Chapter Text
"Nighthawk, is it?"
Clark prods at the intake paperwork on the table space between them. Nighthawk. A name so synonymous with another that it gives him the urge to scan the corners of the room more closely, as if the other half will materialize out of thin air. Typically, Superman isn’t one to conduct interviews, but this one is a tad personal. It’s not every day that one of the top fifty world’s most wanted zetas into the watchtower and hands you the cuffs.
Nighthawk offers a small nod. He hasn’t spoken a single word since his arrival. It seems to be rather typical, according to his file. Mute or shy, Clark doesn’t know. He didn’t resist being taken into custody, not that he could if he tried, but as far as anyone knows, the mercenary doesn’t show signs of being a meta.
His armored suit is almost completely grey, save for the dull blue streaks across his chest and parts of his mask. The full-face, lead-lined mask mimics his partner’s, except it sports two eye cutouts instead of one. It’s the only sign anything remotely human sits behind it. That, and the steady heartbeat Clark’s attuned enough to hear.
While he’d shed most of his gear without a fuss, Nighthawk refused to take the mask off. Clark made the temporary compromise to let him keep it, just for the interview. Unless there’s a bomb of kryptonite in it, the deal felt harmless. Though it would still raise red flags for some.
On cue, Clark listens to a door click and swing open, someone shuffling inside, but not in their room. The adjacent viewing room, screened by a hologram wall to keep the illusion of privacy, while up to six people can be watching on the other side. Clark doesn’t have to guess to know who’s decided to keep an eye on this. Everything about this situation screams trap.
He clears his throat. “About your partner, Is it true that he’s dead?” There have been rumors within the past week or so. It’s known that he’s gone dark for at least three weeks, but death is a little harder to prove. And criminal gossip is just that, gossip, but Nighthawk’s word? That’s closer to the source.
Nighthawk’s hand tenses before forcefully relaxing. He’d be able to hide the movement from most, but Clark can hear it happen, even while Nighthawk’s hands are tucked under the table.
A replying nod.
"And you know who killed him?"
No response this time, but Clark hears his breathing hitch.
He raises a disapproving eyebrow, splaying out his hands in a you’ve got to help me here display. “This would go smoother if you chose to speak to me.”
Clark won’t deny that he expects to be turned down, but to his surprise, Nighthawk tilts his head, as if considering it. It only takes a few more moments for Nighthawk to sigh, scoot forward, and set his cuffed wrists on the table. “I’m fine with that, as long as the audience leaves.” His voice is quiet and gravelly; the voice changer scrambles it into something robotic and toneless.
Hopefully by the end of this, they can get rid of the mask and start working with the actual person behind it. No tech to hide behind. A face-to-face conversation with someone partnering with the worst of what humanity has to offer. “Afraid I don’t get what you’re asking.”
A small head movement indicating the wall. “Tell him to leave. I wanted to do this with you.”
Clark can’t hide the flicker of surprise that crosses over his face. There’s no way Nighthawk should be able to see through. It’s a blend of magic and tech; Clark is sure Nighthawk’s mask isn’t sophisticated enough to sift through magic. He schools his face, hiding away the growing intrigue and suspicion in favor of something tight and in control. Nighthawk isn’t going to be the one dictating his own arrest, more than he already has, that is. “You’re not in a position to negotiate.”
As if he can see through it, Nighthawk turns his head, ignoring Clark entirely to speak to the wall. He’s not angling his head correctly to directly face their observer. “I’m sure we’ll have plenty of time to talk when I’m in my forever home. And I won’t tell him anything if you stay, quote me on it.”
Clark raises an eyebrow, chancing aiming the expression at Batman. The ball is in his court. With Clark’s vision, he can look past the illusion, staring down his cloaked friend on the other side. Batman’s face, as per usual, is indiscernible, but Clark can read the glimmer of frustration bubbling under the surface. He has a temper, these days. Not surprising, given what he’s been through, but still. Clark misses the early days, when there was less death, less tragedy, and his friend not quite as hollow. Instead of challenging Clark’s look, or Nighthawk’s demand, Batman brings up a panel on his left gauntlet. He types something quickly before exiting the room with a sweep of his cape. A second after, the wall flickers and disappears, replaced by its true form. A wall of glass showing the now empty observation room.
Nighthawk doesn’t back down immediately; if anything, he leans forward. As if taking the room apart piece by piece, trying to discern whether or not he’d been deceived. Eventually satisfied, he leans back, gesturing for Clark to continue.
“So. Deathstroke is dead.” Clark keeps his voice casual, keeping it even. Like they’re just talking about the weather. It might unsettle the average person, but career killers often chat about these things like an average Tuesday. Because for them, it is.
“Yes,” the voice changer buzzes. Nighthawk doesn’t reanimate. It’s as if the words appear out of thin air, of no association to the man sitting across from him.
“Who is responsible?” Like ticking items off a list. Question A, B, C.
Clark doesn’t hear a change in heart rate, or breathing, but the air shifts into something sour. Like the ask is crossing a line, and the air itself knows it.
“Me,” Nighthawk says, backed by nothing except the intonation of a bored schoolchild giving a presentation.
It shouldn’t be a surprise. Betrayal is a common theme in the criminal sphere. But as far as he’s aware, Nighthawk and Deathstroke were thick as thieves. Pun not intended. They worked as a smooth unit, completely synchronous with each other. A partnership like that isn’t one-sided. To be in tune with another requires effort from both sides. To the outside looking in, they trusted each other wholeheartedly. But there are exceptions to every rule.
“Why?” A trace of his western drawl, brought on by genuine curiosity and disgust, creeps in. Clark has no love for Deathstroke, but he wanted a trial. He wanted the chance to look him in the eye and see him finally pay. He’s an inscrutable stain on the League’s mind. A reprehensible, disgusting monster that will forever have a shut book because one person decided they had the right to the last page.
A shrug. It’s still robotic. It radiates an uncaringness that fills him with a seething anger. “I felt like it.”
A scowl makes a home on Clark’s face, and he lets it. He takes a deep breath, putting a lid on the flames threatening to claw up his throat. Justice will never be served. Never. "You were his partner."
Nighthawk doesn’t twitch, but his wrists tense in the cuffs before letting them out. Almost imperceptibly. He’s good. An adept actor. Certainly enough to fool most humans. "I was. Am.”
Defensive. Clark is no detective, but he is a reporter. He has a mind for reading into things. For finding the story, even for one as grim as this. Defensive not over the murder, but over a use of past tense. It leads to more questions and possible theories. An accident, maybe. An argument that got out of control, a misfired gun, a spur-of-the-moment crime committed by someone so used to tying up loose ends with a bullet. But why come here? Why turn himself in? There’s only one answer: guilt.
As if reading his mind, Nighthawk’s voice changer buzzes, “I’m here to stand trial for his murder. I owe him that much."
It’s confirmation. If only he spared some of that guilt for the others. The pages upon pages of descriptions, pictures, and lives stolen and now tacked onto Deathstroke and Nighthawk's files. Evidence is what they are now. Whatever their lives were before have become footnotes. How they died has taken more precedence than the life they had. All they are now are stepping stones to a conviction.
Clark channels his frustrations into the back of his mind. The time for reflection isn’t here. That would be back home, side by side with his wife on the porch, sharing a pot of coffee as the sun rises. Reflection is a job for home.
He clears his throat. “When and where did you do it?”
“Thirty-three days ago in a base of his up north,” Nighthawk instantly replies. “I could draw you a map, if you wanted.”
“Has the scene been scrubbed?”
“I torched it, but who knows. Something could have survived.”
If it’s meant to be a joke, the voice changer smooths it into something foreboding.
“The body?”
“Gone.”
“Gone? Just like that? After three years of partnership—”
“—Eight years,” Nighthawk replies, with enough force that the static bursts at the beginning and end of the words.
Clark can’t suppress the twitch in his fingers. Eight years. A sore point, even now. “We don’t have record of anything before three.”
Nighthawk scoots closer, cuffs dragging on the table. “Then you weren’t looking close enough.”
When it comes to Deathstroke, Nighthawk has no idea just how true that rings for him. For the entire League. Unless he does, a new suspicion begins to bloom, and the flames are starting to grow. Eight years ago. He would have been there. He would have seen something. He might have even played a part in it.
“This interview is over.” Clark stands up, his chair skidding over the white tile floor with an ugly screech. “Now, if you’ll remember, we had a deal.”
The intensity in Nighthawk flicks off like a switch. He shrinks back in his chair, cuffs coming back with him. It’s funny, how quickly he can switch from having a presence to having none. It’s like he’s turning himself into background noise whenever he wants. “Now?”
“You swore to a verbal contract,” Clark leans over the table. He doesn’t like to threaten, but he wants to get out of this room. “You’ll remove it, or I’ll do it for you.”
Nighthawk sits back, like the ask is inconsequential, but he can’t stop the uptick in his heart rate. He’s anxious. Is he scared of Clark, or something else? Nonetheless, Nighthawk leans down, giving his chains enough length to reach the back of his mask. Clark doesn’t care to take note of the method used to take it off, the cameras will have a record if they ever need that information.
It takes a little over ten seconds for a latch to release, and the mask falls to the table with a soft thump. Nighthawk leans back, brushing sweaty black hair out of his face. He’s younger than Clark thought. He’s tan with sharp features and a crooked jawline. Blue eyes with dark circles peer out beneath his stringy, tucked-away pieces of hair. A web of light scars wraps over his face, but a few deeper marks stick out. His nose is asymmetrical, twisted at the bridge. An indication of repeated breakage. There’s a deep indentation on his left cheek, looking like an old puncture wound, and twin scars run over his right cheekbone, fading into his hairline above his ear. Despite his age, his face is marked by experience.
Eight years, he said.
“What?” The unmasked man says, his lips move to make the word, making the action look and sound human. His voice is light, a little raw, likely from disuse, but it doesn’t share his same blank exterior. It’s lighter than what Clark would’ve assumed, if not a little tense in the way he cuts off the word with another sentence. “Surprised? Not surprised?”
Surprised, Clark thinks numbly. Why is he so young? And there’s something— wrong here. He draws a blank trying to reach into his mind. That voice is familiar, and the face in front of him doesn’t sit right with him either. He can’t find it in him to raise another question. It suddenly feels like he’s treading a fine line, or hovering at the edge of a cliff. Like something in him is telling him to turn back before he topples over the side.
A flicker of something passes over Nighthawk’s face in the stern silence. Disappointment, frustration, fear? Clark doesn’t know.
“It’s alright if you forgot,” Nighthawk says bluntly; his tone shifts into something more dreary. More fitting to his statue-like posture. It’s gotten less familiar, but still, Clark is sure he knows that voice. Nighthawk huffs in apparent amusement. “I think everyone did.” He must think it funny, to some degree, because his lips thin into a small smile. His teeth flash, and realization slots into place like the last nail in a coffin.
Clark feels his own heart explode, and his knees go weak. His palms lose traction on the table, and it uses every ounce of willpower to keep his balance as horror turns into a single word.
“Dick?”
Nighthawk's smile flickers before it solidifies like ice. Through his teeth, he lets loose one final blow. “Hey Clark, long time no see.”