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Important Information: This FanFiction, is-based-on/takes-place-in, the FUTURE, of The "MAIN-DC-Universe," (ONE, Of MANY Universes, In "The DC-MultiVerse"). …And, also, you should all note that ANY AND ALL of the "separate-stories," in this FanFic will eventually TIE-IN TOGETHER, and they will ALL flow chronologically, and in TIME-ORDER, and thus these "events," or "separate-stories," are actually ALL LINKED-TOGETHER, and they ALL happen, IN THE ORDER that they are written/read. Also, PLEASE NOTE, that regardless of how many characters make "Guest-Appearances" here, this story WILL focus on the "Teenage-Team," of OCs that that I have created here (or will create soon-enough)…and it will also focus on their mentors, and the HUGE plot. Also, PLEASE know that any and all of the chapters following this will become WAY MORE READABLE and SHORTER!
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VIII. Bloody Bat, Rising Robin, and Hellish Hawk
Tristan Gordon-Grayson stood, looking over the edge of a cliff, towards a small, snowy, village below. He narrowed his eyes. Bialya was never snowy. That was first, and first occurrences were usually bad in this country. Tristan looked over to his right, to his wife, and to his two children, both of whom were currently holding each other's hands, and were situated between their parents.
Tristan nodded at her. She locked eyes with him, and then nodded back. Tristan looked down at his five-year-old son, then over at his three-year-old son. He sighed. He looked down over the cliff, at the village, once again. That village housed his targets, his enemies, the ones that he need to find and stop. That village housed the remnants of the Hero Hunters—the ones that had escaped the retribution of the Birds of Prey, the team formerly run by Tristan's mother.
The wicked wind gusted once again, and it swirled Tristan's red-black hair, and picked up the two frontal bangs of his wife's dark black hair, leaving them in front of her face. Tristan smirked. He loved when she wore her bangs like that, but she seemed to detest it, as it was impractical for combat. At least the wind was on his side.
Tristan hoped that the few Hero Hunters that remained could be dealt with, using only the combined force of two heroes—two former heroes. These monsters had targeted him for some time, and he had skillfully avoided them while the actual Hero Hunting had transpired, but now, here, out in the open, he was no longer the target. They were. He had to eliminate them if he wanted to ensure that his children had the one thing that he lacked in his childhood: safety.
Safety was a logical thing to seek, and it was the one thing that the heroes of the world, as well as the villains, sought after. Safety ensured that one would survive, and if one could survive, then one could prosper, and prospering was more-than-logical. Lex Luthor knew that, and so did his two sons, Alexander Luthor Junior, and Darrelet Hal Luthor, better known as Doctor LetHal.
Logic was the one thing that Tristan had left to follow, so he followed it. Tristan looked to his wife once more, and she locked eyes with him once again. She said nothing, and she did nothing. But she knew. And, without doing or saying anything, her eyes told him that she knew. They couldn't take their children into that village. They would have to leave them somewhere. Tristan sighed again. They couldn't just leave their children somewhere; that wouldn't be possible.
But, then again, they couldn't just leave these Hero Hunters to do what they pleased. These remaining Hero Hunters, unlike the rest, were being more proactive than any of the rest. Tristan was sure that the "Venom Virus," the appearance of the "Shadow Slayers," and many more instances and occurrences were somehow related to these remaining Hero Hunters. He didn't know how, though. So he would find out. He would find out, right before he ensured that his children had safety. Something was happening, something big—very big. And it bothered Tristan that he did not know what that thing was.
He was a hero, but that was some time ago, before the falling-out he had experienced with his father, Dick Grayson. He had left home, and the Robin costume had stayed behind, although the spirit of Robin had been taken with Tristan when he had left home.
He lost contact with his father, although he never lost touch with him. Tristan had been hidden from his father for a few years, by means of his mother. Tristan had been hidden, so that he could be trained to defend himself in the likely event that he would be targeted, as both of his parents were active, and highly respected, superheroes and counterintelligence personnel. His father never would have agreed to training him, especially when Tristan was so young.
Tristan always knew what was going on—everywhere. He was taught, trained, and tempered—since he could walk—to be a capable combatant, a superb soldier, and a brilliant tactician. He was, after all, the son of the second Batman, and the grandson of the first Batman. He was destined to find greatness, although when he did find greatness, he let it slip through his fingers, and the Robin costume had found him instead.
Then, he and his father had failed to act like what they were supposed to be. They failed to act like partners. The fact that his mother and father were never truly thinking the same thing—but always acted as though they were, and the fact that they never married, but still cared for each other—put an even greater strain on Tristan's relationship with both of his parents.
And then Laura was born. She was the only reason that he had to stay, but even her presence couldn't keep him around for long. Somehow, though, her birthday presents always managed to arrive on time, always from an anonymous sender, and always the gift that she wanted. Tristan loved his sister, and there was no doubt about that.
Tristan had met his wife when he had left his home. She had more in common with him, than anyone in his own home ever could. She had been dead—literally. They had that in common. Tristan had died when he had left his home. Her experience with the Lazarus Pits had given her a second chance, although it was a chance that she never asked for—nor wanted. She, too, was taught, trained, and tempered—since childhood—to attain the same skills that Tristan had. He discovered this first-hand, during their first encounter, when she had almost killed him—after he had, unknowingly, disrupted a sting operation that she was running, near a terrorist cell.
Soon, the two realized that they were matched in more ways than one, and that they had common goals—common enemies. Then, their physical passion, turned from aggression, to alliance, and then to affection. Marriage, although a seemingly stupid option, followed soon after.
Tristan looked over to his wife, her dark eyes boring into his own light blue crystal-like eyes. She raised an eyebrow. He shook his head, chuckling slightly. He turned to his two children.
"Hey, Tim, Connor, your mom and I have to take of something that might be a little too dangerous for you two to come with us. So, I was wondering how you guys would feel about crashing at Aunt Mia's place for a while, while mom and I took care of business." Tristan asked them. The two boys looked at each other, and their eyes immediately went wide.
Tim's hazel eyes, and Connor's dark eyes were in shock, as their dark brown hair wavered in the wind. They, apparently, loved the idea. Tristan wasn't sure how much Mia would like it, though. He would have to deal with that later.
"Cool! Would we get to see the Arrow-Liar, again?" Tim, the youngest, asked aptly. Tristan chuckled and looked to his wife.
She rolled her eyes. "If you don't break anything this time. You know how Aunt Mia gets." the dark-haired assassin said to her children.
The two boys quickly looked down at their feet. "Okay, mom…" they said in unison, trailing off.
Tristan looked to his wife one final time, before beginning to make his way back down the cliff, to the nearest airport. "Lian, did I ever tell you how much I love your family?" he asked jokingly.
She narrowed her eyes at him. "Next time, your side gets to babysit." she replied readily.
"My side of the family hasn't seen me in years. They may not even know if I'm still alive." he refuted her.
"Well then, I guess the time for re-introductions will soon be in order. Besides, I want to meet my in-laws. Laura and Dick may not like you, but I'm sure they'd love me." she said snidely, smiling somewhat as she uttered the words.
"Can we at least demand a late wedding present from them?" Tristan asked hopefully, and the fatal stare that his wife shot him was enough to answer him.
A family reunion was in the making, and Tristan was not happy about that fact. He was happy that he would get to see his sister, though. He would take one good thing at a time, as that seemed to be the only way that the good things were coming, lately. He knew, though, that bad things always followed the good.
"…So, you knew my dad? …Like, my biological dad?" Collin asked curiously, as she and Rose walked through the dark streets of Gotham.
Rose nodded. "Yeah. I knew him. He was a good guy—confused sometimes—but good, nonetheless. Y'know what, kid? If he had you to explain the difference between good and bad to him, then he might not have been so confused. That would've been golden, seeing Jason Todd getting schooled by his preteen daughter. It wouldn't be so unbelievable, though, as this is the same twelve-year-old that's been schooling all of us 'bad-guys,' on what we really are." Rose said comically.
Collin frowned. "Well, he didn't have me, because he didn't want me. So there's no point in imagining anything other than reality." Collin voiced vehemently, as she sped ahead of Rose.
Rose narrowed her eyes, and she caught Collin by the shoulder, turning her around, and making direct eye-contact with her. Collin had tears in her eyes. She hated that. She hated looking weak; she had done enough of that in her life.
"You father was a lost soul, a madman, and a killer. But he was a hero, Collin. He didn't have you, not because he didn't want you, but because he didn't know you. If there is one thing that I know about your father, it's that if he knew that he had a daughter, he would have fought for her, killed for her…died for her. Don't you ever think otherwise." Rose explained, drying Collin's tears.
"Understand?" Rose asked, and Collin looked up at her savior, nodding.
The two continued to walk along the road, darkness quickly creeping up on them. But that was fine for Rose. She wasn't afraid of the dark. The dark was afraid of her.
"Hey, where are we going, anyways?" Collin asked skeptically.
"Remember that old friend that I told you about?" Rose asked in response.
Collin nodded. "Yeah. The one that you said was kind and caring. We're going to see him?" Collin asked aptly.
Rose smiled at her and nodded.
"Is what you said about him really true? Did he know my father, too? …And, would he really be willing to adopt…me?" Collin asked incredulously.
Rose laughed. "Collin, his family has a long history of adopting determined kids off of the street. …And, yes, he knew your father. He was your father's brother, one of many, and his favorite brother." Rose explained.
Collin smiled slightly. She didn't smile too often. Smiling was sign of happiness, and Collin had not had anything to be happy about—in a very long time. She wasn't an idiot, though. This was a cautious smile.
Rose finally reached a door, and she knocked lightly on it.
Soon, the door opened, and teenage girl with dark black hair, and shinning silver eyes, stood there, cocking her head to one side. She looked curious, inquisitive, and sly. She was a planner. She didn't know what to expect from these two, but she had an idea, and she was ready—ready for whatever they were going to throw at her. She was ready—ready to react.
The teenager turned her head to the interior of the house, calling to her apparent father, while keeping her eyes on the two guests at the door, ready to react at a moment's notice.
"Hey dad! I think it's for you!" she yelled boisterously.
Terry came to the door, slightly disjointed.
He rubbed his ears. "Good god, Di. Could you be any louder?!" he questioned quizzically.
Diana rolled her eyes, and gave the two guests one last glance-over, before stepping behind her father.
Terry finally caught sight of the two at his doorway, and his jaw almost fell off.
"Rose…?" he asked incredulously. He then turned to the preteen girl beside Rose. "…And…Rose's daughter?" Terry added anxiously.
Rose smirked. "It's good to see you, too, McGinnis. And, no. Not my daughter. She's yours. …Or, she soon will be." Rose answered.
Terry's eyes went wide. Diana chocked, and she gagged rather loudly as well.
"We have some things to discuss." Rose said seriously.
Terry calmed down after a moment. "Rose, I don't know what you're trying to pull, but—" Terry started, but Rose cut him off.
"She's your niece, Terry. Jason had a last request, but he never got to voice it. That's why I'm here." Rose said, interrupting. Terry went wide-eyed once again.
Di then reappraised the small girl beside Rose, and she smiled slightly at her. Collin returned the gesture. "Hey, sweetie why don't we go inside, while the adults act like children?" Di suggested, and Collin thought it over for a moment.
"I'm fine here. I mean, unless you can teach me how use throwing knives." Collin giggled.
Di looked deep-in-though for a moment. "I'll teach you, if you come inside." she offered. Collin's eyes went wide.
"Wait! …You mean that you actually can use them?!" Collin asked aptly. Diana nodded, smiling as she did so.
Diana warily whipped a throwing knife, from the underside of the waistband of her jeans, handing it to Collin. Collin took the knife cautiously.
Diana looked to Rose, and then to her father. Rose looked to Terry, and Terry returned the favor. He then turned to his daughter, and he nodded at Diana.
"Aim at the small target on the wall, above the kitchen sink." Diana said, pointing to the target directly in front of Collin, past the living room, in the kitchen, above the sink.
Collin nodded, and she focused on the target, as Diana started to talk.
"Just take the knife, feel the weight of it, and make it a part of yourself. Put all of your doubts, fears, and uncertainties, into this knife. When you release it, release that part of yourself as well. The knife is not in control of you; you are in control of the knife. It is an instrument. It is your servant, and your mind is its master. Your mind is what must be strong here, not your body. Always aim to show power, to evoke your sense of superior skill. That is what will prove that you have power, that you have skill. That will enact logic, and the one with the most power will always win, and will always be followed. The knife must follow your movements. It will follow your movements. Just take a deep breath, hold the knife, blade pointed down, and swing your arm forwards, feeling the knife—as your power—as your release. Aim, concentrate…and then forget it all, and just throw it." Diana instructed, and Collin nodded.
The twelve-year-old held the knife as she was told to, and she slowly swung her hand forwards, releasing the knife as she did so. The knife hit the target, mere centimeters from the middle of the small center. Diana went wide-eyed.
"Well. You certainly are a fast learner. I suppose that I'll have to keep you occupied, using other methods. I could teach you some other techniques too." Diana suggested, trying to give her father and Rose as much time as possible—in private.
Collin titled her head to one side, smiling sincerely at Diana as she did so.
"I can teach you the basic forms, finesses, and flows, of over 100 different martial arts, if you would want." Diana suggested, and Collin beamed.
"You're going to be the best big sister, ever!" Collin said excitedly, as she raced inside the house. Diana was not far behind, as she contemplated the statement that Collin had just uttered. Diana wouldn't mind having a younger sister, especially if it was going to be Collin. Diana smiled at the thought.
Rose looked to Diana, and then to Terry, raising an eyebrow as she did so. Rose hadn't seen Diana, since she was very little, and she doubted that the girl remembered her at all. But, even so, Rose hadn't remembered the toddler being able to use throwing knives—or being well-versed in so many fighting styles.
Terry shrugged. Having Batman for a father had its advantages.
Collin beamed at Diana, and she flowed the older teenager inside the house, where Diana lead her to the basement—to the training room.
After the two girls had disappeared around the corner, Terry addressed Rose. "Start talking." he ordered, and she sighed.
She had a lot to talk about.
Matt looked at the small slice that his knife had made in his finger. He examined it carefully, as he continued to skillfully, swiftly, spin the knife in his hands. The small wound began to drip with fresh blood. Matt stared intently at the wound.
Matthew Harold Maxim had seen blood before. He had seen oceans of it. And he had learned to swim in it. He had followed his father, all over the world, followed him for six years, and he had done what his father had begged him to do. He had lived.
Matthew was one of the few things that tied his father, Hal Jordan, to this world. Hal needed his son to live. Matt needed to live, because Hal wanted him to live. And nothing was a necessity; not even living was a necessity, which made every single want become a need. Hal needed to have needs, or his life would be meaningless. He had already failed many of those that tried to depend on him, on his willpower. Hal had failed, but he had succeeded many more times than he had failed. He was the best Green Lantern that had ever lived. He was the swiftest, smartest, strongest, and most wilful of any and all of the Green Lanterns that had ever lived.
Hal needed his son to be able to succeed, where he had failed, to give his failures meaning because everything needed meaning, and Hal always did what was needed. That was what defined him, and he needed to be able to define himself, by allowing his son to define himself. He needed his failures to be turned into successes, and the only way that Hal was able to do that, was to ensure that his son learned from his failures, and utilized them.
Hal Jordan was afraid. He was always afraid. But fear wasn't his weakness. It was his strength. It reminded him that he was still human, that he was not like those monsters whom he faced. It reminded him that fear was simply an emotion, that he could overcome it, that he could be stronger. And the strongest always survived. Those who sought power for their own ends, sought it for a reason, a reason that would simultaneously be their downfall. They were weak. They were vicious. They were evil. They had never known fear. Hal Jordan, Green Lantern, changed that.
His son, Matthew Maxim, did not seek power. He had power, and Hal needed to see that his son realized his power, that he used his father's failures, to drive his own successes. Soon, Hal no longer wanted Matt to realize his power. He needed Matt to realize his power. Hal's realization was caused by an event that was inescapable. There was cooperate espionage conducted against Hal—as Hal was, at the time, running a division of Wayne Tech Aeronautics. During the related attempt on his mother's life, Matthew Maxim defended his mother in a home-invasion, and as such, the young boy had been injured—badly.
Matt was eight, and immediately following this incident, he had followed his father around the world, being taught, trained, and tempered in almost all of the fighting styles that he could muster. Six years had served Matt well, and he had used his father's failures to drive his successes. He had never known that his father was a Green Lantern—the Green Lantern—but he had known that he was an active-duty pilot, and Hal had told the stories of his failures, using the Airforce, as a replacement for the Green Lantern Corps.
As he sat there, on the roof of his two-story apartment in downtown Gotham, Matt remembered the blood. The blood was never forgotten. It was a reminder—the blood of his mother, the blood of his own body, the blood that he had lost—and learned to swim in—as he learned how to succeed, how to fight, how to win.
Then, he thought of Laura's blood. Matthew Maxim and Laura Grayson had spilled each other's blood enough times, while sparing, to be able to fill rivers with it.
Matt had returned to Gotham at the age of fourteen, and he had taken any and all tests that the state had required him to, allowing him to enter into high school with ease. During those six years, Matt had pushed his mind, as well as his body, to—and beyond—any and all limits that he had previously had.
When he returned to Gotham, returned to public school, and returned to Laura, he realized something odd. In six years, Matt had done a lot. He had taught, trained, and tempered himself in almost every martial art that he could discover. He had read any and every book that he could get his hands on. He had mastered over seven different languages. And he had continued to do all of this, after his return. But, somehow, Laura, his childhood friend, was just as well-versed as he was in martial arts, in physical prowess, and even in mental capacities. Laura's physical physique, mental magnitude, and emotional endurance was comparable to his own limits in every way. Now, knowing that, Matt had to wonder how Laura had been able to train, teach, and temper herself to be able to do this—to be as good as him, and sometimes, even better.
He sighed. It was one of the many reasons that he loved her. She would push herself towards anything, through anything, and even though she constantly did this, she never thought that she was good enough. She better than she needed to be, though. She constantly pushed Matt, allowed him to succeed, where his father had failed, and allowed him to be what he needed to be.
He loved that feeling, and he loved her, for being able to give him that feeling. He would never tell her that, though. They were equals, and telling her that he loved her would put him below her. He wouldn't mind that, but he knew that she would have many problems with it. So he didn't address that fact—the fact that he loved her. But, deep down, they both knew that it was a fact. And deep down, she did reciprocate it, even if she wasn't aware of it.
Matt swiftly snapped back into the present, as a low rumble caught his attention. He looked over to the edge of the roof, getting to his feet, and preparing for a fight, as his father popped into view. Hal grinned cheekily at his son. Matt exhaled the breath that he had been holding, and he rolled his eyes at his father.
"Well, damn sport. I thought you'd be, oh I dunno, studying, or training, or something…or kissing Laura. How's that going, by the way?" Hal asked, just as Matt threw his unbalanced pocketknife at his father. The hilt, instead of the blade, of the knife was aimed perfectly at his father's head, so as to not injure the older man.
It wasn't necessary for the hilt, instead of the blade, to have been aimed at Hal, though. Hal caught the hilt of the blade without moving an inch.
"Yup, so training, huh? Seriously, though, how's the Grayson girl?" Hal asked teasingly, as he walked over to his son's seat on the far edge of the roof, handing him his knife back.
"She's still alive." Matt said, taking the knife, and trying to change the subject.
"I'll bet. Graysons are particularly hard to kill." Hal responded. Matt chuckled—even though he didn't get the joke. Matt was chuckling at something else. His father was a confidently calm man, a comedian. And Matt loved that about him.
"You know that mom is going to kill you, if she finds out that you're up here, right?" he inquired intricately.
Hal shrugged. "She killed me years ago, when she hit me right here," Hal started saying, pointing to his heart, "right in the heart." he finished, being overly dramatic, as he plunged a fake knife into his chest cavity.
Matt shook his head. His mother loved his father, and his father loved his mother. He couldn't see why they couldn't make it work. But, then again, Matt didn't know about the power ring. If he had known about that, then things would have been very different.
"Come on, let's go for a ride." Hal said, gesturing to his classic sports car, parked down below.
Matt shook his head. "Can't. It's a school night, and I have to get up early tomorrow." he countered.
Hal stroked his chin. "Well. Fine, then." Hal said, sounding like a defeated five-year-old.
Matt grinned slightly. "We'll go risk our lives in some stupid activity this weekend. Promise. I just came out here to think—got a big day tomorrow, y'know?" Matt replied.
Hal nodded his head. "I know. Your high school has been chosen as the host-school for the new, all-state track-team, composed of the best runners in the state, and this team will be competing against other all-state track-teams, from across the nation. You meet your new team tomorrow, and practice starts after school. I know, Matt. I always know." Hal said, smiling.
Matt looked at his father incredulously, before smiling slightly and shaking his head. Hal Jordan did always know—when it came to his son, at least.
"Laura got picked for the team, too, right?" Hal asked.
"Of course she did. Does the world look like it's ending?" Matt asked sarcastically.
"Well…no. …Not yet, anyways." Hal responded. Matt looked at his father curiously, trying to decide if he was joking or not. He couldn't decide, and Matt could always read people well—especially his own father. Hal's unreadable face was an obstacle to Matt, and Matthew Maxim always overcame obstacles. Hal quickly changed the topic.
"Okay, then, I just came to give you a little good-luck-present, and wish you good luck—even though we both know that you won't need it." Hal said, as he handed Matt a small necklace, the pendant of which was a small silver engagement-ring, with an emerald stone.
"Mom's old engagement ring?" Matt asked.
Hal nodded. "Figured it should serve, at least, one of you well." Hal joked. Matt laughed as well. He stung the necklace around his neck, letting he engagement ring hang freely from his neck.
"Oh, and I have just one reminder. Aunt Jane and Uncle Jai will be coming to your practice tomorrow. They want to see you in action. …And, they'll be brining Jacob." Hal said. Matt sighed, while also smiling. Jane was Hal's niece, and even though she was, biologically, Matt's older cousin, she was respected as an aunt by him. Her husband, Jai West, was a nice man, and their child, Jacob, seemed to be the only trouble-maker in the family.
"Is Izzy coming, too?" Matt asked curiously.
Hal nodded, smiling as he did so.
"Well, I better get some rest, if I'm going to give them a show." Matt said, effectively ending the conversation.
Hal nodded. "See you later, then. Stay safe, Matt. Love you, son." Hal, said, descending the roof, and heading to his car. Matt went back to contemplating his father's words, regarding the end of the world.
A few minutes passed, before Matt's mother, Jennifer Maxim, made her presence known.
"You know that you're supposed to tell me when your father shows up unexpectedly." she said sternly to her son.
Matt didn't react at all. He knew she was there. He always knew. "I know. But, we both know that you knew he was here, right at the moment that he pulled into the driveway. I'm not the only one that wants him around." Matt said, turning around to face his mother.
"He gave this to me, but I think it's meant more for you. See if you can make good use of it." Matt said, handing his mother his necklace, as the engagement-ring-pendant hung in the moonlight.
Jennifer shook her head at her son. "You can put that to much better use then I can. You keep it. He gave it to you, anyways." she replied.
Matt looked at the necklace, and then back up at his mother. Her black hair and brown eyes said more than the words that had just left her mouth. Matt nodded slightly. He put the necklace back around his neck.
"Get some sleep, Matt." Jennifer said, turning around and heading towards the door on the roof. "Oh, and I know that Izzy can outsmart any intelligent man in his fifties, but please don't call her an egg-head again. Aunt Jane and Uncle Jai don't particularly like that name." she added, before leaving through the door.
Matt smiled. He loved his family, Izzy included. She was a gifted genius, and that fact never failed to impress him.
Matt looked at the blade in his hands, the blade that he had bought in a rundown pawnshop in the heart of Gotham. Matt narrowed his eyes at the symbol in the center of its hilt: a black bat.
If the end of the world would come, then so would Batman. Matt looked back out over the horizon of Gotham City. Batman would come. He was sure of it.
The clown laughed, as he raised the gun to the woman's head. "Remember, little girl, when you play games with The Joker, you lose." Joker said, as the gun exploded to life, bringing about the death of Lana Grayson. Five-year-old Laura cried wildly, begging the mean man to stop, to spare her mother, to taker her instead. He just laughed.
Seventeen-year-old Laura, though, was another story. She watched the scene unfold from a few feet away. She narrowed her eyes.
The Joker continued his maniacal laugh, a force unable to be stopped by anything—except the one immovable object that stood in the clown's way.
Batman burst through the window, and he tackled the clown, pinning him to the floor. The clown wriggled out of the Bat's grasp, and he assumed a fighting stance. He lunged, and Batman countered. The Joker was trained in many fighting styles, a side-effect of years of fighting against the heroic Bat-Bloodline, but regardless, he was no match for the superior skill of the immortal, incorruptible, immutable symbol of Batman, of Dick Grayson. Batman wasn't Dick Grayson here, though—not in Laura's dream. Here, Batman was just a man, just a symbol, just a hero. She wanted something more; she needed something more.
Batman ended Joker with a sickening snap, and soon, the front door to Laura's house opened, as Batman fled the scene and Joker lay dead, right beside her mother. The Joker had been killed by Batman in the streets of Gotham—high above its streets. But here, in this dream, in the dream that Laura always had, The Joker lay dead in her house. Laura walked through the open door, as she always did in this nightmarish fantasy—a fantasy, dreamt-up from memory, a memory she could never forget and would never want to. Laura followed a trail of destruction—littered cars, cracked concrete, and chaotic catastrophes, lead the way to her destination.
Soon, she reached the edge of Gotham City, the edge of the American eastern coast—the edge of sanity. Below her was a blood-red sea—a sea that she had learned to swim in, a sea of her own blood, a sea of her mother's blood, the sea that had been filled with her mother's blood, when Laura had failed to act.
Laura closed her eyes, and she sighed deeply. To her direct left, below the edge of the cliff that she was currently looking out over, was nest. This nest was supported by a single, sturdy, solid, branch, extending from the cliff wall. In the direct middle of the nest, was a very large black hawk. He was waiting for her, as he always did, and he stared at her as she made her way down to the branch, and across the branch, slowly, surely.
Laura finally reached the nest, and she stood silently before the hawk, waiting. She always waited. When she had first dreamt-up this nightmare, she had awoken screaming, right at the scene where Joker had killed her mother. Her father was there before she could get out of her bed, and she was always in his arms in mere moments.
After a year, she was able to stay sleeping, even past the part of the dream where her mother had been killed. During the second year, though, she awoke screaming when Batman had killed Joker. Now, for the past five years, she always had the same dream—the same nightmare—and she always ended it here, looking at this magnificent, big, black, hawk.
She always waited for it to speak, to impart some wisdom on her—or even for it to attack her, to kill her. But it never did. It simply observed. Tonight was different, though. Tonight, the hawk spoke.
"You come to me, child. You come, every night, and yet you find no solace in my presence. Why, then, do you continue to come?" the hawk asked her aptly, speaking in its frighteningly deep voice.
"I do not know what I seek. I know that you are here, because you do know. So, I come to you, in the hopes that you will enlighten me." Laura replied to the large bird. The hawk titled its head to one side.
"You seek what you already have. You seek me, but I am a part of you. You want a hero, but you deserve a cure. Which is it, though, that you need?" the hawk asked her.
"I need a cure. I need a cure for the virus of violence. I need a cure for likes of the criminally insane, for the sanely insane, for the evil masterminds, for the gods that defy mortals, a cure for…myself." Laura replied honestly.
The hawk nodded. "You have what you need, then." the hawk responded, angling its head down, so that Laura could follow its gaze. There, in the bottom of the nest, was the mangled, dead, body of The Joker, rotten, and waiting to be eaten by a scavenger, by a virus-eater, by a hawk. The hawk began to eat the corpse, slowly, surely, eyeing the girl as he did so.
He stopped halfway through, as he eyed the teenage girl that was watching him in silent concentration. "Perhaps you need, not a cure for this virus…but for the one inside of you!" the hawk yelled, launching itself from the nest, and charging at the girl, its beak ready to tear flesh from bone.
The beak made contact with her skin, as the bird made its cry, indicating a fresh meal had been found. Blood and fear spilled from the open wound on the girl, and into the red waves below, as Laura's cry emanated loudly from her body.
Laura awoke with a start, a sickening sheen of sweat clinging coldly to her body. She sighed deeply as she caught her breath—very quickly.
'Well, that was new.' she thought to herself. The hawk had never spoken before.
'Blackhawk.' Laura thought, seeming to remember, for the first time, that hawks did in fact eat diseased virus-infected things, that they kept the strong robust, and protected the weak.
Laura sighed, as she got out of her bed, making her way down to the basement of her apartment, and shutting the door behind her. She descended the steps in front of her.
In the direct middle of the basement room was a foam floor mat, designed for constancy-controlled matches, and around the outer edges of the entire training room, was a rubberized track designed for long-distance runs. She walked over to the equipment.
She located the small, miniature, refrigerator near the only row of treadmills, and she opened it, taking out a full bottle of water, and downing it in almost a single gulp. Then she stretched—extensively. When her flawless flexibility was up to her standards, she headed for the nearest treadmill. She mounted a treadmill. Then she ran. And she didn't stop. She didn't even slow down, and when her sides began to burn, when her breaths began to come in sharp, singeing pains, she continued to run.
She continued, against any and all odds, until the machine said that she had run a short, swift run, for ten minutes at a constant rate of fifteen miles per hour.
Laura dismounted the treadmill, and her breathing began to normalize much more quickly than any average human's breathing would have done so.
Then she walked over to the free weights. She grabbed two twenty-five-pound dumbbells, and she then proceeded to do fifteen sets of twenty-five lifts with the dumbbells in each hand. Her form was flawless.
She relaxed for a few moments, before quickly dropping into a sit-up position and performing 500 consecutive sit-ups, each of growing intensity, power, and pace. She sat up the finial time, and Laura caught her breath once again.
She then proceeded to one, of the five, punching bags in the far left corner of the room. She looked at the rack of sparring gloves that were located next to the punching bags, and she contemplated putting them on. The, she stopped contemplating. And she stared hitting.
She gave the bag closest to her everything that she had. She broke into the forms, finesses, and flows of almost all of the martial arts that she knew. The stealth and silence of Ninjutsu, the power of Kung-Fu, the swiftness of Parkour, the patience of Eskrima, the focus of Kendo, the ferocity of Kuntao, the brutality of Muay Thai, the agility of Jujutsu, and many more elements, worked their way into Laura's form, into her blows, into her mind, and into the bag. Her fury, fierceness, and ferocity, increased with each blow, and with each blow, the face that she was picturing formed clearer and clearer on the punching bag's surface.
The punching bag's surface became Joker's face, laughing harder and harder with each blow, and soon, Laura's blows were maniacal, as the punching bag was soon ripped to shreds.
The aggressively angry teenage girl stood there, her hands bleeding profusely, and her punching bag completely destroyed. Yet, she was not satisfied.
"You know, if you keep obliterating the bags then we'll have to choose, eventually, between punching bags, or a house to live in." a voice said from behind her.
Laura knew that voice anywhere. "I'll pay for it, dad." she said, still slightly seething. Dick heard the anger, and he addressed it—by not addressing it. He knew his daughter, inside and out.
"Oh yeah? And, with what money, young lady?" he teased. She scowled, her back still turned to him, her breathing still slightly ragged. She hated when he called her "young lady." And he knew that. Dick smirked.
"I guess I'll have to steal some from you." she said, teasing him in return. Her anger was quickly fading.
Dick laughed inwardly. 'The daughter of Batman, a thief. How ironic.' Dick thought to himself, chuckling slightly.
"What's so funny?" she asked her father, finally turning around to face him. He shrugged.
"Just a joke that you wouldn't get." he said, as he walked over to his daughter's side, and caught sight of her bleeding knuckles.
He gently grabbed her knuckles, and he looked her dead in the eyes. He said, not a single word, as he got up, grabbed the nearby bottle of rubbing alcohol, and returned to her side. He uncapped the bottle, and he gently poured some of the liquid onto the wounds. Laura winced slightly—so slightly, that is was something that only her father could detect. She hated showing weakness. And she didn't do things that she hated.
He grabbed some gauze from the nearby medical cabinet, and he wrapped her knuckles in the material. Laura looked away from him. He scowled. He didn't like when she averted her eyes from him.
He brought her forehead to him, and he gently kissed her on the forehead. She was still facing away from him, but she smiled at the slight physical contact. Her father loved her, and even an idiot would be foolish to not see that.
"Get some sleep, Lor. Big day, tomorrow." Dick said, leaving her side, and walking back upstairs. He wouldn't talk about her nightmares, about her guilt, about her anger, or about…her mother. She would talk to him—when she was ready. He knew that. She only wondered when she would be ready.
Laura looked back over at the demolished punching bag, the picture of The Joker clearly framed in her mind. She narrowed her eyes. The picture altered slightly, and soon the tattered surface of the destroyed punching bag now had a different picture, all-together. On its destroyed surface, Joker was still present…but he was being beaten…by a Blackhawk. He as no longer laughing.
Laura smiled slightly. She finally understood why her mother had made her choice. She didn't do it to save her daughter. She did it to give birth to a new creature, a new hero, a new cure. She did it, to give birth—to give birth to Blackhawk.
A/N: Please review, and let me know what you liked! Also, PLEASE know that any and all of the chapters following this will become WAY MORE READABLE and SHORTER! Stay tuned for the next update!