matthews started, eyes darting for any available exit (a useless effort), "look, we can settle this, can't we? No need to follow me in the middle of the night—"
"They told you, didn't they?" the boy continued, stalking closer to his prey. His grin widened when the other took steps back. "That's why you're so scared right now, you know what I'm here to do."
A pause.
"Please," the man pressed. "I—I didn't have a choice, I never wanted—"
"Pathetic," the teenager hummed. "Resorting to begging? And lying?" he began stepping around the man in a taunting circle: a wolf circling a sheep. "Doesn't matter—You know what I came here for, and you know I won't fail."
A tense silence surrounded the pair. They stared each other down, one's eyes holding cockiness and the other's trepidation. For a moment, no sounds could be heard, not even the man's shuttering breath or the whistling summer wind. Nothing. It all ended when Matthews pulled the trigger and the gunshot rang.
The boy had already jumped out of the way with a grace only he possessed. Swiftly and quietly, before the man could even cry out in shock, the other dove forward and buried a knife in his throat.
Wide, brown eyes found the boys', surprise and despair filling the chocolate gaze as he stumbled back towards the brick wall. When the attacker pulled the knife out of his victim's neck, the youngest watched the spurts of blood trickle down onto his gloved fingers that pushed down onto the man's chest. Crimson dripped from the victim's now parted lips, still trying and failing to get in air through the pain. Only gurgling sounds came out, drops of blood flying from his mouth during particularly loud ones. Some of them landed on the boys face, but he couldn't find himself to care. Not when all he thought about for months was the chance to feel the man's life drift away.
He finally got what he wanted.
When the boy could tell the man was only seconds away from death, slouched on the wall with his eyes drifting shut every few seconds, he leaned over and put his lips next to Matthews' ear.
"You're the reason I'm like this, Matthews, like it or not. You dug this grave yourself."
He pulled back, the man's glazed stare blinking up at him. He was probably too out of it to understand what the youngest said, but that didn't matter.
All that mattered was the message.
When the last drop of his life drifted away, his wide, blank eyes staring at nothing, neck and head up against the wall at an abnormal angle, the boy reached into the pocket of his hoodie and pulled out his message. A small, thin slip of paper that said everything.
He reached down to the corpse's hand, bloodied from trying to stop the blood leaking from his neck only moments ago, and curled its fingers around the paper.
Mission complete, he simply put his mask back on and stalked silently out of the alley. He was out of sight in a matter of seconds.
The message was sent.
"Commissioner."
Batman watched as Gordon jumped slightly before turning around. "Still doing that, I see."
The vigilante didn't reply, just looked past the other man at the crime scene. "A murder situation?" he asked gruffly.
"Yes, a gruesome one at that," the Commissioner sighed, stepping out of the way for the Bat to advance forward. "His license said he was Preston Matthews. He was found here about fifteen minutes ago."
The body looked...grisly, to say the least. A knife wound right at the throat, with dried blood caked around his entire pale neck, shirt, coat collar, and hands, and even more on his lips and chin. The corpse was slouched against the wall, messy brown hair pressed against the brick, head at an odd angle with brown eyes wide open and staring lifelessly ahead at nothing.
"And the murderer wasn't found?" Batman questioned as Gordon walked over to his side.
"No, and we have no leads so far—"
"Then why call me in?"
Gordon shifted nervously. "Right, sorry. When searching his body, my men and I found this in his hand," he pulled out a small, plastic bag from his coat pocket and handed it to the masked vigilante. Inside was a small slip of paper, flicked with dried crimson, with a number written in black ink.
14
"Normally, I wouldn't have called you in for something like this but...there was another murder across town, which we predict happened around the same time as this one. A piece of paper with the number eight written on it was in his hand," Gordon explained. "And as such—"
"You believe the murders are connected, somehow."
"Well, yes."
The Bat studied the bag and the slip of paper in it for a few more seconds then handed it back. "I'll look into it. The other victim?"
"Jared Farrison. We should be running his name through the system right now, so I should get a call any minute—" he stopped when he looked to the side and realized Batman had vanished.
He sighed. "You'd think I'd be used to this by now..."
By the time he returned to the cave, it was well past two in the morning, nearly three. Still ever persistent and stubborn, however, Batman refused to retire for the night no matter how exhausted he was. No, instead of changing and heading upstairs, he only pushed back his cowl and stalked over to the computers. The sooner he found information about the murders Gordon talked about, the sooner he would know why Preston Matthews sounded so familiar.
"I expect patrol went well, Master Bruce?" a familiar voice asked.
Bruce Wayne didn't even bother looking away from the screen, typing away until he found the page he needed. "I thought you'd be asleep by now, Alfred."
"Normally yes, sir, but you stayed out awfully later than normal tonight, even for your schedule."
I'm worried about you, was left unsaid, but still implied all the same. You know what's coming up soon. You know why you're acting like this.
"Gordon signaled, showed me a murder victim and explained the case. I'm working on it right now," Bruce replied, eyes still glued to the screen. His heavy voice said it all, though: Another person I was too late to save.
Alfred stepped closer to his charge and glanced at what was occupying his attention on the screen. "Preston Matthews?"
"The victim. He worked reception downstairs at Wayne Enterprises," Bruce said. "Explains why he seemed so familiar."
"Did you ever talk to him, sir?"
"When he first started working, and maybe a few times since, but he quit a few months ago. Says he didn't have another one since, but...it says here that apparently he rented an apartment in New York only a week ago, he probably planned on moving there soon."
A few moments of silence passed, one person typing away and looking up another man under the name of Jared Farrison, and the other silently watching.
"I suggest you go to bed, Master Bruce," the butler broke the silence. "You can continue researching tomorrow. Dare I remind you that you have a meeting tomorrow—or rather today—at ten?"
"I will when I'm finished, Alfred," was Bruce's terse reply.
Another minute of silence. The butler opened his mouth, as if to say something, but closed it. His charge was on edge already, adding salt to the wound would just make it worse.
"Very well then, sir. I shall be upstairs if you need me."
There were a million things the butler wanted to say. He wouldn't have wanted this. He would want you to move on. You have to let it go. This isn't helping you. But all he could do was shake his head to himself and leave without another word.
There was once a small light of joy in the large, nearly empty manor and cave. One that would make Bruce smile and obsess over cases less and actually talk to people other than just grumble and hunch over files for hours on end.
Alfred stared down at his charge, still reading away, probably not planning on sleeping tonight at all, and sighed. That joy he had—they both had—was gone now.
First chapter: done
I tried with the whole angst thing...yeah, it probably sucks, but screw it. More feelings and all that gooey stuff will be explained more as the story progresses, and how much things have changed since Dick's death. More angst and sadness to come (from more than just Batman).
Let me know what you think (reviews and all that good stuff kind of motivate me to update faster...).