Author's Note: I deeply apologize for how long it took me to finish this chapter. I really have been working on it for the two weeks it's taken, I promise. My excuse? I realized while trying to write this that I hate writing funerals (even though this is my first). So I was trying to find a creative way to avoid writing it. In the end... I hate this chapter. I truly do. I hate it, I hate how it turned out, I hate how long it took. But honestly, it fits real well, and I just want to finish this story and move on to the next part. So... Here it is. I'm sorry you guys waited two weeks just for this piece of crap. I truly am. The next chapter will be better, I promise, as will the one after. I've been waiting the entire story just to get to these last two chapters. I am so psyched! You guys'll have to let me know whether you think I should do an epilogue at the end, cuz honestly that's still waaaay up in the air...

Oh, and wish me leg-breakings. Hi-Tops is opening tonight. You know, that old 80s movie that Crystal Lewis was in? Well, turns out David Sidoni was also in an early stage run. And my theatre group is performing it this weekend. It's my last show for what will probably be a good long time. I just feel like I'm being led in other directions right now, and theatre has kinda run my life for the past five years. Time to move on. Anyway, enough about that. Here's the crap. I mean, chapter...

Chapter 15: Blink Out

When I's maybe five or six, my mudder left me on da doorstep'a some orphanage somewhere in Manhattan. I ain't really sure exactly where it was, 'cause I got outta dere as soon's I could. But while I was dere, I met dis other kid dere, 'bout my age. His parents'd died when he's real little, so he'd already been dere awhile. Whoever was in charge'a da place b'fore I got dere was in da habit'a beatin' da kids. Dat's how he lost da sight in his left eye.

Not dat our new caretaker was all dat much better. Couple years later, I just couldn't stay dere no longer. So I split. I couldn't bring myself ta leave him dere by himself, though. So when I split, I took him wit' me. It's like I said b'fore, tragedy an' loss gotta way'a bringin' people together.

We became near inseparable, sleepin' on da streets an' watchin' each other's backs. I can't count da number'a times we helped each other dodge outta goin' to da Refuge. An' when he got a job sellin' papes for da World, he dragged me along wit' him. We even shared a bunk at da lodgin' house, spendin' out nights up late talkin' 'bout where we'd be when we finally got da money ta get out. He'd always wanted ta live in Gotham, where everythin' was s'posed ta be so much more excitin'. An' he had every intention'a takin' me wit' him. So he could keep an eye on me an' my gamblin', he said.

He really did care 'bout me. An' it weren't as if I didn't know. But I t'rew it in his face all da same. If I'd known what was gonna happen dat night… Well, honestly, I still probly woulda said it. But I sure hope I'd'a tried harder ta resolve it. Dis… whatever-it-was dat had come between us.

Part'a me wonders if maybe it mighta been jealousy…

Nightwing was on patrol late that night when he found the body in the alley. The Joker's gun – the one with the red BANG! flag sticking out of the nozzle – lay on the ground next to a bloody crowbar. Sprawled across the alley floor was the ragged, still form of Jason Todd.

At first, Spot just stood there and stared, tapping his cane against the brick wall of the alley like a blind man – if for no other reason than to hear the reassuringly familiar sound in order to keep himself rooted in his sanity. His chest felt constricted, like he'd just been punched hard in the gut and was having trouble drawing a decent breath. Nausea churned his stomach. He could hardly believe the amount of blood he saw splattered across the ground before him.

Slowly, his mouth formed the name, though no coherent sound came out. The faintest hint of distant laughter reached his ears as he slowly made his way into the alley, a heart-wrenching ache forming in the back of his throat. It wasn't supposed to go like this. It was never supposed to be like this. When his feet finally stopped before the unmoving figure, he dropped heavily to his knees.

Why?

The one question on his mind, the one thing he couldn't answer and now might never be able to. His hands stretched out to touch the cold, beaten flesh and his training kicked in to replace the lucid thinking that seemed to have escaped him. No pulse. Eyes closed. Unconscious at time of death. No sign of a gunshot wound. Uniform's still intact. Must've been wearing it under his clothes. But no belt. Would explain why there was no alert signal. But why no belt? Did he really leave the house in such a hurry?

And then the whole thing hit him like a wave of emotion breaking against a rock. He collapsed to the ground beside Blink and screamed, pounding at the unyielding ground in an angry torrent of frustration. Pain twisted his stomach and seemed to strip his soul bare. He slapped a hand on the lifeless chest beside him, willing some flutter of movement into it. He shook the stiff form desperately, his own body trembling with longing and fear. A series of cold shivers moved along his spine as he muttered various curses and pleas under his breath. All to no avail.

Finally, at a complete loss and incapable of any kind of further logical thought process, he reached down to his own belt and hit the alert signal, curling himself up against the cold brick wall of the alley to wait. His uniform was caked with blood and dirt, but he hardly noticed. He saw nothing but the dead body. His own body had gone numb, his fingers icy and tingling. Cold, pitiless rain began to fall in a steady downpour, but he didn't feel it.

He couldn't help but think that he should have been there. That somehow he could have done something to prevent it. Maybe, if he hadn't copped out that morning, if he'd stayed to mediate instead of running out… That was really the only explanation for why Blink was out here in the first place. Race had been fairly fuming by that morning. There was no telling what he'd said to drive Blink out of the house. Spot hung his head despondently. He'd felt the tension building, but he'd done nothing about it. This was all his fault.

Unless…

His thoughts wandered back to Race and the argument that he knew they must have had. The selfish prick never could think of anyone but himself… Blaming Race didn't make him feel much better, but the thought did help him see that maybe it wasn't entirely his fault. His chest heaved gently as he choked back the growing lump in his throat.

One year was all it had taken for everything he knew to change more drastically then he could ever have anticipated.

When the news finally came back to the mansion that Kid Blink had been found dead, Race didn't say a word. Instead, he shut himself up in his room and waited for Spot and Bruce to get back. He figured he'd probably catch it from Spot for driving Blink out of the house. But for once he didn't care. In fact, he rather felt that he deserved it.

It wasn't so much that he regretted what he'd said to Blink. He'd meant every word. What he did regret, though, was that they were the last words he'd said.

Spot and Bruce were both covered in blood and dirt when they finally made it back. It made Race shudder to imagine why. He and Alfred had received a fairly decent report on what had happened, and just that was enough to churn his stomach. Needless to say, he was glad they hadn't brought the body back with them.

For the next hour, Spot locked himself up in the bathroom – not the one they usually used, Race noted – and seemed to be attempting to scrub that night out of his skin along with the blood stains and mud. The noise of running water wasn't nearly loud enough to completely cover over the sounds of retching that occasionally punctuated it. Under normal circumstances – if any situation similar to this could be considered normal – Race might have made some sarcastic comment about Spot's behavior. But tonight, he just couldn't.

In fact, for the next few days, right up until after the funeral, he couldn't even look the other boy in the eyes. And the fact that Spot still hadn't said anything about the argument only served to make the guilt and shame even harder to deal with. Even Bruce hadn't said anything to him. The one time he felt he deserved a lecture of some sort, and he wasn't even given the satisfaction of a snide remark.

His heart sank even lower when he realized that, even after the funeral and everything that had happened, the explosive atmosphere in the mansion still hadn't completely diffused. And that meant only one thing. Things were about to get a whole lot worse.

A/N: GAH! I told you... (sigh) Well, at any rate, we can now move forward. Just two more chapters to go, you guys! (insert nifty Roundhouse-style dance bumper here, preferrably one with Ivan in it...) Anyways, review if you like. I'm gonna go work on the next chapter...

P.S. DO NOT WISH ME LUCK! I'm a theatre kid through and through, and very superstitious about stuff like that. We have proof that it's bad luck, so please say break a leg or something along those lines. Thank you! :)