AUTHOR'S NOTES

Playing with the Stray/Catlad/Kitten AU! I've only recently discovered this marvelous creation, but have made some personal adjustments to its lore. A big Tim Drake fan, I can't grasp the idea of Tim simply abandoning the Robin/Batman legacy, finding partnership with Catwoman and turning to a life of crime. My ideal Stray is a.) named "Stray," and has Tim an escaped, early animal DNA splicing experiment of Dr. Achilles Milo.

Tim was five years old when he escaped, having been experimented on in years before and deemed the first cat-splicing success of Dr. Milo. He didn't make it far before he was found by Batman and Robin. They attempted to care for him, discover his origins, but hadn't managed to do so before he escaped them as well. He later discovered Catwoman, followed her home. Natural feline affinity aided her decision to take him in and eventually take him on as her protege. With no memory of his home or his name, it was she who named him Stray and raised him to be so, but it's only a matter of time before the past starts creeping up on him.

WHAT'S IN A NAME?

Light trickled across each crisp cut edge as he rolled the diamonds in his hand, but couldn't compare to the gleam of his smile. This was the jackpot—his first in a while. Small-time jewelry store busts only held up the paycheck for so long. That, and they were too easy. No, he needed a challenge, and one finally came knocking in the form of a flimsy flyer, slapped out by a fat guy reeking of pit sweat on the corner of grease and grime. Glamorous, but Stray knew opportunity when he saw it, and was glad he snatched it up. The museum was littered with prizes, just waiting to be grabbed from glowing glass cases. The guards had been dropped, security systems handled. This had been a cake-walk. All the more reason to be suspicious.

Little hairs on the back of his neck standing on end didn't help. Tight leather wasn't enough to keep them from prickling upright, making his skin tickle. Unwelcome distractions, however slight, were not to be ignored, but certainly put a damper on things. Here he was, soaking in the dim lamp-light glow in a sea of darkness, and instinct was snuffing it out. Pride delayed a step away from the jewelry case for a slow surveillance of the museum interior. He pulled his goggles up, tugging at his cat-eared cap in the process. All part of the gimmick, but it made for great pictures if a photographer was fast enough, camera quality was good. Hard to catch a runaway cat. Try catching a thief.

Nothing. High ceilings and echoing halls didn't call back a sound. Other displays, dummies dressed like royals, hadn't moved or given any indication of doing so. Stray returned his attention to pride and glory, goggles back down, reaching through the circle he had so delicately carved in the glass after placing the diamond in his pack. Claws protruding from his gloves brushed rich velvet lining the case floor, easing a purr from his throat. This felt good. His smile crept back to life as he pinched a hefty signet ring between his fingers. Delightful. Absolutely perfect, right down to its intricate carving, embedded gems . . . its screaming flaws.

That smile of his drained right down his throat. Stray pulled the ring closer, every instinct crawling back to life as he turned the ring to expose its underbelly. No stamp. No trio of numbers or iconic symbols to indicate this ring had value—any value. He grumbled, drawing the yellow ring to his teeth to clamp it between them. Not a damn scratch remained. The ring was a stunt double; worthless, just like his instincts.

Stray caught the scent, but seconds too late. A shadow alighted behind him, graceful as a bird; a fitting simile. Nightwing was, arguably, avian. At least, that's what the papers said. Stray hadn't the pleasure of meeting him in person, and what he did get to meet was minimal. A jawline, a peeking forehead and muscled neck stood out in the black. The rest had been swallowed by it, save the iconic blue "V" emblazoned on his chest with a predatory head. Neither of these are what bothered Stray most. Stray was caught staring, ignorant to obvious distress warping his brow, the slack in his jaw. This man was familiar. He knew him somehow.

"You're predictable." Nightwing was smirking, arms crossed over his chest in a show of dominance Stray didn't take kindly to, but an appropriate response was impossible. Stray was screaming for his brow to drop, his posture to fight back with pride of its own, but he was a mewling kitten under the Nightwing's stance. Stray recognized that pose, those proud tones striding out his lips. Stray knew him. Nightwing knew it, too.

Confidence brought Nightwing a few steps closer. ". . . Remember me?"

Stray didn't know what spurred the sympathy. It was gushing out of Nightwing, crippling his solid frame into something relaxed, and again, more familiar. Stray finally willed his limbs to respond. He stepped backward, a hand catching the jewelry case to keep it from toppling. Stray did remember him, but not a man in black and blue. Stray remembered a younger face, an explosive smile behind a mask of green; a red tunic, golden cape . . . ridiculous panties.

Stray felt his lips curling. ". . . Robin?" Would that he could have summoned confidence in the question, sure as he was.

Nightwing, former Robin, nodded. "Robin," he confirmed, but glanced around his uniform as if seeing it for the first time. ". . . Well—" he shrugged, smiling off the obvious. Neither of them moved afterward, letting the reality of the situation set in to the silence of the hall before either took it upon themselves to break it. Stray left that to the professional.

"It's been a while," Nightwing sighed, his smile slipping. That was a thirteen-year understatement. Guilt was the undeniable taste being left in Nightwing's mouth, Stray could tell. Whether or not Stray sympathized. . . .

"Yeah," Stray responded quietly. He pried his claws off the case, straightening his spine. He planted his feet, but realized quick some originality was in order. He was mimicking Nightwing a little too close. He fidgeted into something more careless, shifting the weight on his heels and glancing his eyes downward. They flickered back to Nightwing, fresh fire sparking in them when reality slapped him awake.

"Yes, it has," Stray reiterated. There was his confidence. Familiar or not, hopeful or not, thirteen years was a long time. They were on opposite sides of the board, now. That was clear. Nightwing on one side, a red-handed Stray on the other. Where was this supposed to go?

Nightwing felt that heat, tensing back up and adding serious notes. "I see you've been busy."

Stray shrugged, mimicking Nightwing intentionally this time. ". . . Well—" he laughed, tossing his pack over his shoulder, feeling the weight of all those worthless, clinking bobbles. If he couldn't laugh at himself, he'd be kicking, clawing and screaming at the sky for making such a rookie mistake, which wouldn't be attractive. He hadn't checked for fakes before breaching the cases. Too caught up in the glitz and dazzle, he hadn't inspected them with a prospector's eye or appraised them at all, only admired. He'd be hearing about this later, either from a personal pep-talk or a slap from Selina. He'd wonder which would be more damaging if he hadn't felt the latter before.

Stray stopped, the bitter bile of failure extinguishing his patience. He didn't have time for this. Nightwing and Batman had a knack for bringing in the bad guy, and making doubly sure the law got involved. The cops were on their way, if not waiting outside. This needed to end, and in as few words as possible.

Stray leveled with him. "At least I'm not getting your hopes up," he seethed through a smile. That would hurt. He waited to make sure it did, watching Nightwing's expression take the hit before Stray's grip tightened on his pack. No more holding back. All his strength sent the pack flying right at him!

Nightwing was ready for the move. His hands flew up to block, batting the goody bag aside. What he didn't expect was the immediate onset of claws. Stray leaped the space between them with inhuman ease. Nightwing was pounced, claws tapped against his armor with force enough to tear the Kevlar. The meeting would be brief. Stray knew he was no match. Nightwing had been Robin long before the costume change, putting him leagues ahead experience-wise. Stray needed a boost if he was going to get out without a scratch. In fact, he counted on one.

Attack high, drop Nightwing back, get a nice kick to send him up and out. Calculations correct, that just might work. Only one way to find out. Stray curved his back when latching onto Nightwing, making him top-heavy—heavier. Nightwing's strength was impossible to underestimate through skin-tight spandex, but was brought to light, bare as bones, when he staggered. Nightwing bent with the blow, crouching to hold his stance with an inhuman ease of his own. This left an upright Nightwing balancing a bunched up Stay on his chest and shoulders. Awkward, not at all what Stray had in mind, but not a total loss.

"About time you decided to help." Another sharp comment. Just one history lesson after another. Stray jumped his boots to Nightwing's shoulders, shoving off into a leap. "Thanks for the lift!" Mid-air, he reached for his whip. Arm cocked back, the whip unfurled, aim on the rafters, but the lash was interrupted by a firm grip on his ankle. Nightwing caught him. There'd be a lashing, alright.

Stray was thrown right back down, claws frantic to catch the fall, but his head tapped the floor with a gritty crack! Stray shouted in pain, feeling his teeth click together, blood filling his sinuses. Goggle glass splashed across the split tile. Nightwing didn't hesitate. Not that Stray could tell, anyway. Next he knew, Stray had a knee in his back, a hand forcing his head into the fresh indentation, and his ankle bent toward his spine. Again, not attractive. Stray writhed, a desperate attempt to wriggle free, but Nightwing wouldn't have it. He hardened his hold, stooping to Stray's ear.

"You ran." Nightwing made that crystal clear, first and foremost. "Remember that?" Nightwing didn't have to ask. That Stray had run was hard to forget, but it hadn't been without reason.

"We wanted to help you," Nightwing insisted—pleaded. "We can."

Stray felt his jaw latch tight, a growl trickling out his throat. The knife on his belt finally slipped into his palm, poised to strike. Now who was hesitating?

Robin, Batman; they were the first to have ever taken him in. Memories like that can't be burned out of a man, let alone a five-year-old kid. You forget things like your first word, hilariously inappropriate things you might have said as a toddler. His life before "Stray" had been carved clean out of him, long forgotten, but the Batcave? The roar of the Batmobile, a dinosaur-sized penny, a dinosaur? Not in thirteen years. Not in a million years. The heroes were first to cross his path, but the idea of being placed on a new one was something Stray couldn't accept. They may not admit it, but the Dynamic Duo couldn't have possibly known what to do with something like him. So, what could they do with him now?

He was scared, confused, so he ran. Maybe for their sake as much as his own. Call him a scaredy-cat. Selina—Catwoman—named him, Stray.

Stray drove the blade into Nightwing's thigh! Turning, Stray flipped himself over and kicked out of his grasp while Nightwing shouted in alarm. He staggered away. Lucky for him, Nightwing did the same. Stray knew he could take a knife, so that Nightwing didn't push an immediate attack told Stray he stood a chance. Stray stared at him. Personal conflict was the last thing he wanted to encounter in a fight, but his demons were bound to catch up to him; especially demons like Batman and Nightwing. Nightwing stared back, seeing for the first time in years, one of those bright blue eyes flexing its slitted pupil, framed by shattered goggle glass. He had been so much smaller, then.

Bloody around the edges, tasting wounds, they both looked like idiots. Stray shook his head. "No, you can't," he said, huffing at the spray of Nightwing's blood that now dirtied his hand. His lips tried to smile again, cracking. ". . . But thank you for trying."

Stray turned away, headed for the exit with a fresh grip on his whip. No ankle-snatching this time. His mouth had run on long enough, but—classic, Robin—Nightwing's hadn't.

Nightwing grunted, holding the blade handle tight before slipping it from his skin. Blood seeped from the cut, running trails of red down his leg, but his eyes were on Stray. "We know your name," he said, but repeated for clarity. "We know your name, Tim."

His sincerity was undeniable. Stray stopped in his tracks, forcing himself not to turn back. He knew Nightwing wasn't bluffing, and that's what shocked him most. Tim. The name resounded with him, striking him to the core, wherever memory and time had thrown it away. That was his name. He felt his hands shaking as they curled into fists. His claws pricked his palms, making them bleed. A long lost name would have a long lost life attached to it.

Distant sirens were closing in. Stray heard them minutes ago, but they had come at last into Nightwing's range. Nightwing stood at attention, reaching for his grapple gun. ". . . Come get the rest," he said. There was plenty more to tell. "Whenever you're ready."

The gun fired, launching a line before it embedded in the rafters and launched him up into them. He was gone. Just another disappointment, not having the last word, to add to tonight's roster.

Stray—Tim—finally urged his legs to move, whip cracking in the dark before he, too, disappeared.

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