December 26th

"Sure enough, just like the shop keeper said,"

Officers Leeson and Cole had been dispatched to tape up the crime scene, and try to preserve whatever had not already been destroyed. Blood was splattered across the snow, which had been violently churned into small mounds here and there, exposing the blackened concrete beneath. This was the only evidence of the crime that had taken place the day before.

A local shop keeper had noticed five boys lying in the alley on the way to open his shop. He'd been so flustered that he moved the boys himself and took them to the hospital. It was little wonder. Leeson and Cole hadn't seen the boys, but they'd heard the description of their injuries.

Broken bones sticking out of their clothing, blood all over, their faces a broken and bloody mess. The boys were known in the area as being vandals, but it looked like someone had caught them at it and taken justice into their own hands.

Great, thought Cole, Just what this city needs. Its own vigilante.

"What was the description of the guy who did all this?," he asked his partner.

"Believe it or not," Leeson said "they told Walker that, and I quote 'a little red devil in a black mask did it',"

"Pure vigilante bullshit," Cole shook his head "what's this world coming to when any random guy with spandex and a pair of scissors can label himself a hero?,"

"What," Leeson corrected him "is the world coming to that a random guy feels the need to do so?,"

"I am not having this discussion with you again," Cole growled "we agreed to disagree last time,"

"Sure, whatever," Leeson muttered "let's get this alley taped up already,"

"Right. Not that it'll do any good," Cole observed "the boys claimed they drew blood, but we'll never get a clean sample out of all this. This is probably mostly their blood anyway,"

"Hey, it ain't our job to get around makin' judgment calls on what is and is not a waste of time. Sarge says 'tape' and so we tape, that's how this works,"

"Yeah, yeah," Cole said "wait... did you say 'little'?,"

"That's what Walker told me," Leeson shrugged "why?,"

"Nothing... it just seems weird that they'd say 'little'. I mean, if you were a teenager and got your ass kicked, would you want to admit that someone smaller than you did it?,"

"Maybe he was a really little guy," Leeson suggest mildly "it's not our job to find out, okay?. Leave that to somebody else,"

If they had looked around instead of 'leaving it to someone else', they would have noticed a set of tracks leading away from the alley. There had been so little activity since the tracks had been made that they could have followed them, perhaps all the way to their owner. By the time 'somebody else' arrived, the tracks had been virtually crushed out of existence.

There were only enough left to confirm that, though the victor was considerably better off than the losers, he had not gotten away undamaged. The tracks weaved side to side, and were very uneven. All the nearby hospitals were informed so they could keep an eye out for anyone vaguely matching the description (a slightly more accurate, but still vague, description was eventually extracted from one of the boys) of the attacker. But nobody showed. Because the 'little red devil' didn't go to a hospital.

He'd found himself walking near shipping docks, stopping in front of a storage building which looked long abandoned, breaking in, then hiding all traces of his having done so. He didn't really think about it, he just did it.

It wasn't an especially big storage building, but it was full of dust-covered containers. There was no electricity connected, so the light bulbs overhead didn't work. There was no heating, but the roof and walls were enough to keep the snow out. He left tracks of dust and blood wherever he went, and his breath frosted in great white clouds.

It took him a few minutes before he realized that the seemingly endless panic he'd endured for so long was ebbing away, his fear drifting to the back of his mind like a bad memory. He was simply too exhausted to be afraid, too tired to feel bad about what he'd done, too weary even to remember it all that well.

He'd barely registered this when his legs gave out from under him and he passed out, blood oozing from several wounds onto the concrete floor.

December 27th

The Justice League had begun to suspect something was amiss with their caped crusader. When Robin disappeared from the Team, some of them got together to discuss the matter, and all agreed that they had actually witnessed more strange behavior from Batman than from Robin, who was the one accused of being out of line. This realization had come too late to save him. Before they could decide whether to act, or even how to go about doing it, it had come to their attention that more than Robin had vanished, Batman was gone as well.

A few of the Justice League went to Gotham to search for traces of either of them. At first, they met with no success. But, eventually, The Flash happened to run through a train yard. He didn't notice anything unusual the first time through, but on the return trip his quick eye spotted something on the ground. When he stopped to inspect it closer, he felt a chill inexplicably run down his spine.

There was nothing so dire about the object itself, he'd seen its like many times before. Even the blood which stained the batarang was nothing inherently unusual. But something in the circumstances surrounding his finding it gave him the impression that this was a very bad sign.

A little looking around revealed a train car whose door was partway open. A trail of blood led into its darkened recesses. It was in here that The Flash stumbled upon Batman. He'd bled almost to death from a neck wound, but was still alive, though unconscious. In one hand, he clutched a small object. Or, as The Flash realized on closer inspection, a creature.

The creature was brown, sluggish in appearance and quite dead.

Nobody had to tell The Flash that the creature was an important piece of the puzzle they were struggling with. He brought Batman, the batarang and the slug to the Watchtower without delay.

No member of the Justice League recognized the slug. They didn't know what it was or where it might have come from, which suggested to The Flash that it might be unnatural in its origin. Either that or it was from some other world so far away or little known that no one had heard of it.

The source of Batman's loss of blood was a gash across his throat. Had it gone slightly deeper, he would have bled to death in seconds. It was clear to all that the stroke had been intended to be a killing one. One wound alone was all there was, however, aside from the standard bruises and cuts a hero acquires from dealing with ordinary hoodlums. The neck wound was jarringly different. It was a wound inflicted by someone who knew what they were doing, one who had wasted no time in going for the kill. But who could come upon Batman so easily as to inflict only one wound?. And the weapon itself had been a batarang from Batman's own tool belt.

There seemed to be but one explanation. Robin.

But why?. What could possibly have driven him to not only turn on Batman, but actually try and kill anyone, much less his former mentor?. And where had he gone afterward?.

The League held some hope that the slug itself might provide an explanation of some kind. Batman, weak, bleeding and in danger of freezing to death, had for some reason found it necessary to cling to the creature above all else. It must have a kind of significance that they could not yet fathom for they did not yet know what it was.

Deeply comatose, Batman would be unable to provide any answers. There was some question as to whether or not he would survive, though most of the League quietly held that he would doubtless live. Batman, though without any special powers of his own, had proven capable of the impossible. There were times he should have died, times no one could figure out how he'd even survived. This was no different. He, a mere human, had proven as invincible as Superman. More so, even.

But his survival was not all that was required. The League, and the Team as well, needed answers. At the forefront of all their minds was a question: what had happened to Robin?. Had he gone rogue?. Was he dead?. Where had he gone?.

They searched all over Gotham, but found no traces of him anywhere. He had probably boarded a train. Why else would he have been at a train station?. Assuming it was he and no one else who'd attacked Batman. Trains from everywhere came and went from the station. It was Gotham, after all. There was no telling where Robin had gone, he could be anywhere.

And they all knew the futility of looking for him if he did not want to be found.

A person cannot exist long in this world without purpose or name. He knew this, even as he drifted in and out of feverish dreams. He would live or die here in this place, which seemed neither light nor dark, for his awareness was too lacking to decide which was which. It seemed to him that time was passing much slower than usual, though without a frame of reference he could not even begin to guess how much time had gone by.

Furious storms waged war in his mind, want and need preyed upon his strength and whatever shreds remained of his once strong will. The Hell he'd left had put him on a path that seemed to have led only to a darker, lonelier one. Though he was unaware of it, his heartbeat alternately raced or slowed, depending on the flickering images of his mind. His breath came in weak rasps.

His wounds were severe, but the true danger lay in his own mind. His will to survive had all but abandoned him. He had no reason to do so. He had no one, and had nearly forgotten the purpose his life had had for so very long. He felt himself fading, disappearing as morning mist, gone forever in a puff of smoke. The end could not be far.

January 1st

"What in the hell-..." Cole exclaimed, but didn't finish the thought aloud.

A silent alarm had gone off at a jewelry store. Cole and Leeson had been working the late shift, or early shift as it was now. The first of the year was always nightmarish, after all the New Year's Eve parties had let out, including the ones that went until three in the morning.

They'd responded to the call. On arriving at the scene, they were shocked to discover two men in ski masks trussed up like turkeys in front of the establishment, their bag of loot sitting beside them. They had, of course, heard of vigilantes. But there had never been any here.

"Just arrest us," whimpered one of the men fearfully "we don't want no more trouble with nothin' supernatural. We'll do our time quiet, honest,"

Shining a flashlight on the speaking man, Cole could see that his mask was bloodied and he breathed as though he had broken ribs. The other man was worse off, making no attempt to move or to speak.

"What do you mean 'supernatural'?," Leeson asked slowly.

"It came at us outta frickin' nowhere!," the man said, his tone desperate "out of the sky like a bat from hell!. We never saw it... never saw it comin'... I thought it was gonna kill us,"

"What, exactly, did you see?,"

"Looked like a guy dressed in black, but ain't no human in the world who moves like that. It moved like some kinda animal... like... like a giant black bird," the man stammered "just take us in, lock us up, keep that thing away from us,"

Cole had been looking around while the man was speaking. He caught sight of a shadowy figure on a rooftop. Dressed in black from head to foot, the figure was too distant to make any guess as to their gender. But even from a distance, Cole could feel the shadow figure's gaze.

It was hard like steel, cold as ice. A dangerous mind was behind those sharp eyes. Cole blinked, and the figure was gone, vanishing like a phantom.

"Damn it," Cole hissed through his teeth "if there's one thing we don't need, it's a nutcase with ninja skills and a hero complex,"

Cole and Leeson wound up working a double shift. The criminal element had been particularly active this year. The normal force wasn't enough, they needed extra help. They were not the only ones who were busy. Countless times they arrived at the seen to find that the phantom figure had gotten there before they had.

Each time the crooks were beaten, tied up and left for the police. All of them had similar stories.

'He came out of nowhere', 'hit us before we saw him', 'like a bat from hell', 'some kinda ghost'.

By mid-afternoon, the media had latched onto this mystery vigilante.

January 3rd

Cole had taken the second of January off. He was dog tired after all the running around, even though the vigilante had done half the work. He and Leeson hadn't been the only ones to encounter the shadow figure. Somehow, without apparent benefit of a vehicle to transport him, the phantom or whatever the hell he was had managed to get to crimes halfway across the city before police. Nobody knew how he'd done it, or even if the vigilante was a 'he' at all.

Many policemen had seen him standing at a distance, but they were always too late to try and catch him. Nobody had gotten a good look at the vigilante, other than to say he was masked and dressed all in black, although one criminal said there'd been an emblem emblazoned across the chest of the vigilante's costume. Some kind of bird, or maybe a dragon.

"Did you catch the news last night?," Leeson asked.

"I avoided it," Cole replied "what did the vigilante do this time?,"

"Caught some more criminals, mostly. He did also perform a fire rescue. Some hotel didn't install fire alarms, so nobody knew about it until some guy thought to use his cell phone. One of the firemen caught sight of the vigilante through the flames, several of the people staying there said he pulled them out. We've got confirmation from them that the vigilante is definitely a 'he',"

"Well whoop-Dee-do for him," Cole said sarcastically "give him a damn medal,"

"That's not the point," Leeson protest "point is, I think he's here to stay. And rescuing people from a fire means he's trying to help,"

"That asshole's gonna get somebody killed. Every guy... every damn guy, he's brought down has broken bones. Most have internal injuries. Those kids from Christmas are still in the hospital. Nothing good can come from this,"

"He's got a name now," Leeson decided to change the subject.

"Oh great. What is it?. Pants-Man?. Super-wonder?. Justice Moth?,"

"The fireman that saw him called him 'Nightwing'. It seems to have stuck,"

"Lovely," Cole growled "so what's this Wingnut-"

"Nightwing,"

"-Nightwing... been up to today?,"

"Ted saw him earlier. He'd stopped a rapist in an alley. Beat the crap out of him too, worse than any of the others. No telling if that guy will even pull through or not. Can't say I'm sorry,"

"Yeah, and I bet you're for the death penalty too. What happens when this guy goes after somebody he 'thinks' is dangerous?. Next guy he beats up on for being a rapist might have just been kissing his wife in public. What then, huh?. What the hell are we supposed to do then?,"

"He hasn't been wrong so far," Leeson reasoned "and there are a lot of vigilantes out there. Sure they're all nuts to do what they do, but most of 'em aren't wrong,"

"I'll believe he means to do good when he turns himself in,"

But, whether Cole liked it or not, a new vigilante had come into being.

Nightwing was born.