AWOL: Absent WithOut Leave

by ArtisticAbandon

[rating overall] Nightwing disappears after 'killing' the Joker to sort things out. Now, 6 months later, a new villain appears, claiming the unthinkable... What price are the heroes willing to pay for victory? for truth?

2. MIA: Forgotten Hearts

Additional Disclaimers: The only new thing is the extract from Be There With You, which belongs to Human Nature, as taken from their album, Here And Now – The Best Of Human Nature, that was produced by Columbia.

Summary: The pieces start falling into place, but at what cost? The things the heroes are going to discover won't sit easily on their souls, that's for sure....

A/N: No promises about when the next update will be. My family and I (three "kids", two parents, two grandparents) have moved three times in the last three months, and we'll be moving at least ONCE more in another month! I've written this and corrected my mistakes while surrounded by boxes and the rest of my life crammed into one small room, and it doesn't look like that'll change until around the end of May some time, when we move again. I've already lost about a month of writing, due to commitments to cleaning and to schoolwork.

A/N 2: In this chapter, emphasis are in bold or underlines, and thoughts are 'italics'. Also, the 'What Came to Pass' sections are all in italics. Just thought I'd clear it all up once again before we get back into the story. :D

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- ABSENT WITHOUT LEAVE
Missing In Action --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Chapter 2
Forgotten Hearts --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- I drive my car,
And think about you constantly.
I lay awake,
And wanna feel you next to me.
What can I do?
My life's only complete with you, baby
And feels so right.
Be There With You
Lyrics and Song by Human Nature Hit for hit; blood for blood;
eye for eye; hand for hand;
rat for rat; aid for aid.
Street Code of Honor "On a dark night...a dark man waits...with a dark purpose..."
Disney's Aladdin --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Once Robin was gone, it was a long time before Joey Flaherty moved from beside the couch. Even then, it was only to move to the window. He stared out to the awakening city as he mentally replayed the costumed boy's reaction to his explanation.

In all his years as a Blüdhaven cop, he had seen many things, several of them enough to give him strong nightmares if he dwelled on them for very long. Some of the hardest cases he'd faced had disgusted even the most bent and corrupt cops in the entire station. He'd always thought that he had seen a lot in his time, but he was sure he had never seen anyone look so pale, so scared and...so drained of blood as that kid "Robin" did when he said that bit about the late Officer Grayson.

Personally, he couldn't understand why the late Officer was so important. Admittedly, he'd only worked with the Officer once before when he was a still an official rookie, and that was when Joey was leading the task force to take down a nutcase by the name of Jonathon Masters Junior – incidentally, he now recalled, Masters was the reason why he'd teamed up with Nightwing originally. Nevertheless, coincidences aside, he really did not remember much about the young Officer except that from the first moment they met, the rookie had somehow been exuding the air of being bright, confident and honest. Looking back, it was one of the most refreshing moments in that entire dark period that had ended with his resignation from the Force.

But what else he did remember was certainly...intruiging.

What had captured his attention about the Officer, even then, had happened at the Masters Manor when they were searching for Jonathon Masters Jr, at the time calling himself "Jonah" and causing terror among the Haven's female population. Ironically enough, Masters had found something that disturbed him about the rookie, because he had sworn to kill Grayson as they had arrested the psychotic criminal. He'd tried real hard to do that too, he recalled, a group of Misfits – the gang Masters controlled – once picking on the rookie as he was about to enter the apartment. As he recalled it from the replay later at the station, only the quick response of his partner, Sarge Amy Rohrbach, had saved the kid's life.

Personally, however, Joey had simply figured that the fixation Masters had on the young officer was more an expression of Masters' insanity than anything else. You never knew what could trigger those sorts of people off, especially when it came down to the ones they blamed for their...problems. In Charon's case, it had seemed to be something about Grayson's parents being aerialists in some circus.

Crazy, huh?

That came out when they tried to arrest Masters, who was calling himself "Jonah" at the time. That was also when Jonah had pulled out a gun seemingly from out of nowhere and tried to shoot the young officer. Instead of freezing like most rookies would, however, Grayson had whipped out a taser, aiming at Charon and shooting it at the maniac faster than Joey'd thought possible.

As he recalled, however, the rookie shown how 'green' he was, quite literally, once they had the felon in custody.

The only man he had ever seen move as fast Grayson had that night had been Nightwing, and that was late one night in the middle of a deserted highway. It was during a tense hostage situation on the back of a truck...strangely enough also involving Charon. Actually, Nightwing had probably moved the fastest out of the two men, but it wasn't by much. Joey still wasn't sure how two completely different men could possibly move that fast. That kind of thing couldn't be it?

Then again, there was a lot he wasn't certain about in this case.

Fore instance, he had managed to obtain a picture of the late Officer from his partner at the time of his disappearance. It was the picture in the kid's file, taken when he had graduated from the Blüdhaven Police Academy – which sadly was in itself nothing of which to be proud. In the photograph Grayson looked like a kid, barely a day over twenty, with handsome features, vibrant blue eyes, and what promised to be a lady killer smile. His Sarge, Rohrbach, had told him that she was not one hundred percent convinced that the kid was clean, but she did think it highly unlikely – with a captial 'U'. Yet she'd also hinted that Grayson had apparently obtained his place in the Blüdhaven City Police Department through 'less than appealing' means – making it look like he could be 'bought' and manipulated – even as she'd quietly admitted that she hadn't seen evidence of any corruption during the time she'd been working with him.

To confuse the matter even further, Joey had managed to sweet-talk the super' of the building Grayson stayed at into letting him have a quick look at the kid's apartment. It wasn't too hard. He'd only had to tell her his name before she let him in – apparently, Grayson had told her about him for some reason.

However, inside the apartment itself, the first thing he noticed was the thirty-five inch – something like eighty-eight centimetres – plasma television that adorned one wall, with a sound system to match. That definitely rose the eyebrows. The next thing he saw, apart from the mess of a typical bachelor, was the IBM Thinkpad Series X laptop lying on the table. For a man who was supposed be earning the salary of a lowly rookie of the Blüdhaven Force, Joey knew from bitter personal experience that Grayson had to be getting some money on the side to own such top-of-the-line equipment. To his mind at the time, the equipment the kid rookie possessed hinted at corruption even more strongly than the way the kid had entered the B.C.P.D. to begin with.

But then, now that he thought about it, hadn't that kid Robin told him that Grayson had 'connections' to Nightwing? Thinking back to the state-of-the-art cell-phone he himself had received from the costumed vigilante, Joey could grudgingly admit that it was possible that Nightwing gave Grayson the equipment. Blüdhaven's own avenging angel certainly had a taste for top-of-the-line gadgets and cars. The computer could be discounted in that sense, as Grayson probably used it regularly to contact Nightwing with the daily gossip from the Police Station...but the TV? What connection could a simple TV have to Nightwing?

Hmm. Maybe he'd better put the word out to his contacts again. This time, he would not ask if they had seen Grayson before his death. Perhaps he would be better off asking what they knew about Grayson's background and any possible involvement with Nightwing. Hell, he might as well about the costumed freak at the same time too.

His decision made, Joey turned away from the window and padded towards his desk to start making the calls. With his back to the window, he never saw the dark shape that landed near his car and began fiddling with the door.

Behind Flaherty, the picture to the long ignored television flickered for a moment before it dissolved into static. Joey was not too surprised. Even here in Eagle Crescent, a fairly respectable middle-class suburb, Blüdhaven was not one for guaranteed TV reception. Yet by the time he turned around to turn it off, the dark shape had disappeared and he was left none-the-wiser as to what had happened.

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Right on the stroke of twenty-to-six in the morning, the door to the Blüdhaven Police Station was flung open. Walking through the door was a young man hiding behind a pair of aviator shades, wearing a beaten pair of jeans and a comfortably baggy white shirt under a black leather jacket. The only distinguishing feature about him was the shock of brilliant red hair he had managed to tame into a resemblance of order.

With a casual ease that belied his exhaustion, Roy Harper leaned against the desk in the foyer of the Blüdhaven Police Department and struggled to hold back a yawn as he gave the bell on top of the desk a half-hearted slap. Only six hours before, he had been ready to crash for at least a day, preferably three, after pulling a few too many long, hard nights. He needed...no, he craved his beauty sleep, and now he'd thought he was finally going to get it. Then the phone call from Robin had come and upset all his plans. In the relatively few hours since the meeting with Robin, he had covered Blüdhaven from end to end at least once as Arsenal, and now Roy Harper was playing 'innocent visitor' to some corrupt cop that was probably high on speed and donuts.

All in all, it was just another day as a Titan.

The cop seated on the flimsy desk chair did not budge from behind the Blüdhaven Times his nose was buried in. "Visiting hours start at seven, buddy. Scram."

Roy began counting to ten softly, trying to gamely resist the urge to snatch the paper from the cop and rearrange his face so badly that he'd never need a mirror again. He drummed his fingers on the desk instead.

One pudgy hand emerged from behind the paper to grab an iced donut from the half-empty packet lying on the desk. This time, the cop sounded more irritated than bored. "No one's gonna answer th' phones till seven, bud. Now scat before I get mad."

He hit ten and kept on counting to twenty.

The top of the paper dropped and revealed an annoyed pair of hazel eyes. "You deaf, kid? Get outta hear before I charge ya with loitering and disturbing th' peace." The paper flicked back up and a page was turned.

Roy decided that he'd had enough when he hit forty. One hand reached out and snatched the paper from the cop, throwing it to the floor with unnecessary force, and he didn't bother denying the satisfaction at scattering the tabloid's pages from the desk halfway across the large, empty foyer. The rotound cop was so round he really needed to lean forward to grab the officer by the lapels to bring their faces nose-to-nose. "Listen to me, you overweight piece of trash," he growled, in full intimidation mode. "I'm only gonna say this once, so listen good."

The cop could not see the dark glare from behind the shades the man wore, seeing only his own terror reflected in the dark glasses, but he did have a good imagination. A very good imagination.

He pulled the cop a little closer and snarled, "Look pal, I've been up for more hours than I care to count, my daughter wants to know where her "uncle" is, who I've found out was just murdered, and you want to keep reading some stupid article. So why don't you just call Captain Addad for me, and I'll leave you in peace with your dumb paper." He held the pose for a moment longer, and then released the cop with a flourish. Not letting up on the intimidation for a moment, he grasped the edge of the desk until his knuckles were white and leaned in close to snarl in his version of The Voice: "And you'd better call him soon, flabby, before I lose my temper and do something I might not regret."

"Like what?"

Roy whirled at the strange, but iced enough to freeze hell a few times, voice that came from the entrance into the station proper. His face blossomed into a wide smile when his sharp gaze picked up 'Addad' on the police officer's uniform. "Ah, just the man I wanted to see."

Captain Addad leveled an imposing gaze at him from under slightly heavy brows. "Really?" His hard gaze flicked to the flustered cop at the desk who was unobtrusively trying to pick up the remains of his paper. "Then why the entrance?"

The Titan's smile widened disarmingly. "How else do you get attention in a place like this when you don't have any money?"

Addad's gaze turned positively glacial. "Try 911, punk," he snapped. "You might get better results." He whirled on his heel and moved to re-enter the station proper.

Even in his state of semi-exhaustion, Roy thought he knew what would stop this venture failing before it even really began. Taking a gamble, he stepped forward and called out to the retreating back, "Oh yeah?! Like the results Dick Grayson got?"

Addad froze in the doorway, staring straight ahead at nothing for a long moment, apparently coming to a decision as then he looked over his shoulder and focused on the newcomer. "My office," he ordered tersely.

Roy tossed a flippant salute and smirk at the glowering cop on the desk as he followed Addad through the door. "Seeya next time, porky," came floating back as the door to the station proper slammed shut once more.

It might have been a short walk for Addad to his office, but Roy still thought that it was a bit on the long side as he suddenly felt his exhaustion now that the burst of adrenaline from threatening the cop had faded. By the time they arrived, the other officers in the police station had merged into one long blur, and his feet did not seem to want to fully obey his brain. He didn't care what Oracle had to say about the matter; as soon as he was done here, he was going to have to crash for a few hours if he wanted to function like a human being.

Addad let him go into the office first, shutting the door firmly behind him. Roy hid his tiredness behind a confident swagger and settled himself in the chair before the desk. The only immediate thought that registered was that he was lucky the chair lacked padding. He needed the pain to keep him awake, to keep himself focused.

Addad sat behind his desk and regarded the cocky visitor with a steely glare, still angry over Roy's earlier cracks about the state of their police force – even though he knew it was pretty much true. "Okay, kid. You got what you wanted. You're in my office. Now explain what you meant by that dumb crack about Grayson."

Roy crossed his arms over his chest obstinately. "Exactly what I said. I want to know what happened to him, and why the BCPD made no effort to contact his next of kin."

A guarded look flashed over the Detective's face and the shutters closed. "I'm sorry, sir, but I can only give out that information to family and close friends of the deceased." His eyes narrowed at the young man before him. "Who are you anyway?"

"The name's Roy Harper. I'm a good friend of Dick's." 'At least I thought I was.' He tried not to glower at the officer at the implication that his friendship had not been good enough for Dick to consider him a close friend. "We've known each other since we were kids," Roy explained, trying to think fast enough to come up with plausible half-truths, "and he's pulled my butt out of the fire more times than I can count. He used to call me up every second week or so until a few months back. I can't afford the time to look for him since most of my time is taken up with my daughter, and...other commitments, so I asked a P.I. called Joey Flaherty about him. He told me what had happened, and here I am."

"Fair enough." The Detective nodded slowly, not thinking to question the reply. It had been his suggestion, after all, for Rohrback to contact Flaherty about the case. The P.I. would probably have more success than he would with the climate at the station being as it was. Word from above was that they didn't want the case investigated further, and as much as he hated it, he had to obey. Which meant that he didn't investigate, but a civilian could. Convinced of the visitor's sincerity, he offered quietly, "Then please accept my condolences, Mr. Harper." He paused, cocking his head slightly as he searched for the right words to express something that was always wrong. "Grayson was a good man," he finally said, his voice subconsciously hushed as he spoke of the late rookie, "and a gutsy officer." He paused once again and sadly averted his gaze. "He certainly didn't deserve to die the way he did," the Captain finished softly.

Roy leaned forward in his seat, his instincts jumping at that last sentance. "What do you mean?" he inquired cautiously. "How did he die?"

Addad sighed softly and leaned back in the chair, giving Harper an appraising look. "Are you sure you want to hear this? It won't be pleasant." 'Nothing about this mess is,' he thought to himself.

Roy nodded warily, wondering at the shadows that seemed to have fallen into Addad's eyes. He braced himself for the worst, but nothing could prepare him for what was to come.

"Then I'll be blunt," the Captain began, leaning forward and crossing his arms on the desk. "There's no need for you to identify his body, because there's nothing to identify." And then he proceeded to explain.

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About half an hour after entering Addad's office, Roy Harper emerged from the Blüdhaven City Police Station just after quarter-past-six on this bright sunny day looking a lot more worn and wearied than when he had entered. His steps to his car were slow and shuffling as he digested all he had gleaned from Captain Addad. When he got to his car, he simply got in and sat for a few moments with the engine idly ticking over, staring out at nothing as his mind churned. His thoughts were rolling around his head so much that even his limbs felt as if they were moving underwater. 'Jeez. How'm I gonna tell 'em the truth? How can I tell them something I barely cope with myself?'

He considered himself a well-travelled hero. After all, as a Titan, he'd crossed the universe far too many times to count. Hell, he'd lost count of the all the times they'd "saved the world" in some part of the universe...or an alternate dimension, for that matter. He'd seen a lot, had been through a lot, and had thought that he was pretty jaded for a hero. Working for the government in his spare time hadn't helped matters. But what he'd just been told...nothing he'd been though could've prepared him for that news. It was one of the few times in his life that he'd regretted his decision to pursue the vigilante life...and the responsibility to uncover the truth that came with it. Bad enough to know Dick was gone...but to know what he knew now about how it happened...and the mere thought of it happening to his close friend and surrogate brother....

He shuddered and swallowed down the bile at the thought. He'd be having nightmares about this for weeks, now.

Sighing to himself regretfully, he put the car into gear and rolled out into the flow of the early-morning traffic. There was nothing for it but to call Oracle and get this information off his chest. 'Maybe,' he thought to himself darkly, 'talking about it'll make it easier.'

Yeah, right.

Careful to keep one hand on the wheel, he blindly groped through the usual mess of fast-food wrappers and discarded notes for the spare comm system he kept in the car. It was identical to the comm system in his costume in that it could be configured to send an audio-visual signal, but today he was more concerned with just sending an audio signal. He didn't want anyone, least of all Oracle, to know how much he had been rattled by the discussion with Addad.

He found the comm system buried under a mound of empty soft-drink bottles. One of these days he'd have to try and properly mount it in his car. His gaze barely flicked away from the traffic as he keyed in the secure number he'd been given to contract Oracle.

Oracle answered the transmission almost instantaneously. She had been waiting for this call ever since Robin had stumbled into her apartment after visiting the Flaherty residence. "Oracle here," she stated in her all-business tones. "How'd you go, Roy?"

"I talked to Addad like you asked," he began, staring out at the rising sun. "We hadn't been contacted because, in between their computer network being down, Dick had listed only a Barbara Gordon as a point of contact on his application to the Academy, and she wasn't answering her phone when they called." He wisely decide to refrain from mentioning that he had a few suspicions about exactly who Oracle was.

"When did they call?" Oracle interrupted quickly, something strange in her voice...almost fear?

"Last night, about one-thirty in the morning. Why?"

Oracle took a moment to reply. 'One thirty.' She had gone to bed last night about ten o'clock, but then she had strangely found herself wide-awake at two when she knew she should've been out to the world for eight more hours at the very least. 'Maybe that was what woke me up.' She cleared her throat and forced herself to sound unconcerned, "It doesn't matter. What else did he say?"

"Is Robin there?"

"No, he told me he's going to the Blüdhaven morgue," she explained, seeing no need to provide details about how he had contacted her about six o'clock with the news from Joey Flaherty, and then promptly begged to be allowed to visit the morgue as Alvin Draper. He was proving himself a regular Bat-follower, ruthlessly controlling his grief and pain, allowing it out only to motivate him to continue the investigation. Right now, she wasn't sure whether to be glad not to have to deal with his grief as well as her own, or to hate this new development that meant he'd never let out the tears he needed to cry.

"Damn, he's going to find out anyway," he swore, frustrated at not being able to protect the youth from the harsh news to come. He took a deep breath to steady his voice. "Addad said that they'd had Dick's body for a week before they could identify it. The DNA samples they took were virtually useless."

Oracle frowned. 'Did I hear it right?' "Say again, Arsenal."

Roy sighed and began keeping an eye out for Dick's apartment building. He knew he was almost there. "I said, the DNA was useless. There wasn't much left that was usable anyway, because the body had gone through an exceedingly hot explosion before they found it. Actually, cause of death is listed as unknown, because they couldn't decide which particular injury would've been enough to kill him."

Oracle leaned forward and rubbed her temples wearily, feeling the weight of all the puzzles she had to solve. "Why?"

It was with great relief at not having to face the traffic any longer that Roy pulled into the parking lot to Dick's apartment building. For a long time he did not move out of his seat, gathering both his thoughts and the motivation to continue. If he stood right now, saying what he had to say, he would probably collapse and give himself an injury. Besides, the way he was feeling, he couldn't get out of the car, talk to Oracle, and keep his imagination under control at the same time. "They don't really know what killed him," he explained finally, "but it's fairly safe to say he didn't survive the explosion. Not in the state he was in." He exhaled deeply, gathering his strength to finish. "What...remains there are show signs of extreme beatings, electrocution, freshly broken bones that never healed, and some...mutilation."

"Mutilation?" she echoed softly, horrified by the images her mind supplied at what that word generally meant. She'd all too much of that kind of thing during her days as Batgirl to be able to forget it.

"Mutilation, as in decapitation," he deadpanned. "Addad didn't say much beyond that, except that they weren't sure if that was what killed him or...if it occured post-mortem."

Oracle jerked her head up. Her mouth ran dry. 'Decapitated...' One hand flew to her mouth while another unconsciously rubbed the back of her neck. She shuddered at the thought, moisture glistening at the corners of her eyes as her heart cried out in sympathetic pain for her fallen love.

Roy continued on stoically, his own voice a little shaky as he quickly retreated to slightly safer verbal territory. "Addad also said he tipped Flaherty about the case because the obvious suspect couldn't have done it, but he wouldn't be able to convince anyone himself."

Barbara had to swallow a few times to get the saliva glands in her mouth working again to speak. "What obvious suspect?"

"Addad said that Grayson had been causing a few waves at the station, clashing a lot with Arnot about the way things should be done. He thought Dick was acting as if he was trying to clean up the entire Force overnight." Roy grimaced to himself as he managed to get out of the car. 'Typical you, Grayson. Always trying to make things right. Why couldn't you just let things be, just this once? Maybe if you did, you'd still be alive.' He sighed again and shook his head to clear it. "Addad knew Dick was rubbing the wrong people the wrong way...so did everyone else, for that matter. Then when he disappeared...and they found his body...and, well, I guess most would think that someone called Blockbuster did him in."

"His real name's Roland Desmond." Unbidden, Oracle's mind supplied all she ever wanted to know about the man, almost all of it decidedly unpleasant. "He's Blüdhaven's version of Lex Luthor. Ninety-nine percent of the cops are in his pocket, and he has his fingers in just about everything that's going in that place. He's also rather jealous about keeping it that way."

He nodded, taking the explanation in his stride as his hands fumbled with trying to lock the car. "Yeah, well, Addad said that his first thought was that Desmond had killed Grayson too. However, Blockbuster's favourite method of killing is to leave the body floating down the Blüdhaven harbor with the head facing the wrong way. To Addad, it made no sense to make the body virtually impossible to recognize."

Oracle slowly nodded. It indeed did make a twisted kind of sense. "If it was Blockbuster, he'd want everyone to know about it," she vocalised softly. "A warning to the other clean cops to stop fighting his influence, or else suffer the same fate."

"Exactly. And even if he didn't do it, it was implied that Blockbuster will still claim credit in the hope of still keeping the clean cops quiet." Roy stared out at the city over the top of his car, his mind working too much and his heart too broken to allow him to really take in anything. One of the questions that burned his mind throughout the entire drive here came out in a broken whisper: "But if he didn't do it, then who did? And why the hell would they want to?"

There was a long moment of silence while Oracle digested his whispered question – a question that burned in her own heart as well. However, they were questions to which she had no answer. Finally, she cleared her throat and asked tiredly, "Is that all? Did Added tell you anything else I should know about?"

He hesitated for one crucial second before trying to mutter a denial.

"Out with it, Roy Harper," Oracle demanded, her voice lowered threateningly.

'Just once in my life, I'd like to lie to a woman and get away with it,' Roy sighed to himself, as he turned away from the car and trudged around the side of the apartment building. "You sure you want to hear this? It ain't something that's gonna make the sun shine again, if you know what I mean."

"Spill it, Harper. What could be worse than what we already know?"

"Oh, I don't know about that," Roy shot back, and proceeded to quote virtually verbatim the part of his visit that had left him so initially shattered as he made his way back into Dr. Fledermaus' flat through the fire-escape. "So, how about that Miss Oracle?" he finished with forced cheer. "Did I 'spill' enough for you? Or do you want a more personal demonstration?"

There was only silence on the other end.

"No? See, I told you that you didn't want to know." His piece said, he turned the comm off as he slipped through the half-open window to promptly collapse in the nearest padded chair he could find. Within moments, restless mutterings emanated from the chair's vicinity as he finally surrendered to the call of sleep.

True to the form of the way his day had already gone, however, it wouldn't be long before the slumbering vigilante would be awakened.

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White.

Purity.

Virgin innocence, of peace and tranquility.

It was also the color of the sheet used to cover dead bodies. So clean, with no stains from bodily fluids to indicate the gruesome sights they could hide; such purity that did nothing to disguise the painful end eventually reached by all life.

By twenty to seven, Alvin Draper had been staring at it for what must surely be an eternity with no success in forcing himself to lift the cover. Intellectually, he knew he could not have been so long. Otherwise, the knockout drug he'd slipped the only employee on duty would've worn out by now – it was supposed to wear off by nine o'clock at the very latest, which was when the morgue was supposed to open anyway.

However, if there was one thing that this case had taught him, it was that affairs of the heart need not make much sense to be able to pack a powerful punch.

'A case?' he questioned himself bitterly. 'Am I really so far gone that I'm calling this just a case?!' A moment later, he answered himself. 'Course not. It just makes it easier...to do what I gotta do.' He stared morosely at the white sheet covering the gurney. 'As if anything about this is gonna be easy.'

Gathering his courage, he reached out to pull the sheet away from the body's head. His hands paused to each side of the gurney, freezing in place as his courage failed him once again. He closed his eyes and tried to control his trembling. 'I can't do this.' Shivers racked his body as his fear pounded in his temples. 'I can't face what's under this sheet.' He couldn't see this body here and now, and then not expect to see distorted versions of it every night in his nightmares for a long, long time. 'I just can't.' That was something he knew he would never be able to bear. 'Please don't make me do this,' he mentally pleaded, not even sure who or what he was addressing.

He backed away from the immobile gurney with its immovable contents, trembling and sweating heavily. Turning away from the scene resolutely, as if by that simple act he could make the spectre of it go away, he grabbed onto the nearby windowsill with all his might until his knuckles were white. He bowed his head slowly, his forehead coming to rest on the frosted glass, his shoulders visibly shaking as he tried to hold it all in.

And the entire time, in his heart burned the unforgiving knowledge that he was all they had. Not one of the Titans, not even Roy with his governmental experience, knew as much as he about gathering forensic evidence. With the Bat still unavailable on that damn undercover mission, he was the only one around who could do it. 'The only one.' Yet here he was, too scared and afraid to even look upon the face of the man he considered his brother. He, Robin, the Boy Wonder, was too afraid to look upon one more body.

It's just...that, well, he simply did not want the twisted mask of death to be his enduring memory of his idol. Dick Grayson deserved so much better than that.

Traitorous drops of moisture dampened his cheeks as his emotions swirled around him, fluctuating rapidly between bitterness, fear, love, hope, anger, and all that was in-between. His grip on the windowsill tightened still further, if that was possible, as the urge to run away from this room and his life gripped him.

'No.'

He was better than this.

'Stop it.'

The Bat had trained him to do more than simply fall apart at times like this.

'Suck it up, Drake.'

Instead of trying to fight it instinctively, he forced himself to deliberately relax and allow the tumult to flow...to flow out of him and away into the distance, never to return until he allowed it to. His breathing slowly evened out as he gradually regained control, while his eyes opened to stare fuzzily at the frosted glass window and then slowly turned towards the damn gurney in the middle of the room.

He moved automatically, drawn away from the window as if attracted by a magnet, feeling so surreal, so dreamlike...so blessedly detached that he could only hope he'd be able to maintain it until he was far away from this place. This time, when he approached the gurney, there was no hesitation to pull the sheet down the body with a flourish. Involuntarily, his eyes were drawn to the head, half expecting to see the handsome features he had missed so much. Despite the half-trance he felt himself to be in, he sucked his breath in deeply at the horrific sight he had unwittingly revealed.

There was no head.

There wasn't much of anything else either.

Not even he, who understood Dick arguably better than even Bruce did, could relate the shining presence of his surrogate brother to this...to this brown, charred husk that lay on the gurney. It barely even looked human. How could it possibly have once flown through the night with a fluid grace he had always envied? How could this burned, headless thing have once been the man he had always wanted to be?

He closed his eyes against the sight and tried to fling his mind even deeper into the dreamlike state that had protected him so well before. Anything to avoid the images ingrained in his psyche by that one glancing look, to stop the thoughts racing through his skull like cheetahs on amphetamines...

Finally, eyes barely slitted open, he pulled out the evidence-collecting kit from the pocket of his tatttered jacket and arranged its contents on a clear space on the gurney, then put on the surgical mask from the back pocket of his ripped jeans. Moving quickly and without thought, he gathered what evidence he could without looking too hard at what he was touching.

Putting away his evidence and the kit as quickly as he gathered it and feeling an urgent need to get out before had a breakdown, he still took the time to return the covering sheet over the body and give it a reverential pat before carefully moving the gurney to its original position in the morgue's holding room.

'Sleep well, my brother.'

Then he fled out a window and began clambering up the fire escape, moving faster and faster with every rung that he climbed. He heard exclamations of surprise behind him and below him as some people saw him streak by, but he kept running. Nothing was going to stop him. By the time he reached the safety of the roof, he was moving at a fast sprint and the trembling that had started it all was making his teeth knock together loudly. He ran across the roof, ducking over grills, around skylights and under air-conditioning pipes until he reached the remotest corner of the roof.

Assured that he was finally alone and unseen, he fell to his knees under a particularly large sheltering pipe and retched. The bile burned his throat as it came up and tears of anguish streamed down his cheeks, but it was nothing compared to the flaming pain that burned within his chest.

The entire sequence of actually gathering the evidence had only lasted a few minutes, but it still felt like an eternity. Yes, he was a professional, trained by the Bat to handle situations a lot tougher than gathering evidence from one body...but this was different. Vastly so. This was his brother, his light, his center...or at least, the tag on the corpse said it was.

He hoped it wasn't. It shouldn't be.

But it was.

And the evidence he'd just gathered would prove it, he knew without doubt.

His hands were still shaking as he pushed himself up and wiped his mouth. For a fleeting moment, he badly wanted a bottle of water to remove the vile tastes in his mouth, but in the next moment he accepted it as his due penance for all his failures. He grabbed the special cell-phone from a pocket of Alvin Draper's jacket and fumbled for the memory button holding Oracle's secured number.

"Oracle."

His eyes watered again as he heard her voice not a moment too soon and he clutched the phone to his shoulder as he curled himself into a ball, rocking himself pitifully as he sobbed the tears he'd kept bottled up for so long.

"Tim?" she asked with mounting concern, knowing right away that it was he, not Alvin Draper. "You okay? What's wrong?"

"Tell me he's not dead, Babs." He began shaking again as his stomach twisted inside him in another warning of what's to come. "Tell me that thing isn't him," he pleaded miserably, his voice choking. "Please tell me it ain't so."

And the tears continued to fall.

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The young woman sat on the edge of Pier 12A in Blüdhaven's harbor, her legs hanging over the side and swinging gently in the soft eight o'clock breeze. She had been sitting there for the few hours since dawn at the very least, but had so far shown no signs of any desire to move. More than one worker of the docks had come up and asked what was wrong, but every single one was rebuffed with a small smile and a shake of the head. In the end, they all just gave up on the apparently mute girl and went on to other things – although they weren't so ungentlemanly that they didn't quietly keep watch on her.

Donna Troy, however, didn't quite care what they did. Garth had disappeared into the murky waters of Blüdhaven harbor at least three hours eariler, and she had promised to wait until he returned...and so she waited, ignoring those around her as she spent her time swinging her legs and staring out over the water.

It gave her plenty of time to exhaust her supply of tears. For although outwardly she appeared quite calm, inside she was crying bitterly, weeping for the life she'd lost. She'd be weeping for a long time to come, she suspected.

And why shouldn't she cry?

There had always been something special between her and the young Titan she had first truly known as Dick Grayson, then Robin, and then again as Nightwing. She had always felt drawn to the serious youth with the shining eyes, his quick intellect hidden by his own humility and laughing smile – and let's not forget the shadow of the Bat. He, in turn, had felt drawn to her, a little girl aspiring to be like Wonder Woman with a past hidden in shadows. Over the years, though, they had changed. She had found her family, lost it, then found it all over again, and eventually became a hero in her own right as "Troia". In turn he grew up, left the Bat, changed his guise to Nightwing, found the Bat again, and finally became his own man. And through it all, the bond between them had always remained, in fact strengthening over the years. Not even their falling out over Kory had damaged their friendship.

But now...now the ominous specter of death had succeeded where life had not. Now their friendship lay shattered and broken by the club of Death and Grief, shattered into a thousand tiny slivers that were slowly destroying her heart.

'Why oh why did it have to be you, Dick?'

It was at times like this when she could feel that the most, when she could feel the shards of their connection in her mind and heart. It was at times like this when the silence was overpowering, when being alone was almost too much to bear. This was when she most keenly felt the emptiness created within her five hours ago when Robin told her the bad news. And she knew from long, painful experience that she would spend the rest of her life dreading times like this, times when she could not face living without those she loved.

Out of them all, Dick had probably been the closest to her heart, followed closely by her dear sister, Diana – aka Wonder Woman – and her late husband. From almost as far back as she could remember, Dick had always been there for her in whatever guise he wore at the time. From even before the first creation of the Teen Titans, from before their introduction to each other as fellow superheroes, they had been friends. There was a deep bond between them that always seemed to be more than just that between friends, or even between siblings. Sometimes, she thought it was as if they were two halves of the one soul...just as she often felt with Roy Harper, but in a more pure and platonic way.

'Why did it have to be you and not me?'

The pain within her was great, now that a part of her heart, of her soul, had been brutally ripped away. How was she supposed to go on when all she could think of was joining him? How could she find his murderers when she wanted to kill the b–––ds so bad it hurt? How could they expect her to help when all she wanted was to curl up in the corner and cry a river that would surely drown the world? Why? Why did he have to leave her alone? Why did his killers have to target her dearest friend? Why did she have to live without him? Why couldn't they have taken her instead, sparing her the all-encompassing pain that would never leave her alone?

'WHY?!'

Why indeed. Why should she not cry for what she had lost, for what they all had lost? Every tear she shed was for all the years that they would now spend alone, knowing as they did that they would never again be the complete team they once there, the unit that had faced down and conquered so much. Dick Grayson, in whatever he wore, was always the link that made them whole, that made them a team. And without him, without his shining personality, there was a cavity that she knew would never be—

And then her thoughts stopped in their tracks as Tempest abruptly launched himself out of the water with a loud splash.

Biting a back a gasp, she quickly wiped away the tears she hadn't been aware of while Garth dragged his lower body onto the pier beside, shuddering and groaning painfully as he gasped for breath. "Te–Garth? Are you okay?" she asked, thankful her voice at least sounded fairly normal even as she caught herself from saying his 'other' name in public. It always better to be safe than sorry when it came to identities, especially in a place as miserable as Blüdhaven.

Chest heaving, Garth only nodded. He closed his eyes and mumbled something under his breath, the words he needed regularly interrupted by small coughs.

Donna said nothing more but watched carefully, aware he must be trying to cast some sort of spell but unsure why.

After the few seconds it took for the spell of cleansing to work, Garth's eyes slowly opened again. He spent a few more seconds just laying on the pier, controlling his breathing and gathering his strength, before he finally managed to roll over onto his back and lever himself up into a sitting position.

Donna was already waiting for him with a towel to wrap around his body. She tried a small, sad smile as she wrapped the fluffy object around her teammate's shoulders, but was still aware of how uncomfortable the smile sat on her features. "Feeling better now?" she asked quietly.

Garth nodded as he grabbed the edges of the towel and pulled it tighter around his shoulders. "Yes, thanks." He closed his eyes as another involuntary shudder wracked his frame, and tried to wrap his freezing body deeper into the warm folds. "I shall say this for Blüdhaven. I never thought I would be so glad to be out of the water."

"That bad?" Noticing his shivers, Donna wriggled closer and wrapped a warm arm around his shoulders.

He nodded, his unusual – in 'human' terms – purple eyes staring out over the bustling harbor. "Humans must have no idea how hard it is for the marine species to survive even twenty-four hours in this 'harbor,' " he sighed, adopting a semi-conversational tone to hide the emotions swirling deep within him. "The inhabitants of this city dump toxic waste into the harbor at least once a day. That figure, however, cannot truly take into account the further dumping of other waste that occurs every hour of every day, on the hour. I really do not understand humans at all." He shook his head in confused anger as he gestured at the foul, murky waters surrounding the pier. "How can they be so willing to destroy what they rely on for trading and for life itself?"

Donna shrugged and gave him a small squeeze before dropping her arm. "What can I say? I'm an Amazon." She leaned back a little, supporting herself on straight arms. "So I gather you made contact?"

"Yes, I did make 'contact,' as you say. It was fairly simple to remain only in the sections of less polluted water, it being something I would have done regardless of where the marine animals were located. That said," he sighed regretfully, "I still did not get very far."

"Why?"

He glanced over at her through the corner of his eye and gave a grim smile. "Visibility is under a meter, Donna, even in the best water. Depending on how busy the harbor is, there is at least one corpse dumped here every week – sometimes, though, you can get a couple of bodies every night for a month. Now, the bodies are always dumped in a few select places. Unfortunately, the sharks know this and haunt these select few areas, and they tend to get a little territorial. The fish I managed to contact told me that no one has ever managed to get close enough to see the bodies without being eaten themselves. Now, sharks in themselves are generally very gentle creatures, but I try to make it a practice not to talk to ones with a taste for human flesh."

Donna sighed and closed her eyes, her shoulders slumping despite her efforts to tell herself that this wasn't the end of their investigations. "Another dead end, then," she concluded softly.

Garth shook his head. "Not necessarily. We may not know if our friend's body was dumped in the harbor itself, but that is not really necessary to find the information we seek."

Her eyes cracked open and she cocked one eyebrow. "Illuminate me."

Garth shrugged and dropped the towel, clothed once again in his 'civvies' with a small spell already hiding his facial scars, reminders of the harsh life he had been forced to live when younger. "In simple terms, dear Donna, Robin was told that the body was dumped in a ditch about a week ago, so it will still a good idea to check the harbor."

"Why? Personally, I don't know why Oracle suggested we check this out. I can't make the connection between some ditch by the road and the harbor." Donna confessed, playing dumb to draw out her companion. Taking his change in garments as a signal, she silently handed him his sunglasses.

Garth grinned quietly as he put on the dark glasses he forced himself to wear to hide his purple eyes whenever he went on the surface as 'plain old Garth,' and not as the Titan called Tempest or as Garth Corin, the Atlantean Ambassador. "Only because Oracle thinks in strange ways, at times. Allow me to explain. Ditches are connected to storm drains, which inevitably dump their contents into the nearest large body of water. In Blüdhaven's case, it is the river that runs through the middle of the city...a river which itself runs into the sea through the harbor. Moreover, the storm drains only offload their contents at certain specified places into the river, and each drain has a specific number of ditches to which it is connected. "

Donna nodded slowly. "So what you're saying is that all we need to know is if the fish have noticed body fluids in the water entering the river from one of the drains during the right period...and we'll be on the right track."

Garth nodded and stood. "The details are a lot more complicated than that, but you have the basic gist." He reached down, extending his hand to help Troia to her feet. "Except that then we will then need to find out which body it was and where it came from. Still not a pleasant thought in a town with a morgue as busy as Blüdhaven's," he sighed, suppressing a shudder, "but at least its better than that harbour."

Donna accepted his help to stand then carefully brushed her clothes down. There was no telling who or what had been on the pier before them and where all of it had been before that. "Shouldn't be too hard," she mused softly, "not if we can narrow down which drain it comes from using what you get out of the fish. Combine that with whatever information we get from the BCPD and this Flaherty detective, along with Oracle's prowess, and we should be able to tell if we're on the right track."

"You are probably right," Garth conceeded quietly, "but that is not the end of all our problems."

Donna looked up at him and smiled with her mouth. "Since when have the Titans completed a mission without some problem cropping up?"

He paused and scratched his head for a moment. "Good point. I certainly cannot remember a mission where something did not go exactly to plan." He shrugged as they began walking back towards the docks. "I guess it goes to show that we are either incredibly stupid, incredibly lucky, incredibly resourceful, or all three."

"All too true. So what's the problem?"

The lighter moment past, his smile died as he sighed and slumped his shoulders. "The power surges that have been playing havoc with all of Blüdhaven's computers have also affected the city's drainage systems. The release of all the collected water from the storm water drains into the river is completely automated – no need for human input at all, unless it is to fix the machinery when it malfunctions. From what I gather, if – and I emphasize if – they get it fixed in time, the next release of water occurs at about six tonight."

She looked at him strangely. "So? Why should that be a problem?"

"The last release of water occurred about two and a half weeks ago, just before the surges began. If the harbor is any indication, I have no desire to discover what humans are capable of doing in their 'ditches.'" He shot her a pained look as they left the pier for more stable ground, the sound of their footsteps changing from the echo of wooden planks to the hard tap-taps of concrete. "Do you know how hard it is to track one small trace of human blood to take a sample of it when all you can smell is excrement?" He continued without waiting for an answer. "Let me tell you, it is one of the reasons why I like staying in Atlantis or the Tower. At least there I know the water is pure and clean when it seeps in through my pores."

She shuddered herself in sympathy. "I see what you mean."

They walked on in comfortable silence for a while.

As they walked, Donna found herself giving her companion quick looks out of the corner of her eye. Her friend had certainly changed over the years...just like everything else had, it seemed. Gone was the nervous little kid who looked like Aquaman and had an inferiority complex due to what he thought was his uselessness and clumsiness when out of the water. In his place stood a young man with wisdom beyond his years, treasurer of the Titans and what she privately thought of as their 'powerhouse' of magic. He had certainly matured over the years after he accepted his place in the world. Some things, however, would never change, like the little furrow he got between his eyes – although he always swore he'd never moved his brows to cause it – that always seemed to appear when he was worried about something.

Like now.

"That's not all that's worrying you, is it Garth?" she asked suddenly.

He heaved another sigh and smiled sadly. "Am I that transparent?"

"The furrow between your eyes gave you away." He unconsciously reached up and rubbed it, and she had to hide her fleeting amusement when it did not go away. "So, spill, what's got you worried?"

He chewed his lip thoughtfully, debating whether it was worth trying to explain the feelings he had come to call his 'danger-sense' ever since he'd trained with Atlan, Arthur's father, in that alternate dimension. With a careless shrug as if to say, 'What the hell', his semi-formal wording slowly easing into more casual phrasing as he explained quietly, "Call me pessimistic or a defeatist, but I cannot help but feel that something is going to happen while we shall be waiting for the release of water. I can sense it in the very air I breathe, like a ticking time bomb waiting to explode in all our faces. I'm not sure the information we will get from the release of the storm water will be enough to make it worth our while not to be there when it happens."

She frowned as she sorted out his dire words. "When what happens?" she pressed.

Garth shrugged uneasily, and the little furrow in-between his eyes deepened. "That's just it, Donna. I do not know what is going to happen, I just know that it will...and I know that I don't really want to be in Blüdhaven when it does."

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Fifteen minutes, and it would be noon. Fifteen minutes, and it would be twelve hours since Robin's heart began to crack when he found the fingerprint's match, finally bursting about about six hours later so that the shattered pieces could fall around him and destroy all his hopes and dreams. An eternity, in anyone's book.

Tim Drake paced around the Batcave, but his black Robin boots made almost no noise on the dusty floor as he circled the rooms. His clothes were half Alvin Draper's, half Robin's – Robin's boots, mask, tunic and cape along with Alvin's ripped jeans, bracelets, and fake earring – which made a statement about Tim's state of mind that even Alfred – who thought he had seen it all with Bruce – was hard pressed to ignore.

The elderly gentleman advanced from the stairs to the Manor to the Bat Computer, calmly bearing a tray with a mug of hot cocoa and a sample of Tim's favorite biscuits. "Master Tim, I must insist that you try my latest batch of cookies. I—"

Tim did not look up nor stop pacing when he interrupted, "No thanks, Al. I don't think I could face eating anything right now." He grimaced as the images from this morning, the body in the morgue, flashed before his eyes yet again, causing his stomach to twist within him warningly before he managed to push them away again. He shook his head, fixing his gaze to the floor in front of his pacing feet to avoid the pity he dreaded seeing in Alfred's eyes for being so shook up about one single body.

"Then at least slow down long enough to have this cup of hot cocoa. You'll find you'll feel better with higher blood sugar levels," Alfred remonstrated gently, setting the tray down by the computer.

The only word that penetrated was 'hot cocoa'. The rest just passed him in a blur. "Huh?" Tim looked up and actually took in his surroundings for the first time since he had raced in here from the morgue. The Redbird was still where he had left it, parked haphazardly on the Batcave floor. The Crays were crunching the data on the samples he had brought back from Dick's body, and next to the Crays...stood Alfred, patiently holding out a steaming cup of cocoa. He blushed. "Sorry, Alfred. Guess I'm a little more uptight than I thought."

The elderly gentleman's gentleman waited patiently until the young man took his cup and had a few sips before he placed the tray under his arm. The plate of cookies was already waiting for Tim by the console.

The worn youth closed his eyes as the hot liquid slid down his throat and collected in his stomach, appeasing an ache of hunger of which he hadn't even been aware. Another sip, and the relaxing warmth began to spread throughout his body, soothing the little aches and pains he had accumulated throughout the last twenty-four hours – doing nothing, however, for the lump of ice that had gathered around his soul. He favored Alfred with a small lop-sided smile that never reached his eyes. "Thanks, Al. I didn't realize how much I needed that."

Alfred only nodded slightly and did not turn to go as he normally did. "Of course not, Master Tim. Have you prepared your story for your father?"

Tim grimaced for a moment at the reminder before he schooled his face and gave a careless shrug. "No need. He and Dana went on another trip after checking me out of Brentwood for the holidays. As long as I'm there when he gets home in another two weeks, he won't care what I've been doing. I don't mind. It gives me plenty of time to solve this mess." He shrugged as he turned away, wishing he had not sounded like he was still trying to convince himself he was not as upset as he really was. Right now, he'd really like Jack to be there for him. Hell, even Dana with her constant concern would be nice right now. Without Dick by his side and the Bat gone on a mission, he needed someone to keep him drifting over the line. He focused on the Crays to avoid Alfred's gaze, muttering to himself, "Besides, I'll need all of that time to sort myself out."

Alfred, as always, pretended not to hear the final comment. "And Master Bruce?"

Tim checked the watch still on his wrist from his time as Alvin Draper. "If all went well, he's due back about sunset." A beat. "I think."

"Then shall I suppose that your wearing of a hole in my floor is because you are waiting for the results on the tests on those samples?"

Tim nodded absently, not really having heard the dry comment as his gaze flicked back to the large screen before both of them. "Yeah, it should be done..."

Right on cue, a muted beep interrupted him.

He shot Alfred another small half-smile, and finished, "...right about now." With the ease of long practice, he stood before the Batcomputer and clicked to remove the message that the tests were done.

The mouse pointer, however, hesitated over the icon to open the file with the test results.

Tim wavered, unsure if he could do this. 'I don't think I have the strength to go on if it's all really true.' He knew, with the certainty that comes from living on the brink of losing control for far too long, that it would destroy him to have his worst fears confirmed. If Dick were truly dead...then this Robin would follow him into oblivion. And Bruce....would probably be dead by the end of the year. It did not matter to Tim if Batman still pounded the streets at night for years to come. Without the only thing in his life that kept Batman from crossing the line and taking over completely, Bruce would be dead – if not in body, then always in spirit.

And Babs......... He shuddered mentally. He didn't even want to think about that.

He swallowed hard and closed his eyes. 'Do I really have the right to inflict that on them all? Perhaps I shouldn't open it... I don't want to be responsible for the destruction of my family.'

That thought, however, faded in power in the cold light of the needs of his heart.

'But I have to know!'

He could not continue like this. His heart could not take the strain of constantly wondering if all this was some great hoax. He could not live out the rest of his life like this, knowing that he could have saved his brother and found his murderers if only he had tried a little harder. He needed closure. He needed to know that he had done his best. Even if it meant his life was over, he had to know the truth.

With that thought in the forefront of his mind, he pressed the icon to open the required file.

"Then I shall leave you to them, Master Timothy. Call me if you need me." Alfred said quietly, then slipped his tray into both hands and prepared to depart.

An infinite coldness swept over Tim at the thought of being even more alone than he already was, of being without company in the dark cave as he faced down his demons. He whirled around and called out quickly, catching the butler before he could climb the stairs out of the cave. "Actually Alfred, I'd really prefer it if you stayed. I...I need someone here to anchor me. I can't do this on my own," he explained quietly, hating but unable to change the wavering vulnerability in his voice.

"As you wish, Master Tim." Alfred nodded slightly and moved back behind the young vigilante as Robin turned back to the Crays, bending his mental rules on decorum to lay a comforting hand on the boy's shoulder. He only allowed a small smile to grace his worn features once the boy's attention was firmly fixed on the computer, pleased that the boy had acknowledged his weaknesses. Timothy had grown up so much since he had first come into their lives.

Taking a deep breath to steady his beating heart, Tim began reading. Alfred watched the youth's face carefully as the pages slowly flipped down the screen, but paid no attention to the file itself. He could always read it later, if he so chose. For now, he found out all he needed to know and worry about at this point time by watching the expressions that moved over Tim's face.

First, there showed a yearning full of dread. Knowing Tim as Alfred did, he knew exactly why the young man felt this way. He yearned to know the truth, desiring with all his heart that the results would either confirm or reject his suspicions. Yet at the same time he dreaded them, fearing that he would find that this was real, that this was not some nightmare from which he might somehow wake up.

Then came the look of absorption as Tim read through the detailed lists on the results of the tests. Under his mentor, the Bat, Robin had been well trained and instructed in the ways of evidence gathering. In fact, he probably understood the results better than many of the so-called 'experts' in the field that were not related to the 'Bat Family'.

As he read, however, there came a dawning comprehension that melded quickly into horror. Tim gasped loudly and reached blindly for the chair to the Crays, grabbing it with the ferocity of a drowning man clasping a life-preserver. The chair groaned in protest when he sat down heavily, his legs no longer able to support him. Throughout it all his eyes remained riveted on the screen as the results continued to scroll down the screen.

Reaching the end of the file, Tim jerkily leant over and rested his head on folded arms on top of the console. His shoulders slumped, his eyes closed tightly, but still no tears emerged – but not for want of the release. His wells had long since run dry.

Alfred looked away, clenching his jaw tightly as he struggled to hold back the waves of despair. 'So it is true after all,' he thought to himself numbly. 'The young Master is truly dead.' There were no tears – not yet. That, he knew, would come later, when there would be none to hear his spirit crumble.

He straightened his back till he stood like a ramrod, dark eyes staring straight ahead as he reached for the reservoir of strength, the inner pool of determination and loyalty that was the only thing to keep him going through the darkest times of his service to the Wayne family. An almost-sigh escaped his lips as the familiar strength surrounded him, bolstering him and giving him the strength to continue that history of service for just a few more minutes. And those few minutes would be enough to do what he had to do...they had to be.

He swallowed hard and tightened his grip on the young man's shoulder. "It is okay to let it out, you know," he spoke softly so as not to disturb Tim's already fragile state. "Let it out, Master Tim. Give yourself the release you crave."

Tim shook his head but kept it resting on his arms. "I can't," he muttered, his voice muffled. "I've already cried a couple of rivers." A sucked-in breath. "What do I do when the wells are dry? When I can't afford to fall apart?"

Alfred moved around into his field of view and knelt before the young vigilante, wrapping his hands around the young man's shoulders. "You must not do as your mentor does, my child. Do not bury your feelings, or else they will suffocate you. Do not lock them away, where they will only become a festering burden you will never be rid of." His gentle hands slipped between the folded arms and jaw, cradling the youth's chin and forcing him to look him in the eye. "Let your emotions out, Tim. Let them flow...and then let them go. Do not disgrace Master Richard's memory by refusing to honor him with your grief."

Tim's blue eyes glittered pale but bright, though not from any emotion of joy or happiness. "He wouldn't want me to become like the Bat, would he Alfred?" he asked softly, swallowing hard to keep his voice steady.

Alfred shook his head gently. "No, he would not. Remember what I said, Master Tim. Never, ever, bury your emotions. They can no more be denied than you can deny Robin a chance to fly for one more night."

"I won't." Tim nodded bravely to show he understood and favored Alfred with another tremulous smile, this time using his full mouth even if it still did not reach his eyes. "Thanks Alfred," he spoke softly, eyes grateful nevertheless.

"Anything for you, Master Tim," Alfred returned softly. "I shall be upstairs if you need me."

The elderly man finally turned away climbed the stairs up to the clock with a heavy heart, knowing he faced the rest of his life without his shining light. For many years, he had enjoyed his life as a gentleman's gentleman to the Wayne 'Family' – due mainly to the entrance of a certain dark-haired boy with a bright smile and expressive eyes all those years ago. Even when the boy had grieved for the parents he had lost, even when his pain was greatest and Bruce most distant, the fire within the boy still burned bright. Sure, it wavered, as it would within any child so brutally orphaned, but it never faltered and died as it had within Bruce on that fateful night in Crime Alley. Ever since the boy's arrival, the Manor had always resounded with the sounds of the child's bursts of pure joy and bright laughter.

Then the boy had grown, matured, changing from a youthful sidekick struggling to keep up on his short little legs, to become a hero in his own right, respected and admired by his peers. And the light had only grown in strength, even though it had faltered for a while after the fiasco from the Joker's bullet and the months that followed. It had always seemed, though, that the flame would burn forever, resisting all of the dousing events that life seemed to throw at Dick Grayson. After the repairing of the relationship between Bruce and Dick and especially after Babs opened her heart to him, the fire that burned in Dick's eyes had seemed brighter and stronger than ever before.

Yet, as Alfred slipped through the hidden entrance to the cavern below the Manor and shut it behind him to reset the clock to the proper time, it was with the numb knowledge that despite the bright rays of light streaming into the Manor from the midday sun, the Light that had graced the Manor for so long was gone. What he had thought to be an inextinguishable light had proved itself a waxen candle, a flame that burned bright but was always doomed to die like everything else when the wax melted. All too soon for them all, the wick had been cruelly extinguished by the hands of Dick Grayson's killers.

Now the upper floors Manor could only echo the mournful sounds of an old man's pain and loneliness.

Below the Manor though, in the quietness of the cave, Tim finished wiping his eyes and resolutely turned back to the screen. He was determined to follow Alfred's advice through to the end. He had let his pain flow as much as he could; the ache within his chest that remained would never be removed unless Dick was brought back to life, he knew, and he hoped that it would therefore serve to drive him until this mess was over. If it was the last thing he did while he wore the Robin mask, he would bring his brother's killers to justice.

They were going to pay for what they'd done.

Moments later, he was looking into the comforting visage of Barbara Gordon. "Babs," he breathed softly. He cleared his throat and spoke more loudly, now all-business, "Oracle, I've got the results here from the tests on the samples I collected. I'm sending it to you right now." He clicked on the right icon and waited for the box to come up to tell him the Crays were transmitting. It did not take long.

"Got it. Just let me hook up the Titans as well before I look at it. They'll want to know the results as well." A moment's pause. "Okay, they're on."

Roy's voice immediately boomed down the line, sounding entirely too cheerful (and too awake) for Robin's liking. "Yo, Bat Boy! How ya doin'?"

Robin ignored the question, his wounds far too raw and his insecurity of where he now stood combining to forbid him answering directly. "I've got the results here from the tests on the samples I took."

Donna let out a low whistle. "That was quick. I thought such things took a few weeks to get results."

"Highest priority on the Batcomputer," Oracle answered absently, reading the file as she spoke, "can be six hours or better. Besides, there wasn't much of the sample that was useful."

"So whaddaya got?" Wally demanded.

Robin answered with an even tone and calmness he did not feel. "Not much. Just like the samples, the results are incomplete."

"How can that be?" Garth broke in, his normally calm demeanor replaced by one of subdued intensity. "I had thought that such things things tended to be absolute. Either the DNA is his, or it is not. How is it possible for it to be incomplete?"

"It's not that simple, Garth," Robin explained with a semblance of patience. "There's about twenty-seven markers in the DNA that are acceptable to use for identification. These markers specify characteristics unique to the individual. By combining the markers, we can get it accurate to the point that under twelve people out of all those who've ever lived will have the same combination of DNA markers."

"But when you don't have all the markers," Oracle picked up smoothly, "then the number of people with the same combination increases dramatically. For instance, if you have only half of the markers, then you've got to worry about over three-quarters of the people who've ever lived instead of the original thirteen."

"So how many markers do we have?" Tempest asked quietly.

"Twenty," Oracle answered tiredly. "Enough to give us a 55 accuracy on the hypothesis that the DNA is Dick's. However, it could be anyone else that is Caucasian with a family tendency towards black hair, blue eyes, and flexible bodies.

"Yeah," Robin broke in darkly, "or we could have the DNA of a chimpanzee."

"A chimpanzee?!"

"A chimpanzee," Robin repeated flatly, "or almost any other kind of primate for that matter. The DNA is roughly close enough for it to work when the bodies are decomposed and put through a fire. Batman and I had to solve a case like that only a few years ago. A serial killer was passing off the dismembered, empty bodies of various primates as his victims. The actual bodies were taken apart by the killer for personal souvenirs...and also a loose definition of organ donation for the families."

There was silence as the others digested his words.

Wally was the first to realize exactly what the youth had deliberately left unsaid. "Ewwww! That's so totally gross. Now I'm never gonna get any sleep tonight."

Garth was lost. "I'm sorry, I cannot follow this reasoning. What can be so bad about organ donation? Is that not a laudable cause? Besides, corpse dismemberment happens all the time in surface-dweller cases, I'm told."

"Think about it," Donna explained grimly. "He said 'organ donation to families'. Organs, Garth. That's things like your heart, liver, eyes, and so on. Now take that, and imagine them being...'donated' to someone you love dearly."

"Oh." The Atlantian's voice went unnaturally quiet. "I get your point." He was silent for several seconds. "So is that why we received the hand?" he asked suddenly.

Robin shrugged carelessly. "Like a copycat crime? It's possible. I don't know."

"Wait a minute!" Oracle interrupted firmly, "I just thought of something. We only got one hand, right?" A chorus of agreements answered her question. "Then what if," she continued thoughtfully, "the body wasn't mutilated like that?"

"Mmmmm," Wally agreed thoughtfully. "It would certainly tell us that it wasn't Dick's body."

"Yeah, sure," Roy broke in sarcastically, "but then we'd still have to figure out where the rest of him is to go with his hand."

"Okay, enough speculation you two," Donna cut in. "Robin, I know you probably don't want to think about this, but you've got to remember. Was the body missing a hand?"

Robin's jaw tightened and all the saliva drained from his mouth as he forced himself to examine the gruesome memories he had been trying hard ever since the morgue to forget. It took all his strength not to run away into the cave, away from the pregnant silence as he struggled for control. His eyes clenched shut as he spoke the answer as if the words had to be dragged from deep within him: "Yeah, it was."

Ever shrewd, Oracle asked softly, "Think, Robin, please. Was it the right one?"

Robin looked up at the screen, his face seeming to be carved from stone to those watching, although his eyes were bloodshot and staring into the distance behind his mask. He blinked behind his lenses, trying to stop the involuntary tears from appearing below his mask. "R–Right?" he queried hoarsely. "T–The...hand...w–we received was the left one."

"Of course, my mistake," Oracle apologised quickly, realising her error in semantics. "Was it the left hand, the correct one, that was missing?"

Again, he paused before he answered as he examined his memories once again. At the time, he had tried with all his strength not to look, not to notice anything about the body. But this line of questioning was forcing him to re-examine himself, to try and dredge up all the information he could...all the information that he just knew was going to inhabit his nightmares for the rest of his life. His eyes slid shut once more and his head bowed as he replied softly, simply, "Yes."

Pregnant pause.

"So it was his after all," Garth concluded softly, reluctantly voicing the thought no-one else could.

"Don't say that," Oracle protested, all too aware she was grasping at straws. "We don't know that for sure. The DNA was inconclusive, remember. We've got to keep an open mind here." The added thought was unspoken, but they knew it was there regardless; Oracle wasn't the only one who was in denial.

The conversation washed over Robin without him noticing. He frowned as he (reluctantly) concentrated on his memories. There was something about the confusion concerning exactly which hand had been missing... 'Come on, Robin. Think! What was the other hand like...?' His head jerked up and his eyes opened wide as the answer occurred to him. "The right hand was missing, too," he interrupted suddenly.

Oracle unconsciously pressed her hand to her speakers, wondering if she had heard that last bit correctly. "What? Say that again, Robin."

Robin breathed deeply and tried to dispel the disturbing images in his mind with the air as it left his lungs. It worked...partially. "Now that I really think about it," he began slowly, feeling proud that his voice barely trembled, "the body was missing both hands." He paused for a moment, and he shuddered as another disturbing detail arose in his mind. "Actually, the head was missing too. I didn't get as far down as the feet."

Silence.

This time, it was Donna who finally spoke the thoughts on everyone's mind. "Wait a minute. If both hands were missing...then where on earth is the second one?"

"And where's the head?" Oracle asked softly.

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Somewhere in the Gotham–Haven Corridor, at that exact moment...

It is said in some circles that even when the sun was shining down from on high and shadows were virtually non-existent, there was still plenty of places where the darkness not only over places but also people. Yet while there were many that were ruled by the dark, there was only one who ruled it completely.

To no one else did this most fickle of all mistresses come when called. To no other did the Dark allow itself to submit to. No one, and no thing, would ever manipulate and mould the Darkness like he could. The others might only operate under the shadow of night for their own purposes, Bat and Criminal alike. They could hide in it, love it and always live for it....but the darkness always left them with the rise of the morning sun.

But not the Black Phoenix.

It was he who was loved by the Dark. It was he who was hidden by Darkness. He was the one that the Darkness lived for. For no one else did it exist. It was all for he.

For no one else.

No one.

None.

Not even the Bat, the so-called 'Dark Knight' could compare. Where the Bat disappeared at the rising of the dawn, the Black Phoenix simply created his own little patch of night in which to while away the daylight hours. While the Bat hid in the shadows, the Black Phoenix lived in the shadows he wrapped around himself like a garment. When the Bat seemed a creature born of darkness, the Black Phoenix was the darkness.

The Bat, to turn a phrase, was only a poor shadow of the reality.

As such, he was not worthy of living. Batman was the only one out of all his enemies that the Black Phoenix had sworn himself to destroy without mercy. And why shouldn't he, after what the Bat had done to him?

That was why he was now pouring over this, his latest project.

To his mind, it was an ironic moment. It seemed very fitting that just as he had arisen from the ashes of a bomb from the Bat, so too he would use a bomb to destroy Batman. Fire had created and tested him, and his Fire would recreate and test his enemies to their limits.

Perhaps the Bat might even emerge anew, in the same way as he himself had assumed his new form from the ashes of his past. For the ones who were worthy of joining him, the ones with a flame of power burning within their souls, he knew his Fire would not harm these. Rather, he would be able to release that inner flame and offer them the great privilege of joining him in his Quest. If they refused...then they would join the unworthy, the ones he had no use for. These would be cast off, left to suffer destruction by the orange flames of True Fire, and he would use their ashes to remake the world anew.

He was, after all, a generous man...and generosity was a relative term.

After all, it was the law of the streets that punishments should be as 'blood for blood; eye for eye; hand for hand,' was it not? In that light, even the rather 'extreme' gesture of removing Nightwing's hands had been perfectly legal and just...especially considering the so-called 'vigilante' had done the same to him when he'd been at the other end of the knife all those months ago.

Besides, he had no plans to do to Nightwing's girlfriend Barbara Gordon what the scum-sucking vigilante had promised to do to his.

Now that was being generous.

With another twisted (entirely sane) smirk, he returned to the plans before him. In some ways, he hoped he would not kill the Bat with this project of his. The plans now in motion against the Bat were going to blow his mind right of this galaxy if ever it was here to begin with...

Besides, he did so want to be there to see the expression on Bruce's face when he saw what had happened to his precious 'ward'....

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What Came To Pass II

Don't move; don't even breathe.
Don't think; don't even recall.
Don't feel; don't even try.
Just don't.

He lay on his back, staring straight up into the distance through half-open eyes. He dared not even try to move, to soothe that annoying itch on the very tip of his nose...or what was left of his nose. Even if his life depended on it, which it did, he could not...would not...move.

Oh, he was not tied down or anything. The Bats had finally stopped doing that. There was no need to tie him up. Not anymore.

He might not remember much about their "sessions" together, but he recalled enough to know that he did not want to know the rest. All of what he did know was shrouded in mists of pain and suffering, but still his memories spoke to him of silent watchers to his unspeakable torments, of electric touches that would leave him shaking and crying, of whispers so tempting but ultimately resulting in the destruction of his soul if he obeyed them.

Had he broken? Had he obeyed those whispering calls to divulge what he knew?

He could not recall.

Everything seemed so hazy near the end, when he'd been hurting so much he could not even think without his brain aching. For some reason, he was not even sure it really mattered.

Would they have left him like this if he had broken? Wouldn't the Bat-Clan have stopped the agonizing techniques as soon as he broke, only inflicting further pain to keep him talking?

No, he had not broken...at least, he did not think he had. If he had, surely there would've been no need to— to—

No. It was better to not even think about that.

A soft whimper escaped his lips as his limbs jerked spasmodically. He winced in response, even though he was long since past the point of being embarrassed or shamed about the noises he made. In this case, though, he had an excuse... The torment of a simple muscle spasm created more than enough excruciating sensations that his normal controls failed him.

Had not he always been told that pain was a good sign, a sign that he was alive? He'd always thought it was bad, 'cause all his nights seemed to end in some kind of pain. It was a moot point now, though. Good or bad, he still could not escape it. He could not run away from it anymore than he could fly.

He couldn't fly; he hadn't been able make all his love's worries disappear, to let her soul fly free into the heavens she had loved so dearly.

Not anymore.

Not without any hands, at any rate.

As if they heard his thoughts – but how could they when they weren't even there? – a wave of hot, biting pain suddenly swept up his arms. Gods! If felt like his hands were immersed in a vat of fiery coals and— and—

He paused as the thought sunk in.

'Phantom pain,' he realised dully. 'Isn't that a good sign?'

He was not sure anymore. He could barely remember what his life had been like before his capture, what it was like to be without pain, what it felt like just to live, let alone what he'd learnt at school years ago. Memories of his past, of before this living torment, where blurred and jumbled in his mind, pushed aside and forgotten as he devoted more and more of his resources to simply surviving. For that matter, he could not remember when he'd last eaten or drunk anything. His memories told him they'd kept him alive using IVs to keep the nutrients up to him, along with all the drugs.

'Oh Gods, the drugs...'

He shut his eyes, groaning as he gave an involuntary shiver at the thought. The drugs had been horrendous. He'd been loaded up with many spices and hallucinogens that would've made even the Scarecrow blush in shame. They'd fed him so many drugs that he knew he'd be addicted to heroin, marijuana, speed, cocaine, and all the other drugs in the spectrum by the time he got out of here...if he ever left except in his own coffin.

Change that. He knew he was already an addict. The shaking and cravings so powerful that they rivaled the agony from his lost hands told him that. He'd probably been addicted from the very first dose they gave him, the one they said was the hefty dose of morphine to get him "needy."

The was also the last time he'd been given a painkiller in any shape or form. At least he was not addicted to painkillers. He'd need a whole truckload of them if he ever got out of here alive.....

But out of them all, though, he would have to say that the hallucinogens had been by far the most unpleasant. He'd relived his life all over again, but this time it was far worse. He never seemed to be able to move fast enough, to warn everyone in time, or even just to think fast enough. The words were clear in his memory, in his thoughts, but they seemed to echo in his mind, repeating and fading and increasing all at the same time.

In some ways, though, he would've preferred the hallucinations to this withdrawal. Even Nightwing and the Bat would've been hard put to resist the drugs in the quantities that they'd been pumping into him. Maybe that was why the Dark Knight and his 'sons' did it in the first place...they knew their captive would have no resistance.

So here he lay, trying desperately not to move, fevered and shaking in a painful mix of infection and withdrawal, trembling with the fear that the Bat would soon return...hoping Nightwing only been joking when he mentioned his 'going away gift'....

His eyes jerked open with a start.

'The bomb!'

Careful not to move his head too quickly, he cast his eyes around, looking desperately for the 'gift' they'd left for him.

'It should be here. He said it would. He was going to put it in here, right where I could see it. He told me. He—'

He saw it, located just far enough away that he had to twist his aching head to see it, and right away his heart sank.

Only five seconds left to live.

Even if he still had his hands – and he shuddered at another jolt of pain from his missing extremities – he would still be hard pressed to make it out of here in time. He could not even hold a jumpline in this condition anyway...Batman had broken most of the bones in both of his hands before Nightwing later removed them.

Not to mention the fact that he doubted his damaged spine or his broken legs would be able to stand up to the strain his escape would put upon them.

Four.

How would he escape anyway? It was not like he had a costume like they did with grappling hooks or in-built jumplines, or even the remnants of one. Come to think of it, he was not even sure what he'd been wearing when he'd been captured. Everything was so hazy...

Except for this, his last few seconds of life.

And there was something else...something he had to remember...

Three.

A memory...of just before they left. They'd been laughing, joking about something. He scrunched his forehead up as he tried to concentrate, somehow knowing it was important. If only he could remember!

Suddenly it hit him, and he almost sat up at the shocking, unsettling thought.

Two.

'M'love!'

He let out a choked gasp as he quickly lay back down, his heart beating frantically and his eyes darting around feverishly. Not even the agonizing pain that shot throughout his body was able to compare to the pain in his heart. That was what Nightwing had been joking about...about bringing his Love back here...and even if he did not survive their little gift, Nightwing swore they'd make him watch while they...while they...they...

One.

He grimaced and let out what would be his final breath, forcing himself to calm down. It did not matter. There was no time to get out, or even to leave some kind of warning. How could he? His comms had been confiscated just after his capture, and it was not exactly like he could write a farewell message anyway.

He turned his despondent gaze back to the timer on the bomb as he watched the final second tick down. A single tear trickled down his cheek at the thought of his Beloved forced to look up his broken, burned body...of her being treated like—

Zero.

The ground rumbled and shook as the sound of the explosion thundered throughout the confines of the room he lay in. The shockwave came first, rapidly covering the distance between he and the epicenter of the explosion, and then it was ripping through his abused body and sending him tumbling towards the far wall like a limp rag. He let out a pained cry as he came to rest against the far wall, jerking uncontrollably as the movement sent another agonizing spasm to wrack his body. And then he glimpsed the wall of fire advancing towards him, the heat emanating from the orange flames already vaporizing the tears of sorrow streaming down his cheeks.

His final coherent thought, before he surrendered to the painful fire overcoming him, was that perhaps some things were better off forgotten after all.

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Well, what do you think? Think you know where it's going? ;-)

As always, tbc...