Author's note: Several reactions to a death in the Batclan.
Before the hate mail starts rolling in, I like Nightwing. Notice I didn't kill him off, just explored reactions to his possible demise. This is a weird short that got stuck in my head because of the opening scene and quickly expanded from there. I wanted to include a few more reactions but I'm not that familiar with the Batman/Nightwing circles. Maybe I'll edit later and include them.
I hope you enjoy.
One week later…
He stands there, hair plastered to his forehead as rain sloughs off his chin. The funeral was a wet, grisly affair. The mourners—more than a hundred of them—left hours ago, driven away by the howling sleet. The last was a red-haired young woman in a wheelchair who sat sobbing by the headstone. She was finally led away, leaving him alone at the grave.
He stands there, staring numbly at the freshly strewn mud. Are those tears or simply droplets of rain? On any normal man they would be tears, but he is not a normal man.
This is not a normal world. This world…is not a fair place.
He knows that better than anyone.
***
I want to go to him, but I wouldn't know what to say. I was there to pay my respects. He didn't want me there; I could tell he didn't want anyone there. He needed space, so I'm giving it to him—for now.
Ice cakes on my cheeks, my hair, my chin, as I peer at him from miles above the atmosphere. I have work to do, in Metropolis, in Egypt, in the Amazon. But I want to make sure he's all right.
I'll go to him soon. Maybe tomorrow. Right now my words would be empty, meaningless. I can move mountains and change the course of planets; I can do nothing about this.
Parents aren't supposed to outlive their children.
***
I've always wanted to fly.
That, more than anything else, I think, is what I envy Clark for. Flying means a lot more than never having to walk. It means freedom, unchained by restraints, the ability to go anywhere and do anything and overcome human limitations.
That's one of the things that drew me to Dick. He performed death defying stunts a hundred feet off the ground and came closer to flying than anyone not born with the power to defy gravity had a right to go. He soared through the air, as the verse goes, with the greatest of ease. He was fearless. Effusive. Full of grace.
The call came at 3:35 in the morning, when any normal man would have been asleep. The shrill, insistent ringing would awaken him. He would blearily sit up from his bed, clad in pajamas, to reach for the phone.
I took it through a modified headset earpiece, dressed in a Kevlar/Nomex weave and a cape, while sitting in the most technologically advanced vehicle that money could buy. Answering a direct line from the cybernetic equivalent of Mount Delphi.
"Oh God Bruce, it's Dick, he's offline, I think he's hurt—"
I sat up just a little straighter, and listened.
A few moments later I accelerated to 230 mph, the fastest the car would go.
It wasn't fast enough.
I've always wanted to fly.
***
Don't think of him.
"I—"
Don't think of him.
"Sorry, Oracle, could you repeat?" The voice, coming from half a world away, is scratchy.
"He—you're closing in. About 2 miles to your left."
Don't think of him.
"Can you get a visual?
There's work to do. People are counting on her.
"Yes, in a moment." Fingers fly over a keyboard. Miles overhead, a military satellite shifts its sensor arrays. Don't think of him. "I have it. Four, five, twenty-six hostiles, all armed."
"Not a problem. You have files on the base?"
A million people die by nuclear fire if her concentration slips, if she makes a mistake. Don't think of him.
"Yes." She draws up detailed schematics and blueprints, proceeds to rattle off numbers and figures and distances. Without once thinking of him.
"Got it, Oracle. We're engaging. Out."
The little device in her ear clicks off. For a moment, she relaxes the mantra she's been repeating all day and allows herself to remember. Gives in to the flood of emotion that threatens to overwhelm and bury her…
…until another light on her monitor begins flashing. She hastily wipes away the tears on her cheeks, leaving wet smears behind. She sniffles a little, then clears her throat and adjusts the voice box before opening the channel.
"Oracle." Her voice is surprisingly steady.
Don't think of him.
***
I…sad. Feel sadness. Nightwing a friend. No, more than friend. What call him? I not know. Ask Barbara? Cannot, she cries when think of him. I see her body move, her mind, when talk of him. She not want to.
Down there, muggers. Wanting what not theirs. Woman, afraid. No more. Dive off roof, land. Threatening. Scare them off?
No, attack coming. Chain, at head. Duck twirl kick. One down, jaw broken. Another has knife. Thrust straight. Stupid. Parry chop break. Scream, grabbing arm.
Kick coming from behind. Dodge turn palm-strike. Man flies to wall. One more--gun—GUN—
firing--BLAM --dodge—miss--
again--BLAM—jump—turn--
Kick before he shoot again. Hard. Ribs broken. Kick again. More break.
All four down. Woman ran away. Gun. How he died. Keep punching. Gun. Crack. Thud. Snap. Gun. More. Want hurt him. Hurt them all.
Finally stop. Gloves wet. Face wet, too. Not raining. Something in chest…hurts. Pain…sad?
When think of Cain, feel same way. This sadness. Even greater now, but same kind. But not sad for Cain. For what Cain was not. For what I lost. For…family. Nightwing…Dick….was family. Brother.
My brother.
He was…my brother.
***
It's harder to see at night, especially in this city. It should be no darker than any other, but somehow—especially tonight—it is. The clinging darkness hangs over the city and its evil, as if Erebus himself were drawing his mists over the land. It makes it harder to navigate through the high-rises. I don't have Kal's eyes.
There, in the distance. I hear him before actually seeing him. He's making that much noise?
I close in and my eyes widen at the scene. He's there, pounding viciously at another heavily muscled figure. His victim is unconscious, mirroring the other similarly-dressed bodies strewn across the rooftop.
I land in silence. He doesn't seem to notice, continues whaling away, but I know about his proximity sensors. Either he knows it's me, or he doesn't care. Right now, it's probably the latter.
A wet, sickly thud as he smashes the thug's face against a steel pipe. A quick glance tells me the man's bones are broken in at least a dozen places. Three skull fractures. There's severe internal bleeding.
Already unconscious, so I can say it.
"Bruce."
He freezes in mid swing. It takes him a few moments to lower his fist, but he finally does it. He flings the limp figure aside like a rag doll.
He straightens and turns to me, falling even further into the shroud he casts. Pulling himself away.
"I told you to stay out of my city, Princess." The voice is hoarse, ragged. He hides behind his cape but I can see his body shaking behind the thin weave.
Slowly, I walk toward him, reach out my hand. He flinches, but not from the pleasurable tension we sometimes share. This is the reaction of a man frightened and angry and alone.
Another time, another place, I might come as a lover. We have shared kisses and glances and moments. But now, I come simply as a friend. He is a hard man to know, but one of my closest friends.
My fingers brush against his face. Unshaven, the bristles are rough, his jaw clenched.
"Bruce. I know." I will not say I am sorry. 'Sorry' does no good, as I know all too well. But I am one of the few who can say, "I know," and not have the words ring false.
His mouth works, but he says nothing. We stare at each other. Then, his head drops. He staggers toward me. I catch him before he falls.
Once, he supported me through a similar trial. Now, I support him. I take him into my arms as he sobs. He clutches at me, but his body is limp, without strength. Probably without food or sleep, either. Held together by sheer willpower and fury.
I know the feeling.
I carry him in my arms as we fly back to his home.
***
He fingers the jagged cuts in the material, now warm from the heat of his fingers. The other side is smooth. One smooth, one rough. Two opposites. Always two.
The way things should be!
The little bird is dead. Shot. The information comes around the Arkham pipeline, whispered rumors that cannot be confirmed but are never wrong. This is the second time the bird has died. First time was the clown.
Dead! Two of them! The voice is filled with glee.
He remembers beating it once, using a bat. That had been when the bird was a little robin. He still remembers the sensation, a young child's terror as the bat descended. A bat for a Bat. Two bats. Bone, breaking. Flesh, yielding. It's a unique feeling.
And it felt damned good!
It did. But there was something…else now. That little robin had survived his beating, had persevered, had grown into a mighty hawk. Two sides of a bird. There was something about it, the way the bird had overcome its failures, that deserved…respect. Grit and determination, two qualities that could be…admired?
No! Never!
Maybe not. But maybe so. He isn't sure. So he has to ask.
"Respect? Or glee?"
The coin spirals through the air, Light glints off of it, then disappears as it spins, then reappears, an endless cycle. Light, no light, light, no light. It hovers in the air, then falls. He catches it, looks down.
A little smile, barely noticeable, forms on the unscarred side of his face. Just enough to tug at the sneer.
In silence, a half-man, half-monster bows his head.
***
Ding, dong, the birdy's dead!
You can imagine his delight when he heard. Robin number one, down! By a nobody! Wonder how ol' Batsy's feeling? Maybe he's crying? Hah! Old Bats, blubbering. Now there's a laugh: Bats crying! Violins in the background! Alas, poor Batsy, you knew him well. Too bad he DIED! Hahaha!
He wipes away a tear. Ahh, what beautiful, yummy, news. Except he wasn't the one to do it. Hrmph. That sobers him quickly. Makes him frown, even, but then he brightens. After all, he got the second one.
And that leaves the third, doesn't it?
Two out of three wouldn't be bad. In fact, it'd be good. Great fun for all. Grrr-eat. Like the cereal.
Of course, it won't be easy. The cell's padded. This jacket's twisting his arms behind him and held together by reinforced straps. Leather. Huh. Damned cows. Why don't they shrink in the rain, anyway? He'll have to dislocate both shoulders to get it off. And the cuffs—gotta break the thumbs. And maybe the wrists too, just for fun. It'll hurt. Like hell. Hell, heh. Been there before. One hot ticket. Anyway, it'll hurt, but pain's just the world's way of telling him to suck it up and go kill another bird.
As for the jacket? Well, that's what teeth are for.
Might as well get started now.
He starts gnawing. Mmm, dinner!
***
Today…
I flash a grin at him. "C'mon, Bruce, I know you've been looking forward to it."
He doesn't smile back. "Absolutely not." He speaks in The Voice ™, but the effect is considerably lessened by his dress and surrounding. A middle aged man wearing a bathrobe and slippers in a kitchen doesn't quite strike fear into the hearts of men—no matter how superstitious and cowardly a lot.
"Well, too bad," I say, chuckling. Unconsciously, I grip the edge of a chair and lift myself off the ground, balancing first on the hand and then four fingers. "We're planning it anyway. Be glad we decided not to make it a surprise."
He groans, bends over his bowl of Grape Nuts. "I have to work."
Balancing on three fingers now. "Nope. I called Lucius and made sure your schedule was free. Try again."
He crunches glumly on a spoonful of milk and rock-hard oats. I don't know how he can eat those; they're like little pebbles. "Patrol?" he says hopefully.
"Nope. I got it all set up with JLA reservists. The city'll be fine."
He grunts noncommittally.
Two fingers. Whoops, not quite enough balance--don't want to fall—I tighten my grip and lift my body up parallel to the ground.
"Master Richard!" the scandalized British voice enters the kitchen before its owner.
I drop quickly to the floor, hands behind my back. "Uh, sorry Alf."
"Alfred," Bruce says before the other man can chastise me, "isn't there some function I have to go to tomorrow?"
Alfred's lip quirks. "Certainly not, Master Bruce. I made certain sure your schedule was free." That gets a grimace.
"C'mon, Bruce!" I say. "It's your birthday tomorrow. C'mon Bruce. It's your birthday," I say, making it into a little chant while I wiggle my hips. I feel rather than see Alfred roll his eyes. "Put a little cheer into it!"
Bruce glares at his milk. When it doesn't run away screaming, he finally speaks. "I'm turning forty," he groans.
"So you'll go bald soon. What's the big deal?"
He shifts the BatGlare to me. There's a Grape Nut on his chin. It's hard not to laugh.
"And then you'll be Alf's age, and then in a nursing home…"
"I beg your pardon, Master Richard."
"Sorry, Alf."
"All right," Bruce says. "I'll go to the damned party."
I grin and pump my fist. "Hah! Awesome! I'll see you there then. I—" I almost ask him to confirm that I'm covering part of his patrol tonight, but then I remember the 'no work in the house' rule. He has a charity function tonight, so I'm patrolling the first few hours. There's a gun smuggling ring Babs has a lead on, might have to check up on that…
"I gotta get going," I say. "See ya later."
I get a "Goodbye, Master Richard," and a grunt.
I swipe a muffin while Alfred's back is turned and stride out the room. Good old Bruce. Cranky, bad-tempered, and emotionally repressed, but he's still my father.
I'll always be grateful for that.
End
Author's PS. Yes, I know it's a bit bleak—it bugged me too. I had to add in the last scene because the first ones were so disturbing. I promise to only write funny stuff and limericks from now on.