Chapter 14: Unexpected Visitors
It is our helplessness they choose
And our refusals that they haunt.
—Elizabeth Jennings, "Ghosts" (excerpt)
BATMAN
Bruce read the paperclipped report in his hands in silent apprehension and mounting ire, then looked up at Lucius. "How did this happen?"
"How does this ever happen, Bruce?" Lucius Fox's words were calm and resigned, but Bruce could hear the frustration simmering below. "They had a ton of money and they knew what they wanted." He passed Bruce another report, this one spiralbound. "They're a small German holding company. I'm told it's made up of several heavy hitters from the European tech industry. They were careful. They bought out scores of small stockholders in the Kord Corporation. All within forty-eight hours. None of it came up on our radar."
Skimming the second report, which was from Kord, Bruce found that the oral summary was accurate.
Lucius continued, "As of three hours ago, Kord, Wayne Industries' Research and Development branch, was the target of a hostile takeover. Five hundred and twenty-six million dollars later and they own it. You have been removed from the board of directors." The professional tone dropped as Lucius added, "Bruce… this completely wipes out Wayne Industries' R&D division."
These consequences were appalling. As a company, Wayne Industries could survive the loss of one of its most integral divisions. But Batman would be severely impeded without the innovation of R&D.
"It is most unfortunate, sir…" said Alfred, when Bruce broke the news to him that evening in the Batcave. "But if your concerns are the continued advancement in your… personal armoury… I would think that we still can manage with what we have up to this date. You still have many fine toys, sir."
Bruce was irritated by the flippant response.
"I carry a high-potency mace that leaves no permanent damage, a topical nerve toxin that presents a façade of death, any number of precision guidance systems, short range explosives and chemical bombs. Tons more… Ignoring the fact that I will no longer have access to any further tech advancement aside from the ones I find the time to create, it means that everything I've ever used will, at best, be available in the public sector, or, at worst, sold to any number of psychotics, government, mercenary or terrorist."
"Well, that is a very 'glass half empty' view," said Alfred. He looked serious enough, but Bruce detected the hint of sarcasm, and resented him for it.
Bruce knew that he was no longer alone. He knew that Dick had a formidable mechanical aptitude and innovative mind, while Tim was especially interested in computer technology and the tiny devices that Bruce routinely showed him. And though Cassandra's strengths lay in other areas, she could be trained. But losing Wayne Industries' R&D branch right after losing GCPD support was a heavy blow. Not to mention Leslie and her clinic…
"I'm going out," he muttered, stalking over to the Batsuit.
"Of course, sir," said Alfred demurely. "I'm sure that the air will do you some good."
NIGHTWING
Dick Grayson drifted. After his disastrous trip to the Batcave, his fever had returned with a vengeance, bringing with it fitful slumber and slivers of dreams that were indistinguishable from his own fragmented memories as rain beat down on the Manor's roof.
Tim dashed to his bedside, throwing his arms tight around Dick's middle and burying his face in Dick's chest. Then Dick was vomiting in a stairwell as a lilting voice faded in and out, taunting him: "Do you think it has a minibar?" Alfred introduced him to a tall blonde woman with sad grey eyes—but Dick was lost among the flames and the rubble and the death, and Barbara's urgent pitch paralysed him as she cried, "Dick? Where the hell are you?"
Then Bruce entered the room and wrapped his fingers around Dick's wrist, trapping him, but Dick was pressing a syringe into an inflamed forearm—"Would it kill you to smile?"—and his head was pounding fit to burst as the gunshot reverberated, deafening in his ears. Rain beat down onto his face and mask and hair, mingling with the tears that fell because he knew that there would be no relief from the punishment he had damned himself to.
"You're that Blüdhaven guy, you—you're the one who killed Blockbuster…!"
When Dick awoke at last—breathless, wounded leg aching—both the fever and the rain had gone, and he was alone. His solitude was only temporary: Alfred arrived presently, expressing relief at Dick's recovery and plying him both with food (which Dick picked at) and with painkillers (which Dick refused, ignoring Alfred's displeased frown). Then Alfred left, but returned barely ten minutes later, saying, "You have a visitor, Master Dick."
Something like wishful thinking brought an image of Barbara to the forefront of Dick's mind, but he dismissed it. "Who is it?" he asked, apprehensive.
"Captain Amy Rohrbach," Alfred answered, stepping out.
Dick's thoughts spun. "Amy?" He was too startled to protest as the door was pushed further open and Amy Rohrbach entered, out of uniform and wearing a frown that only intensified when she locked eyes with Dick.
"What…" He choked on the words. "What are you doing here?"
"It's nice to see you too, Dick," Amy said tartly, shutting the door behind herself. Dick caught his breath as he pushed himself to sit more upright, ignoring the way his leg shook and twinged.
"Why are you here?" he repeated.
Amy pulled up a chair next to the bed and sat so that she was nearly at eye level with him. Dick hadn't seen her since the night she'd summoned him to the police station with a homemade Nightwing-signal, and now the memories were flooding back. She was no longer rain-drenched, but her short brown hair was pulled back into its usual ponytail, and she looked as fiercely determined as ever.
As Dick continued to watch her, Amy's brown eyes narrowed. She made to lean closer, then took a deep breath and sagged a little.
"I've been worried about you," she said softly. "Where have you been? What happened to you?"
Those scattered moments in between chasing down Blockbuster seemed a lifetime ago—and he realised with a heavy jolt in his stomach that they were. His breathing quickened, but he forced himself to regulate it the way that Bruce had taught him. In… out. In… out. In… out.
"Got shot," he murmured, avoiding Amy's gaze.
"I… see. I think you mean that you got shot again. Has your arm even fully—"
"Don't." Dick closed his eyes, staying silent until he was certain he could keep his voice steady. Amy deserved to hear the truth from him.
"I was called back to Gotham for the gang war," he told her. "Things got hairy. I was shot while fighting Firefly."
"Firefly," she repeated, sounding dazed. "Well, I'm glad you have people taking care of you now."
Can't save the world if we can't save ourselves, hey?
Dick jolted at the sultry echo, nausea rising within him briefly, but he swallowed back the bile. "Captain Rohrbach," he began, watching as her eyes snapped to his, "I think this should be a professional conversation."
"Dick, I just…"
"Please, Captain."
Amy blinked. "It's not unprofessional to show concern for my former partner," she said, but this was followed by a sigh. "Have it your way. Gannon and I had a very interesting chat with some… associates of yours the other week."
Associates? "What are you talking about?" he asked, heart hammering. If Batman had gone to Blüdhaven…
"I don't know who they are to you—your friends? Siblings? Allies?"
"Who?"
"Robin and Batgirl."
"What?" His brain short-circuited. Tim and Cassandra had gone to Blüdhaven? That must have been earlier, before Sue Dibny's death. "What did they want?"
"I really don't think—"
"Tell me, or I'll find out myself."
She turned her face away a little, gazing out the window at the overcast mid-morning skies as she said, "They wanted to know about Nightwing's involvement in Blockbuster's death."
Dick couldn't think, couldn't hear over the ringing in his ears. His breath caught. Time stopped, then sped up. Amy was saying his name, but her voice faded into the background as he pushed back the blankets and swung his legs to the side of the bed, ignoring how the pain flared.
"What are you doing?" Amy sounded horrified. Her hands fluttered, then she pressed Dick's shoulders, pushing him back down. To his frustration, it worked—he was still weak and shaky, and dizziness took his breath away.
"Stop," he grunted, wincing. "P-please."
To his immense relief, she did so—perhaps realising that he was in no condition to resist—and he slumped back, shoulders trembling. To redirect her (and himself), Dick spoke.
"What else…" The words came out hoarse. "What did you tell them?"
Seemingly satisfied that he was no longer attempting to leave the bed, Amy sat back a little. "Like I said, they wanted to know about Blockbuster's death. I told them that the investigation was ongoing. They didn't let up, so I told them to find Tarantula."
Catalina. Dick couldn't stop the harsh gasp that escaped him. "Why?" he asked, trying to keep his voice even.
"Well… she was there that night, wasn't she? Both of you were."
There was something strange in her tone and expression—gentleness, or perhaps pity—and Dick didn't like it. He looked away, heart hammering.
If she knew that they had both been there, that meant there had been eyewitnesses. If there had been eyewitnesses, that meant more potential victims.
I'll take out the people you care about—hell, even strangers you stand next to on the street—you won't be able to shake someone's hand without marking them for death!
If Amy knew, then everyone knew. Carnage in the corridors, a blood-spattered body in the stairwell, a rooftop exit… Dick had been so caught up in his own fight against crime and corruption that he had lost sight of the rest of the oath. By sanctioning Tarantula, he had taken advantage of her partnership despite knowing that her methods conflicted with his, and now they both had to pay the price.
"Look, it doesn't matter right now," Amy said, interrupting Dick's thoughts. Her face was pale and set. "I also came to Gotham because there's word that Tarantula's been sighted here—not just during the gang war, but afterwards too."
Every time she said Tarantula, a spike of tension ran through him. Dick wished she'd stop, but he also knew that he had hesitated long enough. If Tarantula had lingered in Gotham, Batman would know—and there would be a record of it in the Batcave.
"Amy," he said, and her attention snapped to him. "I need a favour." Last one. I promise.
"Yes?"
He had to talk to her now—before he lost his nerve, before he thought about the others he used to confide in, several burned bridges ago. He met her eyes, steeling himself.
"I need you to help me track down Tarantula—for murder."
To his surprise, her face broke into a triumphant smile. "It would be my pleasure."
Dick's heart dropped when he realised why she had smiled, and how difficult it would be to correct her assumptions once they finally arrested Tarantula.
It didn't matter. The clock was ticking: his atonement had begun.
BATMAN: GOTHAM KNIGHTS
Stephanie Brown could not sleep. If she opened her eyes, she knew that she would see the high, cream-coloured ceiling of her designated bedroom in Wayne Manor. If she kept them shut and focused instead on honing her other senses, she could hear the late-night rain battering the large window to her left and smell the faint lavender of the freshly laundered bed sheets. Alfred had cleaned the adjoining bathroom earlier that day—though the door was shut, a cloying scent of lemon disinfectant hung in the air.
Her mind would not stop buzzing, forcing her to observe and catalogue everything that was around her—from the large bedroom, shrouded in darkness, to the faint sounds of the Manor at night. She knew it had been rebuilt after the earthquake, but it seemed much older, as if the same bricks had been used to reconstruct the original. Maybe they had. There was so much she didn't know about this house, these people—this man who called himself Batman.
It had seemed almost impossible that Bruce Wayne was Batman, even when confronted with undeniable evidence. But, during that first meeting after the gang war and in the days afterwards, she had slowly been able to reconcile the gentleness of his bedside manner that night in the clinic with the inscrutable, taciturn man who had removed her from there and brought her to the safety and anonymity of his enormous house. In time, too, she had become able to entertain and appreciate visitors—Tim was the most frequent, of course, but she had been surprised and glad to learn that Cassandra was staying in the Manor, too. Then they had both left for Blüdhaven, and the frustration and loneliness had become oppressive and inescapable.
Even being able to call her mother was not much of a comfort; Crystal Brown was overworked, underpaid and always tired when she answered the phone. She was also keen to know Steph's location—but as Steph had been ordered not to breathe a word, she could only say that she was in something akin to witness protection, and revealing any more would put herself and those around her in danger. Her mother did not like it, but there was nothing else to be done. This was Steph's own fault.
Her face burned with humiliation when, on sleepless nights such as these, she remembered the last conversation she'd had with Batman, when the threat of dying had been so near that it had robbed her of anything less than sheer desperation.
"Was any of it real? Was I ever really Robin?"
"Of course you were," he'd reassured her—but in the stillness and emptiness of the Manor, so far divorced from the thrill of the Batcave below, with pain running through her body when the medicine wasn't keeping her numb and drowsy, it was hard to believe.
So much had happened since those wonderful few months of donning the Robin costume and reporting to the Batcave, ready to tackle any challenge that came her way. And then… they had all known about Matches Malone, but nobody had told her. Nobody told her anything. Even Cassandra had known Batman's identity, but when it came to Stephanie Brown, she was on constant probation—a loose cannon, a problem that had to be dealt with—and yet, still expected to be as strong and level-headed as the rest of them.
Do you know why I fired you?
I disobeyed a direct order in the field.
She'd been learning detective skills. She should have noticed. She should have known.
I… I made excuses.
His words had run through her mind so many times that they no longer elicited tears, but still sleep eluded her. Steph let out a long, low sigh, conscious of the lingering pain in her ribs, and was just about to open her eyes and stare up at the dim ceiling when she heard a tiny noise. Someone was turning the doorknob.
Steph forced herself to keep her breathing slow and quiet as the door eased open silently—no squeaky hinges in this house—and a visitor entered her room. Light-footed. That eliminated Dick, who used a cane and had a heavy limp without it.
The steps grew closer, bringing with them a barely-there scent of men's shampoo. Cassandra preferred unscented shampoo. And Steph realised from the lack of creak on the sensitive floorboards that the figure was too slightly built to be Bruce.
The person was next to her, now—she heard a deep, shuddering gasp, then another. A warm hand slipped into hers, squeezing it and feeling her wrist, checking her pulse, and she knew that it was Tim's. A weight settled on the bed.
Tim, she wanted to cry out. Tim, I'm not asleep. But he was trembling as he sat beside her, his hand in hers, working his way through hitching breaths, and she knew with brutal certainty that he would never allow himself to grieve like this if he knew that she was awake.
"Steph," he whispered, so softly that she knew he was not trying to rouse her. She sensed a warmth near her face, then Tim brushed her hair off her forehead with such tenderness that she forgot everything but the way he felt as he slowly lay down beside her, on top of the covers. The bed was larger than a double, well big enough for two, but Steph's arm was pressed against Tim's.
Steph had no hope of falling asleep now. Tim's breathing was not evening out—instead, his inhales grew more frequent, until he sat up abruptly and rode out a wave of near-silent sobs, still clutching her hand in his like a lifeline.
Steph pretended to shift in her sleep, tossing her head from side to side, but he did not seem to notice. She opened her eyes.
Tim was hunched away from her, head bowed, so that she could only see his shaking back and the shape of his other arm as he pressed it to his mouth. He squeezed her hand again, desperately, and this time she squeezed it in return.
Tim jumped, dropping her hand with such suddenness that she immediately mourned the loss of contact. Her ribs hurt too much to sit up just then, but she reached for him.
"Tim?" she whispered.
He inhaled sharply, still turned away as he mumbled, "I'm sorry… I woke you…"
"Stay," she said softly, and this time, he twisted to face her. His hair was sticking up in all directions, and even in the darkness she could see the dark shadows and dryness of his face. She longed to touch his cheek, to pull him into a hug, but she was limited by her physical state, so she just repeated, "Stay. Please."
"Steph…" he murmured, dragging out the single syllable into two, the way he often did. But he did not lie back down.
"Tim…"
He could only stare helplessly at her, seemingly ready to bolt, a thousand protests on his lips, so she whispered, "I love you."
She saw the shock in his expression rapidly replaced by something like awe, as if he envied the way she could express such sentiments with apparent ease.
My parents made me this way, she wanted to tell him. Crime and drug addiction kept me at arm's length, until I couldn't repress myself any longer… and then I met you.
"I…" he tried again, as she remembered how he had looked when he had returned from his father's funeral. "Steph, I…"
"Don't hurt yourself. I know."
Tim's hand shivered in hers. "It's not that… it's just…"
"Yes?" She tugged his hand until he finally acquiesced, lying back down so that their shoulders, separated by the covers, almost touched.
"Bad dream," he said finally, so quietly that she hardly made out the words. Another gasp tore through him, making her shudder alongside. She wanted to say that he didn't have to tell her, that she was content to just let him stay there as long as he needed, but he took a breath to speak, and she steeled herself.
"It was the last night of the gang war," he said, blinking up at the ceiling as he spoke. "I went to the clinic to see you, but Batman met me on the roof. I told him to let me in, but he said…" Tim's voice cracked, and the rest of his words came out as a whisper. "He said you weren't there anymore. Then he took off his cowl, and I—I just knew that you were… that…"
Tears gathered in Steph's eyes, but she had no strength to wipe them away.
"I was m-more scared than I've ever been in my life. And then I woke up, and you're alive, but Dad isn't…" His voice rose desperately.
"Shh…" she begged, helplessly.
At last, a gasping sob broke out of him, and then another and another, and Tim threw his other arm over his eyes in a futile effort to conceal the tears that came. Agonised, Steph could only squeeze his hand and touch his racing pulse.
"And… and when I remembered, I was relieved…"
Steph's heart thudded. "Tim, it's not your fault. Dreams don't mean anything."
He shook his head silently, face still hidden from her.
"Tim," she implored. "Tim, please."
"Steph," he whispered, voice muffled. "It's wrong. I don't even think about missing Dad, I just think about Dana and how I couldn't even save her from seeing h-him…"
"Hush… don't think. It doesn't lead anywhere good. Please, Tim. Please. Please. It'll be…" She choked on the words that had jumped to her lips. "I'm here," she settled on. She tugged his arm away from his face, ignoring the sudden ache as she pulled her other arm over and touched his face with her hands.
Her ministrations seemed to awaken him, then, because he moved closer, eyes glistening, and kissed her. She responded in kind, wishing she could wrap her arms around his body and pull him close until the mess of thoughts inside him subsided. A teardrop fell onto her face, mingling with her own, and startled a tiny, half hysterical laugh out of him.
"Steph," he said again, and then swore on an exhale. The word shocked her; he fought crime and played Warlocks and Warriors and made her soup and was every inch a teenage boy, but there was something so noble about him that she had always admired that did not seem to fit with this vulnerable boy who bore his name, who grieved not only for those he had lost but for those he knew he could not stand to lose.
He's changed, she thought belatedly, as he kissed her again, briefly, then hesitated, hovering above her.
"Rest," she entreated, squeezing his hand again. "I'll be here when you wake."
Tim stilled, then sagged as relief swept over him. As if her words had been a spell, he lay beside her once more. His breathing settled and slowed as she touched his hand gently, and then she knew without looking that he was falling asleep, tear tracks still on his cheeks. She reached out to wipe them away, but instead of being pleased by the way he did not stir at her touch, a wave of remorse unlike any she had felt before swept over her.
I did this to him, she realised. For the first time, she truly knew what Batman and then Bruce had been trying to tell her since the end of the gang war—since she had become Robin—no, ever since she had met him. He had been right, and she had been so very wrong—and the consequences had been so much worse than she could have imagined, if they left Tim traumatised at the thought of losing her. It wasn't just the embarrassment of being held hostage by Scarab, or the pain and humiliation of what Black Mask had done to her, but the countless lives she had irrevocably tarnished or outright destroyed.
None of what we do is a game, Bruce had said, but it was only then, lying awake in a household scarred by tragedy, a grief-stricken boy sleeping beside her, shame burning her face red, that Steph finally understood what he had meant.
A/N: This chapter sets a few upcoming arcs in motion—guess which one we'll tackle first? My favourite part of each day is reading and replying to your lovely comments before posting the next chapter, so please don't hesitate to let me know your thoughts.
Sources:
The opening scene is drawn from Batman #635 (Batman: Under the Hood).
Amy Rohrbach last saw Dick in the infamous Nightwing (1996) #93, and Dick's memories are from #93-98.
Tim's nightmare is of canonical events from Batman #634 (Batman: War Games). How horrible!