Redemption can be found by seeking it. Can't It?

The lights had gone out at nine. They always went out at nine. At least he thought it was nine. Granted, There was no clock on the wall, or his wrist. Nor was there a window to look out from, or a person to ask. But it felt like nine. or nine thirty at the most.

He wrapped his arms around his legs, And rocked gently back and forth, Muttering to himself the same thing he had always muttered to himself, Whenever the lights went out at nine. or nine thirty. He would tell the darkness how sorry he was. He would explain to the silence that screamed at him nightly, How he would do anything to take it all back. Every last bit of it. No matter what it cost him. And just like every night before this, at nine, or nine thirty. The silence remained silent, The darkness remained lifeless, and his eyes remained tearful, As his voice remained unheard, Until consciousness left him at last.

And how horrible a nightly fate, He found it to be. As in his dreams, The four windowless walls, With no contact to the outside world, Except for the tube in which his food was delivered, Broke apart and vanished. Spiraling into darkness, He was soon returned to the world he knew before. The world that had once made sense to him, That comforted him, and that drove him, Before..before everything changed.

The apartment he couldn't wait to get out of, The dingy bar he hated, and could receive work from nowhere, but. Even the little old lady, Who sneered at his existence for so long, Seemed a bit sweeter, a bit kinder..And not as Alzheimer-ish as she was in reality. But as his smile began to form, and his eyes opened to the light that now, finally, had returned the warmth to his pale skin..The darkness cracked, and broke through the pleasantries, Returning him to the bright red hatred that flowed from his lips, and the envious madness he coddled for so long, Leaped back into his arms.

Thrusting out from the bed, He ran about the small room. Trying his best to get the imagery from his mind, To shake it out of his ear, or expel it from his nose, Like a snot rocket barring the access of air. He even tried to pull the sound that flooded his ears from his throat, With two fingers, Only to remove that day's dinner, instead.

Falling to his knees, He looked to the ceiling, and clinched his eyes as tight as he could. And once again, He begged the darkness to understand. Demanded that the silence answer him..But both were ignorant of his pleas.

Or so he thought.

Eyes fixated on the man, He leans forward, and places his hand on a large panel, Sliding a small lever up to a green section just above the red, where he had left it last. Audio surrounded him, Echoing off the dark, metal walls all around him. His brow furrowed, And his teeth, now false, and held in place by a horrible tasting paste, Grinded against one another, Like the tectonic plates of his city had done so many years ago, With almost as much noise.

For years, Decades, He had tried to reach him. Tried to break down the walls of psychotic thoughts and actions, To get to the real person that had somehow gotten buried beneath all of the maniacal plans, and homicidal day dreams, And find what was once a normal, functioning man. And this, This observing silence, That only one other in the world knew he kept, Was as close as he had ever gotten, And would ever get. And nothing about it felt anywhere near right. Not to him, Anyway.

Watching, He waited until the man exhausted himself once more, And cut the feed. Rising to his feet, He stepped to the ladder just a few inches behind him, and climbed up, Quickly closing the entrance he had gone through every precaution of hiding for the past 23 years. And heading into the deeper end of the cave he had spent most of his life in, and, most likely, Would spend the last of his life in, as well. Looking back at the door only he could see, He spoke a single word, And a low humming began directly after. Anyone else who entered the cave, Would simply confuse it for the sound of a TV set being left on, With no channel, and no white noise. Even those with super hearing would not be able to identify its source. Nor would one with X-ray vision, As the led plates lining the small room, Made sure it, and all included within, Were safe from peering eyes. As all could be found in one man. And that one man, Is the last person he would want to know what he was doing. Or who he was doing it for.

The sky of Gotham was brighter then normal, As Wayne Enterprises CEO Dick Grayson stared out across the city. Recognizing many of the rooftops that sat stories below his current location, He thought back to the first legacy Bruce Wayne had give to him, As the current one quickly interrupted it, In the form of a female voice, Calling him from a small intercom on the corner of his desk.

"Mr. Grayson." She said, With confusion and fear, Tainting her voice. "There's a reporter here to see you."

Taking a deep breath, Grayson turned toward the desk, and picked the intercom up, Holding it in the palm of his hand. "Marcy..Since when do I take visitors of any kind..Let alone reporters?"

"I'm sorry...But Mr. Kent said it was urgent."

Eyes widening, Dick Grayson, CEO, and Multi-millionaire, Sat down in his chair, and rested his right temple, On the tip of his right index finger. Before closing his eyes, Inhaling a single breath, and passing his words along his exhaled breath. "Send him in, Marcy."

The two large doors opened, And in walked a mountain of a man. A light brown suit, Most likely worn as a way to look unthreatening. A pair of wire framed glasses, Chosen for the unstylish look, And a blue tie, Worn for the simple reason that Clark liked Blue. He was in all ways, The perfect disguise for anyone who might think that he, and the United States Greatest Hero, and Clark Kent, Mild Mannered reporter, Were one and the same. Unless of course, You were one of the very few, Who knew they were one and the same. Then, You only called it what it was. A fraud. And in many ways, It wasn't the only thing about the man, That you could call that.

"What can I do for you, Mr. Kent?"

"Dick..I need to talk to you..and him..But..you first."

"Of course. Because you can't get to him without me."

"Yes. I know."

The two became quiet. Each looking at the other, and expecting more then the silence between them. One expecting a smile, The other, Something nowhere near as innocent.

"You need to know how sorry I am for what happened. Had I.."

"Its too late for apologies, Clark. If you wanted to apologize, You should have never ran away. Hiding, Like some scolded child. You should have faced what you did, Like a man. Like all those who you passed judgement on for so many years, Were forced to do, by you."

"I couldn't. I didn't see then..Most people, They can't understand what I went throu-"

"I can, Clark. So Can Bruce, And Cassie, And..Tim." A single tear fell from the eye of Grayson, Who quickly turns his chair away from Kent. Forgetting his X-ray vision, And His super hearing, And simply hiding this feeling, For himself, and himself alone. " We all lost someone special to us, Clark. Not a single one of us went as far as you did. Yes, We did try, But someone was always there to pull us back."

"I guess that its my fault then..That no one could pull me back in time?"

"..Clark..In some cases, You were the one that pulled us back. You were the one, Who we all thought would pull you back. Not one of us thought otherwise. And unfortunately, Not one of us, Were right." Standing up, Dick kept his back to his visitor, And leaning against the large pane of glass in front of him. "You can let yourself out, Clark."

Kent turned toward the door, And made three, out of the seven steps towards it, But stopped before he completed. Turning back around, He made his way across the room, Faster then Dick Grayson was ready for, And angrier then Clark would have liked to be. Standing face to face with him, Dick Grayson, CEO and former sidekick to The Dark Knight, Stood, His eyes unwavering, In their stare with a pair of raging, blue eyes.

"I will accept the guilt of what you, Bruce, And Cassie went through, Dick. But if you ever mention Tim Drake in my presence again, You will find out just what that judgement you speak of, Feels like."

And in a flash of light, Clark Kent was back at the door, Walking out like any normal man, of normal means, would. Smashing his hand against his desk, Dick grimmaced as the wood broke, and splintered, Leaving a fist sized concaved hole. Sitting back down, He picked up the phone, Which was now on the floor, and began to dial, As a mask of hate took over the blank stare found there earlier.

"It's me. He's back."

All that is heard from the other end, Is a single clicking noise. And all that is seen on the face of Dick Grayson, CEO of Wayne Enterprises, Is fear.