Poor Bird
Disclaimer: Batman, Nightwing and Oracle all belong to DC comics, and I am truly sorry for what I have done with them. The song is a random folksong, probably by someone called 'Trad.'
Ah poor bird
Take your flight,
Far above the sorrows of
This sad night.
His body hangs before me, a broken and degraded puppet, a mockery of his former self. My son is dead, murdered in a horrible fashion. His twisted, broken limbs speak of the agony he suffered before death. I can't take my eyes off him, even as I activate the comm link to tell Oracle.
Poor Barbara must be out of her mind with worry. She called me an hour ago to say that she hadn't had contact with Nightwing for twenty minutes, since the video link had been cut off. She had tried to sound cool and collected, but I could hear the strain in her voice as she told me that things hadn't looked good on the camera. I didn't particularly want to get involved, as Dick resented any 'interference' from me. He has told me on several occasions that he could handle everything in his city, so I didn't hurry to Bludhaven tonight. If only I had. I could have been in time to.
"Oracle." My voice sounds flat to my ears.
"Batman?" Her voice sounds nervous, even scared. "Have you.?"
"I've found him." I stop for a moment as a lump rises in my throat and tears threaten to escape from my eyes.
"H-how is he?" She sounds desperate, needing to know and yet not wanting to.
"He.he's dead, Barbara." With those words I give way to my sorrow, crying despite myself.
"Oh, Bruce," she whispers, and I hear her sobbing too.
His body is tied to the pier supports, dangling limply. I have already checked for signs of life, of which there are none. Someone has taken my little bird, my robin, and broken his wings and body. His gloves and boots have been removed, his costume hangs in shreds, and the lenses in his mask are cracked. It must have taken one hell of a blow to do that; those lenses are built to be shatterproof. That was probably when Oracle lost the video link. I shudder to think of what she saw before that, what they did to my boy.
I cut through the ropes holding him up, and cradle him in my arms, something I have not done since he was a child. His limbs bend in all the wrong places, flopping as I ease him down. His body bears the marks of horrendous violence, yet his face is strangely peaceful. I hold him close, wishing for him to be alive again.
But I know that it is too late; his soul has already flown.
Disclaimer: Batman, Nightwing and Oracle all belong to DC comics, and I am truly sorry for what I have done with them. The song is a random folksong, probably by someone called 'Trad.'
Ah poor bird
Take your flight,
Far above the sorrows of
This sad night.
His body hangs before me, a broken and degraded puppet, a mockery of his former self. My son is dead, murdered in a horrible fashion. His twisted, broken limbs speak of the agony he suffered before death. I can't take my eyes off him, even as I activate the comm link to tell Oracle.
Poor Barbara must be out of her mind with worry. She called me an hour ago to say that she hadn't had contact with Nightwing for twenty minutes, since the video link had been cut off. She had tried to sound cool and collected, but I could hear the strain in her voice as she told me that things hadn't looked good on the camera. I didn't particularly want to get involved, as Dick resented any 'interference' from me. He has told me on several occasions that he could handle everything in his city, so I didn't hurry to Bludhaven tonight. If only I had. I could have been in time to.
"Oracle." My voice sounds flat to my ears.
"Batman?" Her voice sounds nervous, even scared. "Have you.?"
"I've found him." I stop for a moment as a lump rises in my throat and tears threaten to escape from my eyes.
"H-how is he?" She sounds desperate, needing to know and yet not wanting to.
"He.he's dead, Barbara." With those words I give way to my sorrow, crying despite myself.
"Oh, Bruce," she whispers, and I hear her sobbing too.
His body is tied to the pier supports, dangling limply. I have already checked for signs of life, of which there are none. Someone has taken my little bird, my robin, and broken his wings and body. His gloves and boots have been removed, his costume hangs in shreds, and the lenses in his mask are cracked. It must have taken one hell of a blow to do that; those lenses are built to be shatterproof. That was probably when Oracle lost the video link. I shudder to think of what she saw before that, what they did to my boy.
I cut through the ropes holding him up, and cradle him in my arms, something I have not done since he was a child. His limbs bend in all the wrong places, flopping as I ease him down. His body bears the marks of horrendous violence, yet his face is strangely peaceful. I hold him close, wishing for him to be alive again.
But I know that it is too late; his soul has already flown.