Title: The Draft
Note: Please not that this story is an AU. Ages and times have been mixed up but aren't necessarily clarified in the story, if you want an explanation on the dates (Years, Days, Months, etc) you can a) leave a review and ask or b) send me a PM. The concept in this AU can and should be completed in about 4 to 5 very long chapters. There will be VERY SLOW updates, due to my being in school and extra-curricular activities.
It wasn't long after the war started that they began the drafting. Stations all around the United States began recruiting. Old World War II posters and signs for War Bonds began popping up. Companies stopped production of consumer goods and began making weapons. The men went off to fight, the woman stayed back and made the machines.
No one was really sure what started it, they knew for sure that for once it wasn't aliens. Space had seemed particularly quiet at the time and for about a year with no major excitements happening, people pushed the thought of aliens and invasions from their minds and turned to coffee and the internet. Politics had, in the past decade, become something of a disinterest to most people. The cared little for the bills and legislation that would pass quietly through their Government. For two years, nothing happened. Heroes stopped most crime, kept the streets and the world orderly and did what they meant to do.
Heroes are human, though. And what human can single-handedly prevent a war?
After those two years a man by the name of Lukas Weisheit, a Democratic Presidential Candidate for 2016. He was a younger man, about 25 years old and was up and running with his campaign. The people loved him, they went wild. The Media, while overall kind toward the candidate, found him to be a charming and sly young man. Full of new ideas and ready for action, Lukas Weisheit was ready to jump into office after the National Convention.
The news casters called him "America's Golden Boy!" and said he was the "Best thing since Reagan." And even though he was a Democrat, many people of the opposite party found his ideals and values to be solid and true. It was when the assassination of Lukas was attempted that the uproar began. People began to march through the streets, calling out to the military and the Justice League to find the assassin and get rid of him.
It wasn't just around the United States either. Lukas' foreign policy was accepted in many other countries and with the Election going to happen, everyone had turned to stare at American's door, waiting to see how the next more powerful man would be. Worldwide outcry came when the attempt took place.
Weisheit was with his wife and their infant daughter, going to a meeting with Fox News, when a gun shot rang through the air on that Sunday morning. The Justice League declared itself neutral to the event, but stated "Our members that would like to investigate may do so, however the investigation itself cannot and will not be linked to the Justice League itself."
About two months later, after the attempt, it was found that the Triad, the Chinese Mob in America, had been hired by a Russian group called Укусы палец, which was led by a man called Peter the Biter. The only information anyone had on him was that his mother was an English-born citizen and his father was Russian. Peter himself was raised in England until the age of five, when he moved to Russia with his parents. He was, apparently, a prominent Shakespeare fan.
The War between the Russian Укусы палец Group and the American government began, sometime, around July of 2016. Germany, France and Italy were brought in in October. In November, Japan and China were hurting from trade and joined in on Russia's side.
Years later, when it was done and written in the history books, it was The War of the Biter.
But, soon after it started they began to draft. Hundreds and thousands of men were brought to the recruiting stations. Physicals and Medicals Transcripts were done and exchanged and people made it in and some didn't.
If you got a letter with the Government's seal, you knew your eligible boy or girl was leaving to go. The nation got in shape.
Gotham was suddenly blooming with life because of the War of the Biter. Old, abandoned factories were reopened and remodeled. They were checked and rechecked and soon moved into production. The city burst forward, bringing new weaponry with Wayne Industries and Lex Corp. Despite the war, life was almost good. People were buying bonds, saving and were collecting trash on the streets for good use. It was cleaner and seemingly safer and the people liked it almost.
It wasn't until you got one of those letters that things went downhill. When Bruce Wayne got one of the letters, he was confused. It was addressed to him, even though he was most certainly out of the age range they wanted, and even though the only people really living at the Manor were him, Alfred and Damian, he felt confusion as to why it was there.
Later, he found that setting it on the table wasn't a good idea.
"Alfred, can you do me a favor and see why we got a drafting letter?"
It took Alfred a moment to look up. Bruce watched him hesitate slightly with the tea, as if the question had surprised him. Damian, who was quiet and was staring harshly at the letter, turned and looked to Bruce with wide eyes filled with disbelief.
"Have you opened it sir?" Alfred asked, turning around with a shaky smile on his face. Bruce stared at him incredulously, taking the tea when the elder man offered it. He could still feel Damian's stare on his side, but he ignored it as he watched Alfred.
"No, I figured it was a mistake." Bruce turned to look at Damian. "I don't see why it wouldn't be a mistake. There's no one here to draft for the war. I'm busy making productions for it anyway," he paused there for a moment, "not that I'm fond of it, but I can't deny they need it."
He watched as Damian and Alfred exchanged looks. "Is there something you want to tell me?"
"Perhaps," Alfred cut in quickly, "you should open the letter. It is addressed to you sir, better to see it's a mistake than it is to assume it's one."
Bruce sat there with his steaming cup of tea that morning in the kitchen, staring at the letter. Throughout breakfast, he didn't touch it. He sat there while Alfred did the dishes and went to go clean the house. Damian had left for school, deciding that whatever he'd been worried enough about before, wasn't important now. Bruce sat there in silence and slowly reached for the letter. It was a mistake, of course, it had to be. Tim and Jason were barely old enough to go battle, they wouldn't want them. And officially, Jason didn't exist anymore (dying seemed to do that to people). And Dick, Bruce's eldest son, was a police officer. The only reason any of them had any affiliation with the war would be because of Wayne mass producing weaponry to aid it.
He ripped the letter open and slowly pulled out a piece of heavy parchment. On it was the Government seal with the eagle. He flipped it open, quietly, and read through the lines. When it was finished, he read it again and then stared at it.
"Master Grayson has yet to change his primary address, I'm afraid."
"Alfred," Bruce began slowly, "I didn't even notice you were there."
Alfred only sighed and walked around to sit opposite of him. "My assumptions were correct, I assume?"
"They drafted him," Bruce sighed deeply. "I don't know whether I should call Dick up and tell him over the phone or call him here. Two years on the Russian front, it's saying. No other option. He has to report to a recruiter by Monday." It was Wednesday now. That gave him five days.
Alfred almost dropped the platter he had grabbed to clean; he was staring at Bruce with wide eyes. "Two years, sir?"
Bruce nodded grimly, slowly. "I'll… call him here. That's probably the best thing." He stood up and pushed his empty coffee cup away from himself and turned to walk out of the kitchen.
"Master Bruce?"
The younger man turned to look at the butler. Alfred sat with his back straight, his hands holding the silver platter tightly, though they were shaking slightly. "Be kind, please."
Bruce paused at the door, his hand on the frame. He nodded in reply, and then turned to walk out. Thinking back, he wasn't surprised Dick had a) forgotten to change his address and b) that Dick was drafted in the first place. The twenty-four year old was strong and young and fresh meat, just the age that they wanted. His job as Nightwing would help on the field of course, and he was more physically fit then most of the men his age out there.
Dick worked as an Officer in the Blüdhaven Police Department, a rookie just out of the streets and looking to do some good in that god-forsaken city. The city had been, back in the early 1600s, an old fishing village and had kept that up until the Industrial Revolution when iron and steel became the thing. Next to Baltimore and Philadelphia, Blüdhaven was right up there in producing steel. And, of course, Steel City who was fourth in production. When the War started, the city, like Gotham, had reeled out its old steel factories and began production again. Half of the modern steel production now came from Blüdhaven and Philadelphia. And like Gotham, it was beaming with new life.
That didn't stop the corrupt cops (more than half of the department) from doing what they wanted, but with after the elections for a new Mayor and the citizens new hope in the city (funny how a war could make people hope more) it seemed they were slowly filtering them out. Even though Dick was often angry with him, Bruce got updates on what they were doing to clean out the bad people and put some good ones in.
"We need more people like Mr. Weisheit," Dick had told him once over the phone. "This city isn't gonna get any better if they put more people like the ones they had before into office."
Bruce agreed, for the most part. He was thinking of opening another plant in Blüdhaven, just to provide more jobs and opportunities. He knew that Dick would appreciate it; Blüdhaven was his city, but Dick was going to war now. Drafting was sick, but drafting meant they were desperate.
Bruce closed the door in his office and sighed. He turned around to his desk and picked up the phone, his fingers hovered over the keys as if the thought of calling and asking his son to come here so he could deliver the dreadful news scared him.
He dialed the number quickly, getting it over with, and sat down in the large comfy chair in front of his fathers' oak desk. He held the phone up to his ear, waiting as it dialed.
Click. "Hello?"
"Dick, it's Bruce."
"Yeah, I know. What's up? I'm about to leave for work," Dick answered. Bruce heard the door of Dick's apartment close shut.
"Do you think, after work, you can come by Gotham? We need to talk."
Dick was going down the stairs of his apartment now. "We can't talk now? How long will it take? I'm following a uh, special lead for work. Probably overtime." Ah, so Nightwing was going to be out tonight, wonderful.
"This is important. How fast do you think you can get here?" Bruce asked. This was Dick's letter, he needed to see it now.
"From Blüdhaven to Gotham? With traffic it's about forty-five minutes. And uh, without it's about twenty. On a good day. Should I bring my bags? I'm not working tomorrow. I could always Zeta over."
Bruce pursed his lips, and paused. It would probably be best if Dick stayed here. He'd have to notify Amy, his boss, of the news of course. Bruce wouldn't be surprised if Dick took the next week off on sick leave. After Monday, Dick would be at a station and then maybe a few days after that he'd be going to Basic Training. He'd want time to say goodbye, of course, and then Bruce figured that he'd want time to let it sink in. So far, the war seemed to be going nowhere. They'd gain ground and then lose it or lose it and then gain it back again.
"The Batcave Zeta is down for repairs. But bringing your things would be a good idea, actually. What time should I expect you?"
Dick paused, and Bruce heard heavy breathing and Dick lifting his motorcycle up. "Uh… five thirty? I'm getting off at five. Will Damian be there? Kid left his sketchbook at my place."
"Five-thirty works. And yes, Damian will be there," Bruce replied, closing his eyes briefly. God, Dick's drafting would kill Damian, if he hadn't already figured it out. The kid was, admittedly, smart and with the look he had been giving Bruce that morning, Bruce wouldn't be surprised if Damian had pieced it together. He probably knew Dick hadn't changed his address yet. Bruce hardly regulated what Dick did. Sure, he kept tabs on him, more than Dick probably figured he did, but he didn't notice what he did legally (ish).
Even then so, Bruce suddenly dreaded this evening.
Dick stayed in his room that night. He didn't come out to eat dinner, and he didn't answer when they knocked on the door. Damian seemed particularly bothered by it. He went at least four times throughout the night. When Tim came to visit, and the news was delivered, he sat outside Dick's old room for about twenty minutes. Later, they found Damian had replaced Tim, as the elder boy had gone to his own room to rest. Bruce had to move Damian from Dick's door, the boy fell asleep in front of it.
That morning, they sat in the kitchen and awkwardly ate their breakfast.
Dick came down and sat down next to Damian, who scooted just a little closer. He glanced around, glaring at anyone who looked like they would comment.
"I read the letter, I'm supposed to be there by Monday. Come earlier if possible," he inquired, and dumped some sugar into his coffee. "I uh…" he paused and looked around. "I want to be out of here by Friday."
Tim sat up abruptly and leaned forward. "Friday!? Dick, you have the option to wait? Why go earlier?"
Dick pursed his lips and avoided their bewildered gazes. In all honesty, he wasn't sure why he wanted to go earlier. Maybe he wanted to get it over with, or maybe it'd reduce the pain. In passing, he thought it'd be less people he'd have to look in the face and say goodbye to; he brushed that idea aside and turned away from that train of thought. He didn't want to be weak about it.
He opened his mouth to speak and then closed it and then opened it.
"Oh, spit it out, Grayson!" Damian demanded, which caused Tim to elbow him in the side. Damian growled, but got the message.
"I'm actually not sure," Dick admitted, shrugging. "I mean, I want to get it done faster. And I can arrange stuff with my boss and my apartment complex. That'd take no time. And saying goodbye, that won't be too hard. I mean… now that I'm being given the chance."
In the years to come, Damian had often analyzed Dick's statement. He never understood what Dick meant by saying 'now that I'm being given the chance'. For a few years, he thought it was just being given the chance to say goodbye. He knew the story of the Grayson's, Dick had never been given the chance to say goodbye to them before they died. The epiphany had come to Damian one morning over coffee and toast, when he was thirty years old. It hadn't been relevant to his situation around him, the early morning, but Damian thought about Dick Grayson and his words. 'Now that I'm being given the chance', yes Dick had meant the chance to say goodbye, but there was one phrase Damian had forgotten to tag on all those years. Dick had not been given the chance to say goodbye before his parents died. And so, when Dick Grayson stood there in that kitchen all those mornings ago he had said, and meant to say, 'now that I'm being given the chance to say goodbye before I die.' Dick Grayson had undoubtedly thought that he was going to die in the war.
Had Tim been a less emotional child, and teen, he would have only grimly set his hand on Dick's shoulder at his confession. But, it was seen that Tim Drake was in fact a very emotional child and was not afraid to let that out as he jumped forward and called out in surprise. "Dick! You want to go? That's ridiculous! You can't, you've got to stay here! Surely you can work something out with the military or something."
"Drafted, Tim. There's a difference between fear for myself and fear of what will happen to what I'm leaving behind," Dick replied, his voice sounded exhausted, as if he'd done through this conversation in his head before and reliving it was almost boring.
Tim sighed and let his arms fall to his sides. "I… I guess but…"
Dick looked from Bruce to Tim, cutting the younger boy off to talk his point. "I know, I'm not happy with it much either. I'll be out of here by Friday alright? Now I'm… I'm going to go out there and call my boss and my complex. I'm going to work something out, if not…"
"We'll keep your apartment clean," Bruce assured. "Just go out and work the details."
Dick nodded thankfully and turned to walk out of the kitchen with his phone in hand. He looked as if he wanted to pause at the doorway and almost apologize for leaving earlier than they needed him too but he must have brushed it aside and continued on his way. When he disappeared out of the door, Damian got up and left through the back entrance of the kitchen that led to the gardens. Tim and Bruce watched him leave in sullen silence, unable to protest the Damian's obvious anger.
Neither Tim nor Bruce had said much since the news. It mostly consisted of awkward silences and looks and the occasional question on what was going to happen in the future. Elections were coming up, and Lukas Weisheit was up on the polls by almost 80%. Biggest voter turnout since the Election of 2008, claimed the newscasters. Lukas's stance on foreign affairs and war concerned some of the Wayne family group. While he was more liberal in most issues, Lukas Weisheit had a very conservative view of the military. Now that Dick was being drafted into that military, the concern of where he would go seemed to dawn on both Bruce and Tim and because they'd never have to worry about war and their family being in it, it was a new and uncomfortable feeling.
Dick hadn't wanted a goodbye party. The idea of a party was almost too melancholy when being sent off to war. It wasn't like Dick had not seen battle either. In fact, it was almost laughable to think he hadn't. Dick had the oldest youngest eyes, blue as the dickens and piercing against his dark Romani skin. They'd seen battle, sure, more than you'd think a man of twenty four should have.
He had told Barbara and Wally first, aside from the few people out of his friend circle that needed to know. Barbara had taken it slowly and in turn, frowning and pursing her lips before saying anything. Wally had looked… devastated. While Wally being 26 was more the demographic you'd think the military would be looking for, a scientist such as himself would be working on the technology that would develop the weaponry.
Dick had told them in stride and slowly, not wanting to blurt it out and be blunt about it. He could tell they were both grateful for his relaxing manner. Dick's demeanor had subconsciously become more like Batman's. He was still a laughing, enjoyable young man but he could be brooding and blunt sometimes. Wally had left with a meaningful hug and a promise to visit before he left one last time. Barbara and Dick sat there in silence, unsure of what to say.
Their relationship had progressed since the time they were teenagers, but still at twenty-four and twenty-five, it was more in the awkward stages and slowly inching forward. They had obvious feelings for each other, but did not take action on those feelings. When Dick sat on his bunk at the barracks a few weeks later, he regretted not saying anything to his redheaded friend.
When Barbara left, they hugged briefly and she was gone. They did not really say goodbye, expecting to see each other again, but it would not be for a while before they saw each other once more. By the time Thursday arrived, Dick had told the Justice League and there was a constant stream of members through the mansion that day. No one had gotten ahold of Jason and for a while, Dick was disappointed. Just like he had the League, Dick had told The Team of his soon-to-be-absence on the team. Leaving Aqualad in charge, they bade their farewells and watched Nightwing leave, hoping that they'd see their leader again alive and well.
When it was Thursday night, Dick was standing with bags at the floor. The only thing he had one was one last outfit and upstairs his pajamas.
"Going anywhere?" Tim joked lightly as he descended down the stairs.
Dick turned and smiled. "Naw… just thought I'd pack a few bags for fun."
Tim was already in his pajamas, it was late. Early for them, of course, but Nightwing and Red Robin had seemingly different time schedules than Dick Grayson and Tim Drake. Dick sighed and looked at his bags and then back at Tim, pursing his lips. "I'm going to be back around twelve alright? Don't want you to wait up for me."
Tim looked down and noticed the car keys in Dick's hand. Normally, Dick took his motorcycle everywhere he went but that had since been stuck in the garage, under a tightly knit tarp to keep anyone and everyone out. He glanced up, wide eyed for a moment. Was Dick leaving early? Surely not, that would be foolish. He hadn't said goodbye to Bruce or Damian and, hell, even Barbara yet! "What? Seriously Dick, where are you going?"
Dick's confusion on lasted a moment and then when it passed he threw his head back and placed a hand on Tim shoulder, moving him forward a couple inches with the force. "I'm not leaving right now. I'll be back tonight— like I said, don't wait up for me. Alright? I'm going to…," he paused momentarily, the smile on his wavered, "…to the graveyard. I want to say goodbye to them. Like I said earlier, now that I have the chance."
Tim's face relaxed. He'd heard Dick use 'not that I have a chance' fairly loosely (at least, it seemed loosely) in the past day or two; like Damian, I wasn't until much later that Tim figured out the meaning, that oh-so-obvious why-didn't-I-get-that? meaning, and looking back he wished he had said something more meaningful than "alright".
"Alright," Tim replied, smiling softly. They both nodded in agreement and turned to leave. Tim was halfway up the steps when he turned around to say one last thing, but Dick Grayson had disappeared out of the doors and into the October air.
October, 2016 Friday Morning
Friday morning was melancholy, the air in the morning had become still. Neither wind nor sun went along their merry way. There were clouds, light ashy grey clouds that floundered effortlessly through the Gotham sky. The sun peeped through, as though afraid to see the world through the cloudy lenses. Dick's bags had moved from the front foyer to the car early before the sun or the clouds could be seen through the black. No one in the house said a word, really. It didn't seem real, as if you were going on a trip to some faraway exotic country in a few months and when you signed up it had all been like a dream. It was probably best to think Dick was going to some far exotic country, which, in truth, he was. Russia was far, though maybe not exotic, and he was going there for a long time.
Dick was leaving at noon, but the restless night had everyone up at around eight o' clock in the morning. Damian was the last the leave his room. His mood was sour and grumpy and when he sat at the kitchen table he glared daggers into its silestone counter. Tim tiptoed around him, and Bruce seemed to ignore him. Dick had tried to engage in light conversation, but died away as soon as Alfred gave him his coffee. Dick thanked him, smiling almost sadly and stared at the counter with Damian. When breakfast was finished, they hung around for a while and then went their separate ways. At 11:50, it was time to say goodbye. They were outside in the driveway, holding onto their coats and hats.
"Are you all packed?" Bruce asked after a few minutes of standing.
Dick nodded, glancing around between Tim, Bruce, Damian, and Alfred (they still hadn't gotten ahold of Jason). "Yeah, just the things I need. I don't imagine there's too much you can bring."
Bruce "hmmed" in agreement. "Any of your… extracurricular stuff?"
Dick stared at Bruce for a moment in confusion, holding his jacket in both his hands. He lowered his arms and then laughed. "That… er, stuff, is at home. Here, though you guys are going to have to clean out that closet of mine. Not everything fits in my suit case if you get what I'm saying. And inspection…" Dick's voice faded before he laughed again. "So, in short, no I didn't. A few select stuff, but nothing that can't be disguised."
"I'm sure you could hide it," Tim inquired, slapping Dick on the back as he walked by with one last bag.
Dick laughed and turned to get in the car. He ran into Damian as he turned, the boy ready with his arms in a hug. Dick stopped short, looking down in momentary shock. Slowly, he smiled and kneeled down, wrapping his arms around in a large hug. Damian's whisper was muffled and only Dick could hear it, exactly what Damian wanted.
"Why do you have to go?"
Dick's time with Damian had, apparently, been worth it. They sat there like that for a few moments. It was cold outside and Damian had stubbornly left his jacket inside the Manor. Dick supposed that Damian and he had bonded during Bruce's absence. "Because I have to, Little D," Dick replied, and pulled away and smiled. He rubbed Damian's hair and stood up. The ride was just him and Bruce and so he said goodbye to Tim (wished him luck with girls, school, and other stuff) and then he got in the car. Bruce followed suit and then it was one short wave toward the Manor and his family and the car disappeared down the long tree-lined path and it was gone.
Basic Training, Fort Drum; Upper New York State, five hours from Gotham City
Bruce didn't stay for the orientation or anything. Dick was dropped off and gave a short, awkward goodbye. He regretted not doing or saying anything but his heart wasn't in it.
"Bye, Bruce," Dick said quietly, giving his mentor and old friend a hug. He was being given the chance, he better use it.
"You too Richard, good luck." Bruce clasped his hand on Dick's shoulder and smiled slightly. "Stay safe."
"I will."
That was it. It was a short but sweet exchange. Bruce was, exponentially, a very emotionless man. At least he was on the outside. Bruce Wayne felt emotion, very much like any other person did. He did not prefer to show it. It wasn't like he was a mean, grouchy old man (although, according to Dick and Wally, he could be) but Bruce preferred to keep everything inside of himself, bottled up like an aged wine. And, of course, aged it was; the regret and emotion of his parents was still leaking out, it was red and aged maybe too well. Dick had grown accustomed, and even adapted, to Bruce's emotions. Sometimes, he didn't handle it well but other times he was a mirror image, doing and saying exactly as Bruce would in that situation.
Bruce turned and went and Dick waved slowly, but he hand fell after a mere few seconds. He turned with his bags and walked in, and it began.
Basic Training, Day 1 Fort Drum, 10th Mountain Division
The first few weeks, the only really difficult thing was getting up at earlier times and passing inspections. Dick Grayson was undoubtedly the most unclean "kid" in that room. The barracks were, for the most part, clean and the privates liked to keep it that way to avoid trouble from Sergeant White. The physical training aspect wasn't all too difficult. Dick hadn't really had a workout routine though, normally just going out and busting a few people, or more than a few, tended to provide good physical exercise. Sometimes they worked in the afternoon and sometimes it was the morning. Some days, some kid messed up and they'd be working until ten at night. Other days, they pleased their commanding officer and were permitted to rest.
After basic, Dick knew they would mostly be separated. He'd be stationed in Europe for a little while, being trained in things he already knew (military tactics were easy, but applying them with untrained not justice-league people was going to be hard). He'd made friends though, one guy- Jackson Keys from Alabama reminded them all of Buba from Forest Gump, so some of them called him Buba. Dick just called him Jackson, for the most part. Jackson was 20, only four years younger but he seemed like a kid to Dick. It had taken Dick a while to adjust to the fact that he wasn't around Wally or Roy or experienced heroes like himself. These were soon-to-be heroes but even then so, looking at someone of his age who hadn't seen the things he had seemed odd, but Dick liked the change.
The boys in the barracks didn't want to call him Dick (too old, Jackson told him one morning as they were getting ready, too old for a young generation) and so they asked him where he was from and where he came from and what he was called back home. "Er, Gotham," he replied, unsure of what to say. The circus was, while an acceptable answer, probably not the best thing to admit to in the military and he didn't have a definite birthplace. "But I live in Blüdhaven." A few guys cringed and shook their heads and one guy, Pearl (real name or nickname? Could be his last name too though) even clapped him on the back and apologized. It did earn him the reputation of being from two of the worst cities in the country.
"And ya' nickname?" Jackson asked at the mess hall. "You' got one don' ya'?
Jackson's accent was between something from Alabama and from Northern England and Dick had a difficult time understanding. He looked up from his sandwich. "A nickname? It was usually just Dick, like the name. I didn't really have anything else."
Jackson took a bit out of his own sandwich and then rubbed his hands together. "Rich? Richie? Grayson?"
Dick laughed. "God, I'm glad it wasn't Richie or some crap like that. No, just Dick. Though, my adoptive brother… or brother, whatever he is, he called me Grayson."
Jackson looked up in surprise. "You' adopt'ive brother called jah' by ya' last name?"
"I mean, I was more his adoptive brother. I'm adopted myself, sort of. I was, and am, more of a ward. Just an heir to the cash and all and his dad, my adoptive father, didn't really know he existed for the first nine years of his life. And the environment of his mother's place isn't the best for a kid. He calls people by their last names, just a thing."
Jackson shrugged and took another bite. "We sure as hell ain't calling you Grayson. Not like sarge does, or dem NCO's. What cho' like doin'? Where can I get uh' nickname from?"
Both of them paused a moment to think and neither came up with anything.
"Nicknames, eh?"
Jackson and Dick turned to see a tall exotic woman with dark tan skin and brown hair. Her eyes were brown, dark brown, and she wore the typical outfit of a Female private. She smiled as she slid next to Jackson. It wasn't a smirk or a look of pride, it was just a genuine friendly smile. Dick smiled back.
"So," she began whilst clapping her hands together, "I'm Eleanor." Dick noted she didn't look like an Eleanor. She looked foreign, like her name should have been less familiar and more unfamiliar. "But my friends call me Ariel." She didn't look like an Ariel much either, but who was he to judge her?
She nodded toward them both. "Go on, do tell your names and don't make my venture over here a waste of time."
Dick almost rose to shake her hand, but he just slid it across the table and gave his most charming smile. "Richard Grayson, pleasure to meet you Eleanor."
Eleanor shook his hand and then shook Jackson's, she smiled the whole time. It was an odd smile, but Dick hadn't met too many people here that smiled a lot. "Well, Richard Grayson. I'm surprised Gotham's Golden boy would be here."
Dick lifted his hands in a shrug and smirked. Jackson looked between the two, confused.
"Now Eleanor you gonna have to tell me what you mean now," Jackson inquired, sliding Dick's tray across the table so he could eat it. The he jabbed his fork between the two and gestured for an explanation. Dick laughed, but before he could speak Eleanor turned around to Jackson and mimicked the jabbing motion.
"Mr. Grayson over here is Gotham's Golden Boy, ward of the ever famous and ever charming Bruce Wayne."
Jackson looked impressed and then he shrugged and then he went back to eating food. Normally, people were impressed for much longer, and asked about the money and the life that everyone thought they knew Bruce lived. Dick, for a moment, didn't mind being in the military. They were shit-scum, but at least they were all shit-scum together and they knew it and accepted it.
"You're from Gotham?" Dick asked. Most people didn't refer to Dick as Gotham's Golden Boy unless they were in Gotham and he was being interviewed by the papers. After he moved to Blüdhaven he was only ever talked to/about when they wanted to learn more about something Bruce had to pull off to look dumb (and sometimes it wasn't that much). After a few people, he was referred to as one of Gotham City's most eligible bachelors and they didn't like him to forget it. After a few photo-shoots, the twenty-four year old had elected to just ignore most of the press, which he found made his life a whole lot easier. Frankly, he didn't want his boss Amy finding a picture of him posing on the top of Gotham's Teen Girl magazine.
Eleanor shrugged. "I live in the suburbs near the city. By no means as bad in crime, but it's considered technically apart of the city. We get all the news and stations and all but no Joker or anything, thank God."
"Ah," Dick replied, "that explains it. I live in Blüdhaven now, so thankfully I'm not as attacked by the press as often. Bruce can deal with them but after not being in the spotlight for so long…," he shrugged. "It feels weird. Plus, if my boss finds a picture of me on some stupid magazine."
Eleanor laughed. "True, that'd be awkward. My mother, bless her heart, tried her best to keep me from the Gotham Teen magazines when I was 15-16. For the most part, it worked, but I did get to see some things that I probably shouldn't have. Do you remember that one issue of Gotham Weekly? They have some issues for teenagers…"
Dick paused, searching his memory. Jackson watched on quietly, eating the rest of their food and trying to figure out why in God's name anyone would want to read magazines. The Dick groaned. "Don't remind me! I was fourteen, God, not even Wally lets me live that one down!"
Eleanor laughed in response. "Yeah, well for the most part I didn't get to read them. I went to a private school and, while you know it was great, we didn't get a lot of the outside world. I spent most of my time reading books. War books, mostly with lots of quotes. And for some reason in order to make up for not reading about someone's sex life I spent my time memorizing quotes about war and peace and what not."
Jackson choked on his food. "Ma'am… excuse me?"
Eleanor looked up in thought. "Yeah, didn't really do much for me really except prepare for the names on the tests."
Dick and Jackson laughed at her, and Eleanor laughed with them.
For the next few weeks, those three hung out quite often. When they weren't working out, most of the privates and NCO's went to the bars and pizza places. Jackson, Dick, and Eleanor all spent their times drinking beers and seeing who could guess who said what quote. Most of the time, it was Dick and Eleanor spitting out useless quotes and jokes, but Jackson often told them hilarious stories from his hometown in Alabama.
"Okay, okay… get this, so there's this Union General right? John Sedgwick and he's on his horse and all and his sitting up all high and proud and goes 'They couldn't hit an elephant at this distance!' and the gets shot in the cheek like three seconds after!"
Dick roared with laughter and Jackson shook his head with a smirk.
"Really?"
"I can guarantee it," Eleanor replied with a shrug, and then took a swig of her beer. "Right in the cheek, by a sharpshooter in Spotsylvania. Look it up, it's there. I was crying about that for a week in my junior year."
Dick shook his head. "That's pretty funny. Alright, who said this…'The object of war is not to die for your country but to make the other bastard die for his.'"
Eleanor frowned, swinging the rest of her beer around in the glass. Jackson turned to Dick. "George S. Patton, yessiree. I know thatta' there man an'where."
Eleanor's frowned deepened. "Are you sure? I guess it does seem like something Patton would say. I always found his stuff to be a little… rugged."
"Dude was insane," Dick inquired with a nod, "but smart. And he's got a point. I'm sure as hell not going to die for this country, no matter how much I love it."
Jackson smiled. "I'll do it. I go a sista' and a little brother at my home in Little Creek. If I gotta die to protect them people back a' my home, then I sure as hell lay down my life and the other bastards too." He lifted his drink up and a toast sort of manner and the other two clinked their glasses against it. Eleanor slowly put down her glass without drinking the rest, and frowned.
"I always appreciated the Enlightenment. I mean, it was just after the scientific revolution where thought and reason could explain Religion and God and that maybe divine right doesn't exist. I always thought that, hey if these people in the early 17th and the 18th century can explain what God might have done and war and peace and 'hey, maybe people are wrong' and even though woman couldn't do anything but make her husband look better (thank God for Mary Wollenscraft, bless her soul) then maybe I can get me some of these quotes in my head and memorize them and then change my outlook on life. I never expected to go into the military, I always just assumed I'd become a teacher or thinker or writer. Quotes are a great way, I found, to look at life from someone else's era and ways… and make them yours. War was never an issue or anything, but I'd never lived through war. It's like Voltaire said 'It is forbidden to kill; therefore all murderers are punished unless they kill in large numbers and to the sound of trumpets.'" Eleanor paused and neither Dick nor Jackson knew what she meant or what she was saying. It seemed like some big ramble about war and the enlightenment and her sudden turn in the military.
"Ma'am, I don' think I undahstand what you are saying," Jackson inquired, leaning forward just a bit. Eleanor looked at him with her dark brown eyes and smiled slightly.
"I'm saying I never expected war. I always looked at it through those enlightened eyes of the 17th and 18th century. And now, here I am sitting at a bar with two of my fellow shit-scum and we're discussing war, because we're in one. We're discussing going and killing people for our country and Richard, you admitted you couldn't do it. Or, at least, it'd be hard. And Jackson, you said you could. I don't know, all those quotes… that mass murdering people can only be excused if it's done to trumpets and orders. Things about making other people die just so you and your family don't." Eleanor paused. "It seems selfish."
Dick frowned and looked down at his beer. He'd never been much of a beer person and legally, Jackson shouldn't even be drinking, but it seemed when people got drunk they were either really funny, really angry, or really philosophical. He didn't know how many beers Eleanor had had but they'd been here almost three hours. He looked up again and smiled at Eleanor softly. Her features seemed sharpened by the low light of the bar, and while looking down, she looked angry.
"Eleanor, I'm not… much of a fan of killing people. I know what you mean, it is selfish. War is definitely selfish. It's angry, and it's cruel and you're killing people because it's selfish. But it is defense and I'm not excusing it, killing is killing. But that doesn't make us murderers. My parents were killed by murderers, I watched it happen too."
Eleanor looked up, and Jackson was watching intently.
Dick continued, "But we're here now, and we're going to defend this country and Russia and the others are going to defend their own. It's not all selfish, but it's all excused, but here we are. It's like H. G. Wells said, 'If we don't end war, war will end us.' So, we need to go out there and end the war. It doesn't end itself, it can't. If ending war, really ending it, is selfish… we're saving lives by ending it and I think that's alright."
Dick and Jackson took Eleanor back to the female barracks that night and went to their own. Dick lied there in bed and stared at the ceiling from his top bunk, ignoring the gnawing thought of what'd he'd said that night. Killing is alright if the masses are saved…
So, this was war then.
Dick was able to write one letter before he was transferred. He hadn't gotten the chance to write letters much but when he did he updated them on his military training and the food (they got nothing on Alfred). He asked about Damian and Tim and if they found Jason and told him yet. He got short responses back from Bruce, nothing from the rest. It wasn't awful, but it was good just to see the handwriting.
Dick's letter was not like the others, it was short. He told them he wouldn't be able to send letters where he was going. There was going to be a little more training before he'd be sent to the Russian front. He told them that these past 3 or so months had been interesting and insightful. Dick wasn't one to be very sentimental, though often he could be. It wasn't like it meant anything, this letter, but sometimes people can find things in words that weren't supposed to be found, or weren't even meant to be there. He said goodbye, because he still had the chance, and then he signed the letter and sent it off. Dick never got a reply, or maybe it just never made it to him, and he always wondered what that response would be.
Dick and Eleanor and Jackson and the rest of their unit were being shipped off to Germany before they would be stationed in Russia. Their commanding officer, Sergeant White, was screaming at them on their last day.
"Ya'll were some dumb stupid-ass pieces of shit. But were my stupid-ass pieces of shit. I ain't coming with you to that island of shopkeepers and I sure as hell ain't gonna help you all when you're down. But I wish you the best of luck, and don't waste all that training. You're my unit, and you're going to act like it."
It was expected, of course, that they were going to at least be insulted once before they left, but the Sergeants words did help them as they boarded their plane with luggage and last words. The plane ride wasn't comfortable, it was hot and sweaty and they all held their issued M4A1's to their sides. Eleanor was next to them, her helmet and luggage all tied to her body. She looked disgruntled, like the thought of going to England upset her. Neither Dick nor Jackson talked much, and Eleanor was all but ignoring everyone but their new officer, who was an Afghanistan veteran and couldn't be much older than 35.
Once they landed in England at the US military base, they were unloaded and unpacked and given new orders and officers and barracks. It was rainy, cloudy, and dark and no one seemed to be in the mood of moving at all. Dick and Jackson walked sluggishly behind their troop. Dick had been to England a few times and had found Alfred's homeland to be wet and rainy, but he did like the countryside. That always had such a mysterious air about it, the villages and towns and no matter how hard you tried you just felt so… quaint. Of course, he might be stereotyping but that's what it felt like.
Their training in England was rigorous and mostly outside. Which meant mud and dirt. They often rain 25-30 miles with their sacks full of supplies and their weapons all strapped on their back. Dick hated running circuits. It got boring after a while, the same scenes and the same images passing through your head and after a while your thoughts went moot and lazy and tired. Dick could just run 25 miles in one direction, he could. He'd never get bored or tired.
Dick was sore, but his body was more accustomed to jumping off buildings and throwing electrified escrima sticks at villains to stop drug cartels. 30 mile runs were new, but Dick liked it. He was stretching new muscles and challenging the old ones and frankly, it wasn't a bad thing. Maybe if he survived this war, if he could go back alive with his body and mind intact, Dick would take up running. He was always more of a sprinter, but he'd be damned if he wasn't suddenly a distance runner.
After a few weeks (three and counting) the first set of troops were sent to the front. They waved goodbye, smiling with bright cheerful faces. Dick was reminded, as he waved solemnly, of pictures of the Nineteen-forties, of smiling young men who had no idea what war looked like, what battle appeared to be. It was not heroic, it was not like the fantasies and suddenly Dick's hand fell to his side and he frowned and suddenly dreaded the world.
War is not an adventure. It is a disease. It is like typhus. —Antoine de Saint-Exupery
Soon it would be their turn, like children listening to their father's calls: they would run forth with guns like sticks and swing them to play their war games and it would be like children, fighting in the front yard for something they both wanted; victory. It would be endless slaughter to the sound of trumpets and, like Napoleon Bonaparte said "A soldier will fight long and hard for a bit of colored ribbon" and in the end, it would not be worth that slice of silk.
Dick found it hard to sleep at night, his head reeling with those smiling, ignorant faces. He could not imagine the looks that would dawn on them as they huddled behind trenches and trees, shivering in the, cold and thinking, knowing, that their image of war was wrong. Humans were wrong all the time, but seeing was believing and war was one thing no one wanted to see to believe. Dick knew battle, but in his mind it was all justified. Save and keep safe the innocents. But, were these people they were shooting at, in a sense, innocents? No maybe not, they shot right back. So, in the end, who was innocent? The woman and her child or the man with a gun, drafted into war to play for victory that might never come.
Over the next couple of days, Dick thought long and hard. His sense of humor had, in the past few months, faded with every new dawn and every sunset. Eleanor mostly mumbled things to him, and Jackson was silent, his face strained as they worked out everything and began to fear the tide. They were older and tired and had seen endless days of cloudy skies and rain. Soft rain, hard rain, little droplets of rain and the big geezers that slapped your face.
Dick sat down on their nights off and wrote letters. He wrote them to Bruce, to Barbara, to Tim and Damian, and his parents. He sat down and scribbled words and sayings to Wally and Artemis and the team. He couldn't mail them, but he knew if he died all of his stuff would be sent back to Bruce. At least, eventually, they would get them. He kept the letters stored in his backpack, next to his ammo and his water.
There was one cloudy but technically dry day where Dick was sitting there writing another letter when one of the British officers came up to him. Dick hadn't had much experience with this woman, but she had that stern militaristic air about her. At least she didn't insult them, however, as bad as Sergeant White.
"Grayson, my name is Sergeant Major Spera. I'm here to talk to you about something. Don't bother saluting, this is off the record."
Dick didn't have too many conversations with his officers that went like normal, everyday conversations. Then again, already this didn't seem to be normal and every day. He turned to the Sergeant Major as she sat down on the bench next to him. She was in her forties, around Bruce's age, maybe a little older. She looked like a mother though, with her graying her. But her eyes were tough and stern and it wasn't a good idea to piss Spera off. "Off the record?"
"Yes," she replied, pursing her lips as she watched a few people run down the lane. "Off the record. Technically, I'm not supposed to but…" Spera shrugged. "I've been granted permission. This is important, so I want you to promise me, on the record, that you won't go off telling your friends Keys and Smith that you were approached by me, understood?"
Dick knew, suddenly, he was being approached with classified information. Bruce had taught him at fifteen to identify when someone was telling you something they weren't supposed to. Or at least, something they were supposed to but no one was to know about it. It was all in the eyes.
He reached up to "rub his ear" but turned on a small recording device he'd decided to wear that day on a whim. Maybe he was psychic. "On the record? But I thought this was off."
"Your promise is on, my question and your response are off," Spera replied.
"Oh." Wow, the best he could say is oh. He wanted to ask and point out he wouldn't promise till be knew what she was going to ask, but this was Private Grayson who was only a E-1 and not Nightwing, Blüdhaven's hero and protégé to the Dark Knight. "I don't see why not." At least he could play ignorance. "I won't tell Jackson or Eleanor."
Spera smiled in response. Dick felt he could trust her; he could not decide if that was a good or bad thing. "Wonderful, Grayson. Thank you."
He nodded and glanced around. "I'm here to talk to you about a program. You are, clearly, one of our smartest privates. And we'd like you to participate in it. You have the choice of declining, of course."
"A program?" Dick felt like Steve Rogers for a moment. "What type of program?"
Spera sighed. "This war is not ending, Richard. Lukas tells us it's ending soon, that it's going to be over. I've seen the pictures, I've seen the boys coming back. It's not over. Peter the Biter isn't letting up. He's already moved into a little bit of China and toward Poland. Germany is on our side, France is supplying us with weapons. America… you guys are stocking up on so much weaponry it's a little mad1. But we aren't winning. It's… mutual, almost." Spera looked tired, like she'd wanted to admit this for a while. Dick felt dread. He knew it was bad, he just didn't know how much.
"Biter is moving forward, he's advancing. He's getting weapons… from God knows where. We think he's getting supplies from some unknown sources in the Pacific, which makes sense. I know Britain and America are trying to get the Justice League. Japan is moving back into the Pacific as well. People are dying by the thousands. War is glamorized, but death is something they never account for," Spera inquired. "We are creating a program to infiltrate Biter's organization. Training people to fight, more than just what the military is providing them. It's a joined team— America, Britain, Germany. France wanted out, but they're still in the war. We need smart young man, strong."
Dick stared at her. "You want me."
"You were recommended by White himself. We looked at you tests too— you excelled in all of them."
"Right."
Spera stood up and looked at the grey sky. "You don't have to answer me now. I need it before next week though." She left then, leaving Dick sitting there on the bench with his pen and paper under his hands. He was frowning, staring after her. Funny they would choose the fighter, the Leaguer, the circus-boy. Funny how life worked out like that.
Dick needed to get more information about this "program" that Spera had approached him with. Dick had dealt with military before as Nightwing, in Bialiya, in Space with Aliens, and even on earth, trying to stop a war. He'd never been in the military, however, and that meant he'd have less lenience and more rules to follow. He wasn't keen on breaking any of these rules, but most military leaders could be pretty ignorant to an alleged Justice League hero who was a private, sneaking around camp to find out about a program that they'd been approached with. It wasn't his fault he was five times smarter than most of the people on base (not to be arrogant or anything).
He was in his civilian clothing though, sneaking around base with only a few throwing stars and some recording devices. It was dark when he got out there that night, and foggy. The fog was so intense, Dick regretted not bringing his night vision mask. At least he would be able to see any oncoming soldiers.
He crept through the fog and the black, his ears open for any sounds and his eyes strained for any people. It was silent, only the silent drops of small rain hitting the dirt resounded through the air. He crept up to the officers' quarters, where he knew some of their offices were held. He needed to bug Spera, of course, and then search through her files. If any other names were listed, he'd need to keep a lookout for them. Dick really didn't have clearance, of course, to look at most of these documents and files. He couldn't leave a trace.
Dick reached the officers building without a hitch. It wasn't hard, any footprints he'd leave would blend in with the thousand on the ground, he'd just have to take off his shoes when he got to the inside, he didn't want to leave mud that hadn't been there before. He stood in the back and jumped on some trashcans, leaping up and grabbing the window sill. He swung for a minute from side to side and then threw up his left hand to grab the sill, using his momentum to swing up and put his left foot up. The window sill was bulky, and above it, on the top of the window, there was a small place (he recalled this place being called a header) he could put his hands. He could see inside the office now, thankfully it was empty. He grabbed that small header above the window with his left hand and brought his right leg up. He sat there for a minute and breathed. He had missed this.
Dick leaned into the window, and let go of the header and grabbed the bottom. The frame was wooden, and old. The paint had peeled slightly and the glass shook in the squares as Dick grabbed hold of the bottom. It was unlocked, foolishly, and he pushed it open, and he winced at the squeaking sound it made. He turned and sat down on the sill, forced his boots off and stuck them on the side. He couldn't help but wince at the mud. He turned and slid inside, his greyish (they were white once) socks landed on the green carpet. The office held to large bookshelves and a crappy (Ikea?) desk. Behind the desk were cabinets and a frame with medals.
Dick smiled and went to the other side of the desk to see exactly whose office he was in. It was dark, he didn't want to risk turning on the lights. He sat down in the big chair, tapping his fingers on the arm rests. Command Sergeant Major John S. Lock was engraved onto a little sign on the desk. Dick let out a low whistle; it was a lot to write down. He pursed his lips and spun around in the chair, taking a look at the large grey filing cabinet behind him. The desk was clean, with only a Holographic Simulator Device (HSD) on the desk. He wouldn't be able to access those files without a fingerprint, of course. But people were always stupid enough to leave them everywhere. On the front of an HSD, there was a small thumb-sized scanner made up of a type of glass. If you put a little putty on it, it'd copy the print by the grease from your fingers and you could use it to access the files.
He snuck some Silly Putty out of his pocket and pressed the putty onto the glass. He held it there for three… two… one… He pulled the putty off, cleaned the glass with glasses cleaner and then held but the putty with the finger print back on the scanner. A little dot on the HSD flashed green as it turned on. It blinked for a few seconds and then stabilized. The screen popped up and the blue light cast a low glow on Dick's face.
He couldn't help the smile cross his face.
There'd been nothing on the files.
Nothing. Well, that was a lie. Spera was right, the program was new. But Dick had thought new in a sense of up and running new, with old applicants and records. He'd thought wrong; it was totally new. The only thing that was really helpful was the number on top of the paper, stamped on with red ink: 718457.
The file had names and places. The description on top of the file stated: "The Purpose of this Program has been declared classified by National Archives and Records Administration and is considered an active and interchangeable document. This program, the IAU (Infiltration Association Unit) is designed to go into the opposite participant's association of an AAP2 (Active Arm[s] Period) and take down said Participant through — and — means. The IAU was created by — and brought up under —. Soldiers and Civilians picked for the IAU will undergo extensive training and —, —, — in order to prepare for full infiltration. Participants will be declared —. The IAU will be a full length and fully operational Program by the end of 2017 and will go on under any means in AAP's to come."
All of the important information was blacked out by thick black ink. Dick hadn't found anything completely off about the file. He knew under that black ink could be a number of things, but he couldn't sit there and assume the worst. There were locations and pictures, but he only saw a few names he recognized. When he tried to search the names on the HSD, the device couldn't give him any files. And most of what came up was locked. That wasn't necessarily a bad thing, it normally meant they were just high up and deep. It wasn't a spotlight for Dick to focus on. In all honesty, the Program didn't seem all that bad. It could be worse, Dick could have been signing up for some assassination Program. Infiltration and Covert Operations were his thing and, frankly, he was glad with the sense of familiarity.
][][][
Later, Dick sat at the bar with Eleanor asleep next to him.
They were leaving next week to go to Russia. They'd been together almost five months. It was the end of January. They'd leave the end of the first week of February. Eleanor had drunk herself asleep, and snored ever so slightly on the table on the bar. Dick was still on his first drink. He fiddled with his glass, and tapped it around the bottom with his fingers. He had planted two bugs in the office. One in the telephone and one in the telegraph, which would catch the clicks and that dick would later be able to decipher. There'd been nothing of interest. He hadn't gone to Spera's office that night because a) he couldn't find it and b) Command Sergeant Major is frankly good enough.
But now the thought of Russia was in Dick's mind. He knew Lukas and the Executive Branch were trying to cover it up as much as they could, but, of course, that was stupid. They'd get the reaction of Vietnam all over again. He'd seen a few of the guys coming back. One boy, about eighteen years old, was muttering under his breath as he held tightly to a picture close to his chest. Dick had gotten one look of the image before the boy freaked out and started sobbing.
It was of the Russia Front. It must've been take with a Polaroid camera because the bottom bit on the left was smudged. But Dick had gotten to see the Russian Front with a red sky and dirt and snow on the ground. It was frightening. He had, quietly, told Eleanor of what had happened to the boy. She stared at the ground of the bar, clutching the handle of her beer glass.
"I saw a kid… he was your age," she began, "Half his face was burned off… It was red, pink. It must've happened at the beginning but they only just got him out. He was Russian. I felt… so awful. He looked to sad, so lost. So… innocent."
It was there that Dick heard of the innocence again. Dick knew the horrors of war, he knew it all. He'd seen, in the history books at Gotham Academy, the pictures of soldiers from Vietnam and WWII, where they were shattered and lost. Some lived completely, but they were left with shattered dreams and that piece of silk. They went in with this false bravado of fearlessness and end up hiding behind trenches and soil, all because they felt a duty for their country. Sometimes, it was not all for that piece of silk, sometimes it was because you felt you had to and in the end, you were sent home, or you died, with nothing but either anger or pride, or hope. But all those innocents out there… all that false bravado. In the end, what was it worth?
To be continued…
Mad: /mad/ adjective, mentally ill; insane.
AAP: Active Arms Period- I made this up. In fact, most of the militarily-written documents going to be in this I made up. I have little to no experience with military procedures work, or how accurate I am. Probably not very accurate. You will see AAP, IAU and lots of other procedures and organizations that I made up. I will clarify the made up ones down here, of course. Thank you.
Disclaimer: The Characters that belong to DC Comics respectively belong to DC comics, and therefore are not mine. So, I am not using them for any profit, gain, or any sole purpose other than to amuse, or frighten, others with them in my writing. The characters with unfamiliar names and backgrounds, Spera, Keys, Smith, White, Weisheit… belong to me.
Hint: Looking up what names mean in a story tells you a lot about them.