Chapter Text
Out Of The Ashes
Chapter 1
The big man all in black comes to him a few nights later and he tries to stay calm. They’d told him to stay away from the Bats; they’d told him that if he saw any of them on the rooftops with the ‘Bat’ insignia across their chests he was to run, that they were the enemy and he’d tried, he really had, but he’d been brought down so swiftly he couldn’t think. Now he was spinning, like a hawk twisting in a gyre. He looked up at the man and swallowed, they hadn’t told him what the Bats would do, only intimated that they were bad and he should stay away.
“Alfred will be bringing you something to eat later,” the man says, and flicker of sadness erupts when he hears that name. “Would you like anything?”
Chocolate Cake he thinks, but he doesn’t speak, isn’t allowed to speak, isn’t allowed to tell these ‘Bats’ about his missions and how if vaults across rooftops, fires his weapon and hits his target he’ll get a reward and praise, he can still hear the woman, ‘Scrubs’ calling him a Good Boy for hitting his target. Because that’s all he is, a weapon, something to be honed and sharpened and used and even discarded when worn out or unecessary. The food arrives and he stares at it for a long time, wondering why the arrangement of items on the tray seems wrong. But he’s hungry and the soup smells good so he eats.
Some time after that, the ‘Bat’ comes in and stands next to the bed he’s sitting on. He looks up at the tall imposing figure, wondering what will happen next. A gentle hand is on his shoulder and a warm voice asks, “Alfred would like to know if you would like a hot chocolate?”
For a moment his forehead crinkles, he’s never asked what he would like, food is just brought to him and he eats it, had he told them he liked chocolate cake? He can’t remember and it doesn’t matter. He lets the thought drift away, but a mug of warm hot chocolate arrives a little while later, it reminds him a little of the chocolate cake and he wonders again why that doesn’t seem right. But he drinks the chocolate anyway and while he’s drinking he wonders where the pills are, and then decides that they must not be important. Curling up on the bed, he drifts into an uneasy slumber. The first two days pass easily enough, sometimes the ‘Bat’ comes down to see him, other times there are three others, young men who stand outside the room he’s in and watch him, their lips thinned mulishly. He thinks that the black clad ‘Bat’ must be the one protecting him from the others because these younger ‘Bats’ frighten him a little. Things change a little on the fourth day, an elderly woman arrives in the cell, carrying a long brown bag. He calls her ‘Grams’ in his head because she reminds him of someone he knew long ago, when he wasn’t dead. She asks him questions gently, but again gets no answer because there is no answer he can give, the dead don’t speak, he hasn’t been given instructions or tasks so until he is he must wait. A stethoscope is pressed against his chest and his blood pressure taken. The only reaction he has is when ‘Grams’ inserts the needle into the vein at his elbow and he attempts to jerk his arm back, but another tall man is behind him, holding the arm still, speaking softly, “Easy, Son, keep still.”
He can’t explain the strange reaction, almost as if someone had given him an injection long ago, something to sedate him, but the memory is gone almost as soon as it was formed and he relaxes again. When she’s finished, ‘Grams’ smiles at him and says, “There you go, sweetheart, all done.”
The strange man behind him smiles and says, “Why don’t you lie down. Alfred will bring you some lunch soon.” That seems like a good idea, so he shuffles across to the bed and lies down on the mattress. He feels weird and he can’t put his finger on it. But maybe if he sleeps….
Meanwhile Leslie Thompkins is standing outside the cell, a concerned expression on her face, “Bruce, I have no idea how to treat this. It’s as if someone sucked the brain out of his head, Richard isn’t there, in fact I have no idea if this can even be reversed. It’s as if they’ve stripped everything he is from him piece by piece.”
“I doubt it was easy,” Bruce growled.
“I do not know,” Leslie looked thoughtful, “I’ve taken some blood and I’ll run some tests.”
“All of them,” Bruce growled. He looked through the clear plexiglass doorway into Dick’s holding cell and frowned. His son was lying on the bed, his eyes closed, but there was a slight frown creasing the skin between his eyebrows.
Dick feels so strange. The pills helped, but he hasn’t been given any pills since he’s been here, maybe he doesn’t deserve them. Tears leak from the corners of his eyes, Can the dead weep? He doesn’t know, but he just wishes that the swirling in his brain would stop.
“Bruce, he simply isn’t there,” Dr Thompkins turns her palms upwards in a gesture of helplessness, “he doesn’t talk; barely moves, there’s nothing, nothing, in the eyes. That’s not Dick in there, and I don’t know if you can get him back.” Leslie began packing up her medical bag. Three other young men came to stand next to Bruce’s distraught figure, wrapping his arms around them, he asked, “Have you found anything?”
“Not much,” Tim replied, “I’ve gone through some of the Video footage of the explosion. There’s evidence of Nightwing entering, and then the building comes down. There was no chance-”
“But he’s not a clone?” the older man bit his lip and turns a frank, green-eyed gaze to Bruce Wayne.
“No. The blood work and fingerprints match. If he was a clone, or a magical duplicate, there would be signs.”
“Tt, he could be a zombie. I can deal with zombies,” the youngest member of the group snarked, beginning to slide a katana from the sheath he wore at his side.
“Princeling that is no way to speak of your brother,” a soft voice interjected and all four of them turned in disbelief to see the young woman standing behind them, Bruce let out a choked cry and then Caitlin’s arms are around him, gentle hands stroking his hair while he shuddered in her arms. The three youngsters smushed themselves against them and if she hears crying and feels the hot wetness of tears, she’s sensible enough not to mention it. Eventually they part and Bruce regards his wife thoughtfully, “Where did you spring from?”
“I took the liberty, Sir.” Alfred said softly, coming up behind her. “Regrettably, Mrs Wayne found it rather more difficult to leave her current post than should be acceptable. Her superior made it clear that she would no longer have a position at Metropolis General.”
Bruce eyed her quietly and then murmured sotto voce “Is this true?”
“Later,” Caitlin promised, “For the present and possibly the foreseeable future, I am needed here. Right, boys, what can you tell me?”
Bruce cleared his throat and ran a hand across his face, “I failed him,” he began brokenly, “I believed the reports from Blüdhaven PD-”
Caitlin laid a hand against her husband’s cheek, “Oh, sweetheart, you believed what you were told. They only recovered a pulverised torso that forensics identified as Richard’s. There’s no shame in that.”
Bruce smiled down at her, for the second time in his life, his world had fallen apart and there was nothing he could do. Caitlin had turned up on the second day after the news announcement, looking white and drawn and had stayed with Jason, Tim and Damian while Bruce had visited the Funeral Home and wept over the closed coffin, wept for his own shortcomings, wept as a parent for his inability to tell his Son how much he truly loved him. “Gods, Dick,” he’d murmured, laying his forehead against the lid of the casket, “I am so very sorry, my Son.”