Chapter Text
“And you know
That I want you
Even though I push you further away
But my scars
Push my fears through
And I hold you like a silver grenade."
— Silver Grenade, by Aviators
One Year Ago
His master is dead, and the weapon that used to be the Apprentice is free.
The question now is: free to do what?
(Live, whispers something in his head, a voice he'd thought his master had crushed long ago, but he has no idea how to do that)
For seven years, he'd existed only to serve. He thought he'd celebrate the day his master finally died, the day he'd finally be set free, but instead, all he feels is... lost. As cruel as his master had been, he'd still been a constant in an ever-changing world, and without him, he doesn't know what to do.
He knows what his master would command of him. But even though the thought of failing his master makes his whole body go taut with fear, he refuses to become the next Deathstroke. He's tired of mercenary work, of killing and death. Still, he has far too many deadly reflexes and instincts to safely settle down as a civilian. And after all the blood on his hands, he can never be a hero again. All those require being a person anyway, and the notion of becoming an actual person again — with actual thoughts and actual opinions and actual dreams — had been beaten out of him years ago.
("You are not Richard Grayson. You are not Robin. You are a tool to be used, a weapon to continue my legacy. You are my Apprentice. Do not make me remind you again.")
He does have other options, more suited for a weapon, not a person. Straightforward mercenary work and assassinations are hardly the only path open to him. His master had trained him to be one of the best (but not the best; no matter how hard he trained, he could never defeat his master). There's no shortage of people eager to stake a claim in someone with his diverse skill set, no shortage of jobs he could take.
He's just... he's tired.
So very, very tired.
For a brief moment, he contemplates taking his knife and lying down and just... letting himself sleep. Leaving it all behind. If he's lucky, maybe he'd even be able to dream of a better life, where he escaped his master, where none of this ever happened, where he can sheathe his swords and set down his guns and just exist.
Where he's a person, not a weapon.
His master never would have allowed him to take his own life. He has little doubt that even if by some chance he had found the strength needed before, his master would have brought him back somehow, if only to punish him for wasting a valuable asset. Now his master is dead, though, and the weapon that used to be the Apprentice is free to do whatever he chooses. Including this.
But he can't. He has too much to atone for. He could never do it without knowing that he's done everything he possibly can to make things right.
(And he's weak. Too weak to be a hero, too weak to defy his master, too weak to rid the world of a murderer like himself. He tells himself he chooses not to, but he's too weak to have ever had a choice anyway.)
He's a killer and an assassin and a murderer, with a list of sins a mile long and a resolve too weak to do what he wishes his master had done seven years ago, but he still has one thing he can do.
The next day, the first of his master's bases goes up in flames.
By the time first responders arrive at the raging fire, the weapon has moved on to the next base in the city. Over the next two days, a half-dozen buildings have burned to the ground, much to the public's panic.
He moves on to the next city. And then the next, and the next, and the next. He barely pauses for sleep as he relentlessly works his way through country after country, flying all around the world to dismantle his master's criminal empire. He torches safe-houses until nothing remains except ash, seizes his master's wealth and donates it to every charity in sight, tracks down and puts bullets in the heads of a few of his master's key suppliers and common employers.
Killing stopped bothering him years ago (but he thinks he can feel in his stomach churning when he stares down at the bodies now). If this is what it takes to destroy his master's empire, then he'll do what needs to be done.
The vast array of underground contacts, spanning through the entire world, he claims for himself. Too many people to feasibly eliminate, and their web of resources and information could certainly prove useful later on. He has no way of accessing the Justice League's databases, aside from hacking into them.
Theoretically, it's possible. In reality, it stopped being an option ever since Oracle (Barbara) first began reinforcing the firewalls.
It'd be nigh impossible to destroy every single one of his master's bases and safe-houses, of course: there are simply far too many and scattered all throughout the world at that. So he remotely locks down as many as he can — with his master dead, he's the only one left who can access them — and focuses on the major ones.
Within a month, he's effectively crippled his master's empire.
For anyone else, it would take at least a year to irrevocably damage it, let alone to the extent that the weapon has. It is perhaps one of the few times, then, that he is fortunate to be his master's Apprentice and heir. And now that his master is dead, all that had been his is now the weapon's.
(It's hard to admit, but being alone is jarring and not always in a good way. He'd longed to be free for so long, except now that he is, he thinks a part of him almost misses his master, the stability of his presence beside him, even when paired with his unmatched cruelty.)
The Justice League is hunting him, though he admittedly isn't sure whether they are hunting the weapon specifically or just trying to track whoever's burning down the dozens of bases and leaving a wealth of information behind — nothing that can be used to accurately predict the weapon's travel path or determine his identity but valuable nonetheless. Ultimately, it doesn't matter; as long as he doesn't linger too long in one place, it isn't hard to slip under their radar.
He's avoided capture by them for seven years already, and that's when he and his master were actively fighting them; a month in hiding is child's play.
So it's a surprise when the weapon walks into one of his master's last remaining major strongholds and finds a man already standing in the middle of the designated armory.
The weapon pauses, a hand edging toward the gun holstered at his hip, but the man doesn't even seem to have noticed him. He's standing in front of a set of black-and-orange armor; the way his head is tilted down suggests he's staring at something in his hands. The man is dressed in generic civilian clothes and has his back to him, so the weapon doesn't recognize him at once. It's not like it matters anyway; all he really wants to know is how the man found a base personally hidden by his master.
"Why are you here?"
The man jerks, startled. He twists around to stare at him, and his face is revealed to the weapon — a face familiar not only from the weapon's past encounters but from a haunting similarity to the face that had took him, tortured him, trained him.
(His master is always — had always been tight-lipped about his past, but still, some secrets had slipped through the cracks. His son is one of them.)
Jericho (Joseph Wilson, male, 6'0, 195 pounds, aim for his eyes to remove his power from play) takes a step back, his stance shifting defensively. His eyes flick up and down the weapon's form, lingering on his exposed face. The weapon had cast aside his mask weeks ago, but though they've had multiple encounters after he became the Apprentice, Jericho has met him as Robin only once. He shows no sign of recognizing him as a former hero.
He's not disappointed. He's not.
He does, however, know him by a different name.
<Renegade.> Jericho's movements are slow and wary.
"Why are you here?" the weapon repeats, slipping smoothly into the mindset of the named guise. "Deathstroke is dead. I can't imagine you're here to continue your father's legacy."
Jericho flinches slightly at the word 'father' but otherwise doesn't react. His body is coiled like a snake, prepared to strike in an instant. <No. Are you?>
"No."
One of Jericho's eyebrows ticks slightly upward at the instantaneous response. He doesn't look particularly surprised, however.
<You're the one destroying his safe-houses.> It's a statement, not a question, but there's an implied "Why?" hanging onto the end.
The weapon swallows, struggling to find words for the turmoil within his chest. How can he explain this? How can he explain the way freedom both buoys his broken spirit with desperate hope and claws at his heart with desperate loneliness? How can he explain that his master's death has somehow saved him and yet broken him even further?
He opens his mouth, acutely aware of Jericho's sharp eyes taking in every emotion that unwittingly passes across his face, and considers the best way to express the jumbled mess inside him.
He could say something about choice (but a gun is clutched in his trembling hands and a bullet sitting heavy in the firing chamber and a man is kneeling before him his terrified face streaked with tears and the children are sobbing in terror and a low voice is whispering "Your choice, Apprentice" only it's no choice at all no choice no choice no — bang).
He could say something about wanting to be a person again (but he's screaming and fighting and trying to reach the blazing circus the only thing he has left of his parents and his master just chuckles and says "Look how they burn" and there's a crash as the big top finally collapses in on itself and sends a plume of fire and ash and dying screams bursting through the air and in one night his heritage gets scorched from the Earth forever).
He could say something about atonement (but the sword is still wet with the woman's blood and her breathing has stopped and she's dead dead dead and it's all because of him he killed her he murdered her he doesn't even know her name and he can never redeem himself never make it right because nothing he can do will ever bring her or anybody else back and if he truly wanted to atone for every single person he's ever hurt or killed he would've been strong enough to end everything already).
So many things he could say, and so little he knows how to say.
In the end, all that comes out is, "I'm not him."
(but he's standing over a dead guard in a corridor littered with a dozen more and his black-and-orange armor is splashed with blood and the sharp echoes of gunfire rings in his ears and he can still hear the crack of the man's neck snapping under his hands and he is his master's weapon and everything he is and everything he will be is wrapped up in his master's identity and what he made him into.
So what does it matter if he's not him when he's just as bad?)
Jericho doesn't sign his agreement, but he shows no indication of disagreement either.
<The Justice League is looking for you.>
That, too, has a question attached — are you going to turn yourself in to them? — but this time the weapon doesn't try to answer it.
"They are."
Jericho's lips purse, hearing the answer in the weapon's lack of one. A thoughtful expression flits across his face. A bit of the tension has bled from his stance, and while the weapon does not quite relax, nor does he feel as on-edge as he had before. They are not here as friends or even allies, but neither are they enemies.
Jericho's opponents often underestimate him, with his slight build and complete silence and lack of prominence within the expansive roster of Titans, but the weapon can see the gears turning behind his calculating eyes. He and Deathstroke may be night and day in terms of morality, but for those who know to look, it's couldn't be clearer that Jericho has inherited more than just his father's looks.
<It would go a lot faster working with them.>
The weapon's lips twist into a mockery of a smile. "I'm Renegade. Apprentice of Deathstroke, the deadliest mercenary in the world. I have more murders to my name than can be counted. They wouldn't even give me the time of day."
<They would if I were there.>
The suggestion brings him up short. The weapon intently searches Jericho's eyes for any hint of trickery and finds none. Uncertainty and no small amount of wariness, yes, but no deceit. It's a genuine offer. A way out, even. He could go beg for leniency, and with Jericho there, he might even be granted it.
He could go back... but he won't. What good would it do, anyway? Dick Grayson is dead. His soul is gone, and what's left is jagged and sharp and irreparable. All that remains is the broken parts of the weapon.
It's better that they think he died a hero than lived to become the villain.
"No."
<Why?> Jericho gestures at the suit of armor behind him, head tipped to one side. <He's gone. What's stopping you?>
His scars ache — the crooked set of his nose, the burns along his shoulder and back, the blackened flesh right above his knee, and countless more. Every single one serves as a painful and permanent reminder of what his former teammates think of him now.
"Some secrets," the weapon murmurs, "should stay buried."
The weapon offers nothing more than that, and though the other man's eyes are narrowed with equal suspicion and curiosity, Jericho doesn't press.
After a long moment, the weapon finally breaks the silence. "You should finish whatever you're doing here and leave. In fifteen minutes, I'll be wiping this place off the face of the Earth."
Jericho nods and glances one more time at his father's armor. His eyes are churning with something indecipherable when he turns away. As Jericho slips past him and toward the door, the weapon thinks he sees a crinkled photograph of two people clutched in one hand.
His master had been cruelly sadistic, yet his son had grown up to be a strong, capable hero regardless. The weapon is an obsolete tool now, his blade blunted with aimlessness, guilt, and self-hatred, but...
"Jericho," the weapon calls on an impulse.
Jericho pauses in the doorway and turns back. <Yes?>
The weapon swallows hard. Ever since the day he'd killed Fritz Jordan (no choice no choice no — bang), he'd never dared to even think about the idea, let alone voice it aloud, but his master is gone and never coming back. He's only twenty-three, yet he feels as if he's lived lifetimes. Maybe fate won't be merciful enough to grant one more; still, he thinks he has to try. For everyone who's ever suffered at his hands.
(The last time the weapon had seen his dad in person, as Dick Grayson and not the Apprentice, he'd screamed at him for never respecting his experiences as Robin, for trying to bench him when he was just doing his duty. Batman had told him that he wasn't fit for the job, that he wasn't good enough. He'd told him to get out. At the time, the weapon had been hurt and furious, even forming a second Titans team in his desperation to prove him wrong.)
(But if his time as the Apprentice has taught him anything, it's that Batman had been right all along.)
"Do you think I could ever be a hero?" he asks quietly.
The son of Deathstroke considers him for a long minute, gaze unreadable. The weapon waits, dreading the answer yet suddenly needing it more than air itself.
<I don't know,> Jericho answers at last. <After everything you've done... I just don't know if that's possible. But wanting to is the first step. And as they say, you won't know until you try.>
After helping Robin rescue the Titans and take down Brother Blood, Blüdhaven feels... different. Nightwing can still hear their joyous laughter echoing in his ears, bright and infectious. Beast Boy's massive grin lingers in the corner of his eye. Arsenal had given him a friendly clap on the shoulder after his rescue, and the ghost of his hand tingles madly. Nightwing keeps finding himself rolling his shoulder, as if that could dislodge the memory.
The whole plane ride back, he couldn't stop thinking about the way they'd smiled at him, like he was a good person. Like he was a person at all.
(It doesn't count, he tells himself repeatedly. It doesn't count. They don't know it's all a lie. It doesn't matter how much his stomach twists with disappointment heartache longing some emotion, it doesn't count.)
Now Nightwing is back in his city with only the wind for company. After seven years constantly at his master's side, never alone, always chained to him, he doesn't always mind solitude too much as time passes the feeling of drifting aimless without his master is fading; but now, after getting a taste of his old life, of happiness, he thinks he hates the isolation. It's quiet and oh so lonely.
And yet, at the same time, it's somehow not.
Despite the fact that it's not his customary night of the week, Robin swings by the next night, food in hand and bubbling over with questions.
"I wasn't expecting you tonight," Nightwing says mildly when he appears, hiding the way his heart skips a beat with surprise and hope. After a moment, he realizes he doesn't actually mind the company. "Is something wrong? Were there complications with the Titans?"
Robin shakes his head and holds up a bag of takeout. "I just wanted to thank you. For helping out with Brother Blood. You didn't have to. You have all of Blüdhaven to watch over. I never would've asked you to leave your city to help people you have no personal ties to, but you did anyway. So, yeah. Thanks."
(No personal ties? If only he knew.)
Nightwing shrugs nonchalantly like it all meant nothing to him instead of everything. "I told you. You're my friend; I'm going to be there when you need help."
Robin smiles. "For real, though. We've only known each other for a couple months and I don't think you've ever even met the Titans before, but you still dropped everything to come help me. By the way, they all pass along their thanks too. They wanted to come in person, but they, uh, weren't sure they should, after how fast you left Jump."
Nightwing had seen the Titans back to Jump City before bolting. They had tried to convince him to come back to the Tower and join in the celebration, but to their obvious disappointment, he'd staunchly turned them down. Their expressions made guilt curl in his stomach, and he'd fled before his resolve could break. Their presence had been a healing balm, yet at the same time it'd also ached so badly to stand there and see them so happy and know he would never be one of them again.
(Raven had given him a cordial nod, curiosity burning in her dark eyes. Tempest had clasped his hand firmly in a show of respect. Starfire had beamed at him, her expression somehow all cheerful warmth instead of righteous fury.
All of the Titans had, at one point or another, come up to thank him.)
No matter how much he wanted to, Nightwing couldn't celebrate with them. It'd only make the pain a thousand times worse.
(It doesn't count.)
He supposes Robin acting as their spokesperson is their compromise. Could be worse, all things considered, but if he had his way, the Titans wouldn't even be doing this much. It's easier and far less painful if Nightwing just fades quietly from their memory (never mind the part in him that's slowly waking up and aching for their companionship).
Nightwing should insist that both they and Robin stay out of Blüdhaven, as far away from him as possible but when he opens his mouth to say as much, the words curdle and die on his tongue. He needs them to stay away but he's tired and lonely and in that moment he wants nothing more than to pretend that they're friends, that they've been friends all along.
He swallows hard and tries again, but once more the words lodge in his throat, refusing to budge. So instead he offers Robin another shrug, this one as vague and noncommittal as he can make it.
Sure enough, Robin doesn't quite seem to know what to make of his response. But as Nightwing accepts a box of food (the logo on the side proclaims it from a place in Gotham called, of all things, El Murciélago, and in another life, he might have laughed at the fact that the owners had named their restaurant "The Bat") and perches on the roof edge to eat, Robin's attention swiftly shifts in favor of asking the questions that have clearly been burning inside him.
"So, how did you find Blood?" Robin leans forward eagerly, and a last-minute grab is the only thing that keeps his food from sliding off his lap to the street below.
"I have a fair number of contacts," Nightwing says, spearing a piece of lettuce on his fork and listening to the crisp crackle.
"You must've worked fast," Robin notes. "I was only out for four hours, and by the time I woke up, you'd already found out what was going on and tracked the Titans down."
"I'm well-connected." He takes a bite and considers how much is safe to share while he chews. "Including some H.I.V.E. members. They weren't using the base anymore, but H.I.V.E. still likes to keep an eye on old assets, just in case."
All true, but he'd actually reached out to a contact in the League of Assassins to find Brother Blood. Partway through his third year as the Apprentice, his master had sent him to the Shadows for six months to learn from the best in their ranks. He'd established some connections of his own while there and inherited several more when his master died.
He's not going to mention that, though; a new, solo hero with H.I.V.E. contacts might raise some eyebrows, but one with a confirmed connection to the Shadows will definitely draw attention he can't afford.
Robin brightens, latching onto the offered information. "H.I.V.E.? Really? How'd you do that? The Titans have been trying to get an informant in there for ages, but they always get caught."
"I crossed paths with some of their people before. I guess I left an impression."
Robin launches into a flurry of questions, probing for all the details he can wring out of Nightwing. For his part, Nightwing tries to balance telling Robin enough to sate his curiosity and avoiding details that would hint at his former profession and put him on high alert.
It's tricky but manageable. Nightwing is competent at lying and deceit, and his master had trained him thoroughly in undercover work; however, Dick Grayson's natural charisma had always been his strongest advantage in that area. He can still feel occasional hints of it crop up, usually whenever he's deeply immersed in his latest undercover persona, but his skin always crawls with a sense of wrongness no matter how well he fakes it.
(After all, what right does a weapon have to pretend to be a person?)
Nightwing hopes that even if his mouth refuses to explicitly say the words, the Titans will be able to put together the context clues, realize that he's not a person they want to associate themselves with, and leave him alone from here on out (liar).
(And maybe they couldn't assemble the clues back then, but it's been eight years. They're bound to have learned something by now.)
It seems to work, at least. Sort of. While Blüdhaven stays Titan-free over the next few days, Robin has taken to coming over nightly instead of weekly, almost as if to make up for it. Each visit, he's filled to the brim with fresh questions. He joins Nightwing in his patrol, and it seems that every free second he's asking about something else. Old contacts. His web of connections. How he established it. Tricks or moves. Tips for moving so smoothly and gracefully. A rare few on his civilian identity's life.
Nightwing tolerates it for a while.
"Were you born in Blüdhaven?" Robin wonders at one point, as they're scouting out a rundown building tucked away in the northwest quadrant of the city. Rumors of a potential deal that might occur here had been floating through the underworld, one with a buyer bigger than the average criminal.
Preoccupied with running through possible buyers, Nightwing only spares enough attention to give a single-word reply.
"No."
"Why'd you move here, then? There're a lot of other cities without local heroes; you could've picked any of them. I mean, Gotham and Blüdhaven have the highest crime rates in the country. It's a lot to handle by yourself."
Because it's close to Gotham, he doesn't say. Because it's close to our your family. To Bruce Batman.
"It needed someone. And I knew I could handle it."
(And maybe it will do what he's too weak to do himself. He's going to help as many people as he can along the way, but he knows he doesn't deserve to live. It's only a matter of time before karma catches up with him.)
By the second night, Robin's constant presence starts to claw at his skin. He doesn't think he wants Robin to leave, not really, but the longer Robin persists, the more Nightwing's answers seem to twist inside his chest and catch in his throat, effectively stoppering his voice. His patience swiftly wears thin, especially as the questions stray closer and closer to his past.
(He'd felt real, for a moment, standing beside the Titans, but the constant inquiries about his blood-stained history is bringing the Apprentice dangerously close to the surface. The lingering warmth of his former friends' smiles and his desperate clinging to what little identity he's carved out for himself is the only thing holding his true self at bay.)
He longs to be with his family again but he needs time to himself. He's just helped the Titans and taken a big step away from the solo vigilante life. He keeps feeling Arsenal's clap on the back, keeps seeing Starfire's grin, keeps hearing Cyborg's voice ("You'd make a great Titan, that's for sure"). It's throwing him off-kilter, and Robin is inadvertently making it worse.
He needs time. He needs space.
He needs his friends. He needs his family. He needs his dad.
Even as the feeling grows worse, Nightwing grits his teeth and bears through it. But halfway into the fifth night, the inevitable question finally arrives:
"Who were you trained by?"
("Pathetic, Apprentice. Perhaps the Bat may have found such a poor performance satisfactory, but I will not accept such low standards. You will prove to me that you have mastered the art of torture, or I will find someone younger for you to practice on. I've allowed you to learn with adults, but perhaps using a child will provide proper incentive.")
The Apprentice's Nightwing's jaw tightens, and his indulging mood sours in an instant. "I don't want to talk about it."
"But — "
"Leave it!" he snaps, voice cracking through the air as sharply as the sound of a bone breaking. His temper is flaring into a sudden inferno, and his hands clench tightly around the knife cattle prod whip empty air.
Robin recoils, a surprised hurt flashing across his face. Nightwing would feel guilty, but his throat has tightened and his chest is cold and his limbs are numb and his ears are ringing with phantom screams and he's alone, they left him, they betrayed him, they don't care about him, but he's a murderer, they shouldn't care, he deserves it, he deserves this loneliness, this despair, his master is right, he's a weapon just a —
The burst of warmth from the previous days vanishes completely, and when he speaks again, his voice has gone flat and cold.
"If you need help, I'll be there. But otherwise, leave me alone. I'm — " a murderer, a coward, poisonous " — not a good man. You have no idea what I'm capable of, what I've done, how much blood is on my hands. So stay away, for both of our sakes."
Before Robin has a chance to respond, Nightwing has vanished over the rooftop edge. Even as he flies, he falls, and the only thing he can feel is the hollowness of the Apprentice settling in his chest again. And underneath it all is the aching, soul-deep exhaustion of a weapon that no longer wants to be a weapon.
It takes a full week before the Apprentice's grip finally slackens enough to where Nightwing feels like he can breathe again.
He gets maybe ten or eleven hours of sleep total during that time, averaging less than two a night; it's not quite a record low (his master had pushed him further than that when training him to work through sleep deprivation), but it's close. And even if he wanted to sleep more, he can't. Nightmares stalk him whenever he closes his eyes, and every minute wasted sleeping is a minute not working.
(He can't waste time. He can't fall short. Not again.)
So he throws himself into his patrols and police work. He was scheduled to have a couple days off, but he offers to cover a coworker's shift one of those days. The other day he devotes to poring over cases in both his day and night job. And every night, from the moment the sky starts to darken to when the sun is just breaking over the smoggy horizon, he prowls the streets.
He catches quick power naps in between his two jobs' shifts, but each time he barely makes it an hour before he's jerking awake again, soaked in blood sweat and a gunshot and screams echoing in his ears.
Whenever he's at work, he can see his coworkers constantly stealing glances at him. He's sure he looks like a mess, and it becomes progressively harder to focus through his exhaustion as the week goes on. Even so, he finds excuses to stay and keep working, pulling thirteen or fourteen hour shifts because what else is he going to do? What else can he do?
"Staying late again?" Officer Malloy asks him on the third day, when he finds him going through paperwork nearly an hour after his shift was supposed to end. His brow is furrowed low over his eyes in what Officer Dippery interprets as concern — though for what, he's not entirely certain. Perhaps the drug trade they've been tasked with handling is bugging him, though it seems relatively straightforward so far.
Officer Dippery waves him off. "I could use the money," he lies.
With his master's resources at his disposal, he has no need for money. His master was an immensely wealthy man, even if he dedicated most of his funds toward his mercenary work. Decades in the field, as well as claiming the title of the world's deadliest assassin and the hiring rate that entails, has ensured it.
Even after donating millions to charities, he has more than he would ever know what to do with. Fortunes still sit untouched inside countless bank accounts. He could, theoretically, quit his day job and never work a day again in his entire life. It would put a lot less strain on his daily schedule.
But this... he has to do this. To atone. (He's not quite sure if he chose this. If he has that power over himself. Is he choosing this, or is he being driven by the need for redemption?)
(In any case, everything in him recoils at the idea of quitting. Blüdhaven needs someone looking after it and he thinks he likes working with Gannon, likes spending time with his fellow officers, likes doing something good for his city as Officer Tennyson Dippery and not Nightwing.)
Malloy still hesitates. "Are you sure?" he prods cautiously. "You, uh, you look exhausted, Tenny. Maybe you should go home and get some sleep."
"I'm fine, Malloy," he insists.
For once, Malloy doesn't try to correct him to "Gannon." (Despite his repeated attempts, he refuses to budge. Reciprocating on the first-name basis lets him get closer, and the further away Gannon Malloy is, the safer he'll be.)
To his annoyance, his fellow officer still doesn't leave. "That paperwork can wait until tomorrow. I'm sure Captain Rohrbach won't mind."
"I said I'm fine." Officer Dippery gives Malloy a brief, hard glare, before turning back to his work and pointedly ignoring him.
Malloy sighs and finally backs off.
His friend coworker isn't the only one who won't leave him alone. Despite the way their last meeting had ended, Robin returns to Blüdhaven after having stayed away for four consecutive nights.
He heads straight to their usual meeting spot, a determined set to his shoulders. The Apprentice Nightwing perches on a ledge a few buildings away, careful to let the shadows wrap around him and hide him from view. He says nothing. Even if he could speak around the Apprentice's grasp, he has no idea what he could possibly say to make amends (how can he apologize for speaking the truth?).
"I'm, uh. I'm back, Nightwing," Robin calls to the open air.
Robin scans his surroundings, but his gaze slides past his hiding spot without pause.
"Nightwing?" Robin tries again, after a couple minutes tick by without a word. Though it's clear he's trying to hide it, the Apprentice Nightwing can still hear the nervousness and guilt (guilt? What does he have to be guilty about? It's not his fault the weapon is so broken) threading through his voice. "Are you there?"
Why is Robin even here? Was the younger boy listening at all? It doesn't matter whether he's Nightwing or the Apprentice or just a weapon, he's dangerous.
"I was hoping we could talk," Robin says, tentatively. He shifts his weight to his other foot, fidgeting with something on his belt. "I didn't mean to upset you. I wanted to say sorry."
Something urges him to go to him, to reassure him. "It's okay," he longs to say. "I forgive you."
He wants to, so badly.
He wants to.
"Nightwing?"
When Robin turns his gaze in the opposite direction, he slips away. He's not ready to face him again, and right now, he can't trust himself not to fall into the Apprentice's arms and attack the moment Robin gets too close.
He deserves better than him. If he could, he'd give Robin the world, but all he can offer is the broken weapon he's become.
Although it has one of the highest crime rates in the country and often acts as a point of intermediacy between other cities, Blüdhaven's criminal population is still almost entirely human. Nightwing's encountered the occasional meta since starting, mostly acting as hired muscle for a bigger boss, but usually they operate out of places like Metropolis and Central City.
So when he hears reports of an unfamiliar water-controlling meta causing an uproar in the bay area, he's instantly on guard.
He pauses only long enough to grab a pair of power-dampening cuffs from his safe-house before making his way to the bay. Sure enough, once he's a few blocks away, he can see the way the polluted harbor water is swirling in the air. Angry shouts are occasionally drowned out by the sharp crack of gunfire.
The good news is that the meta's not a criminal. In fact, he's fighting other criminals. That's the bad news, because the meta isn't just a random do-gooder. He's a Titan.
No other heroes have come into Blüdhaven except Robin that one night. It's only been a week and a half, and already he's selfishly missing him.
Robin's birthday is tomorrow, he remembers. He thought about getting him something, but that would imply that he should come back to Blüdhaven. He's safer staying away from Nightwing; everyone is.
Yet it seems someone didn't get the memo.
Tattoos glowing in swirling shapes down his arms, Tempest directs a rope of water that coils around one of his assailant's legs. The man is hoisted into the air and then thrown head-first at the ground, where he joins a dozen other men.
The remaining three enemies still refuse to back down, proving themselves either extremely brave or extremely foolhardy. Two charge straight for Tempest, who turns to face them. The third and final assailant draws a gun from somewhere inside her jacket and aims it straight at Tempest.
Before she has a chance to fire, Nightwing swoops in and lands a solid kick to the back of her head. The woman crumples, the gun falling from her limp hand and clattering onto the dock. While he's doing that, Tempest has stepped forward, grabbed the last two enemies by the back of their necks, and slammed their heads together.
Tempest drops them to the ground and turns toward Nightwing.
"Hello again, Nightwing," he greets, casually rubbing his hands together as if to wipe away dust and dirt.
Nightwing gives him a reserved nod. "Tempest. What are you doing in Blüdhaven?"
Tempest eyes him guardedly, and Nightwing thinks he isn't going to tell him (not that he can blame him, really). But after a moment, Tempest's expression relaxes, as if he had passed some sort of test.
"An forbidden artifact that got stolen from an Atlantean conservatory a week ago. The thieves are intending to sell it here, in this city, but I have not yet managed to pinpoint exactly where." Tempest surveys the groaning and unconscious people sprawled across the docks all around him with a critical eye. "I believe these men have the information I need."
Already, he has several ideas on where it could be, but even with Tempest's help, there's not enough time to search all of them. He needs to narrow it down.
"Let's find out." Nightwing's gaze lands on one struggling to sit up, before briefly glancing over at Tempest. "I'll handle this."
Tempest's brow furrows warily, but he still nods his acquiescence. "As you wish."
He strides over, looming over him. The man's eyes, bleary and unfocused, take a moment to look up, but he abruptly jolts up when they finally land on him. Nightwing can hear Tempest following just behind, but he pays him no mind as he places a restraining boot on the man's chest, shoving him back down.
A flicker of fear passes across the man's face before he manages to hide it behind a sneer.
"A trade-off is taking place soon, in this city," Nightwing states bluntly. "Where?"
"Nightwing." The man spits the name out like a swear, expression twisting into one of derision. "No idea what trade-off you're talking about."
("Two main ways exist to make a man talk, Apprentice. You either offer a benefit as incentive for their cooperation, a quid pro quo, or you make them fear you more than they fear talking.")
His eyes narrow behind his mask. "Don't lie. Let's just say it's not conducive to your continued health."
"The lowlifes in this city may fear you, but I don't," the man scoffs. He tries to shift and gain leverage to push himself upright, but Nightwing presses his weight down harder on his chest. He ignores the way the man's breathing grows labored under the pressure. "You don't kill, and you don't torture."
"Do you think that means I don't know how? Under the right conditions, the human body can lose over fifty percent of its blood before finally dying. I can think of plenty of ways to accomplish that. Perhaps you'll be more forthcoming once you're slowly bleeding out."
He can hear Tempest shifting uncomfortably behind him, but fortunately he doesn't interfere. Nightwing lets a smile emerge, a vicious, cruel curl of his lips. It's as frigid as it is false, a tactic designed to further unnerve the man.
It works.
"Everyone else has walked away from your little interrogations unharmed," the man says, clearly trying and failing to hide the tremble in his voice. He attempts another scornful sneer, but the fear in his eyes is obvious.
He's close to breaking. Just a little more.
"Everyone else hadn't tested my patience." He leans closer (knife in his hand, screams in his ears, emptiness in his heart, "tell me what I want to know and the pain stops"), and the man must see the darkness lurking in his eyes because he pales rapidly, any remaining bravado vanishing in an instant. "Do you want to be the first?"
The man hesitates, his eyes darting over Nightwing's shoulder to Tempest. Nightwing shifts to block his view.
"If you think he's going to save you, think again. You stole from an Atlantean conservatory, and they have a very old-fashioned sense of justice. He won't be helping you anytime soon."
The man swallows hard.
Nightwing waits.
"...The abandoned building by Clavering Street." The man rattles off an address.
Nightwing studies his face, then nods. Certain that he's not lying, he knocks the man out with a swift strike from his escrima stick and stands.
"It's this way," he says to Tempest, starting toward the nearest building.
Would Robin approve? The Bat rules by fear, but Nightwing's not just frightening criminals, he's flat-out threatening to torture him. There's always a line somewhere, but he's crossed it too many times to know where anymore.
Atlanteans have enhanced strength, so Nightwing takes to the roofs. Tempest follows easily, leaping from building to building in a way that's perhaps not subtle but still quick. It's a few blocks later before the Titan finally speaks again.
"Quite an effective technique," he comments, voice carefully neutral.
"Yes." Nightwing hesitates, glancing sidelong at him. "Thank you for not interrupting."
"Trust is key to cooperation, and as long as you do not partake in unnecessary cruelty, I will not infringe upon your methods in your city. Tell me, though, would you have followed through on your threats if he had not given in?"
"No. I have enough blood on my hands."
Even so, there are many ways to make someone talk without killing them or even physically harming them, and his master had ensured he had known them all. He plans on staying far away from cold-blooded torture like the kind his master had so favored, but one way or another, he would've gotten the information.
"A relief to hear."
Tempest says nothing more the rest of the way to the deal, simply following along quietly. When Nightwing glances back, he finds the Titan watching him carefully, something considering in his purple eyes. Nightwing considers breaking the silence several times — the Atlantean artifact could potentially complicate things, and he hadn't made it seven years as his master's apprentice by rushing into dangerous situations carelessly; he certainly isn't about to start now — but every time he tries, he can't get the words out.
(He's willing to take on two dozen armed men without hesitation, yet he can't bring himself to ask Tempest a single question, no matter how relevant it is. He's pathetic.)
It's only once they're kneeling on the building across the street does Nightwing finally force himself to speak again.
"You said this artifact was forbidden, and I assume it was for a reason. What does it do?"
Tempest grimaces. "In Atlantean, it's called Spásimyaloú. There is no exact translation to English, but Mindbreaker is close enough. It induces a waking nightmare of sorts, formed by your own worst fears. The side effects are varied. Some are driven to frenzied violence, lashing out at the perceived monsters around them. Others fall into a stupor, blind to the world. As the name suggests, those who fail to escape the illusion in time have their mind shattered, often irreparably."
"How long?"
He shrugs. "Unknown. It depends on the person. Some break after only a few minutes. Others have been lasted over an hour and been fine, relatively speaking."
Nightwing frowns. "What's the best defense against it?"
"Don't get hit?" Tempest suggests wryly, and Nightwing feels an odd urge to roll his eyes. "Strength of mind is the greatest defense — records indicate that it is capable of bypassing most all mental shields. Those who do not have the mental fortitude to face their greatest fears succumb the swiftest."
Nightwing's psychic defenses are nothing to scoff at, but if what Tempest is saying is correct, then it's best to avoid putting them to the test. He knows what his worst fear is. More than that, as capable as he appears on the outside, he knows the moment he's confronted by it, he'll break.
"Understood," he says. "Do you have a plan of approach?"
"Your city," replies Tempest. "I'll follow your lead."
Nightwing points out a side entrance. "Use that side door. Search the first floor. I'll go through a window and search the second." He digs a spare comm from his belt and tosses it to Tempest, who catches it one-handed and puts it in his ear. "Keep in contact, but be quiet — it'll be easier if we catch them by surprise."
Tempest nods, and the two of them split off. Although his power set doesn't lend itself well to stealth, Tempest has clearly picked up a couple of things over the years. He's much more subtle than he had been before. When he was still Robin, he'd taken great delight in teasing his teammates for that. Aside from Roy and Raven, they'd all had absolutely abysmal stealth skills.
It turns out to be simpler than expected. The second floor has three lookouts; Nightwing knocks one out as he enters and the other two shortly after. Tempest finds five more people gathered in the large foyer, guarding the artifact. Between the two of them, the building is cleared of enemies within fifteen minutes.
Nightwing watches as Tempest pulls Mindbreaker out of a container. When he holds it up to inspect, Nightwing sees a straight, narrow shape similar to a horn, approximately a foot long and with a deadly sharp point. It rather resembles a marlinspike with a handle and pommel added to the end.
"That's it?" he asks, although the distinctly Atlantean runes carved all along its length leaves little doubt in his mind.
"This is it," Tempest confirms, running a finger down the side. In response, the runes begin pulsing with a blue-green glow. He nods to himself, seemingly satisfied, and kneels to carefully place it back in the container. "It appears to be undamaged, though I will have to bring it to the conservatory's curator to be certain of — "
The hairs on the back of Nightwing's neck prickle.
There's the slightest shift of air behind him, a quiet rustle of cloth.
An instant later, he's throwing himself to the ground to avoid the razor-sharp blade of darkness swinging toward his head.
Nightwing falls into a roll, twisting himself so that he comes up on one knee facing his sudden assailant. He's met with a tall, dark figure, mostly obscured by a shadowy cloak. As Nightwing jabs his escrima stick forward, he catches a glimpse of pale gray skin and cold red eyes hidden within the depths of a hood.
Nightwing's combat instincts kick into overdrive as Wykkyd (real name unknown, formerly Kyd Wykkyd, capable of attacking from any direction, engage in a well-lit area when possible) dissolves into shadows before Nightwing's attack can connect, only to reappear behind him.
Tempest shouts, lunging to his feet, as Nightwing ducks and narrowly evades another attempt at decapitation. Nightwing flips his stick around in his hand and thrusts the electrified end backward; he can feel it briefly connect, but then Wykkyd vanishes again.
"Are you alright?" the Atlantean asks, moving to his side.
"Fine," Nightwing grunts, rising to his feet. The hand not holding his escrima falls to his utility belt.
Before he can fish anything out, though, Wykkyd abruptly materializes right in front of them, already mid-slash. When they dodge in opposite directions, Wykkyd turns toward Tempest. Despite his unorthodox combat style, the blades along the edges of his cloak — seemingly half steel, half shadow — are lethally sharp, and he wields them with the experience and skill of years of practice.
Tempest is forced back several steps to keep from getting sliced to ribbons. Nightwing can see him grimace when Wykkyd lands a long but shallow cut along his forearm. Even though his skin is naturally highly resistant to injury, Wykkyd's blades are still sharp enough to draw blood.
Nightwing throws a trio of shurikens, and they lodge in Wykkyd's cloak when he ducks behind it like a shield. In response, Wykkyd flings an arm out in his direction; a tendril of darkness leaps from his hand and shoots toward him, the point a deadly spike.
He twists out of the way, biting back a hiss of pain when the spike still manages to gouge along his side. Ignoring the injury's sudden burning pain, Nightwing jerks his escrima upward and slams it against the tendril. It cracks like porcelain upon contact and then shatters. As it falls, it evaporates into a dark mist and disappears.
Wykkyd spins in his direction, another shadow spike already forming in his hand, and Nightwing detonates the shurikens still embedded in his cloak.
Wykkyd staggers sideways, barely keeping himself from falling. While having protected him for the worst of the explosion, his cloak is left in tatters. The darkness around the three of them seems to let out a silent roar, writhing furiously. Tempest strikes while his enemy's disoriented, landing a solid punch across his jaw. Wykkyd grunts but otherwise doesn't make a sound, even as he shoves them both back in a pulse of power and vanishes again. Nightwing's shoulder cracks against the wall, hard enough to bruise.
"Have you fought him before?" Tempest asks as he spins in a circle, eyes darting all about.
"I've heard of him, and I know what he can do," replies Nightwing. A half lie. His master had had him fight many villains before to train, Wykkyd among them, but he hasn't anytime recently. In the five years since he had last faced him, Wykkyd's powers and combat abilities have clearly improved by leaps and bounds.
"Well, I suppose we've found the buyer," Tempest notes, right as the shadows coalesce into their enemy's shape once more.
This time when Wykkyd attacks, he flings Tempest into the wall — the Atlantean's head is bashed against concrete and he stumbles and falls to one knee — and focuses on Nightwing. Nightwing is one of the best out there, but surrounded by darkness, Wykkyd is in his element. His cloak is already partially repaired, solid shadow filling in where cloth had been, leaving it patchy but functional. He's almost unbelievably quick, and with his form obscured, the angles of his attacks are hidden until it's almost too late. Under the relentless barrage, Nightwing finds himself fighting purely on the defensive. He's sure he could keep up under normal circumstances, but the wound on his side flares with pain whenever he twists too far.
He grits his teeth when the blade slashes along his thigh. No arteries nicked, his mind catalogs, but will restrict mobility.
Nightwing bends backward to avoid the next swing, then kicks his feet up into Wykkyd's chin and turns the move into a backwards somersault. As Nightwing straightens upright a few feet away, Tempest slams into Wykkyd from behind, having finally shaken off his dizziness. He wraps his arms around him in a tight, immobilizing hold. It only lasts for a second before Wykkyd once again dissolves, leaving the Atlantean to stumble when his arms are suddenly left empty.
Tempest turns to him, his eyes landing on the blood welling along his side. "Are you — "
An instant later, something sweeps them both off their feet and sends them crashing to the ground. Nightwing hits the floor hard, the air driven from his lungs with a grunt of pain. The impact jolts his escrima from his hand.
Nightwing grimaces, rolling over and forcing himself to rise up to one knee. His breath comes in gasps and wheezes. He twists his head around, searching for his enemy. His mind is so focused on watching for the next attack that he doesn't even realize Wykkyd's actual plan until Tempest lets out a shouts.
"The artifact!"
Nightwing's stomach drops.
He spins around and tries to lunge forward, but something pulls him up short. When he looks down, he finds a shadow vine has curled around his ankle, tightening sharply when he tries to pull his leg free. Nightwing yanks a shuriken from his belt and stabs it into the vine. It dissolves under his attack, and he immediately leaps to his feet, his hand drawing back to throw the projectile —
— but it's too late. He just barely catches a glimpse of the triumph in his red eyes before the shadows swallow Wykkyd whole, taking with him both the container and the artifact held within.
The shuriken imbeds itself into the wall and stays there. A grim silence falls over the dark room.
Nightwing draws another shuriken, but there's no point. Wykkyd doesn't reappear. And why should he? He got what he came for. They failed.
Tempest unleashes a deluge of Atlantean curses, his eyes blazing with anger. He shoves himself to his feet, glaring at the space where the artifact had been.
A familiar sense of defeat and resignation settles inside Nightwing's chest. They failed. He failed.
("I'm disappointed, Apprentice. I know I trained you better than that pathetic showing. Now clean your equipment and meet me in the basement. You know the consequences of failure.")
The building is empty now, save for the eight thugs they'd knocked out when initially entering, so they retreat to the nearby rooftop again. Tempest stays quiet as Nightwing calls the police to the location. The BPD is still corrupt, but Officer Dippery has spent nine months weeding out the worst. Additionally, ever since he got Phillip Addad and Amy Rohrbach instated as Chief of Police and a captain, respectively (though he wishes the transfer of power had been less bloody), dismissals from the force have become both more just and permanent. He trusts that they'll be able to handle this, at least.
With police on their way, Nightwing disconnects the call and glances over at Tempest. The Titan's mouth is set into a thin line, and he stares across the street at the building, his eyes still dark with anger.
Something twists inside him, it's edges jagged and cutting; no matter that he'd pushed the Titans away, he'd still wanted to help Tempest with this. Showed that he can be trusted. Yet even his best wasn't enough.
Nightwing swallows, then offers him a hesitant, "I'm sorry."
Because it's his fault, isn't it? He wasn't fast enough, wasn't good enough. He's fought Wykkyd before, multiple times; he should've done better than that, shouldn't have let him get away with the artifact. The five-year gap is no excuse; his job requires him to be ready for anything, no matter what.
A familiar doubt tightens its thorns around him. The Apprentice was an assassin, not a vigilante. If Nightwing couldn't protect a single artifact, then how can he protect an entire city?
He expects Tempest to turn on him, to rightfully blame him for this. But instead, he just sighs. "It's not your fault."
Nightwing blinks, taken aback.
Tempest rubs his forehead. Though some anger still lingers in the edges of his expression, most of it is fading into weariness. "Wykkyd is not encountered often, but he has experience fighting multiple enemies at once. More than once, he's taken down a Titans team, or failing that, fought them to a standstill long enough to retreat."
"What are you planning to do now?" Nightwing asks.
"I have no way of tracking him, not on my own." Tempest shakes his head resignedly. "The thought of the Mindbreaker in his hands is not a pleasant one, but there's nothing to be done about it now. Perhaps my teammates will be able to locate him."
"Anything I can do to help?"
Tempest considers the question, then nods. "I've heard that you have extensive connections, including some that are closed to the Titans. If you could, monitor for signs of both Wykkyd and Spásimyaloú. The Titans or I can follow up on any lead ourselves. With luck, we'll recover it before too much damage can be wrought."
"I'll keep an eye out," Nightwing agrees.
Tempest smiles, and some of the tension in his expression eases. "Thank you, Nightwing."
After giving Nightwing a phone number that he could use to pass any information along, Tempest turns to go. Then he suddenly pauses and glances back.
"Perhaps you're already aware, but it is Robin's birthday tomorrow. He says you've been avoiding him for the past week. You don't have to explain anything to me, but I was planning on stopping by Gotham on my way back. If it would help to visit him with a friend…" He shrugs. "You're welcome to join me."
With a friend.
The words slam into him like a bullet train. Nightwing feels himself go even stiller than usual, an abrupt surge of emotions uncoiling in his chest. He's had a few people proclaim themselves to be his friend, chiefly his coworkers and Robin, even called himself Robin's friend when helping him save the Titans, but he'd never met any of them before his master had claimed him. Even though Tempest doesn't recognize him, he'd still used to be one of Dick's best friends.
Hearing him use that word so easily, so casually… it hits differently.
Tempest is still waiting for his answer. Nightwing barely hears himself saying, "No thank you."
"Very well. It's your choice." Tempest inclines his head, and though his eyes still contain a hint of wariness, it's mostly overshadowed by respect. "It's been an honor, Nightwing."
Then he's gone, disappearing into the night.
Nightwing shakes himself back into awareness. He glances after Tempest, the words still echoing in his ears, then heads to his apartment to treat his injuries. The scrape along his side from the spike will be painful for a little while longer, and the slash on his thigh will hamper his movements until it fully closes. Both are already well on their way to healing — he hardly ever thinks about the serum his master had injected in him in the first year, but it’s always ensured him a fast recovery since. Other than that, it’s the customary cuts and bruises he gets every night.
What’s left of his heart is a different matter. He’d thought it dead for a long time, incapable of emotions, but ever since it’s rebirth, it’s been a constant ache in his chest.
(“It’s not your fault,” he’d said. Nightwing knows that’s not true, but.)
Nightwing’s hands tremble faintly as he puts his suit away. Then he collapses onto his lumpy couch. He should still be out on patrol, especially since his injuries will likely be gone by the end of the night, but —
("With a friend," he'd said. Garth Tempest had called him a friend. No signs of deceit. No attempt at manipulation. He'd seen Nightwing interrogate that man, terrify him into talking with threats of torture, and he'd still called him a friend without hesitation.)
Nightwing inhales shakily. He clenches his eyes shut and presses his knuckles to his eyelids. Then he stands up, walks out of his apartment, and gets on his motorcycle.
An hour-and-a-half and a city later, he pulls out his burner phone and texts an address to Robin's phone. On the roof of the Gotham building to which said address belongs, he leaves a fifty dollar gift card to El Murciélago and a lead for Robin's latest case, one he knows has been stumping him.
He doesn't expect or deserve Robin's forgiveness, but he's selfish. He can't just leave things like this.
(Robin comes back the next night, expression hesitant and hopeful in equal measures. He begins apologizing profusely the moment he sees Nightwing, but when the older vigilante holds up a hand, he goes quiet.
"I'm sorry," Nightwing says. "I don't... like talking about my past, but I shouldn't have snapped at you like that."
"I'm sorry, too." Robin looks down at his boots, hunching his shoulders. "I should've realized it was upsetting you. I didn't mean to — "
"It's okay, Robin," Nightwing says. "I forgive you."
No matter what he calls himself, no matter whether he's the Apprentice or Nightwing or the weapon, he could never stay mad at him. Not at Tim. Not at his brother.)