DISCLAIMER: I do not own any of the characters. Nightwing and all of his friends belongs to DC comics. I'd be a happy woman if Dick belonged to me...but no such luck. I have not made any profit out of writing this, so please don't sue me. It would not be worth your while.
Author Comment: This was the third Dick Grayson story I ever wrote.
Thank you to my wonderful beta, Jean whose comments force me to examine my writing. There are a number of spelling, grammar and punctuation differences between Australia and the USA... please forgive me for writing with an accent. (g)
Special Thanks: Thank you to all those people who have left such wonderful feedback. Some of you haven't left your e-mail addresses so I haven't been able to thank you. I just want you to know that your kind words mean so much. I'm in your debt.
Another of your friends is calling you back."
Dick turned. Alfred had stepped up to the water's edge, his right arm outstretched. Dick stared at the elderly man's face. "Alfred," he whispered, recognizing the rare pain displayed.
"He'll be all right. He knows that you are headed for a better place. His faith will cushion the blow that your death delivers."
"Alfred's faith is strong," Dick agreed. The butler was a regular churchgoer who honestly believed that the Lord had been keeping an eye on his boys. 'How else would you have survived this long?' he was often heard to say. However, Dick couldn't help but wince at the hurt that plagued his friend's eyes. Friend? No, 'friend' was far from adequate. Alfred was family. The truth was, Alfred was the cornerstone of Dick's life. No matter what happened, Alfred was always there to restore his equilibrium.
"He will help the others deal with their grief."
"But no one will help him deal with his," Grayson muttered with certainty.
"Perhaps not. We are nearly halfway. Look, you can almost see your mother's face."
Dick spun around quickly. They were much closer now and he could... he could see his mother's face! She was smiling at him. His father was there too. Dick could feel tears filling his eyes. They looked well. They looked so happy. Both had their arms stretched out toward him. His longing to be with them grew.
"It won't be long now, Son. Like I said, you are almost halfway."
VVVVVVVV
Henry MacDonald paced nervously. He still couldn't believe it. Thirty-two successful hits under his belt and he had missed! In ten years in the profession, he'd never missed. Once this particular employer caught up with him his fate would be sealed, which was why he was here.
MacDonald stopped and stared around the dump, though the word dump was far from an adequate description. This was the bottom of the line. The carpet on the floor was bare with ground-in filth and fleas. There was no electricity and the only light he had was from a single candle placed on the small table beside the blanketless cot that would serve as his bed. The shared bathroom down the hall was putrid and there was a smudge on the walls that could only be one thing. The smell of unwashed bodies and faeces was so strong in the common room it had made the assassin retch. However, he had no other choice if he wanted to live. No one would find him here. He'd left no trail. That he was certain of. His ability to disappear completely after a hit was legendary.
A rat ran across the ten-foot square room, stopped and studied MacDonald for a few seconds and then continued on its way. Henry grabbed one of his shoes and threw it at the vermin but missed. His hands shook with rage. He didn't deserve this! None of this was his fault. He had to ring and let 'Mr Smith' know.
MacDonald took out his cell phone and dialled, starting to pace again.
"It would seem that Bruce Wayne is still breathing," Smith growled without welcome. "That does not please me."
MacDonald licked his lips. "I didn't actually miss. I hit the place he was standing but...You see..." How did he explain? He still couldn't believe it himself. "Someone from the crowd leapt up in front of him and..."
"And you shot him. Yes, it is on the news as we speak."
"Look, I had his bodyguards covered. This fella wasn't a bodyguard or a member of security." The assassin had checked them all out meticulously. He knew their exact positions. He had taken the time to study them so he could recognize them on sight.
"He came from nowhere and positioned himself directly between me and Wayne. He knew what he was doing. I've never seen anyone move like that. I guess he must have been a bodyguard of sorts. Someone Wayne had planted in the crowd. I didn't pick him."
"I see. Interesting," Mr. Smith purred, "but far from important. I paid you to exterminate Bruce Butter-Wouldn't-Melt-in-his-Mouth Wayne."
"Look, I give you my word, I'll get Wayne the next time." There was silence. MacDonald licked his lips. The seconds drew out. Perspiration appeared on the harassed man's brow.
"Very well. But should you fail me again, your death will be long and excruciating. I will see to it personally."
"I won't fail." The phone was slammed down in his ear.
MacDonald took out a cigarette and his breathing gradually returned to normal as he sucked the calming nicotine into his agitated system. He'd been given a second chance. He wasn't about to waste it. Now, he just needed to plan out the hit. He couldn't afford errors. Wayne was likely to be at the hospital at the moment. If he could...
A shadow fell over MacDonald. He turned toward the window as it shattered inward. Henry MacDonald screamed as a creature from his worst nightmares landed inside the room. MacDonald took a revolver from his pocket and emptied it into the hulking form at point-blank range. The creature paused momentarily and then continued toward him.
"Who hired you?" it snarled. The voice was a hushed whisper - basically just air forced out through its tightly clenched jaw. A fist the size of a bowling ball darted out and encircled MacDonald's throat. "Who hired you?"
"I...I... I missed. Bruce Wayne is still alive," MacDonald whimpered. He knew Batman was a friend of Bruce Wayne's. He had heard Wayne speak out in defence of Gotham's creature of the night.
Batman's eyes became harder, but his grip relaxed a little. "Go on." Through great experience, Batman had learned that allowing a felon to talk often brought about unexpected revelations.
"He... I shot some other fella. Young fella. He leaped out of the crowd. He saw me and... and... he knew." MacDonald realized. "He knew I was going to shoot." Unlike everyone else who had spotted the assassin, this man seemed to know MacDonald wasn't part of the security team. "He jumped in front of Bruce Wayne. Saved his life. Positioned himself so I couldn't get a bullet past him."
Batman continued to glare at the other man, but his mind drifted. Dick had leapt up onto the stage knowing the bullet was coming? Of course he had. Dick didn't try to shove him out of the way. He didn't have time. He stood there and took the single bullet in the back! Batman blinked and his attention resettled on his captive. "Why didn't you pull out of the shot?"
"I'd already made them. He moved so quickly. I've never seen anyone move like that." Batman continued to glare at the other man but he appeared distracted. MacDonald saw his chance to negotiate a deal. "Look, will you let me breathe here? I'm willing to co-operate. I know you know Bruce Wayne. You're friends aren't you?"
Batman's face remained blank.
"Look, Bruce Wayne is fine. The fella I shot was a nobody. No one important. No one you'd care about."
Batman's emotions exploded. He lifted MacDonald off the ground, the hapless assassin kicking and gasping.
No one important. The words rang in Batman's ears. Nightwing was his partner and he had risked his life to shield the Dark Knight from the bullet. Batman once again became aware of the dull ache in his chest. It was a strange sensation that was distinct and different to the throbbing caused by the six bullets that had bounced off his reinforced suit. This wasn't something he'd felt for a long time... so long, that he didn't recognize it.
MacDonald's gasps became gurgles. "Who hired you?" Batman ground out, the flickering light from the candle refecting off his impassioned face. Normally Batman showed no emotion. Today was different.
"I... Mr. Smith!" MacDonald wasn't prepared to identify his employer. Batman terrified him but Mr. Smith... Mr. Smith was a man who didn't know what mercy was. "Mr. Smith. That's all he told me. I met him in a bar over on 46th Street. The Buster and Oyster."
"I know it. If you have been lying to me..." Batman increased his grip as added emphasis and then hurled MacDonald across the room. His rage was building without control.
The assassin began coughing as he dragged oxygen into his starved lungs.
"I expect you to give yourself up to police." Batman didn't have time to do it himself. He didn't know why, but he felt a sense of urgency that had little to do with the trail going cold. There was something nagging at him... and the burning in his chest was gradually spreading and intensifying.
MacDonald stared up at the Dark Knight with wide eyes.
"Give yourself up or I'll become your worst nightmare."
"Okay. I'll go now," MacDonald garbled, hauling himself to his feet. Batman maintained his piercing gaze, the sniper gradually wilting under it.
Without a word, Gotham's avenging angel turned, stepped up onto the window sill and disappeared into the emptiness beyond.
VVVVVVVVVV
"How old were you when your parents died?" the oarsman asked.
"Eight."
"That's young. You must have missed them very much."
Dick stared passed the hunched old man. His parents were no longer frozen figures. They were moving about on the shore impatiently. It was then that Dick consciously noted the other people standing there. There was a young couple about his parents' age. There was also a woman with large dark eyes. Dick knew instinctively that she had to be Tim's mother - the family resemblance was unmistakable.
"They are waiting for you too," the oarsman stated.
"You can read my thoughts?"
"Of course."
"Why are they waiting for me? I don't know them."
The oarsman smiled. "But they know you. They want to thank you. You have been important in the lives of those they love."
Dick sensed movement behind. Tim had stepped up to the water. Unlike Leslie and Alfred, who had their hands stretched out, the youth simply stood looking lost, his arms hanging uselessly at his sides.
VVVVVVVVVV
"Hi," Tim whispered, as he entered the quiet intensive care ward. Alfred was seated beside Dick, his wrinkled hands locked around one of his grandson's as he prayed in earnest. Leslie was standing at the head of the bed, her own hand on Dick's brow checking for fever.
"How is he, Leslie?" Tim's voice echoed in the room.
"Not good, Tim."
The boy swallowed hard. He hadn't expected all of this... all of these machines. "Is he going to be alright?" For several seconds there was silence outside of the sound of the pump forcing air in and out of Dick's body.
"I don't know." Leslie's voice was soft. Almost as if she didn't want to admit what she had to say. "I've done all I can."
"But he's got a chance, doesn't he?" Tim was floundering. Leslie wasn't giving the answers he wanted - needed to hear.
Leslie sighed. "There's always a chance, son." Tim didn't like the defeat that had echoed in each and every syllable.
"But he can't die! He can't!" The young man's voice rose sharply and resounded with helplessness and desperation.
Alfred opened his eyes and glanced up at the youth. "His fate is out of mortal hands, Tim."
"But he's fighting, isn't he?!" It was a sob. He was pleading.
"I don't know," Leslie muttered, honestly. "I hope so."
Tim stared at Dick - a man who was like a brother. A man who had taken the time to teach him. Someone Tim loved. Slowly, he strode forward. "You've got to fight this, Dick. You hear me?! You've got to." The boy stared down at his friend, the black and purple of the bruising peeking out from under the bandages standing out in contrast to the stark pallor of the rest of Dick's skin. The beeping of the life-support machines shouted out how serious all of this was. "He isn't breathing?" Tim whispered.
"No." Leslie walked over to the lad and put her arm around him.
"Isn't there anything you can do to help him?" Now Tim was drowning. This wasn't right. Dick was strong. He wouldn't go without a fight. He wouldn't... would he?
"I've done everything I can, Tim. I wish there was more I could do."
Tim licked his lips, pulled free of Leslie and stepped closer to the bed. Gingerly he placed his hand on Dick's arm.
"Come on, Dick. You gotta fight. You've got to."
VVVVVVVVVV
"Yes, the young one. He will find this difficult, but the others will be there for him."
"Tim lost his Ma too."
"Yes, I know."
"He has his father and stepmother but... I guess he sees us as family too."
"So you admit that they are your family?"
"Never denied it." Dick swallowed as Tim reached his hand out toward him, tears streaming down the boy's face. "I'm sorry, Tim."
"If he were in your position, he would choose to go to his mother also. Don't worry, he will be well taken care of by your other friends."
"I..." Abruptly, Dick sat up straighter. The man lurking in the background had started moving. "What's he doing?"
"Don't worry about him. He is not something you need to worry about any more."
"But what's he doing?"
"He is your friends' concern now."
"Do they know he's there?"
"They will shortly."
VVVVVVVVVV
Mr. Smith lit a cigar and sat back in his grand leather chair. He smiled at the man standing across from him. This man's work was without peer when it came to causing chaos.
"You see, I have a dilemma. Mr. MacDonald, who came highly recommended, has failed me. Two failures in a couple of days is more than I can bear. It is for this reason I require your particular talents."
The man in the army fatigues nodded. His jaw was square, almost unrealistically so. The small eyes set deep under his protruding brow never wavered.
"You understand what is required?" Mr. Smith checked.
"Yes." His voice was deep and jagged.
"And you think you can obliterate Bruce Wayne?"
A smirk appeared on the mercenary's face. "There won't be enough of him left for an autopsy."
Mr Smith smiled, widely. "Good. Good. I like that. He was always a little too pretty for my liking anyway."
VVVVVVVVVV
© June 2004 Aussie Nightwriter. : This relates only to the creative property in this story. The distinctive way the story unfolds, the specific dialogue and unique situations are mine. I acknowledge that some of the characters and settings belong to DC comics. (g) No infrigement of copyright was intended and no profit has been made from this story... so, please don't sue me. It wouldn't be worth your while.