Like any other major city, Los Angeles never truly slept. Sure, a number of tourist families retired for the night, but a whole other crowd emerged after dark. Bar-hoppers looking for a good time, club kids searching for their rush, and drug dealers out to push their wares.
While the Hollywood Walk of Fame wasn't exactly empty at night, it was significantly less mobbed than it was during the day. Good enough for Gar, at least, to feel comfortable to be out walking around without any kind of disguise. Still, erring on the side of caution, he kept a pair of sunglasses hooked onto his shirt just in case a situation arose.
Every inch of his body ached with weariness. A dull throbbing at the back of his head signalled to his brain his desperation for sleep. Beside general stiffness, his joints were developing a sharp sting that flared throughout his limbs every so often, indicating his energy was beginning to dwindle down to nothing more than fumes.
But Gar couldn't rest. Not just yet.
His heart was heavy as he approached the familiar star, the one that bore his mother's name. The last time he had been to the Walk of Fame was when he was eight years old, when Rita's star debuted. In celebration, Rita and Steve had taken him to see it. Gar still had the pictures of himself standing with parents at the star, as proud of it as if it were dedicated to him himself.
Admittedly, that memory was fake, a product of this new reality he'd created. But it was still nice to remember Rita and Steve happy together, happy with him, rather than Rita discouraged by her abnormalities and Steve broken with grief by her death.
Earlier in day he'd spoken at the final memorial for Rita. Tomorrow, there would be no direction to move but forward, and Gar was terrified.
How could everything have wound up so wrong, after all he did to ensure the happiness of the people he loved? How was it that his life was still so screwed up?
Reaching his destination, Gar knelt to lay the bouquet of long-stemmed roses beneath the engraved tile.
"I'm sorry," he said softly. And he was. When he made the choice to rewrite history, to remove himself from ever being a hero, he'd asked for a similar change for the Doom Patrol. That they should never have their accidents that granted them their unique abilities.
In hindsight, Gar knew he should have been more careful for what he wished. Instead of having normal lives, Cliff, Larry, and the Chief were simply dead. Now, Rita was dead, too. And Vic still was part robot. But at least Vic seemed like his familiar self, not the being more interested in machines than mankind that he had been before Gar made his wish.
There could be no reneging on his deal. Not at this point. Gar would simply have to learn to move on and learn to live with his choices.
With the drug house in shambles and the blaring sirens rapidly nearing, Nightwing, AKA Dick Grayson, decided it was time to make his exit. The few dealers who still held to consciousness cursed and raged at him as he made his flying leap out the window. Once in the shadows, several rooftops away, he observed with satisfaction as the thugs were carted out of the house in cuffs. Taking down the dealers in Bludhaven had failed, as had cutting off the supply lines, so Dick had eventually resorted to destroying the main source in the city. But there was a second supply in Los Angeles, and Dick knew his job wouldn't be completed until the secondary source was eliminated as well.
Satisfied that he had completed his mission to the fullest, Dick decided it wouldn't hurt to conduct a sweep of the city to make his presence in Los Angeles known, to assert he wasn't just limited to Bludhaven.
Not long into his patrol, Dick was passing over an alley close to the Hollywood Walk of Fame when he heard the sounds of a struggle below. The situation didn't take long to assess- attempted mugging, three on one, but impressively, the one appeared to be holding his own quite well.
Wasting no time, Dick hurtled himself into the fray, but he found his presence to not be particularly necessary. The intended victim fought swiftly and effectively, using a blending of boxing techniques along with several martial arts styles. A prickle of disquiet ran through Dick as he caught the other's movements from the corner of his eye- a characteristic of his motions was oddly familiar in manner he couldn't quite place.
When the muggers fled in surrender, obviously realized they were outclassed by two more talented fighters, Dick was determined to lay down a few pieces of investigative groundwork.
"You did a good job standing your ground," he commented neutrally, turning to the person he'd aided.
"Thank you," the individual responded. He wasn't even out of breath.
Curiosity piqued, Dick examined the would-be mugging victim. He was young, still a teenager, maybe seventeen at most. He had a wiry build, but with with apparent lean muscles. To be able to fight with the talent he did, he had training and was athletically inclined. This kid was the pretty boy kind of handsome: fair complexion, golden hair, and bright blue eyes. His movements and posture gave credence to an understated but evident sense of self-confidence. The clothes he wore were casual- black button-down with a pair of khakis, but raised in wealth as he had been, Dick could recognize designer goods when he saw them.
"Kind of late for a kid your age to be out," he observed. This one didn't look like a typical drug user- the rolled up sleeves of his button-down revealed no track marks, his pupils didn't seem dilated, and it doubtful that someone who was craving could have fought with the grace and finesse as he had.
For a moment, the kid only eyed him with vague amusement, as if thinking of his own private joke. Strangely, he appeared completely unrattled by the events.
"I just wanted to take in some of the sights," the kid replied smoothly. "Just to see how different things were after dark."
Again, his words and mannerisms nagged at the back of Dick's mind. The kid's tone was conversational, as though they knew each other, were familiar with each.
"As I'm sure you've realized, the city isn't exactly the safest at night," Dick informed him, his sense of responsibility rising above his odd unsettlement. "I'll walk with you until you can get a cab-"
"Such a gentlemen," the kid said, a friendly jibe in his tone. Again, he talked like they knew each other.
"Do you have a place to go?" Dick persisted.
"A penthouse suite at the Los Angeles Plaza Hotel," the kid informed him, boredom obvious in his tone.
So the kid came from money. Then what was he doing out here if he wasn't buying drugs?
They proceeded out of the alley toward the more central area. As they passed by a darkened storefront, Dick glimpsed his reflection in the glass. For a split second, he could have sworn that the kid beside was now green, from his skin to his hair, along with wearing a red and black jumpsuit, a typical outfit for the superhero crowd. But when Dick whirled to glance at the kid, he was just as normal as he'd always been, and he meet Dick's gaze readily, with a smile that betrayed a strange hint of sadness.
Again disturbed, Dick tried to reach into the recesses of his brain to place this kid, even match him to a masked hero or villain whose identity he didn't know, but none of them fit.
Once he saw the kid safely to a cab, Dick absconded to a high rooftop and placed a call to Barbara.
She answered with a groan. "Dick, I know you're partying it up in the land of the sea and sun, but it's past three in the morning over in the East."
"And to think I considered you a nocturnal animal," Dick joked.
He could picture her rolling her eyes as her voice crackled over the communicator. "I'll do anything you want me to if you promise not to make any more awful jokes."
"I'm going to give you a location, and I need you to pull up the security footage from all surrounding cameras and send it to me. I also need you to place the individuals and include any relevant information on them." While Dick knew he may be overreacting, he also he knew he wouldn't be satisfied until he found out who the blonde kid had been and what he was doing.
"That's all you need?" Barbara teased him. "You're getting lazy. Is the West Coast lifestyle affecting you?"
"Just for that, I'm not going to bring you any souvenirs," Dick shot back.
"No tacky Tinseltown trinkets? Whatever shall I do?" Barbara replied, feigning dismay. "No worries. I'll have the info sent to you by the time you get back to your apartment."
Once back at the Wayne Enterprises executive apartment, Dick grabbed his laptop and reviewed the data Barbara sent to him. The muggers were standard low-life thugs with typical rapsheets. The kid, however, surprised him. Apparently, he was Gar Logan, son of Steve Dayton, the fifth richest person in the world, and Rita Farr, a renowned actress who'd been killed during the Apokolips invasion last week.
So, the son of a famous actress was in Los Angeles. He was probably attending her memorials and revisiting her old haunts.
Perhaps the reason Dick thought Gar was familiar was because he encountered at him as a few different galas and recognized him from there? But no, if Gar had left that much of an impression, Dick would have been able to place him immediately. Besides, that wouldn't explain why Gar seemed to know Dick.
Puzzling over the issue, Dick replayed the security footage, starting from the beginning of the attempted mugging. He watched as Gar launched himself into a fight, and suddenly, the nagging sense of familiarity became clear.
Gar fought like Dick did. Their styles weren't identical, and though immensely talented, Gar's skills were not quite on the same level as Dick's. But there were distinctive, unmistakable similarities in their movements, as if Dick himself had trained Gar to fight.