January 8th

God, what have I done?.

This was Batman's first conscious thought. Before he'd even opened his eyes, he'd remembered it. All of it. Everything. And wished to God that he didn't. Almost wished he were dead, and was vaguely bewildered by the fact that he wasn't.

He opened his eyes somewhat reluctantly, which was harder than it seemed like it ought to have been. He felt terribly weak, which was understandable, considering...

The ceiling was grayish white and seemed very high up. Batman knew it at once. He was in the Watchtower. Without moving his head, he looked around. The room was empty. It wasn't the usual recovery room, but one they used as a prison cell. The door to it was shut and presumably locked. Considering what had happened, that was reasonable.

He passed out again.

When he awoke, he lay still for awhile, but then tried sitting up. It was hard, but not impossible. He was consumed by the need to know what had befallen Robin. He knew it was unlikely that Robin would ever speak to him, or even allow him to approach, again. But he had to know Robin was alright, or at least going to be.

It wasn't long before someone came into the room. There was a camera mounted in the corner. As soon as Batman sat up, someone noticed. It was Superman who entered, his expression carefully bland, his manner reserved and perhaps even suspicious.

"It's good to see you awake," Superman commented.

"You didn't come down here to exchange pleasantries. What do you want?," Batman was in no mood for wasting time with small talk.

"We need answers. And it seems you're the only one who may have them," Superman said "beginning with this: where's Robin?,"

"I was hoping you could tell me," Batman growled uneasily "isn't he here?,"

"No,"

"Then how did I get here?,"

"Flash found you," Superman replied "lying in a train car and bleeding to death. Nobody has seen any sign of Robin. Was he the one who attacked you?,"

Batman sighed wearily and, for perhaps the first time since they'd known each other, averted his gaze from Superman's, unable to meet it.

"I drove him to it," he said quietly "I'm only sorry he didn't do it sooner,"

"What do you mean?," Superman asked, but Batman didn't answer, instead changing the subject.

"You have to find him, Kal-El. I need to know if he's alright,"

"Obviously he's not, if he tried to kill you," Superman said.

"You don't understand-," Batman began, but was interrupted harshly.

"Then explain it to me!,"

It was not Superman's habit to interrupt people when they were speaking, but he didn't like that his questions were going unanswered. Batman was being more evasive than usual, and his behavior was very odd, which made Superman uneasy.

"I... can't," Batman whispered finally "because I don't understand what happened, or why. But I know it has something to do with that slug,"

"Where did the slug come from?," Superman asked sharply.

"Originally?. I don't know. But when Robin cut my throat, that thing felt out of the wound. And everything... in my mind... changed. It wasn't... exactly controlling me. But it made me so angry, so irrational... I was intoxicated by its hatred of all that lived and breathed,"

"And yet, you didn't kill anyone," Superman observed.

"No. My rage found its focus on Robin," Batman admitted "it was the only way,"

"The only way?. What are you talking about?,"

"As I said, the slug wasn't truly controlling me. It more... perverted my way of thinking, acting as a poison on my thoughts,"

"But your bond with Robin was able to transcend that," Superman guessed.

"Hardly," Batman growled "only insofar as I was able to resist the urge to kill him. Until the end, when I would have... I tried to. By then I was so drunk on the slug's toxin that he was able to get the better of me. To escape,"

"Do you have any idea where he might have gone?,"

Batman shook his head "no. He wouldn't dare go anywhere I might expect him to. He won't be in Gotham, or anywhere else you might think to look for him. I was hoping he'd come here, but evidently he no longer believes he can trust the Team or the League,"

"Why wouldn't he?," Superman asked.

"Because," Batman said patiently "I managed to turn the Team against him. They helped me catch him. He wouldn't risk being caught again,"

"So how am I supposed to find him?,"

"I don't know. But you have to... you just... have to,"

January 14th, 07:30 PM

Wally had gone to the Team, but none of them knew anything. They had looked for Robin, everywhere they could think of, they had searched. Aqualad was able to tell him that Batman was at the Watchtower, recovering from some kind of injury. More than that he did not know.

So Wally contacted the Watchtower and spoke with someone there, but they couldn't help much, either. At the time, Batman was still comatose. Wally had set to looking for Robin on his own, hoping that maybe he could think of some places to look that the Team hadn't considered. Or at least hadn't remembered. But he had no luck.

When he returned to Mount Justice, tired and discouraged, he found that, in the days he'd been gone, Batman had woken up, but evidently knew nothing of value save for the fact that Robin would not likely return to the Team, Gotham or Mount Justice. That, Wally had already guessed.

Though he asked, nobody told him how Batman had been injured, or what had happened. They evaded his questions, which only increased his fear for his friend. Something had happened. Something bad. But he didn't know what that something was.

Wally felt despair growing in him. He knew he couldn't give up looking, even if it took him forever. But that was exactly what he was afraid of. He could search his whole life for Robin. But, if Robin didn't want to be found, Wally could never find him.

If he did find Robin, then what?. What did it matter?. Robin could undoubtedly take care of himself, and evidently had no inclination to return to the Team. Was it really Wally's place to try and drag him back?. How was he supposed to understand what he needed to do in order to help his friend when he didn't even know what was wrong or where to begin looking for him?.

It was like one of those hopelessly complicated quests in fantasy novels.

Except that he had no one to guide him and no clue as to what it was he was supposed to be doing. And the longer he stayed at Mount Justice, the more he could feel that old familiar yearning. To be out saving the world, running rings around the Team, fighting bad guys and racing against time.

It was the fourteenth when he finally got his clue.

Batman, evidently still recovering but able to move about on his own, came to Mount Justice. Someone had told him that Wally had returned and was looking for Robin.

"I know where you can begin looking," Batman said, without pretext.

"What?. Where?," Wally asked.

Instead of answering, Batman went to the Mount Justice computer and opened up a browser to a news website. He clicked a link and a bunch of text sprang up. At the heading of the page there was a picture, or a drawing rather. The article seemed to be a detailed account of the activities of a vigilante who'd turned up in a city called Blüdhaven His name was Nightwing, and the drawing at the top was done by an artist who'd caught sight of the vigilante. It was his symbol, in much the same way as the bat symbol belonged to Batman.

"All very interesting, but what's it got to do with Robin?," Wally wanted to know.

"When Robin was nine, he liked to draw," Batman replied "he drew that emblem. It's a phoenix,"

"It's blue," Wally retorted.

"Nevertheless, that is Robin's drawing come to life. I believe Nightwing and Robin may be one and the same. Where you find one, you will find the other,"

"Great. So what do I do, run around Blüdhaven committing crimes until Nightwing comes to stop me?," Wally grumbled.

"I don't care what you do," Batman growled, drawing himself to his full height "But I can't go there. However, he is your friend and you're the one who was looking for him, so I thought you should know," he turned and began to stalk away.

"Wait... why can't you go there?," Wally asked.

"Because," Batman hissed over his shoulder "he'd kill me. Or worse,"

"What?!. Why?," but Batman didn't answer, he just kept walking.

January 15th, 01:05 AM

"I really hate this guy," Cole sighed, taking in the scene of yet another robbery-gone-wrong.

Three men lay about the floor of the bank in various conditions, all of them were bleeding and looked like broken dolls. The bank alarm had gone off, drawn the police, but once again there was nothing for them to do save keep an eye on the place until the owner arrived and then take the suspects in.

"Hey, crime has gone way down the last few weeks," Leeson protested "how can you argue with that?. Our jobs are easier, petty criminals are mostly too scared to commit crimes in the first place and the rest are so dumb they get caught or Nightwing takes 'em out for us. I don't see your problem,"

Cole pointed to the injured men lying on the floor, at the blood spatters on the walls, at a shattered wooden baseball bat, which may or may not have belonged to one of the suspects.

"That's my problem. Crime may be down, but violence has gone up," Cole growled.

"Better the muggers than the little old ladies,"

"Again, what happens when your beloved hero goes too far?. What happens when he kills someone, maybe someone innocent?. Then what?,"

"You talk about him as though he's a rabid dog,"

"Isn't he?," Cole snapped "what sane, rational, thinking human being goes out every night and beats random strangers to within an inch of their lives?. We're dealing with a real werewolf, a man who has no thought but violence. Maybe his conscience is still dictating who he attacks, but eventually there will be nothing standing between him and us. Can't you see that?,"

"You worry too much," Leeson grumbled evenly "you've had more altercations with suspects than I have. Tell me, do they come out of it without damage?,"

Cole glared, but didn't answer. He was younger than Leeson by at least ten years, but he'd been on the police force longer. There were things he'd seen here that he would never be able to put behind him. He'd seen this kind of violence before. He didn't like vigilantes, didn't like what they stood for. But this Nightwing character was more than that.

This was the sort of violence done by one who'd lost all care, all sense of humanity or control. Someone lashing out with malicious seething hatred. More than bodies were broken. Much of the furniture in the bank was shattered into pieces. That hadn't happened in a fight. Someone had deliberately vented vicious rage on those items.

But how could he explain that to Leeson, who steadfastly believed anyone doing their job must be in some way good and like them?. How could he explain that the evidence this Nightwing left behind was a cry for help, coming from a damaged psyche?. That this was someone taking revenge for some perceived slight out on those who had no hope of defending themselves against his onslaught?.

"I'll put it this way: when he up and kills someone in a fit of rage, I won't say 'I told you so'," Cole said finally, unaware that his words reached the ears of another, who heard and understood their implication, perhaps better than Cole himself.

Nightwing stood in the shadows of the bank, listening to the two officers talking. He heard the truth of Cole's words. He had known heroes who'd gone over the edge, crossed that paper-thin line. Cole was right. Unchecked, Nightwing would eventually kill, and not just to defend his own life.

But what else could he do?. He couldn't stand the dark. The only thing that relieved the stake of fear running through his heart was to lash out. Even during the day he still felt fear as he anticipated the coming of the night. In the dark lay memories he wanted to forget, a world of pain brought to life by his mind. And so he hunted. All through the night he hunted for those he could take his anger and fear out on. The criminal element. But he had lost the control he'd been taught to have.

He'd lost more than his name in that lightless prison. And now he was lashing out at someone who no longer existed, someone he'd killed. He was also, in a way, attacking himself for being afraid. Trying to destroy the fear itself. He knew, and understood the danger. But there was no way out, not for him.

He knew how this must play out. He would begin doing more damage than he was preventing. Someone would put a stop to it. If not the police, who had no hope of catching him, then some hero who heard the news that there was an out-of-control vigilante in Blüdhaven. They would come, seek him out, find him wherever he was, and then they would destroy him. Or perhaps he them.

The prospect didn't bother him. Just as he was no longer stopping criminals because of a sense of justice, he was no longer living because he enjoyed doing so. He existed solely for the sake of it, continuing only because his training and instincts refused to let him die.

Perhaps he had arisen from ashes, but he was not the better for it.

He slipped away into the night to seek out more victims, and to await the inevitable.

12:37 PM

"Hey, is it just me or is Ricky a little preoccupied today?," Dennison asked.

They were breaking for lunch. Rick was, as usual, keeping his distance from the rest. Also as usual, he was perching on the framework for the roof of the building as though unaware of the sharp slant or the long distance between himself and the ground.

"He's never much of a talker," Marlow observed mildly, more interested in his sandwich than conversation at the moment.

Grant looked up at Rick, who seemed to have virtually forgotten his own meal in favor of staring off into the distance. Crazy as it sounded, it almost looked as though he were waiting for someone. And not especially eagerly, but more with an air of quietly bitter resignation. He wouldn't have voiced the thought himself, but Jack did it for him.

"It's like he's expecting someone," he said.

"Like who?," Marlow scoffed "Somebody should tell him Santa Claus has already come and gone,"

"Maybe someone's come to take him home," Dennison suggested "I mean, what do we really know about him?. Maybe he's some poor rich kid who ran away from home and isn't finding it as easy or fun to be out on his own as he hoped,"

"If that kid's never worked a day in his life then I'm the Tooth Fairy," Jack laughed "he works like he's a pro at it. Maybe not construction, but taking instructions and working hard for long hours without much in the way of payoff. I'd say he's used to that, sure enough,"

"Maybe so," Grant mumbled distractedly "but he's sure waiting for something,"

He was right. The boy sitting on the half-finished rooftop was waiting for the end. A creature born from the depths of Hell, doomed to die in darkness. Without meaning, without purpose.

Very well. So be it.