Chapter Text
There was blood on his sleeve. Someone’s blood. Probably the idiot with the knife he’d taken down earlier that night—one of those rare evenings when Bruce’d greenlit him going outside post-injury. Tonight, he’d gotten lucky. Or unlucky, depending on the stain count.
They were barely noticeable in the low light of the cave, but they stuck, a reminder of how far this had gone. Dick could feel the weight of Bruce’s stare.
“I've taken your Robin's suit.” he finally said.
Dick froze. “What?”
“You can't keep doing this, Dick.” Bruce sighed wearily, sinking onto the edge of the table.
“You have no right...” he said, voice low, tight. He felt that Bruce was serious. Real serious.
Bruce didn’t answer at first. He never did. He just stood there, immovable, waiting for Dick to exhaust himself.
“It's not yours to take.”
Bruce’s hands curled at his sides. “It was never yours to keep.”
Something cold shot through Dick’s ribs, something sharp and cutting, and he almost laughed at the absurdity of it. “That’s funny,” he muttered. “That’s really fucking funny. Says a man that’s not my father.”
Bruce exhaled sharply. “You fell off the building.”
“And who pushed me, exactly?”
“Joker did and you almost—” A pause. Bruce’s voice dipped lower, rougher. “I've decided that it's not safe for you anymore.”
Dick’s jaw clenched. The air in the cave became suffocating.
“You have to be kidding me?” his voice wavered, but he pushed through. “You think I didn’t spend every goddamn second knowing how dangerous it was? What I did in Young Justice alone was more dangerous than any clown in the world! But those were my decisions! And you—” He shook his head, fists trembling at his sides. “You don’t get to decide when I stop being who I am.”
Bruce stared at him, face unreadable, something flickering behind his eyes that Dick couldn’t place.
“You are being reckless all the time. You are careless, violent,” Bruce said. “I've made my decision.”
“Bullshit,” Dick snapped. “This isn't a choice. This is you taking something that doesn't belong to you because you think it would make things easier. You’re a coward. I'm done listening to your shit everyday. I'm outta here.”
For a moment, Bruce’s expression shifted—just enough for Dick to know he’d hit something vital. But it was gone just as fast, buried beneath that endless, infuriating control.
Of fucking course, as always. Fuck off, Bruce.
So Dick turned, his footsteps echoing through the cave as he walked away.
And then—
“Dick.”
He stopped. He didn’t turn.
Bruce’s voice was quieter now, something frayed at the edges. “Don't.”
***
An hour later he was sitting in his room and thinking. Joker shot him a couple of weeks ago, yeah. It wasn’t too serious and definitely not as serious as Bruce had imagined. But Bruce took Robin away from him. He’d been fighting crime since he was nine and now what? How dare he? What in the actual fuck?
After Zucco, Dick had spread his wings, learned to control his anger—or at least tried to—and stopped himself from smashing every villain’s face into a bloody pulp. Yet now he wasn’t merely making threats, just like a hundred times before. No, no, not this time. He’d actually taken away his suit. He stripped him of his mother’s name like it's nothing.
Dick knew he could bang his head against the wall all day and pound his fists against the cold manor walls—even against Bruce himself—but when he looked into Bruce’s eyes, he saw a determination reserved for life‑or‑death decisions in the League or critical choices at Wayne Enterprises. In that moment, he realized that nothing he said would change Bruce’s mind. Dick smashed his knuckles against the wall, barely containing the rage and malice surging inside him. His time in that house was over. He was so done with this. Alfred might be very upset, but Dick was sure Bruce wouldn’t care that much. Not now certainly.
If Bruce could take something so important—rip away a crucial part of his life, his parents’ legacy—then fine. He’s done. Done with Bruce and his crazy reasoning. Done with the hypocrisy, he has to take something that important from him, while simultaneously cherishing the fucking pearls of his mother like they’re a national treasure. Right… His departure would not be misunderstood. Dick simply packed his things, grabbed the money, and left.
Barbara had spoken highly of the Blüdhaven Police Academy, and Jim had as well. Without access to the Batcomputer, Dick would need to gather information elsewhere, and the police seemed like the only option that wouldn’t take forever. No extra schooling or wasted time, just what he needed. He was seventeen and had some savings unrelated to Waynes. He could live on his own, he was sure of it. Not for a long time, but his parents left him some inheritance. It wasn’t a big deal after all; he would survive. Besides, Mount Justice was still accessible to him. Strange, isn’t it, his mind whispered bitterly. The smell of burnt popcorn—M’gann’s disastrous movie nights—flooded him. Wally’s laugh, Roy’s eyeroll, Artemis’s knife balancing act… gone. All gone. His mind then conjured memories of the undercover mission and everything that followed… After everything you’ve done… He sucked in a sharp breath, suddenly aware his thoughts had plunged into dark territory. No, no, he couldn’t see it again. The grave, Artemis’s hollow stare, all of them… the memories coiled around his throat like a noose, clawing at his resolve. Dick winced. Breathe in, breathe out. He would manage. He would manage… right? Screw you, Bruce, Dick thought, screw you.
As he passed Bruce’s study, his hand hesitated on the doorknob, cold metal against his palm.
How many times had he burst into this room without knocking, just to tell Bruce about a new trick he learned, about Wally’s latest dumb idea, or some ridiculous stunt Conner had pulled? He used to know exactly how Bruce would react—an exasperated sigh, the faintest twitch of a smirk, a subtle shift in his posture as he turned his full attention to Dick.
Now the door remained closed.
Bruce hadn’t even looked at him once as he packed his things. Hadn’t said a word as Dick shoved his old life into a duffel bag.
Maybe he was waiting for Dick to slam the door first.
And he did.
***
Dick bolted upright from the bed, eyes flying wide. Bile burned the back of his throat and sweat poured off him, his body radiating heat like a furnace. He felt sick, nauseous and trembled as he struggled to catch a breath. He remembered he was in his new shitty apartment. Right, he went to Blüdhaven… The grit of yesterday’s words to Bruce and his words to him still coated his tongue. God, in hindsight, it was horrific. The things he’d said… He wiped his face, clammy and raw—
Then froze. The air had gone still. Something shifted in the corner, brighter than the shadows. The shadow seemed to split into light and dark. It radiated heat so intense he could feel it from his bed, a searing wave that prickled his skin. The sight reminded him of…
Deathstroke. The shadows finally drew apart, and he saw him. Slade. Not his imagination, not a nightmare, but a man with a gaze sharper than any of his blades. Deathstroke stood before him, his armor glimmering faintly in the absence of light. The room darkened at the edge of his vision. The air thinned, as if someone had drained it away. A fear crept into Dick’s chest, sharp and primal, just as it had when he was a boy. When he’d first lost his grip on the trapeze. Yesterday, his father stripped him of the Robin mantle, his purpose, and his name. He was so alone… and…
He turned around instinctively to see his... No dad, not a single shadow to indicate his presence. A chill ran down Dick’s spine, and his stomach twisted into knots. He was utterly alone, yet there stood the man who’d always watched him with that unnerving stare. They’d never met during the invasion, but after Dick left the team… Slade was everywhere, but they’d never crossed paths. Wherever Dick went, the mercenary flickered at the edge of his vision—lingering in cold, shadowed corners even Dick wouldn’t dare approach. It reeked of a trap, an invitation Dick would never take. He wasn’t that stupid. Rumours swirled with hundreds of corpses left in Slade’s wake… but seeing the photos was worse. The files Dick got from the GCPD and BPD flashed in his mind—crime scene photos from the docks. Men with shattered skulls, their tattoos matching the traffickers and pedos Dick had hunted for weeks. Slade hadn’t just killed them. He’d finished Dick’s work. A calling card or a—
“Look at you, all grown up now. Living on your own,” his deep, gravelly voice echoed Bruce’s, but was roughened by smoke. “No daddy around to protect you.” Dick saw Slade’s sword gleamed crimson, its bloodied edge casting a long, distorted shadow. He smirked, but his single eye betrayed an uncharacteristic gravity.
“Know that you die with honour, Robin,” Slade said, voice gravel and smoke. For a split second, his eye softened with fucking pity—then ignited, blazing through Dick like wildfire. Their gazes locked, unyielding, as if Slade’s stare could carve itself into his soul. “Which is more that can be said for most.”
Terror clawed up Dick’s throat. His blood turned to ice as the realization hit him. No, no, don’t you do it, he thought wildly, you’re the one who wanted to drag me into this twisted game of yours—
A heavy metal boot slammed into Grayson’s chest, hurling him backward into the abyss.
***
A couple of weeks after living in Blüdhaven, he could say it was a total shithole. He thought it would feel different.
Like freedom. Like something clean.
But Blüdhaven wasn’t a fresh start. It was a slow decay. The kind that crept up on you, soaked into your skin and settled in your lungs like rot. The air here felt thicker, heavier, pressing against him when he lay in bed at night, staring at the cracked ceiling, listening to the distant sounds of breaking glass and sirens that never stopped.
He told himself he liked it.
But some nights, when the city was too quiet, when there was no movement beyond the flickering streetlights outside his window, he found himself listening for something else. For a voice on the comm that would never come. For a hand on his shoulder that would never be there again…
Anyone who foolishly thought that Blüd was somehow better than the neighbouring city was lying to themselves. Sure, the streets were cleaner, and it certainly wasn’t an infamous criminal capital like Gotham, but… Somehow, it was worse, just worse. Like mini-Gotham, but with almost the same amount of crime, considering that Blüd was almost ten times smaller, which meant that crime per capita was much, much higher. The media was just less vocal about stuff like that. Like, basically totally quiet. Or brushed off. Either way, the result was the same—a complete ignorance by the public outside of the city. Hearing all of those horror stories about Gotham and none about Blüd. The thing is, the drug trade was conducted through Blüd’s harbour and went straight to Gotham. So, the drugs were not sold as much here. Though he liked the architecture which was older than Gotham’s and gave a look of an old European city. The air was better, too.
Dick was now studying in the academy—and was totally lucky to be fired when the entry exams were about to start—he somehow ended up on a bus to Metropolis. No, sir, no, he certainly did not act on a whim.
The bus stank of diesel.
Dick’s reflection in the bus window flickered. In the moment when the sun was still setting, half of his face was lit, the other half shadowed. Dick winced—the stark contrast split his face, and suddenly, images of corpses flooded his mind, unbidden.
Dick pressed his forehead to the window, watching Gotham’s skyline shrink into a smear of shadows in the distance. Somewhere in that darkness, Bruce was still working. Still silent. Dick’s phone buzzed—a news alert about a break-in at the Gotham Museum. He deleted it. Let the Batman handle it alone.
It was colder at night but less foggy and more clear. It became a lot more quiet. He really didn’t want to bother anyone, but he was at loss. His headache was annoying and visions from his nightmares still clung to the backs of his eyelids every time he blinked. The world from his window was blurry. But he could proudly say he was an invited guest. Clark was ready to let him crash at his place whenever he needed it. His uncle could always fly him. So he called at last. He wanted to stay for the weekend.
***
Dick soared through the air, his breath sharp in the chilly night wind, his muscles tense and alert as he cut through the sky beside Clark. The sensation of flight, of freedom, was intoxicating, but it didn’t reach the hollow feeling gnawing at him. He could feel the familiar weight of his anger, the frustration he couldn’t shake. Everything felt like it was falling apart, and this, this flying through the night with Clark, was the only thing that made him feel something like peace, even for a moment.
Clark, steady and calm, flew beside him and held him like it was second nature, a gentle smile on his lips. But Dick noticed the subtle shift in his uncle’s expression as they landed softly on a rooftop, the city sprawling beneath them like a glittering sea of cold lights.
Dick barely spoke as they stood in silence, the weight of his own thoughts and headache pressing in on him, until Clark broke it.
“Ever wonder about names?” Clark asked, his voice calm but full of something deeper.
Dick stiffened, his gut tightening. Names. Clark knew. Was it Alfred that called him because he thought Dick would go to Clark’s? Once Robin was a word that had meant everything to him once. His mother’s name for him had always felt like a vital part of his identity. But now it was gone, his suit was gone, taken away without second thoughts, without hesitation. He hadn’t even been given a chance to understand why. Bruce didn’t even tell him it was coming. Just… fired him.
“I’m not really in the mood for this,” Dick muttered, the words sharp, but Clark didn’t flinch.
“You know,” Clark continued, “When I was young, I didn’t know who I was supposed to be. My world was full of expectations. The House of El was a legacy of leadership, nobility, an entire line of Kryptonian tradition. But none of that felt real to me. I grew up here, on Earth, as Clark Kent, far from Krypton’s weighty legacy. And I—”
“Just got to pick up the pieces,” Dick finished, voice dark with bitterness, still feeling that searing edge of betrayal.
Clark nodded, taking a slow breath. “Yeah. But you know, there’s another story I’ve always remembered, one I heard from the Fortress. My biological father, Jor-El, left me the records of Krypton’s past. And one of those stories, well… I think it could be very important for you to listen to.”
Dick turned toward Clark, sensing this wasn’t just a story—it was something Clark needed him to hear. Something that mattered. And he’d always trusted his uncle.
“It’s about Nightwing,” Clark said, the name carrying weight. “A hero from Krypton’s past. But not the kind people usually remember. He wasn’t a warrior in the way you’d think. He didn’t have an army. He wasn’t from a noble bloodline. In fact, he walked away from his family. From power. They wanted to use him, to shape him into another pawn in their game, but he refused.”
Dick’s stomach twisted. That felt familiar.
Clark continued, his voice steady, deliberate. “Krypton’s ruling families controlled everything. They passed power from one generation to the next, shutting out anyone who wasn’t part of their system. Nightwing saw the corruption. He saw the people suffering while the elite turned their backs. And he decided to do something about it.”
Dick exhaled slowly. “What did he do?”
“He became what Krypton didn’t have—someone who fought for the people, not for power. He built something outside of their control. Used his resources to create safe spaces, to help those the system abandoned. But that made him a threat. The leaders saw how people looked to him, how he gave them something they weren’t supposed to have—hope. So they came after him. They took his family. His friends. They wanted to break him.”
Dick’s fingers curled into fists. He could see it too clearly—the slow, methodical destruction of everything Nightwing tried to protect. The way people like that always made sure you had nothing left before they came for you.
“They captured him,” Clark said quietly. “Tortured him. Tried to make an example out of him. But he never gave them what they wanted. And he escaped.”
Dick’s breath hitched. That was the difference. The thing that separated Nightwing’s fate from his own.
“He never stopped,” Clark continued. “He made one last speech. He told the people to stand, to keep fighting, even if he wasn’t there to lead them. And they listened. Nightwing was injured badly and he retired to educate people instead of being in the middle of another mess but his name became something bigger than him. A promise and a symbol. Not because he won—which was amazing at that time and circumstances—but because he never let them take who he was. They broke him physically—just for a while—but never mentally. He recovered from everything they did, eventually.”
The silence stretched between them.
Dick swallowed. “I don’t know if I can be like that. Inspire people,” he admitted. “I don’t know if I have anything strong in me after what happened to Wall—”
Clark’s expression softened. “You do. You’re still here, even if he's not. And you get to decide what that means.”
Dick let the name settle over him, let it sink into the spaces Robin had left behind. It didn’t erase the anger, the hurt, the sense of betrayal and loss—but it gave him something else. A choice.
“Nightwing,” he murmured. He rolled the name over his tongue, testing the weight of it. It felt like armor. “Yeah. Sounds like a decent name.”
Clark smiled. It was a quiet, proud one.
“Yes, it does.”
Clark spread his arms open for a hug. Dick sank lightheartedly into his warm, firm embrace. He looked up at the stars while the city sprawled beneath them. For the first time in a long while, he didn’t feel completely lost. Maybe the night sky wasn’t as dark as he’d thought. Maybe he could be something else. Something new. This new name wasn’t just a reminder of what had been taken away. It was a choice he could make. Something that no one could take from him.
***
The truth was that distancing one from a parent can make returning almost impossible. Unbearable, even. The gap grows, and one can’t simply relax in their presence or forget everything—even if it was their fault. It felt as though an unbridgeable chasm separated you from them.
Bruce stood so close and yet so far. It’s been a year since they parted ways. He was talking to Jason, only a few steps away—so close, yet unreachable. Dick’s eyes moistened, and his fists clenched. He longed to drop to his knees and beg for forgiveness—for leaving, for cutting off contact, for allowing things to become this way. But you can’t undo the past, and something inside kept him silent. He just wanted Bruce to really look at him, to hug him as he once did when Dick was still a child.
He stood in a dark corner of the cave, watching Bruce and Jason. They had worked so well together during the half a year he was absent—first with the Young Justice, then in Blüdhaven. And back and forth. There was a time when he and Bruce communicated like this. Once upon a time…
Then he turned away sharply and glanced at the new Robin suit displayed behind glass. It was thicker, more armored, heavier—hardly suited for an acrobat. Not for him. He remembered the happiness the role once brought him—working alongside Wally, Conner, and the rest. Bruce…. And then his own leadership on the team. Before the rift with Bruce, everything had been simpler, easier. But going back was no longer an option.
They had lost their special connection long ago. The distance between them grew with years and then Bruce had taken something precious from him—something deeply personal—and though the pain of the rift had dulled, Dick could not forgive Bruce for one thing: the name his mother had given him, taken away by someone who was supposed to understand its meaning. A man who had kept secrets from his own parents, whose portraits adorned the manor. That same man had stolen the last cherished memory of his mother and handed it over to some boy. The final time she called him by that name—it wasn’t Bruce’s place to decide who should keep what was theirs. And did it even seem like Bruce cared about what he’d done? Did it seem like he cared about his family at all? All that remained was a cold, distant connection—if you could even call it that.
***
One day, Alfred called—a very pleasant conversation, all things considered—and told him that Jason and Bruce had left Gotham. He mentioned possible leads on Jay's mother, new troubles brewing in the city, the whole messy situation. Dick booked a flight within an hour of hanging up. He acted on whim. He’d missed being part of a team so badly that he’d jumped at the chance to help them with… whatever they needed.
After landing, he reluctantly exchanged a brief flurry of messages with Bruce. Two hours later, he stood at the military base. All of them were there.
The safe house was stifling, thick with the kind of heat that had nothing to do with the air outside. The walls felt too close, the silence pressing down like a weight. Jason stood near the window, his back tense, hands gripping the sill like it was the only thing keeping him in place. His reflection in the dirty glass was sharp—furrowed brows, clenched jaw, eyes burning with something caught between anger and something else.
Dick, on the other hand, was still. He leaned against the rickety table like he had all the time in the world, arms crossed loosely over his chest, but there was a coiled tension in the way his fingers dug into his sleeves. His gaze never wavered from Jason, watching him with an unsettling calm, the kind that had driven more than one person up the wall.
Somewhere in the background, Bruce was silent, a shadow just out of reach. He was here, but not involved. He was here for Jason. Of course he was. Letting them talk unsupervised, how generous, huh?
“So, I’ve heard Joker’s creating some new weapon? The rumors are running rampant in Blüdhaven nowadays,” Dick wondered, locking eyes with Jason’s dark-green serious gaze.
“Yep… Nasty business. We were following the lead back in Gotham. We know he’s already distributing it—probably a drug or chemical weapon. Insane stuff. Only to his trusted people. You should’ve seen the corpses…” Jason looked away, his voice trailing off.
They fell silent. A mutual awkwardness hung in the air. The boy's hair was tousled—a look that would’ve been endearing, almost charming, something to joke about, if they’d shared anything beyond a handful of bleak conversations.
Jason exhaled sharply, shoving away from the window. “You know, you could at least pretend you’re not being a total control freak,” he bit out, pacing a tight line across the room. “She’s my mom, Dick. Mine. Why do you suddenly give a crap about helping us?”
Dick didn’t rise to the bait. His voice was even, but something in his expression hardened. “This isn’t about me giving a crap,” he said. “It’s about being smart.”
Jason scoffed, throwing his hands up. “Smart. Right. Because you’re the only one who knows how to handle things, right? The only one who gets to make the calls?” His voice sharpened, accusation creeping in. “What, you don’t trust me to deal with this myself?”
“I do, but you—”
Jason let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. “Unbelievable.”
Dick pushed off the table, stepping forward, his voice still infuriatingly measured. “I trust that you want this to work out, Jason. But that’s exactly why you’re not thinking straight.” He held Jason’s gaze, steady and unyielding. “You met her once, and suddenly you’re ready to believe she’s everything you’ve been missing.”
Jason’s hands curled into fists at his sides. “You don’t get to tell me what I want,” he snapped. “You don’t know anything about it. You don’t know what it’s like to—” He stopped himself short, shaking his head violently, as if that would shake the words loose before they could escape. “You don’t get it.”
Dick’s jaw tensed, his expression flickering for just a second. Jason didn’t need to finish that sentence for Dick to know exactly what he meant. He knew what it was like to want a piece of family back. But that didn’t mean he was going to let Jason walk blind into something that felt off.
“I do get it,” Dick said, voice quieter now, but not softer. “That’s why I’m telling you not to rush into this.”
Jason let out a bitter laugh. “Right. Then you don’t trust me. Or Bruce. You don’t trust anyone, do you?”
Dick didn’t answer right away. He could have told Jason the truth—that trust was a luxury he couldn’t afford anymore. That every time he let himself believe in something, it ended up gone, like Robin, like the life he used to have, like Wally… But Jason wouldn’t understand. Jason still had hope.
The boy let out a sharp breath, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “You don’t even like me,” he muttered. “So why the hell do you even care?”
That one hit harder than it should have.
Dick exhaled through his nose, shaking his head slightly. “I care about you not getting screwed over by someone who suddenly wants back into your life,” he said. “That’s why I’m going to check out the warehouse first.”
Jason froze for half a second, then turned on him, eyes narrowing.
“What?”
Dick held his ground. “If she’s clean, great. But if something’s wrong, I’d rather find out before you go running in with open arms.”
Jason’s laugh was humorless. “Right. Because I’m just some dumb kid who doesn’t know any better?”
Dick didn’t blink. “Because I know how much it hurts when someone disappoints you,” he said simply.
Jason stared at him, something unreadable flickering behind his expression. Then, his face twisted with something colder. “You mean Bruce.”
Dick’s silence spoke for itself.
Jason clenched his teeth, stepping forward, crowding into Dick’s space like he was daring him to say something else. “I don’t even know why you’re pissed at him, but now you’re taking it out on me?” His voice was rising now, shaking at the edges. “That’s why you’re here? Not because you actually care, but because you need somewhere to dump all your crap?”
Dick didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. Just stood there, his expression carefully neutral.
Jason let out a sharp breath, stepping back like he was disgusted. “You’re a genuine piece of work, man.”
Dick exhaled slowly, lips pressed tightly together. “Jason.”
Jason ignored him. “You know what? Screw it. Go ahead. Play the hero, take over, do whatever the hell you want.” He reached into his pocket and yanked out the crumpled note, shoving it against Dick’s chest with more force than necessary. His fingers clenched around the fabric of Dick’s shirt for half a second, like he wanted to shake him, force him to see something. Then, just as quickly, he let go.
Dick took the note without a word, slipping it into his pocket, looking straight into Jason’s eyes.
I’m right, he thought. Nothing could be worse than learning you still have a living relative… one who isn’t what they seem. We barely know anything about Sheila except her name.
Jason stared at him, chest rising and falling unevenly, something so boyish in the way his shoulders tensed. “You really don’t care about us at all, do you?”
Dick thought about this kept silent—just for a second. Long enough that Jason must have caught it. But not long enough to change anything. The boy took it personally, Dick could see it.
“Get some sleep,” was all he said before turning away.
Jason stood there, fists clenched and eyes flickering in the dark of the safe house, watching as Dick disappeared into the night.
***
The warehouse was a two hour trip away from the base. He calmly broke into it—wasn’t really locked. The walls were gray, and despite its size, it was nearly empty except for a far corner where something was covered up. There were many pillars with nothing really lurking behind them. He sniffed. It smelled of something familiar, smelled like…
“Well, hello there, birdie.”
Dick turned around and managed to grab his escrima sticks just in time to see those wild eyes—the same eyes he’d last seen when he fell off a roof with his shot shoulder. Barely had he blocked Joker’s favorite knife when, with his other hand, Joker dropped something on the floor that shattered like glass. Dick struck him in the gut, then blocked a knife with his left hand, but then Joker shoved him with a blow to the shin—one he, for some reason, failed to block. And then he saw it. He raised his head, and the colors grew brighter, his bones began to ache, and his left escrima slipped from his grasp.
He couldn’t say anything—not because he was unable to, but because it suddenly became clear: he wouldn’t remain conscious for even a minute, his stomach beginning to cramp. Dick was speechless. Joker moved closer, yet kept his distance, as if understanding that even in such a state, Dick could inflict serious harm. He was grinning so gleefully that Dick felt sick—and it wasn’t because of the poison. He pulled a crowbar from his jacket pocket, flicking it in his hand as he stared into the stream.
“You know, I was expecting someone younger, but it’s even better this way.”
He burst out laughing, stepped up to Dick—he no longer had the strength to keep his eyes open—and struck him on the temple. Hellish pain pierced him. It hurt so damn much—and within a few seconds he felt that cold floor for the first time.
***
He opened his eyes.
“The original Wonder Boy! It’s a shame the younger one isn’t here… Haywood’s bastard, I believe? But hey, I don’t mind you being here. In fact, you’re an even more delightful present today. Guess what? You’re mine now! I’ve always wanted to carve into that bird-like flesh of yours!
The Joker smiled maniacally, recalling their last encounter in the field, where he fought with his team that now wasn’t his anymore.
Dick sighed. He was screwed.
***
At first, the Joker simply watched, smiling creepily. He sat and gazed at him as if he could never tire of looking. Dick wasn’t just knocked out; it felt as though he’d been struck with a blow from Superman. He attempted to touch his head, wanting to see how badly he was bleeding. But… he couldn’t. Only then did he realize he was handcuffed. Whatever, he thought, then he reached for the locks on them and found nothing. Nothing.
The Joker took away his lock picks. And the fucking locks. He struck him hard on the head—most likely giving him a concussion. What had he even hit him with? For the first time since his one of many head injuries, his vision remained blurry far longer than usual.
Then the answer became clear. Joker was holding a freaking crowbar.
***
The warehouse was enormous—or so it seemed. Its dark corners concealed unspeakable horrors. Sheila Haywood leaned against a pillar, smoking a cigarette. Her face was expressionless, yet her eyes betrayed her anxiety. She knew she was playing with fire, yet fear for her life had forced her into a deal with the Joker.
Dick lay on the floor, his body battered by torture. Every blow from the Joker made him scream, but he fought to deny the satisfaction of witnessing his suffering. The crowbar struck his already broken ribs, and Dick felt his consciousness slipping away.
“No, no, sweetie, don’t pass out!” a voice urged.
In that moment, he thought only of one thing: if he hadn’t come here, Jason might have been lying there instead. His little brother—despite his brash exterior—was still just a teenager, barely a few years into his new life. He was so small compared to Dick, to Bruce, to every criminal Dick had ever faced. For a brief moment, Dick felt relieved that 14‑year‑old Jason wasn’t beside him, but that thought was quickly banished when a crowbar struck him in the head. His mind grew foggy, and he lost consciousness.
He could feel his broken femur jutting out, its sharp edge cutting into his muscles and sending waves of unbearable pain through his body. His blood drained faster than he had anticipated. The pool beneath him grew larger, and the cold seeped deep into his bones.
Each breath became a struggle accompanied by agonizing wheezes and gasps, as if his lungs were filled with shards of glass. He tried to focus on breathing, but even that was nearly impossible. Dick thought of Bruce and Jason and wondered if they were even searching for him. The thought tore him apart. Perhaps… they weren’t.
Tears streamed down his face, mingling with blood and dust. The Joker’s laughter echoed in his ears. He was in so much pain. Dick longed for one of Bruce’s rare and comforting hugs, for that firm yet gentle hand on his shoulder. He missed Jason’s teasing, his sarcastic yet warm humor. But that comfort would never come. He had come here of his own accord. He had chosen this. Was this… his end? No, no, no—
Dick clenched his teeth, trying to stifle his sobs. He felt utterly foolish. He was an adult, an experienced fighter, a leader — no, not anymore, not after Wally, his mind whispered—and yet he’d failed. The Joker was smarter, crazier, and maddeningly unpredictable. Dick had always wanted to believe he could protect those he loved, especially after his parents, but now he lay helpless and unable to move. He had let everyone down—Bruce, Jason, and even Sheila. The throat tightened from unshed tears, the ones he still had after everything. His protruding bones burned in the cold air of the warehouse.
***
Pain had long since settled into Dick’s bones. It wasn’t just an ache anymore. It had sunk deeper than that—into his marrow, into the spaces between every shattered rib, into the gaping wounds Joker had carved into his skin. His face was a mess of drying and fresh blood, crusting at the edges, still dripping from his temple in slow, lazy rivulets. It clung to his lips, metallic and bitter, mixing with the saliva he could barely swallow. His right arm was bent at an angle that made his stomach twist, his ribs shifted with every breath, jagged edges scraping against something vital inside him. It hurt. God, it hurt.
He wasn’t sure how long it had been.
Hours?
A lifetime?
Joker had taken his time—methodical, deliberate. He had never planned on killing him quickly. No, that wasn’t his style. Death wasn’t the goal here. Suffering was. He wanted to unravel him, piece by piece, watch as he broke apart, as all those carefully built walls of defiance crumbled into dust.
And the worst part?
It was working.
Dick had never felt this helpless before. Not when his parents had fallen, not even when the bullet had torn through his torso, too close to his spine. Back then, he’d still had something. A belief. A faith in the people around him, in himself, in the idea that he mattered.
Now?
Now, the Joker picked him up and placed him in the wheelchair like a doll with its strings cut. His body slumped forward, the ropes digging deep into his wrists and legs. Every movement sent searing pain through his limbs, the fibers scraping against his already bloody skin. His entire body was trembling and sweat-slicked. His head lolled to the side, his breath shallow, each inhale a knife to his ribs.
And Joker was still there. Circling around him. Each step terrifying him inside.
The crowbar twirled lazily in his hands, the dim, flickering light above casting shadows across his wide grin.
“Aww, you’re really starting to disappoint me, birdie. I thought the original would put up more of a fight! Considering you're a proud stray nowadays,” the Joker crouched, tilting his head like a child inspecting a toy. “But don’t you cry. Daddy’ll never hear you scream… Unless… I’ll record it! We’ll send him a beautiful reunion postcard!—you, me, and this—” he tapped the crowbar against Dick’s cheek. “Best. Family. Reunion. Ever.”
Dick clenched his jaw, forcing his fingers into weak fists.
Joker leaned in close, breath hot and reeking of something foul. “What’s the matter? Batman not coming to save you? Is he too busy playing house with your replacement?”
Dick swallowed hard, throat burning.
“Piss off,” he muttered, voice cracked and barely audible.
Joker’s grip tangled in his hair, yanking his head back sharply.
“Oooooh, there’s still some fight left, huh? Adorable. But, really, what’s the point?” Joker hoarse voice carried a warmth that brushed against his ear. He dragged gloved fingers down Dick’s cheek, the leather rough against his cheek, voice dripping with mock sympathy. “You were never gonna be his partner forever. You really thought you’d be special? That he’d keep you?”
Dick tried to push back the words, tried to shove them into the corner of his mind where they couldn’t touch him. But he was too exhausted.
“He doesn’t replace us,” Dick forced out for the sake of it. He lied through his teeth. “It’s not… it’s not like that.”
Dick certainly didn't believe it.
Joker’s grin stretched wider, his eyes gleaming with something dark and victorious. Knowing what Dick was thinking.
“Oh, boy blunder. It is.”
The crowbar came down, slamming into Dick’s ribs. The pain was blinding, white-hot, spreading like wildfire through his already battered body. His breath hitched, his vision blurred, and for a moment, he thought he hopefully might pass out.
“You’re not Robin anymore,” Joker continued, tone shifting—losing the theatrics, dripping into something colder. “You’re not his son. You’re not his partner. You’re just some broken little bird flapping in the dark, trying to be something more than what you are. Nightwing? What even is this name?” he laughed, the sound slicing through the air, irritating his eardrums. “What a joke. What a pathetic attempt at staying relevant.”
Dick panted through the pain, pushing against the words, forcing himself to focus.
“I don’t need him,” he rasped.
Joker tilted his head. “Batman? Really? Then why are you here, bleeding all over my floor, waiting for dear old Daddy to come pick up your pieces?”
Dick said nothing. He had no answer.
Joker sighed dramatically, spinning the crowbar once before swinging it at the wheelchair. The impact sent Dick crashing to the ground, pain flaring through every nerve in his body. He hit the concrete hard, the breath knocked from his lungs, his vision going white for a moment.
Joker crouched beside him, resting the crowbar lazily on his shoulder.
“But hey,” he said, voice lilting. “At least you’re not completely alone, right?”
Dick forced his head up, muscles screaming in protest, breath ragged. His gaze landed on her.
Sheila.
She was tied up now, bound across the room. But she wasn’t struggling. She wasn’t panicking. She wasn’t even looking at him with concern.
Her expression was empty.
Cold.
Indifferent.
Like he wasn’t even there. Like he didn’t matter.
Joker clapped his hands together, delighted.
“Ohhh, I just gotta love family reunions!” he turned to Sheila, grinning wide. “This one sold her own kid out to me, y’know. Just handed him over, no hesitation. Can you believe that?” he pouted. “Really, I was hoping I’d get the younger one too. Would’ve been fun, don’tcha think? Two little Robins, all for me?”
Dick tried to push himself up, but his arms buckled beneath him.
“Sheila,” he croaked.
She barely blinked.
Joker let out a mock sigh. “Ah, well. Can’t win ‘em all.”
He turned back to Dick, crouching lower, their faces inches apart.
“You tried to help, didn’t you?” Joker murmured, voice almost… gentle. “Tried to be the big bro for once. Tried to do the right thing,” his grin stretched. “And look where it got you. Not even a ‘thank you’ for your troubles.”
Dick’s breath shuddered.
Joker’s fingers curled into his hair again, yanking his head up so their eyes met.
“Tell me, birdie,” Joker whispered, voice hushed, almost intimate. “Do you really think Batman cares? Do you think he’ll even mourn you? Or will he just replace you with someone newer? Someone better? Oh, wait, he already did!”
The words burrowed deep.
Dick hated that, for a split second—for one horrible, unbearable second—he believed him.
Joker saw it.
He laughed, soft and low.
“There it is,” he purred. “That moment of doubt. That’s all I needed from you.”
Dick clenched his teeth, forcing himself to shove the thought away. But the damage was done.
Joker patted his bruised cheek mockingly. “Don’t worry, kiddo. We’ve got so much more fun ahead.”
And with one final swing of the crowbar, the world went black.
***
Jason ran to Bruce, his breath ragged and his eyes burning with anxiety and frustration. “Bruce, Dick isn’t answering,” he blurted out, trying to sound confident while a hint of panic laced his words. “He left two hours ago and still hasn’t come back.”
Bruce froze, his face hardening into an unreadable mask. “What. Happened?” he asked, his voice cold.
Jason clenched his teeth, anger boiling inside him. “I gave him a note… from my mother. Well, he asked for it. It had the coordinates. She wanted to meet me, but Dick said he’d check it out himself first.”
Bruce’s fists clenched further, and Jason noticed the rigidity of his jaw. “You sent him alone? Without backup? Without a plan?” Bruce’s tone snapped like a whip.
A wave of fury washed over Jason. “What am I supposed to do, Bruce? You never really wanted to help me look for her! You always said it could be a a waste of time, that she was probably just another dead end! You were stalling! You can’t expect me to just sit around doing nothing!” he shouted, dread pooling in his gut.
Jason remembered the long-held anger toward Bruce for refusing to help right away. But what infuriated him most was that Dick had not stepped in either earlier. Over the past year and a half, Dick barely appeared at the manor. When they did meet, their conversations were brief and cold, as if Dick led a life in which Jason did not belong. And that’s what he told him this evening. Not directly, of course.
Bruce closed his eyes briefly, steadying himself. “We’ll find him,” he said firmly. “But you must follow my lead. No impulsive decisions. Understand?”
Jason nodded, though he still seethed. God, Bruce treated him like a baby. He knew Bruce was right, but that did little to ease his inner turmoil.
***
Jason and Bruce raced through the night on their motorcycle, its engine roaring as it cut through darkness. If not for their masks, the dust and sand would have stung their eyes. There were fewer than two minutes left to reach the tracker’s location.
Jason tried not to dwell on the unmoving dot, or what might have happened. But thoughts of what could happen to Dick refused to leave him. He clenched his teeth and gripped Bruce tighter. His heart pounded wildly, fear and hope warring within him.
“We’ll make it, right?” he whispered, his voice almost childlike, though Bruce said nothing. Bruce’s face was stone cold, but his eyes betrayed the hidden fear. Every second counted, and Jason couldn’t shake the feeling why it felt like there was a ticking clock behind their backs.
***
Dick’s mind swirled in a haze of agony, each breath a sharp reminder of his broken body. His ribs felt shattered, his body a fractured mess, and the world around him swam in and out of focus. Blood dripped down his face, mixing with the sweat on his skin, the taste of copper, heavy on his tongue. His muscles screamed, his bones screamed, his very soul screamed—everything ached, burned, and throbbed in ways he could never have imagined. It was a pain that rooted itself deep in his chest, stealing away any hope of clarity, every fleeting moment of peace.
But through the fog, a voice cut through. Bruce’s voice.
“Dick…” It was faint, but it felt like an anchor.
Dick blinked, trying to focus, but his vision was nothing but smudged color and shadow. He couldn’t tell if Bruce was truly there or if his mind was playing tricks on him, but the voice—it was familiar. Real.
“Stay with me, chum. You’re gonna be okay,” Bruce said, his voice steady but muffled, as if coming from far away. The sound of it alone almost made Dick’s eyes flutter closed again.
There was a pressure on his side, and Dick gasped. He couldn’t tell if it was pain or care that made him wince. Bruce’s hands moved, slow and deliberate, but every movement was agony. As Bruce adjusted him, lifting him carefully, the pain flared, but there was something in the way Bruce moved—gentle but strong. It was a touch that Dick had known for so many years, but now it felt more like a lifeline than it ever had before.
“I’m here,” Bruce said, though it was more of a whisper than a command. “Just hold on.”
Dick couldn’t respond. He couldn’t form the words, couldn’t find the strength to speak. But Bruce didn’t wait for him to. He adjusted his grip on Dick, sliding his hands under him, gently shifting his position. Every movement felt like fire, every shift of his body made him feel like he might snap apart. But Bruce’s hands stayed so careful. Was it real? Was he really here? Was he ever that gentle?
His chest tightened. I’m going to die here.
The thought slid through his mind unbidden, and for a moment, it was all he could feel—just the cold, suffocating weight of it. But then, through the haze of his pain, another voice broke through. Jason’s voice.
“Come on, Dick. Hold on, okay? We’re getting you out of here. Joker must've used the poison on him. Looks too familiar.” Jason’s voice was sharp, but not with anger. It sounded urgent, frantic, but not in the way it used to be. Jason’s hand rested briefly on Dick’s shoulder, and even in his agony, Dick could feel the warmth of it.
Jason moved quickly, not with haste, but with purpose—like he knew exactly what needed to be done. The pressure on Dick’s shoulder, the way Jason shifted his weight, lifted him, was calculated and slow, like he was trying to be as gentle as he could. Every shift made Dick’s body scream, but Jason didn’t stop. He was there—right there.
Dick wanted to ask why, wanted to ask why now, why they were doing this, why they didn’t just leave him. But he couldn’t form the words. His body was no longer his to command, and his mind—his thoughts—were fractured, slipping through his fingers.
Jason’s face hovered over him, the edges of it blurred by Dick’s dimming vision. Jason was saying something, his words coming too fast, too far from his grasp. But his voice was insistent, steady, with some unspoken promise.
“Stay with us, huh?” Jason said, the words almost muffled by the heavy fog of pain and blood in Dick’s ears. “You’re not alone anymore. You hear me? I’m right here. I need you here. We need you to be awake.”
Dick couldn’t respond, couldn’t give him what he wanted. He wanted to say something, anything, but his throat closed up on him. His body shuddered, not from cold, but from the effort of simply trying to breathe, to exist in a world that felt increasingly far away.
Jason’s hand moved to Dick’s chest, gently pressing to stabilize him, but even that small touch felt like a violation of the pain. Dick couldn’t push past it, couldn’t separate the help from the agony, but the warmth of Jason’s palm grounded him for just a moment.
For a brief second, Dick thought he saw Jason’s eyes glimmer with something. Maybe it was fear. Or maybe it was something else—something unspoken. But it didn’t matter. He couldn’t focus on that. He couldn’t focus on anything other than the overwhelming pain, the weight of his failing body, and the strange sensation that maybe, just maybe, he was finally seeing the truth.
Nightwing. The name flared in his mind. He wasn’t Nightwing. He had failed. He had failed them. Didn't deserve it.
He couldn’t be what Bruce wanted him to be. The person Clark had told him about. He just couldn't. All he'd wanted was to be good enough. Not to be a failure he'd been during the invasion. The mistakes he'd made... oh God. And now, as he lay on the cold floor, all he could feel was the weight of his failure pressing down on him.
Bruce’s hand was on his side again, trying to hold him up, trying to keep him together. “We’ve got you,” Bruce’s voice said, soft but firm. “We’re getting you out of here. Just a little longer.”
A little longer.
Dick couldn’t hold on. He wanted to. He really did. But his body was betraying him. The blood in his mouth, the taste of copper, the fire in his lungs—it was too much. Too much to bear. Too much to survive.
Jason’s hand was still on his shoulder, still holding him steady, but the warmth of his grip faded as Dick’s world narrowed. The sounds, the faces, everything started to blur, and all Dick could hear was the quiet hum of his failing body. A voice, so faint he couldn’t place it, whispered through the fog: stay with me…
But Dick couldn’t anymore. The world fell away.
***
The seconds on the timer flickered, fading one by one as Dick’s mind tried to cling to what was left of him. His body felt like it was sinking, a weight pulling him deeper into the darkness.
For just a moment, his eyes fluttered open, but Bruce and Jason were gone. Their touches, their voices—they were only shadows now, leaving him on his own. He couldn’t feel them anymore. The deafening silence crept in. Then, for a moment, he could only see them in the distance, their backs turned on him.
Joker, he thought. Joker smashed something against the floor. A vial? It was a toxin, a poison. A lead that Jason and Bruce were following back in Gotham. Gosh, he’d missed it and thought it was just a distraction, he… How could he think that they were actually here?
The helplessness and the shame swallowed him whole. And in that moment, Dick realized, with a quiet shudder, that it had always been him alone. With a labored sigh, Dick grimaced and shifted painfully from his stomach to his side, collapsing onto his back before staring vacantly upward at the ceiling. Bruce couldn’t fix him. Jason couldn’t save him.
It was over.
***
After what felt like an eternity, Dick opened his eyes once more and found himself on the stomach again and stared at a timer he saw for the first time, his cheek pressed against the grimy floor. There were fewer than 21 seconds left. For a moment, he allowed himself to imagine Bruce and Jason bursting in to rescue him—a brief, desperate spark of hope. But then Sheila’s frightened sound snapped him back, and he looked again at the timer.
0:12
0:11
0:10
Dick no longer cared. He wanted it all to be over. So desperately did he wish for release that he whispered, “Please…” His voice was barely audible, carrying the full weight of his despair. He wasn’t even sure what he was begging for.
0:03
0:02
A loud boom shattered the silence. Flames engulfed him, and the last sensation was a burning warmth that momentarily drove away the chilling cold. Then everything went black.
***
“My boy,” someone whispered. Dick could hear the sorrow in those words as his twisted, burned body finally gave out. He wanted to scream from the pain, but he could do nothing.
In that last moment, the agony ceased. He could rest.
***
Until he couldn’t.
A searing pain pierced through the fingertips and soles of the feet, while a burning heat surged into the limbs as though hot needles had been driven into them. The heart raced so violently it seemed ready to burst out of the chest. The thigh, arm, collarbone, ribs—everything snapped and cracked, expelling something from the lungs that was clearly not air.
Then a haze of green and an outburst of endless fury that had corroded everything within his being, he awoke to the realization that he was breathing again. He was breathing.
The air burned in his lungs. It was thick, wrong. His fingers twitched, but they weren’t entirely his. The pain that had defined his last feelings and memories was gone—no, not gone. Different. Twisted. Warped into something… off.
He realized he was submerged in water—a neon-bright green, glowing so intensely it verged on blinding. As the static in his vision faded and the roar in his ears dulled to a hum, Dick finally rose, shivering as cold water dripped off him and prickled his skin with goosebumps. Then he saw it all: the cavern’s shadowed crevices bathed in emerald light, the staggering scale of the reservoir, and… him. His pulse quickened. Oh god…
Slade’s single, smirking eye fixed him with a menacing glare before his legs gave way. He felt the neon tugging him downward, back to the water but he made no move to fight it.