A/N: This is the revised version of the story, changes have been made. Also, I'm off hiatus. Hope you like this chapter. Feedback and constructive criticism is always welcome!
The morning at the police office was quiet, except for the continuous rushing in and out of the multiple minion-like officers at station, and a sporadic curse here and there. The floor is dirty and sticky, full of doughnuts' crumps, and coffee spill overs. The fluorescent lamps are flashing giving me a slight headache. And it smells like something has been rotting. What a lovely place to work at.
Giving a light sigh, I decide to go through layers of paper work that has been accumulating in my desk. Naturally, one would expect to have criminal's files in them, and it most certainly has them, at least the one's that are called like that nowadays. Almost all of the criminals, the real ones, are the "good ones" now. What I used to protect is now being trampled. Everything in here is rotted, and I wouldn't be surprised if the Black Death finds its way here and kill us all.
Everything can change in so little time, only five-ish years have passed and look where I am, I mean where we are. Back then there was nothing I could do, I couldn't even help the civilians. I left them in Slade's hands. It was just like when I was his apprentice, he was in touch with the Gordanians, and he will not hesitate to give them Starfire if I tried anything to stop him. Star was and will be always way more important than my hero life, so I disappeared when I had the chance. I didn't fake my dead or anything, I just vanished. How pathetic.
If it is any consolation Slade has always been better at planning than me. It was a masterpiece. I couldn't tell my friends, because they would do something and that move would endanger Starfire. I couldn't ask for advice to the League, Slade had already hacked the T Tower once, and he certainly could do it again. If I went to Gotham, he would have noticed, and would have acted. And I couldn't pass too much time alone, my te..., ex-team would get worried, and they would do something that could possibly endanger Star. And it is just because they think I am completely obsessed with Slade. I mean every hero has it's own nemesis. Superman and Lex Luthor, Batman and the Joker, Cheetah and Wonder Woman, just to name a few.
Slade is mine. Was. Batman was right, I should have stayed out of his way. The only okay-job I have done as being Batman's sidekick, and I still got him into trouble once or twice. Okay, four times.
The gigantic pile of papers lay untouched, in my desk, but I don't want to read them just yet. They are the weekly reports of the so called criminal activity. They are just printable, generic formats, filled with details such as: the name and background of the "criminal", detailed information of the crime scene (the place, time and circumstances where the crime was comitted), the people involved in it as witnesses or allegedly involved, the weapons used in each crime, the evidence, and a lot of pictures of everything. They say the field officers work more, bollocks, an "office cop" works his ass and hands off, not to mention the 24/7 headaches. Reports are filled beforehand by the chicken scrawl of the cop in the field, and usually on them are the proposition of whatever charges they think it would be sensible to be charged with. Of course, like we are first class law enforcement always avant-garde on technology, the reports need to be passed to a digital a format to strengthen the database, meaning that I have to decipher the chicken scrawl, type it down, send it for review, if nothing goes wrong print it, attach the photos in a logical order and sign it. Each report has a different code, depending in the importance of it. We use a colour-based code; GREY, light importance, BLACK, medium case, and RED, high risk. The GREY ones are usually thieveries. BLACK, are the ones like vandalism, manifestations, or even a conspiratorial plan. The RED ones are especially for heroes trying to overturn Slade. Every day is the same, read the reports, write or type them down, change the toner of the printer more times than it should be racional, deliver them to your superior, get yelled at for somebody's else screwups and go to sleep, just to repeat the cycle all over again, everyday. Yes, I also work on Sunday. No, I'm not nor was never a workaholic. I'm just a little concerned to do a okay job. Yes, that's what I keep saying to myself.
-Dick! – a partner of mine, and the favorite of the Chief of police, Damian, calls me. Damian is the typical, non-active police officer. He is the one that just sits in his chair all day eating, and barks around the office just because he felt like it. But he has a great advantage, he is quite imposing. He is around six feet tall, plump, and is, almost every day, wearing a stern expression. His ruddy face has these heavy-lidded brown eyes, a thick moustache and it completes its look with a balding head.
He walks confidently to my desk, nearly tearing his face off with that impossible grin he is wearing. He has this loud and annoying way to walk, like he is someone important. During his best impression of a manatee trying to walk, I notice that he is bringing a handful of reports. Great.
-What? – I quickly put my neutral facade. Damian gets a certain pleasure making me lose control, and I won't let it happen again. That is indeed what I say every time I see the manatee. And no I'm not shaming him, merely describe him, besides I'm doing him a favour, manatees are fascinating animals, maybe I should change his pet name, he can't live up to it.
-Aren´t you a ray of sunshine? – He sits on my desk, leaving the papers he brought in the edge of it. And while he is impeding me continue my paper work, which I didn't have the intention to finish in first place, he suddenly grabs my pen. The one I was using. And that sudden movement just manages to ruin my notebook sized masterpiece. Yes, I like to doodle. And he has the boldness to play with my pen. I look at my organized desk and noticed I didn't have more pens, just a pencil, a rubber, my laptop and a notebook. I try to grab my pen from his fat, clumsy hands, but he is faster than I expected and while he flashes a smirk at me he throws my pen to the floor.
-What do you want? – I ask curtly. He looks me directly in the eye, and I don't look away. He has no right to challenge me. If he knew who I am, he would be trying to kiss my a...
-I need you to digitize these reports. – He adds as icy. And left them in your desk, so you could go to the boss and get a pat in the back for doing such a good job, right? Yeah, right. Smartass mode on, champ.
-You mean, passing them to...–
-Nope, of course you don't even know that word. Where were you schooled? A circus? Anyway, these are new and I need the for tomorrow. – He has this smug glint in his eyes. He likes the villains are in control now. Damian was, and is, a thief. He always steals my lunch, for example. He just he never got caught. And because he was a minor villain, the Titans never tried to catch him. We had bigger things to deal with, like the end of the bloody world. And no, I'm not being salty about the circus stuff he said nor my beloved chicken lasagna he stole from me last week, he is just a bigoted prick.
- Was there another fight? – I say meanwhile I take a quick glance to the BLACK files at the top of the pile. Maybe it was a fight with Jericho again. Slade and his son fight frequently, and more than once Jericho has ended in here.
- Just...digitize them. – He looks condescendingly at me. And without another word he moves his hand, hitting the reports, nearly making them fall to the filthy floor. If they did fall, they would get coffee stains all over them, and that would make them unreadable. I watch him walk away from my desk, still trying his best to be a marine creature walking on earth. What an idiot.
I get up from my seat slowly and begin the search. Searching for a pen in a grubby floor is not what I thought I would be doing when I was older. I quickly got up and asked for my co-workers if they had an extra pen. The unsurprising answer from them was a not so polite NO, accompanied with several burst of laughter as I tried to explain my predicament. I got down as a treacherous sigh comes out of my body. I used to be respected, feared and respected. The search for the missing pen takes me a while, I even had to look under the desk of my partners', mortifying me even more. I finally gave up, and raised to my seat. I move a little the chair to give me more space to sit and while the chair is making a horrible squeaking sound, and I suddenly see a little rectangle in the floor, underneath where my chair was originally. I bent down and discover it's my pen. Grabbing it quickly I sit down in the chair and with a face of contempt and victory towards my companions. As slowly as I could I return my vision to where I leaved the reports, this stack being a lot of GREY ones.
Revising and summarizing these reports is a common task for everyone in here, a dull and boring task. The silver lining is that you develop a certain mastery in hieroglyphics. It is a shem I'm no longer in the field. At least on the field, you get the adrenaline through your body and while you're getting down from your high you write these reports in no time. It was this administrative job all I could get. Of course, Slade would want me here, you can't do anything alone, everybody is watching you. I'm sure even Wilson already know who I am and is watching me from the Town Hall, his new residence.
I proceed to inspect the amount of reports, I had six at the beginning of the morning and Damian just handed me eight more. Perfect. I scan again through the pile and grabbed a BLACK report to read that one first. Apparently, this guy is charged of vandalism. He wrote 'SLADE IS A BASTARD!' 'WHERE ARE THE TITANS' outside the Town Hall. And he received 3 years. I wonder how he didn't get murdered. Instead he got a load of time behind bars, for something you would have spent a night in jail and community service in my times. I can't help but give another sigh. This is something that happens way to frequently. And I have to just endure it, I have already got beaten to many times to know what can I do. And mostly what I can't. Slade just want to have me under his thumb. Scratch that. He has got me under his boot, suffocating me until I won't breathe anymore.
-DICK! – Someone, startles me, and my body prepares itself for a fight. It is just my boss Benton, the Chief of police, and he is just like Damian, only thinner. He frightens me way too often for my liking, nearly making me think that I am losing my touch, but that's impossible with Batman's training right? Right? – YOU NEED TO WORK! YOU'RE A SLACKER AREN'T YOU! GET YOUR MIND OUT OF YOUR …- I zone out after that. Batman would face me and put my toes is the ground whenever I did something wrong, but he never yelled like this at me. And he is the only one that has the right to yell at me, he and Alfred. And Barbara. I lift my chin and see that his face is red and changing to purple. Even his spit is everywhere. How much can he hold like this? His eyes are beginning to pop out. He looks really funny, like one of those squeeze toys. I don't really care about anything he has to say to me, but for the sake of my ears I will play along. As always. – DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME!?- He yells at me at the top of his lungs, I can feel every set of eyes one me. I am just the lame and clumsy cop at the station.
-Yes. –
-YES, WHAT BOY? – He even spits a little at me. I'm incredibly tempted to give him a napkin out of pity.
-Yes, sir. – The dumb ass. I used to give him orders a while ago, well fifteen more or less years ago. He used to flinch at me, just saying, "Yes, Robin", "Right away, Robin", "Can I do something for you Robin?", "Would you care if I lick your boots Robin?" What an ass. He treats all of us like dirt on his boots, and ironically licks the boots of the bosses to get whatever he wants. Too bad that doesn't really work for him. But the guy is insistent, that's something I got to give him. After he gave me his lecture, he turns his back at me and continue walking to his office.
I eyed the rest of the room, just to find them whispering one another. I clear my throat and that makes them stop being so cynical about their whispering. I rub my eyes with the heels of my hands and continue pretending I'm "working", while I let my mind wander to my past. I don't really know if I took the right decision. If it is better to use my real identity than the Robin, hero of Jump, one. I know respect has to be earned but this is too much. The persons in here makes me feel crappy, more than I am. And I want to make this right, but I could never do it with Richard Grayson, the clumsy and lame guy, nor with the Hero of Jump that decided to take vacations when the city most needed him.
Maybe if I could bring a new identity in the game, I could make this alright. I just need a fitting attire, a new name and new weapons. It would take time, but it can be done. Just not a hero again, I can't anyway. With everything I have condone, I can't honestly name me a hero again. And I cannot be a villain, being the apprentice of Slade really leaves a bad taste in the mouth. I need something that combines my good actions with my not so ethic actions. Not light neither dark. Something grey, between the lines of hero but no really. An anti-hero would be nice. Something like Red X. But better, much better. Preferably that, this time it doesn't get out of my hands.
I start thinking while I "digitize" the formats. I grab a white sheet of paper and begin doodling in it. I need a name, something to do with a bird. The reason is that I need a part that reminds me of my mother, my rock, something to give me strenght when everything turns bad. I remember taht she used to call me her "little flying robin". We were an acrobat family, the flying Graysons, how the manatee knew that, no idea. But now is not the time to dwell on that. While I begin brainstorming I begin making the designs to each new name I could think of.
I ended up with three different designs so I could make my final decision. I lifted my face quickly to check if anyone could be near to see anything, but all of my co-workers where in their place. So, I continued my deliberation. Flying Justice? To hero-y. So that's a cross. Flying Revenge? That isn't catchy. Another one crossed. The last one, Darkwings? No. It doesn't hold anything. I lift my pen to cross the last one. I can't give up so early, right? Maybe another bird? What could make Slade intimidated? Nothing, he is Deathstroke. He does have a badass name.
I need something with character, but nothing with dead or kill or something like that, something to do with the night, the mystery that can be found in it, something that sounds impressive, something like…
Nightwing.
A/N:Hope you like this chapter. Feedback is always welcome.