The final arc of this story - the one the entire story has been building to - is finally here. At the cost of many lives, the Justice League and Titans managed to repel the invasion of Grayven and Kalibak. Unfortunately, the rampant devastation has caused many ramifications. Ramifications that shall be felt in...

GOTHAM APOCALYPSE

Unlike the previous arcs, which solely oriented themselves from Jason Todd's perspective, this eight-part arc will be told from the perspectives of all three Robins, now that they have all been well established. This should offer a much more well-rounded perspective on Richard Grayson, Jason Heywood-Todd, and Jackson Timothy Drake.

Gotham Apocalypse - Part I | Dick Grayson - Narration 1

6:08 a.m.

Saturday, July 4, 2020

Metropolis, Connecticut

July 4th of 2020.

The 244th anniversary of our country's declaration of independence. The 244th anniversary of the birth of the land of the free and the home of the brave.

Perhaps not the perfect civilization, but as good as it gets on planet Earth.

From midnight to the crack of dawn, fireworks across the nation began their anthem of tribute to this day.

Then upon the crack of dawn, the fiery light over Metropolis no longer came from fireworks, but from the fires resultant of the dispute between the Justice League and the hellish invaders from Apokolips.

Upon the crack of dawn, the booms of fireworks were replaced with the much louder BOOMS of the battle between Superman and Grayven - the leader of the apocalyptic planetary invasion.

From the crack of dawn, the greatest battle this planet had ever seen ravaged the planet.

And here I was doing what I do best: swinging around in the thick of it.

Literally.

I reached the vertical apex of my grapple line swing and detached the line, allowing it to recoil into my grapple gun.

Hooking it back to the right side of my utility belt, I flipped thrice in the air before landing on my target.

The back of a Parademon.

I stabbed my twin black Ka-Bar D2 knives into the Parademon's bat-like ears, eliciting a roar of rage and pain from it.

I then slammed an explosive disk against the back of this Parademon, and backflipped onto the back of the Parademon incoming right behind.

This Parademon, seeking to annihilate me, loosed a torrent of flame from its mouth. Luckily for me, I was just fast enough to flip over said torrent.

A torrent which directly bombarded the explosive disk on the Parademon I had just left. The explosion from the disk wouldn't have been enough to harm the Parademon. But combined with the torrent of hellish flame from a fellow Parademon?

The poor Parademon fell screaming from the sky, it's wings blasted to shreds.

The incoming wing bits forced my Parademon to loose another torrent of flame to burn the incoming projectiles. A strategy that worked well for it.

And for me.

As the smoke from the flame clouded it's vision, I took the liberty of hurling an explosive device into the mouth of the beast just as it closed.

The explosive device was not powerful enough to be lethal, but I set it to give the Parademon something a hell of a lot worse than a stomach ache...

...ten seconds.

Now, I had just ten seconds to implement my strategy against the third and final Parademon. One flying towards us from the front of my Parademon.

I shot the grapple gun from my left hip directly into the eyes of this Parademon. Then, I discharged an electrical current of one billion volts. The equivalent of a lightning bolt.

The world-class technology of my gun sends the Parademon into an uncontrollable fit of wails. Thus, it did not resist when I drew the grapple line into a recoil back to my current position.

FIVE.

FOUR.

THREE.

The wailing Parademon drew near enough for me to detach the grapple line.

TWO.

The wailing Parademon was close enough to detect were I was. It opened its mouth to douse me in a wave of flame.

ONE.

In this instant I leapt down from the back of my Parademon, shooting downward as fast as I could as I rettached my grapple gun to my left hook.

OOMMPPHH.

My grenade detonated within the belly of the beast. This set off a chain reaction that caused the beast to burn from the inside out. It's eyes and mouth started expelling flame.

The Parademon just in front of it also loosed it's flame in front of it.

As both Parademons mouths were open, they ingested each others flame in a destructive loop until.

KAABOOOOM!

They exploded from each other's flame.

Sighting a medium-tall skyscraper to descend onto, I extend the wing-gliders the I attached for this battle.

With expertise garnered from fourteen years of practice, I know that despite the wind and turbulence that I will make my target in about twenty-five seconds.

At this second, my com-link rang. The ringtone sounded exactly like a Bat's screech.

"Accept!" I vocally commanded my earpiece.

"Nightwing!" came the mechanized voice of Bruce.

"Batman?" I asked.

In the field, I had been thoroughly drilled to refer to Bruce as Batman. Something I despise doing, as it only drives the man further into his persona. I would love nothing more than to break him out of his habit of mentally referring to himself as "Batman" rather than "Bruce."

"Have you heard from Robin?" Bruce asked me.

"No. I thought that Max and Miguel brought him directly to you," I returned in confusion.

"They are three minutes late," Bruce curtly responded, his voice layered with a faint layer of concern and worry.

"They probably ran into a squad of Parademons. These things are fierce!" I responded.

My destination ten seconds away, I contorted my body from it's horizontal position and angled it downwards.

"Are Robin's life scans positive?" I asked, my heart racing in concern for my brothers. Both brothers.

"For now," Bruce responds.

I slammed my arms into my sides to close the thin wing gliders. I then cannonballed thrice in the air.

"Flying to Robin's location now," Bruce informed.

I landed on my hands and sprang into a series of handsprings to dispel my momentum.

"Well...Robin can take...care of himself...in the worst...situations!" I responded as I flipped in forward arcs.

Five forward handsprings later and I righted myself on my toes.

"And Jason has the power of Orion flowing through him. That should offer him more of an advantage against the Parademons than either of us!" I tried to assure.

Silence came from the other side of the line.

"You'll get there in time Batman. You always do," I told Bruce.

I knew exactly what he was thinking of. And I wanted...needed Bruce to think of every other time except that one.

"Not always," Bruce's mechanized voice bit back.

"Batman. Ba..." I started, before realizing the line had cut.

"Oh Bruce," I whispered under my breath.

RRRAAAARRRRWWWGGGHHH!

I turned to my right to hear the unwelcome roars of five incoming Parademons.

I whipped out my grapple gun to swing once more through the city.

BBBBBBOOOOOORRRRRRAAAAAAUUUUUUGGGGGGHHHHHHHH!

An exceedingly baritone tone resounded from a very powerful conch. One which made the air, the building I stood on, and my very skin tremble...

...and the Parademons scream in sheer pain and terror.

The Conch of the Lord Triton!

Or the replica that the Olympian son of the Lord Poseidon bestowed upon his demigod half-brother Ampheres - the first King of Atlantis.

Infused with a dose of Triton's power, the conch served as an amplifier for any Royal Atlantean that possessed "The Voice of the Sea." The fancy term for the selective Royal Atlantean ability to speak with the sound of any and all sea creatures.

At it's full potential, a wielder of the conch could strike fear into the boldest hearts and rally the most timid souls in battle.

Of the three sons of the former Queen Atlanna, only one inherited the ability to speak with the "Voice of the Sea." The youngest of them, the sixth of the founding six members of the Titans, and one of my best friends in the world.

Prince Garth.

I looked back upon the Parademons in time to sea them spontaneously combust, their influx of fear causing them to erupt like volcanoes with the fire within.

"Garth!" I exclaimed.

The Commander of the Atlantean Armies sat atop a winged, golden horse. Also referred to as a pegasus, in honor of their ancestor Pegasus. One of the many sons of the Olympian Poseidon.

Yes...the Olympian Pantheon is...interesting...to say the least.

"Hop on Nightwing!" the long haired blond invited as he guided his pegasus to walk right beside me.

With the finesse of a life-long acrobat, I cartwheeled in the air and landed squarely on the pegasus' back.

"No saddle or reigns?" I asked Garth good-naturedly as the Atlantean Prince instructed the pegasus to take off in "horse."

"Sebastian wouldst hurl me off!" Garth returned.

"Holy Shakespearean!" I mocked in response to Garth's Shakespearean take on English.

"It took me years to learn the major languages of you surface dwellers! Then when I came to the surface, what do I find? Humans who have traded out the richness of their former language for 'cool, bro'," Garth laughed as we flew.

As we approached two Parademons, I hurled two small grenades from my belt into their mouths. Mouths which opened just as I expected them too.

Passing the Parademons just before they exploded from the inside-out, I responded to Garth's quip.

"Could have fooled me with the Californian surfer boy hair and tan you wear!"

"Not to mention...how many ladies have you picked up with a 'cool bro'?" I added.

Garth froze the water vapor in the air to create three spears of ice, which he launched into an incoming triad of Parademons.

"Many!" Garth laughed, reverting to his American accent.

"Look out!" I shouted, hearing the sonic boom of an incoming force traveling faster than sound.

With superhuman reflexes, the pegasus Sebastian drew himself to a halt midair just in the nick of time. A mere five feet in front of us a blur whipped by us as it fell towards the ground.

The wind from the fallen being's passing would have knocked me clear off of the Pegasus had not Garth held on to my shoulder.

"Supergirl!" Garth shouted.

"Supergirl?" I asked. A being who could move far faster than sound, Garth could distinctly make out objects that appeared to me as a blur.

Garth nodded in confirmation.

"Who could have knocked Supergirl out of the sky?" I asked in concern and dread.

Garth peered off into the distance.

"Poseidon's Trident!" he shouts in horror and dismay.

He immediately commands Sebastian to fly as fast possible...

...or at least as fast as he can go without ripping my face apart.

"What!" I shouted.

"What's happened!" I asked.

"Garth?" I asked.

"Garth!"

Garth didn't answer my question. But I got to witness the cause of his dismay first-hand.

A beautiful golden-tan skinned woman of at least seven feet in height stood in obsidian black grecian styled armour. From underneath her helmet, I could see equally dark hair and eyes which seemed to glow with a hellish fire.

Yet the hell sight of her eyes was nothing in comparison to the hellish sight at her feet.

"KORY!" I screamed.

My fiancee lay on the ground with her guts spilled about her. I could barely see a heave in her chest signifying breathing, and even that looked like it took all of the waning energy of her being.

"Go to her! I'll take on yon wench!" Garth growled as he drew forth his twin golden xiphoi in preparation for the sword duel.

I leapt off of Sebastian two seconds before it slammed it's full momentum into the woman. The woman barely flinched, but it provided Garth enough time to dismount and engage her in a duel. A duel which would be far too fast for me to perceive even if I wanted to.

But all I could concentrate on was the radiant caramel skinned Tamaranean on the ground.

Not radiant.

Her skin had lost it's ethereal glow.

"Kory!" I gasped as I held her in my arms.

"D...Dick?" she asked.

Her gasps! They sounded...so unlike her.

So weak...

So faint...

"I'm, I'm here!" I stammered.

Her eyes, typically endowed with radiant lime green sclera and glowing viridian green irises, had lost all of their glow. They looked so...dead.

"Kory! Kory! Kory!" I deliriously shouted.

This couldn't be happening!

No!

No!

No!

"D...Dick," she whispered, even weaker than the first time.

Her eyes told me that she knew...knew that she was dying.

That these were her last moments...

"Wally..." I started.

"He can't...save me..." Kory gasped.

I looked down at her and had half the mind to tear out my eyes.

Kory's guts hadn't just been spilled...

...she had been torn in half!

"Kory!" I cried out.

I could feel tears forming within my eyes.

There...there was so much I wanted to say.

But everything got caught in my throat.

"I...I love you! You...you are my life!" I managed to gurgle out.

Kory coughs green blood.

Blood which should have been a glowing spring green, but was so, so dull.

She must have depleted her solar reserves in her fight.

"Robin," she coughed.

Only two people called me Robin as a nickname. Not as a code name.

My mother, who I watched fade away before my eyes.

And my fiancee, who I now watched fade before my eyes.

"Knowing...you...you made...me...complete," she whispered.

She coughed weakly.

She's about to go.

"I...will...love you...fah..." she coughed.

"For..." she strangled

"For-ever," she gasped.

Then she fell limp in my arms.

And everything went numb.

The only thing I could feel were the tears bubbling in my eyes.

Through the fog of tears, I saw Garth struggle against Kory's murderer.

Knocked down even.

I tried to rise...but couldn't do anything.

Luckily, Garth unleashed his most powerful weapon on the murderer. Drawing his swords into an X, he chanted an ancient chant. One which allowed him to gather the semi-divine Atlantean power within his body and within the weapons into a massive blast of power.

A blast of power which blew the murderer away. Far from dead, but out of commission for a little while.

Before I knew it, the pale, panting Garth knelt beside me. His face almost as mournful as mine.

Doing something I had never done before, I buried my face into his chest and drowned in a fit of sobs.

"We are here!"

That voice...

"Dick! We are here!"

Tim?

But he wasn't here...

"Dick! Wake up!"

11:40 a.m.

Monday, August 10, 2020

Gotham City Hall, Gotham, Massachusetts

"I'm awake!" I gasp as I lurch upright with a start.

I sit in the frontmost seat in the passenger compartment of a six-passenger Lincoln stretch limousine. The one oriented in reverse of the car's direction of motion.

We've come to a stop, given that I am no longer moving backwards.

Holy molly.

Where am I?

Tim's in the driver's seat. As the CEO of Wayne Enterprises, I "need" a chauffeur according to Lucius.

"A man of your stature can't be driving around like a commoner! It is most improper!"

As Tim is still a minor, it is not thoroughly improper for him to act in this role.

A quick look down reveals that I'm dressed in a solid black suit with a red power tie.

The door opens. Tim stands tall in a white blazer over a red tie, a black shirt, and black suit pants.

"Where are we?" I ask.

"Your sunglasses, sir," he reminds me, tapping his own sunglasses as he does so.

"Ah, yes!" I stammer.

I fish inside the inside left pocket of my suit jacket and apply my sunglasses before stepping out of the car.

Into the waiting flashes of the media and paparazzi as I walk towards...

...Gotham City Hall?

"Richard Grayson!"

"Richard Grayson!"

I put on my brilliant, crowd-winning smile and wave at the flashing cameras.

"Has Bruce Wayne been found?"

"Is Bruce Wayne dead?"

"Do you know what happened to Bruce Wayne?"

"What direction do you plan to take Wayne Enterprises?"

"Will you bring change to the Wayne legacy?"

"Do you agree with all of Bruce Wayne's ideals?"

"Do you come here as a Democrat or Republican?"

I keep the smile plastered on my face and do not answer any of the questions.

The one hour lecture that Lucius Fox gave me about the socio-political stance I should take, or rather the lack of, still rings in my ears.

"I am going to lay it down for you Richard, one black man to another. The Wayne family has always been Republican. Much of the success Wayne Enterprises has enjoyed in recent decades stems directly from that fact. Only four of the fortyrichest billionaires in the United States vote Republican. As you are the wealthiest by far amongst them, Republicans will be predisposed to champion and uphold you over the crowd."

"That being said, you have to remember first and foremost that you are black. If there is one thing that the media hates, it is the black conservative. It flies in the face of all of their propaganda! To the Democrat Party, nothing matters more than black votes! You know as well as I do that 'Black Lives Matter' peaks in prominence in specific four year intervals - this year happening to be one of said peaks."

"And the leaders of that socio-political arm of the Democratic National Committee will stop at nothing to ridicule and disavow any openly conservative African-American. I need not remind you of what Tim Scott, Candace Owens, and Kanye West go through on a daily basis."

"So much as open your mouth in support of the President, and the Daily Planet will have you for dinner! Then Catco and Picture will have whatever is left of you for dessert!"

"The best path for you, my young friend, will be the subtle, quiet path. Sate the Republicans by referring to Bruce Wayne as a great man and mentor. Disarm the Democrats by promising to be willing to 'adapt to the times'."

So many things that I cannot do that Tim could, all because of my skin color.

Yet many other things I can do, that Tim could not. I am under no delusions as to why AGIH changed its tune about Batman when I donned the Robin costume. If anything, they should have hammered Batman even more, for recruiting a child sidekick.

But, I served as their token minority. Their olive branch to communities of color. A successful strategy that turned out to be, if Shane Heywood's status as one of the twenty richest men in the world had anything to say about that.

If there is anything that a Heywood knows how to do, it is to look after himself.

I learned that the hard way.

Thrice.

"Why are we here again?" I whisper into Tim's ear.

As he is a mere inch shorter than I am, I do not have to bend down at all to ask my question.

Or hear his response.

"Mr. Grayson, we are here for the Mayor's address for the reforms that the Gotham Police Department will be undergoing."

Gosh darn!

That's today?

Something tells me that my nights are about to become ten times as stressful.

"Lovely," I reply under my breath as we begin to ascend the steps leading to the Hall's entrance.

"You would not be so tired if you let me out there..." Tim mutters under his breath.

"We've talked about this. You aren't up to par. You need time to grieve," I whisper back.

"I lost my fiancee, father, and grandfather all in one weekend. I'm not about to lose the only family member I have left," I finish.

"Jason..." Tim starts.

"Is a Heywood," I curtly reply as we enter the City Hall.

"Speaking of, you recall where we will be sitting?" Tim asks as we remove our sunglasses.

"No. You're my secretary. You're the one who knows what I'm doing. I only pretend to know what I'm doing," I light-heartedly, but truthfully, remark.

"Clearly," Tim responds, a tone of disgruntlement layered in his voice.

Tim doesn't get it, but I'm doing this for his own good!

All those years ago, when Jason lost Brion, I tried to tell Jason to take time off.

I even tried to make it an order.

But Bruce was his ultimate superior. And Bruce and I weren't on speaking terms then.

So Jason continued to don his Robin suit.

And for all his skill, he died in it.

Tim's as smart and shrewd as they come, but he doesn't quite compare to the skill Jason had in his last year as Robin.

And if Jason's grief was enough to get him killed...

"What we do means nothing if we can't protect the ones we love," I whisper to Tim.

Tim flinches. It's a near imperceptible flinch, but still visible to one trained in the art of face-reading since the age of eleven.

I probably reminded him of who he lost in that apocalyptic battle a month ago.

Maximiño.

Miguel.

Jaime.

Karen.

Gosh.

Why do I have such a hard time connecting with him?

Tim directs me through the corridors to the "blue" room.

"Rather small," I remark upon entering the press conference room.

"Clearly, the good Mayor will be putting forth some radical plans. Or he would have had the conference on the City Hall's steps," Tim opines.

"Front row, center right seat," Tim directs me to the "Gotham-elite" row.

"One or two seats?" I ask, wondering whether Tim will sit next to me.

"Front row is for the elite. Second row is for your secretaries and the most notable of the press," Tim replies.

"Very well then," I sigh.

"At least only one person will be sitting next to me," I whisper to Tim as he sits directly behind me.

"You do remember who is sitting next to you, right?" Tim questions.

"Who?" I ask, genuinely curious.

Goodness.

Peaking at three hours of rest per day for the past ten days isn't doing any favors for my long term memory.

Not when I spend my waking hours running Wayne Enterprises by day and attempting to reign in a spiraling Gotham by night.

"That would be me, Richard," comes a smooth, baritone voice I know all too well.

And dislike.

Really, really dislike.

"Mr. Heywood," I greet in a tone as pleasant as I can manage.

We exchange smiles that barely reach our eyes as we shake hands.

"Please, call me Shane," the billionaire responds.

"We are both the patriarchs of billionaire dynasties after all. We are equals."

"Even if I am a quarter-century older than you," he dynamically finishes.

"I'm not the patriarch quite yet," I reply.

"Truly? I think we both know that Bruce Wayne did not 'disappear' during the attack on Metropolis," the middle-aged blond billionaire knowingly responds.

"He is not dead. Nor can he be legally declared so," I emphasize.

"You do not sleep these days, do you?" he observes.

"Would you, if you were in my shoes?" I retort.

"An invalid question, because I would have changed my shoes if I were you," Shane whispers back.

"Changed?" I question.

"You know exactly what I mean," he whispers back.

"You know as well as I do why crime has been rising the past month," he continues.

"And you know that the second Mayor De La Cruz opens his mouth, Gotham will again accelerate in its cruise down to the ninth circle of hell that Seattle and Star City currently reside in," he finishes.

The man never does pass on a good pun.

"It may," I give.

I hate ever having to agree with Shane.

But I've truly been dreading whatever Mayor De La Cruz has prepared to say.

The police are far from perfect at their job, but they do help more than they hurt.

The unfortunate reality is that a mixed bag of police is better than no police.

Seattle's "Summer of Love" stands as clear testament to this.

"Answer me this Richard," Shane starts, his ice-blue eyes looking into my dark coffee brown.

"Wayne Enterprises. Why did Bruce install you as the Chief Executive Officer proper, rather than acting Chief Executive Officer?" Shane questions.

Shane's questions are always rhetorical.

And I know the point he's trying to make.

But not answering will be an instant surrender.

"Because an acting CEO or interim CEO may have all the same power in name, but not in perception," I answer.

"So you do not believe you would be as effective as an acting CEO than as the CEO that you are, even if the difference is only in name?" Shane attempts to corner.

"No, I do not," I give.

"But I am simply assuming Bruce's position. I am not claiming to be Bruce," I riposte.

"No one is saying you have to be. But in order to reign in Gotham, you have to talk his talk and walk his walk," Shane rejoins.

"Harvey's war with Oswald displays itself on the streets in broad daylight. It is like living in New York City during the eighties. Again," Shane bitterly remarks.

"And given their current governor's policies, New York City as it will be this decade," he finishes.

"But why are you looking to me of all people to solve this problem? You hate my kind," I counter.

I am sure to whisper the last part, lest any prying ears think I am accusing Shane of racism.

"I saw your father's actions for what they were. The first cells of cancer. One which would appear benign at first, but would fester and spread if not cut out. Now, the cancer has so firmly entrenched itself that if severed, the whole body shall die a rapid, violent death rather than the slow rot you have condemned it too." Shane explains.

"So long as the body is alive, there is still a chance to save it, no matter how slim it may be."

"And regardless of whether you succeed or fail, you get lauded with points for trying," I drawl back.

"Touché," Shane smirks and shrugs.

Several minutes of silence pass between us.

11:55

The mayor's noon address will start soon.

"You know why I never threatened to go public?" Shane asks quietly.

"Because Bruce is about four times as rich as you are, and would easily win in the court of law?" I drawl in response.

"That may have been a point of consideration," Shane admits.

"But who Bruce was never held a candle in comparison to who you are," Shane declares.

Did Shane...

...compliment me?

"No need to look so shocked Richard," Shane chuckles.

"Ever since I met you back in 2007, when you were only twelve, I saw in you what fathers dream to see a mere ounce of in their children."

"Intelligence, motivation, passion, drive, focus, realism, and adaptability. It takes most of us until our twenties to accumulate these traits - if we are lucky."

"But you have always possessed these in spades. Bruce needed only to nurture them within you," Shane states.

"What are you saying?" I ask, curious as to where he is going with this.

"Never doubt that you are Bruce's heir. Heir to everything that he had," Shane declares.

"You...there is no one in the next generation of my family who holds a candle in comparison to you. Certainly none of my sons. And the fact that of all my nephews, it is Sheila's son that is most admirable is almost enough cause to make me blush in shame."

"Sheila's son?" I ask.

Are we thinking of the same one?

Or did Sheila have multiple sons.

"She had only the one," Shane replies.

"I have known about him for years. I hoped my son Jack could learn a thing or two from him."

"Well, you can have him," I retort, my voice revealing a little more bitterness than I intended.

"Most would fall over their feet to have a brother like him," Shane states.

"But, you merely prove my point. It is your privilege to see him as dirt. To cast him into it as you did on national television."

"Your right even."

"For in comparison to you, he will never be anything more than second best."

"Bruce Wayne may have considered three people to be his sons. But there is only one he ever saw as his heir," Shane concludes.

Quite frankly, I don't know how to respond.

Shane...there's a lot of truth to what he says.

As always.

Or he wouldn't always find a way to get under my skin, would he?

"I'll...consider it," I state in a promise to reconsider my stance on donning the Batsuit.

"Please do. The fate of Gotham might just depend on it," Shane finalizes.

"Ah look. Mayor De La Cruz is about to make us snooze." Shane dramatically says.

And so, Mayor De La Cruz's press conference begins.

First, Patrick begins with the usual drivel. The essay meant to emote just how much he cares about all communities. Especially communities of color during these trying times.

Yes, Patrick, times truly just became trying for a person of color in America.

Then the good mayor starts yammering about the devastation felt by the attempted other-worldly invasion.

Which you witnessed from a television in the safety of your mansion.

How it has utterly gutted the livelihoods of millions.

Did you really have to use that word?

And how we are all in this together.

Always the same trite platitudes.

Finally, feeling he has buttered his speech up enough, Patrick lays down the law. Or rather, removes the law.

First, he decides to cut funding for the police in half. Funding which is now being redistributed to social services.

Gotham's too big a city for him to outright abolish and replace police the way Minneapolis plans to. But he can certainly take baby steps.

This...I cannot agree with.

The major problem with policing is not in the people, but in the training. The reason why I feel confident patrolling the streets night after night without ever killing another sentient being is because of the months of intense, ceaseless training I received before being allowed to don my Robin costume.

You want better police? You need better training. This certainly won't be accomplished with less funding.

Second, he passes a "Police Accountability" reform. One which thoroughly bans the use of chokeholds and requires police to wear their designation numbers at all times. Certainly fair, given that police should be transparent and chokeholds are many times applied to kill, not subdue.

But I doubt the officers will take kindly to this. They will see this as a betrayal from the system they risk their lives to protect, day in and day out.

Third, he announces that the police would be withdrawing from several of their deep city precincts. Namely, the second, third, and fifth precincts.

Oh dear.

This is not good.

The mayor frames this as an "active realization of the oppression that communities of color have suffered from police."

Of course, equating people of color with poor communities.

Go figure.

What next? Will the good mayor say "poor kids can be just as smart as white kids?"

In reality, this move most benefits the mayor and police. Deep city locations such as Crime Alley offer criminals of a harder nature. Those who will not be afraid to engage an officer with all they have, and grab any weapon from said officer that they can. Thus leading to a violent altercation.

Such altercations, if ending in the criminal's death, can lead to nation-wide protests. However, if the police never responded to such a criminal, then anyone said criminal went on to kill would not receive a protest in their honor.

In fact, they would be lucky to be mentioned even once on a news broadcast.

"Next," the mayor utters.

"Gotham City, of all cities, has a reputation of treating those convicted of crime roughly."

Uh-oh.

"The great Constitution of our Founding Fathers declares a man innocent until he is proven guilty. Yet in this city, so many are deemed guilty before they are even brought to the police station."

"I will be tackling this problem with two bills."

I might have an idea where this is going...

"First, I will be bringing into effect the Innocence Act. This act declares that anyone arrested for a crime must not have a single bruise or cut obtained during the period of their arrest. Said period of arrest includes the actions of a vigilante who leaves criminals bound and gagged for police to find."

Oh great.

This makes it that much harder.

At least with us, I will assure the fact that anyone we capture will make it through arrest alive and unmaimed!

"Secondly," the salt-and-pepper haired mayor starts.

"This country declares that all men are created equal. But the entire history of this country has been built on dividing those created equal."

"Dividing them along lines of wealth, power, and color."

"Too often, the color of one's skin affects how much of the former two they wield."

Oh dear.

When the mayor really starts spieling about color.

That means he's about to say something very controversial.

And no doubt extremely damaging to society.

Something the media will have to work overtime for to pull the wool over people's eyes.

"One need look no further than the bail policy."

No.

Please don't do what I think you are.

"Bail serves only to steal away years of the lives of the poor, while it is but a minor nuisance to the wealthy."

"We believe in this country that men are innocent until proven guilty."

"And thus they should only serve time if they are proven guilty."

"Do to this country's express failure to grant citizens a speedy trial."

"With my Bail Reform Act, bail shall be abolished for any and all, unless they have a proven record of not showing up in court."

No.

Just no.

"Effective immediately, any citizen charged of a crime must be held on a cashless bail unless they have a proven record of failing to show to court."

No!

NO!

NOOO!

"And effective immediately, any citizen currently being held on bail shall be released in absence of a proven record of failing to show in court."

Lovely.

Just lovely.

Just so darn lovely.

"I will now open the floor for questions," the brown-eyed mayor invites.

Behind me, I hear a surge of questions spring forth like a tsunami wave form the media reporters behind me.

"And so it begins," Shane states beside me.

"What?" I ask.

"Gotham's Apocalypse, Richard. Gotham's Apocalypse."

With that, he stands up and walks out the door.

On the other hand, I am far too stunned and sickened to so much as sit up in my chair.

1:00 p.m.

Monday, August 10, 2020

Gotham City Hall, Gotham City, Massachusetts

Eventually, I manage to get myself up from under the crushing blow. Mostly because the questions were wrapping up, and I wanted to be out of the building so I could evade the media.

...Some of the media anyways.

"Mr. Grayson, what are your thoughts?"

"As the world's richest black man, do you approve of the Mayor's policies?"

"Do you support the Mayor's war against discrimination?"

"Bruce Wayne believed 'Blue Lives Matter.' Are you with 'Blue Lives Matter' or 'Black Lives Matter'?"

How about both matter? Because every single life matters?

And Bruce believed that all lives matter equally!

"Do you have a comment on the Wayne family's legacy of racism?"

Wayne family's legacy of racism?

"Will you be casting Bruce Wayne's racist ideals aside?"

To hear Bruce degraded like this...

"Will Wayne Enterprises now be donating to the Democrat party?"

Well, Lucius said I should assuage the Republicans while disarming the Democrats.

No time like the present.

Pushing my sunglasses to the bridge of my nose and wearing one of my award winning smiles, I say my piece.

"Bruce Wayne, my father, is still at large. So until there is definitive proof one way or another, I will be referring to my father in the present tense."

"My father is a great man, whose wisdom is exceeded only by his generosity. He will always stand as one of the best mentors I have ever had, and one of the most dedicated citizens I have ever known."

"Like him, I hope for the United States of America to continue to strive for the ideal the Founding Fathers set. One nation, indivisible, with liberty and justice for all."

"That will be all," I finish.

Talking while saying absolutely nothing.

A skill one unfortunately acquires when forced to delve into the art of politics.

"Mr. Grayson!"

"Richard Grayson!"

"What do you have to say about the 'Black Lives Matter' movement?"

"Are you with Black Lives Matter?"

"Do you believe Black Lives Matter?"

"Will you vote Democrat this fall?"

"Will you donate to Presidential Candidate Jo-"

Tim gently pushes me in front of him and shields me from the press and paparazzi until we get back to the limo, at which point he opens the door for me.

Because as Lucius said, the second richest man in the world cannot be seen opening doors for himself.

I did point out there were several people much richer than Lex Luthor and I combined.

Such as Ra's Al Ghul.

But apparently, it only counts if you can rank in Forbes magazine.

Regardless, I am more than happy to slam myself against the foremost seat of the passenger compartment. The seat which orients itself against the motion of the car.

Here backwards is forwards and forwards is backwards.

The story of my life.

"We could have gotten out of there a lot sooner!" Tim's voice drawls over a speaker.

"The media always have people waiting outside," I return as he starts driving.

"I don't have any other appointments outside of the company today, do I?" I ask.

"Ummm...Dick?" Tim starts.

"This is the day you are meeting with Oliver Queen for dinner."

"What time was that again?" I ask.

"6:00 p.m. at Mario's Restaurant, seeing how you both favor Italian cooking," Tim responds.

"Darn!" I shout.

"That's when I sleep for an hour!"

"Maybe you should not go out tonight," Tim states.

"Sure thing! Let me just phone crime to make sure it will be on vacation too!" I sarcastically retort.

"Dick. Every single question you have asked me? You asked me this morning," Tim states.

"Twice!" Tim emphasizes.

"I...have a lot on my mind?" I sheepishly offer.

"You are tired! Tired to your bones! You tell me that I need to grieve? Well guess what? You need to sleep!" Tim blares back.

"I do not care if you are one of the five best martial artists alive, or if you are the greatest acrobat to grace the face of this planet!"

"Because at this rate? You will just walk off a building ledge and forget to shoot a grappling cable!"

"I take stimulants before I go out," I remind Tim.

"It is not enough!" Tim rejoins.

"I suppose we'll have to agree to disagree, little brother," I conclude the conversation with finality.

Tim huffs, but knows he will not be able to convince me otherwise.

"You had a pretty in-depth conversation with Mr. Heywood," Tim points out after a minute's silence.

"It was nothing," I return.

"Really? It did not seem like nothing," Tim ripostes.

"If you must know, Shane wants me to don the Batsuit," I huff out.

"First name basis, eh?" Tim observes.

"As he put it, we are now both the 'patriarchs of billionaire dynasties'," I utter in mock imitation.

"Why do you hate the Heywood family so much?" Tim suddenly asks.

"I..." I start.

"And do not tell me it has anything to do with Shane," Tim cuts off.

"Shane reeks of arrogance and superiority, and can be a real nuisance to be sure," Tim adds.

"But your deep-seeded hatred? It's as personal as it gets. And judging from your mannerism in your conversation with Shane, it does not stem from him," he concludes.

Tim always was one smart cookie.

"And it does not stem from Jason either. Your contempt for the family predates your knowledge of Jason's lineage," Tim declares.

"So, brother to brother. Spill. Spill the tea," Tim presses.

I really do not want to go down this memory hole.

But it is Tim asking.

Maybe if I share, he'll see me as less of a douche.

"Gryphon," I answer.

"Gryphon?" Tim asks.

"Shane's first born son. I...knew him in high school," I admit.

"You mean you were friends with him in high school," Tim corrects.

My silence serves as my admittance.

"You were...best friends in high school?" Tim asks.

"Well...Wally was my true best friend. But in the context of my purely civilian life...yes," I admit.

"Let me guess, it ended badly?" Tim asks.

My silence serves as my admittance once again.

"You...it was when he found out you were Robin?" Tim presses.

"He felt betrayed?"

"Took it very personally?"

"That would be an understatement," I sneer.

"He should have been grateful, given that I had just saved his life!"

"But no...'how dare you keep that from me Dick'!" I bitterly imitate.

"'We were supposed to be brothers! And you stab me in the back like this!'"

"'How many other lies have you told me!'" I finish my imitation.

"Then, the self-absorbed prick made it his mission to make me feel the 'pain' I had made him feel."

"He didn't go around telling people I was Robin. But he did lambast me in just about every other way possible."

"Oh, here's the real kicker. Before the drama, the both of us had chosen to attend Princeton that fall of 2012."

"So, he made it his personal mission to get me kicked out of Princeton!"

"Did it work?" Tim asks.

"Almost. Luckily, my father is Bruce Wayne. Bruce and Shane came to some sort of agreement. Shane convinced his little mongrel to lay off, and in return I would allow the cretin to retain his dignity and not expose him for the liar he was," I bitterly recount.

"I...there was just too much bad blood. I couldn't bring myself to attend Princeton. I decided to attend Stanford University instead, but during the summer I got inundated with Titans business, especially since that was the summer in which Grant Wilson made it his personal mission to hound me in 'revenge' for his brother Joe's death earlier that year. I...saw something in Grant, and I decided that I would be best served focusing my efforts and talents into redeeming him. So I took a gap year from Stanford."

"During this gap year, the Titans needed me more than ever with fiascos like 'Trigon Week.' I also launched the 'Flying Grayson' gymnastic showcase and training studio during this gap year in Jump City. In almost no time, the single studio became a chain of studios. By July of 2013, I was a multi-millionaire. So was neither need nor time to attend university," I finish.

"Multi-millionaire at the age of eighteen, without factoring in your trust fund or inheritance," Tim notes.

"Very, very few people can say that."

"But...even if you are arguably better off...a part of you will always feel Gryphon robbed you, right?" Tim asks.

"Yes," I respond.

"I...I had never had the chance to be normal. To just throw back and enjoy life, and the fruits of my labor," I recount.

"Gryphon dashed all possibilities of that to the ground," I finish.

"Did he ever apologize?" Tim asks.

"Too little to late," I sneer.

"I told the fool to go on his way, and bother other people with his stupidity and God-awful personality," I deride.

"What happened to him?" Tim asks out of curiosity.

12: 45 a.m.

Friday, March 11, 2016

West Windsor Township, New Jersey

I sat inside Gryphon's rented house, located in the neighborhood located just off of Princeton's campus. A cheaper option for anyone abruptly cut off from their father's trust fund as opposed to living on campus.

Waiting for the stooge to appear, I sat perfectly still on an armchair facing the entrance to evoke maximum surprise on the fool.

As I have been for the past fifteen minutes.

I told him that I would be here at 1:30 a.m. so as to purposefully throw him off guard.

And unleash maximum devastation when I fire him from his position of Head Manager at the Trenton location of my Flying Grayson studio chain.

Even in the dark, one could tell that the decor in this house was luxurious.

It reeked of an inept fool who couldn't afford a tenth of the lifestyle he thought was his birthright.

I couldn't believe I ever considered this imbecile to be my friend.

Or that I graciously gave him a chance to redeem himself. A chance when he was desperate and had no where else to turn.

As I mulled over the words I planned to say for the tenth time, the door rattled.

Gryphon entered wearing a black Princeton sweatshirt, hood raised over his curly honey-blond hair. True to form, he wore khaki shorts, as he would in almost any weather.

I turned on the reading lamp on the stand next to the armchair. Dressed in a solid navy blue suit over a white shirt and red power tie, I sat on the armchair as his boss. Well...soon to be former boss.

Gryphon jumped in surprise as he looked to his right, where I sat in his living room.

"D..Dick?" he asked.

I clasped my hands over my folded right leg.

"Go...Gosh! I wasn't expecting you so early man," he stuttered.

"I apologize for the misunderstanding," I cooly drawled.

"Otherwise, you might have had time to pregame this meeting," I bit out.

"I...I don't know what you mean man. I don't drink, and you know that I don't drink," he stammered out.

"Why would you?" I asked.

"I hear that roids are the name of the game this time of year," I bit.

"Wha...what?" Gryphon stammered in 'surprise'.

"Please," I snorted.

"As always, Gryphon, you think first, second, and third about yourself. This has not changed, nor will it ever," I started.

"What you have improved over the years are your acting skills."

"All of your ludicrous strategies to beg for my forgiveness. Forgiveness I granted you just in the nick of time. Just when your father disavowed you and all but legally disowned you for your pathetic addiction."

"Of all the people who you knew, I was the only one who possessed both the money and compassion to send you to drug rehabilitation."

"I know!" Gryphon interjected as he moved to sit in the armchair across from me.

"And I'll always owe you my life man. I don't deserve anything from you..." Gryphon spieled.

"Oh, but you do," I bitterly laughed.

"You deserve every bit of my rage, contempt, and spite," I sneered.

"I...I should have wrecked you. Wrecked you after your attempt to ruin my life," I stated.

"Your father had no ground to stand on against Bruce Wayne. Had it devolved into a legal battle, he would have lost ten out of ten times."

"Not to mention that unlike Bruce Wayne, your father's business is directly tied to his image. Wayne Enterprises would continue if Bruce Wayne had to fall. America's Grand Information Hub would descend into flames if your father's image was shattered."

"Your father begged Bruce and I for mercy. For forgiveness on your behalf. Because you were too stupid to take responsibility for what you did."

"The only reason I consented was because deep down, after everything you did, I still loved you like a brother."

"I..." Gryphon started, his face contorting theatrically into some form of emotional distress.

"Silence," I cut off.

"And it was that awful, misplaced love which softened me to your pathetic pleas for forgiveness."

"And led me to give you responsibility and a source of income when you returned from your year of rehab."

"After all, I thought to myself, you were the one who gave me an outline for how I could turn the Flying Grayson into a chain quickly and efficiently."

"Your mind, when not blinded by your stupidity, can actually be quite tactical."

"So why should I not give you a managerial position at a location successful in no small part due to you?"

"Then, you called me desperately on Wednesday. Told me that there was a drug problem among some of the staff here. A problem diffusing into the young trainees."

"So...on the day that one of the greatest men I have ever known went missing in Gotham, I came here."

"Instead of spending my time searching for one of the people I love most in this world, I had to deal with your problem."

"And yes, I say your problem because you are the one that caused all of this!"

"You!" I thundered, rising to my feet.

"Once I...convinced...members of the staff to talk, I quickly found out that not only were you perfectly aware of all this happening, but you enabled it! You would even give suggestions as to which trainees would be more susceptible to offers regarding steroids and other stimulant drugs."

"I didn't..." Gryphon attempted to defend.

"Then, I had a nice chat with the drug dealer behind all this. According to him, you have quite the fruitful partnership!" I finished.

"Just the opposite!" Gryphon shouted.

"Zane...he..." Gryphon started.

"Gives you a share of his profits in return for your complicity? Oh, I know," I sneered down at him.

"No! Well, yes, but that has nothing to do with it!" Gryphon attempted.

"You're desperate for cash! To fund all...this!" I raged as I waved around at decor that a Princeton junior couldn't afford out of his own pockets.

"You're in a sea of debt! So like always, you sell out the one person in your corner for a quick buck!"

"Given how much of a whore you are for cash, I'm surprised you haven't started selling yourself!"

"Again!" I snidely finished.

Gryphon stood up at this, his face blushing red.

"Come on man! That's low!" he whined.

"Lower than stabbing me in the back? Again?" I sneered.

"He has dirt on my brother!" Gryphon shouted.

"What?" I asked.

"Zane. He used to deal in Gotham, before Robin - the not you Robin - sent the drug dealers packing," Gryphon replied.

"Are you blaming this on me?" I thundered.

"I'm saying that Zane has camera footage recording drug deals between himself and my lil' bro. Cocaine, molly, Xanax, and meth-laced weed!" Gryphon returned.

"A cut from the same cloth I see," I jeered.

"He's almost quit his drug use, thank you very much," Gryphon returned...sarcastically?

"If I were you, I would drop the sarcasm you little twit," I sneered.

"I wasn't..." Gryphon muttered.

"Speak up!" I commanded.

"My brother's made so, so much progress. But it won't mean a thing if that goes public. And you know that the media will tear him apart! He's a Heywood," Gryphon stated.

"From what I hear, the best thing to do with wood is to burn it," I sneered.

"Dick...that's my little brother! I couldn't let that happen to him!" he attempted to defend.

"So in return you sold out a dozen other young people. Other people's little brothers and little sisters! Ever thought about that?" I scorned.

"Every single day!" Gryphon returned.

"Every single night I'm kept awake by it. That's why I called you!" he claimed.

"To what? Cover yourself?" I sneered.

"Cover myself? Pfft…you're Nightwing! Of course I was never going to fool you, nor did I try to! I just needed Zane to be taken down!" Gryphon stated.

I stared directly into Gryphon's ice-blue eyes. Despite being two inches taller than me, Gryphon shrank back.

"You are one of the most selfish people I have ever met," I sneered.

"The only reason you called me was because of your concern for your own! A boy who just like you chose his path!"

"You couldn't care less about the kids you've gotten hooked to this stuff. Radically changing their lives!"

"No, to you, only rich lives matter!"

"But wait. That wouldn't quite include you, would it? Especially since you don't even have a job as of now!" I bellowed.

"Dick…I had no choice…" he tried.

"Yes you did. You could have chosen the needs of the many over the needs of the few. Any man of character would choose that. But no! You - you who has felt the pain of drug addiction! Of having a family member addicted! You chose to condemn a dozen other families to that torment to sate your own needs!"

"Disgusting!" I finished, my face only inches away from his pale one.

"Wouldn't you do anything for your brother?" Gryphon asked.

I shoved him down into his seat.

"You ungrateful little maggot!" I rumbled.

"I've done anything and everything you could have ever asked for!" I raged.

"YOU DARE ASK ME THAT QUESTION!" I roared.

"Jason! I'm talking about Jason!" Gryphon stood back up.

"If you had to choose between YOUR LITTLE BROTHER and a bunch of people you barely know, who would youchoose?" Gryphon asked.

I laughed bitterly.

"I can't believe you would ask me such an asinine question," I snorted.

"See, unlike you, I wasn't raised to be an egocentric buffoon! The man who raised me taught me to always consider the needs of the many before the needs of the few!"

"THAT is called ALTRUISM."

"I doubt you've ever heard of the word, so let me break it down for your tiny little mind."

"Altruism is an action a human being takes when he realizes there are other people in the world besides himself."

"Altruism is an action a human being takes to alleviate the pain of others, even if it brings pain upon himself."

"So yes, if I had to choose between Jason and a 'bunch of people I barely know', I would choose the many."

"Every. Single. Time."

"You…you would abandon your own brother in favor of your…what? Your 'hero's duty'? Your moral grandstanding? Your…" Gryphon started.

"Do me a favor child, and stop talking about things you know nothing about," I cut off.

"You know nothing of sacrifice."

"Of compassion."

"Of love."

"Of loyalty."

"The only thing you know how to do is be a despicable, sniveling, ungrateful, self-serving coward," I growled out.

"You…you've been waiting to say that for a while, haven't you bro," Gryphon whispered out, his eyes watering.

"Don't you dare bro me! You lost that right years ago!" I thundered back.

"You know what? If I were as selfish as you were, I would have gone back in time and ensured the fact that we never met!" I stated.

Gryphon freezes. His face lost all color.

And I found that I liked that. I liked that very much.

"You know what I find most hilarious?" I started.

"This brother. This 'Jack' that you have decided is more important to you than anything?"

"I took the liberty of looking at your text exchanges with him. And he has nothing but contempt and derision for you!"

"In fact, I think he said 'You're the worst brother I never asked for'."

"Dick, please," Gryphon starts, his eyes welling with tears. Tears which begin to spill out.

For some reason, this only gave me fuel to vent out the ocean of frustrations I had for him.

"Ouch, huh?" I sneered.

"At least your dear 'Jack' only said it in words!"

"Your father took the 'actions speak louder than words' avenue."

"Thoroughly cutting you off, and no doubt in the works of legally disowning you even now!"

"Please…bro…please," Gryphon started crying.

"You know, I never thought there was a single thing I would ever agree with that man on," I sing-singed.

"Except for the fact that you are an awful, despicable, waste of air!"

"Dick please!" Gryphon…begs?

"And that's what your mother thinks as well!" I continued.

"Nancy Schmancy. Once the Queen of Pop, reduced to a xans addict by you!" I sneered.

A very, very low blow.

Considering that I knew Gryphon's father blamed him for Nancy's addiction.

But I was so, so done with Gryphon.

"Dick…" Gryphon sobbed.

"Face it. You are a useless, impotent, undesirable cretin," I derided.

"Your family hates you."

"You have no real friends."

"And you will die alone in some ditch or tub, unmourned and unloved."

I shoved Gryphon aside as I walked back to the door.

"Oh…I almost forgot."

"One of Zane's lackeys…eluded me."

"I did manage to hear him swear revenge against you before he disappeared into the night," I smirked.

"You…you'll protect me right?" he whispered.

Hand on the doorknob, I turned around to face my twice-betrayer one final time.

"Why would I do that?" I asked.

"You…you're Nightwing! You…you have a code!" he stammered, his face completely pale.

"You…you save any and all lives!" he tried.

I laughed bitterly.

"Oh, that code?"

"The code says that I will never take any sentient life, no matter how despicable said life may be."

"That code does not obligate me to save stupid people from fatal messes they have gotten themselves into."

"Enjoy your friendless, family-free, fruitless life!"

"Whatever's left of it!" I mocked as I walked off into the night.

Never to see Gryphon Heywood again.

1:10 p.m.

Monday, August 10, 2020

Gotham City, Massachusetts

I really did not want to think about that.

Holy heavens!

I still have to answer Tim's question.

"Gryphon...struggled with drugs in his time at Princeton," I answer after what must have been a half minute of silence.

"He went to rehab for it, and stayed clean for a while."

"But, in the wee hours of the morning of Friday, March 11, 2016, Gryphon suffered a relapse."

"He made a fatal cocktail of cocaine, alcohol, and Xanex."

"He was found on the afternoon of the next day, March 12."

"Dead in his bathtub," I finish.

Tim mulls over this information.

"Was the overdose...accidental?"

No way in Hades.

"It is believed to be yes. There is no indication that Gryphon would have wanted to take his life."

Besides the absolutely broken look in his eyes.

And the fact I reminded him of how no one cared about him.

Before leaving him to a potentially lethal fate.

"Do...do you believe it was accidental? Or intentional?" Tim asks.

If there's one thing I knew about Gryphon, it's that he knew his limits.

He never landed in the hospital once.

Not once!

"I have no reason to believe otherwise," I reply.

Lie.

"It had been months since I had even heard from him," I continue.

Lie.

"Even so, a bungled, half-hearted attempt at an apology barely ranks as 'communication' between us."

Even if that 'half-hearted apology' included a detailed plan of how to transform "The Flying Grayson" into a national chain?

One that made me a multi-millionaire in less than a year?

"His family believed it to be accidental. I would defer to the judgment of those who loved and cared for him most."

Yah right.

Because the Heywood family would totally admit that one of their members had committed suicide.

Because loving fathers tell their son that said son is their greatest shame.

That they wish he had been stillborn.

"In any case, I would prefer not to talk about that family anymore," I conclude.

"Fine," Tim accepts, though I can sense he has more questions.

Maybe he's on to me.

Tim smells lies almost as well as cadaver dogs smell death.

"I am going to stop by a Chick-Fi-La on the way back. You have not eaten, and good CEO's need to eat their lunch," Tim quips.

"Chick-Fi-La deluxe with Colby cheese and fries for you?" Tim asks.

"Two," I return

"Two Colby cheese deluxe sandwiches?" Tim attempts to clarify.

"Two Colby Chick-Fi-La deluxe meals," I state.

"With a large peach milkshake," I add.

"Okay...I did not realize politics worked up such an appetite," Tim laughs.

It didn't.

I just want a distraction.

This is exactly why I don't like thinking about Heywoods.

"Tell me about it," I sigh.

1:30 p.m.

Wayne Enterprises, Gotham City, Massachusetts

Apparently, I was so eager to eat that I managed to finish one Deluxe meal in the five minute ride from the Chick-Fi-La to Wayne Enterprises.

I carried the other Deluxe meal and the remaining half of my peach milkshake back with me to my top-floor office, with full intent of eating it as I look at reports.

Just as I start eating it, the phone rings.

Swallowing, I answer, "Hello?"

"Richard, this is Lucius."

"May I speak with you in your office."

"Of course," I reply.

The second I put the phone down, my office door opens and the sharply dressed Lucius Fox walks in.

"Never one to waste time, are you?" I ask good-naturdly.

"There are but twenty-four hours in a day," Lucius responds.

Like me, he is dressed in a black suit with the red power tie. However, unlike me, he wears a suit vest inside of his blazer.

"Did I do something wrong?" I ask.

I'm still trying to get a hang of the whole "CEO of the second-greatest company in the world" gig.

"No. You gave a most brilliant response to those media dogs who hounded you," the kindly middle-aged man compliments.

"Thank you," I reply.

"But...given your demeanor, I take this is an urgent matter?" I inquire, clasping my hands on the shiny, dark brown Grenadli-wood desk.

"Your political intrigue may just be beginning, I'm afraid," Lucius starts, adjusting his glasses as he does so.

Uh-oh.

It's never good news when he adjusts his glasses.

"Hit me," I smile.

"In the eight o'clock board meeting tomorrow morning, the board will be wanting to hear about which Presidential Candidate you wish to donate to," Lucius informs.

"They feel a certain...conviction...to donate several hundred million to the Democratic cause this year. They believe that Wayne Enterprises, especially now that it is headed by an African American man, should give its full, undivided support to the progressive party of this nation," Lucius enlightens.

"Let me guess. Their 'conviction' to donate to the Democratic Party has nothing to do with the fact that black lives 'suddenly matter' in 2020, and everything to do with the loose policies the Democratic Party has in regards to immigration and international tariffs. Policies that allow for more work to be done by non-Americans, who are not protected by those 'pesky minimum wage' laws. Workers who will be driven harder and for less pay, thus allowing those on top to reap more profit," I drawl.

"You are intelligent and wise Richard," Lucius confirms.

"So they want me to vote Democrat for the same reasons that Lex Luthor, Maxwell Lord, Jeff Bezos, and Bill Gates do," I sigh.

"Indeed," Lucius replies.

"Let me guess. I shouldn't stand up in that board meeting and say that I'll die before I donate a single penny to the party that Ra's Al Ghul puts in five-thousand votes for every four years?" I dryly ask.

"Improvable libel for one," Lucius chuckles.

"And #RichardGraysoncancelled would be trending on Twitter before you so much as got halfway through your speech," Lucius finishes.

"Yet there never was a hashtag calling for Bruce Wayne to be cancelled for being Republican," I tiredly sigh.

"Because the leaders of Black Lives Matter do not take personal offense to him," Lucius replies.

"To them, he is just another white Republican clinging onto the values of a bygone era."

"You on the other hand? You are what they would call..."

"A sell-out," I recite from personal experience.

"An Uncle Tom."

"A traitor to the race," I bitterly finish.

There is a pause between us.

"See, here's the thing. If I lean on Bruce's memory too heavily, then I will appear to just be a stand-in. Which I am, but if they see it that way..." I huff.

"Richard. You are not a stand-in. From the moment you first stepped foot in this building, Bruce intended to pass all this on to you," Lucius assures.

"Did hell just freeze over? Or did you and Shane Heywood give me the same piece of advice on the same day?" I quip.

Lucius and I share a laugh.

"Shane has two modes. He is either very wrong, or very right. If he and I are in agreement, then it is the latter," Lucius declares.

"But you are right. You will have to reign in the board on your own grounds, yet with more subtlety than Bruce ever had to use," Lucius advises.

"But Bruce knew you were up to the challenge. In fact, he has told me many times that you were born for this."

6:00 p.m.

Mario's Restaurant, Gotham, Massachusetts

"Oliver!" I exclaim as I walk up to the table he is waiting at.

I check my watch.

6:00 p.m.

I am punctual as always. Then again, there is that old saying that early is on-time, punctual is late, and late is inexcusable.

The clean-shaven blond haired man stands up to shake my hand.

"It's good to see you Dick. It's been too long," he smiles.

"Well, Star City is on the West Coast. Gotham City is on the East," I start.

"And neither of us is the Flash," we simultaneously state our inside joke.

We share a good chuckle.

"How has everything been?" I start of excitedly.

"Are you still planning on running for mayor next year?"

"I am yes," Oliver responds.

"And you? Assuming the role of Chief Executive Officer is never easy."

"Especially for a company which boasts a net worth of $210 billion."

"It's...something, all right," I sigh.

"Well, if your ego ever needs a reality check, just call me over," Oliver laughs.

"Hello, and welcome to Mario's!" a waitress introduces herself.

"Here are the menus..." she states.

"Actually, we have already decided what we want to order," Oliver states.

We have?

I guess Tim told Oliver what I'd order?

"I would like to order a Crab, Artichoke, and Spinach Dip for an appetizer, and a fresh grilled Salmon Fillet with pasta for my entree," Oliver states.

A true West-Coaster right here.

"My friend here would like a Marios Seasonal Saladbaby for his appetizer..."

Wait what?

That's...not what I would order.

I try to speak up, but in the state I am in, I halfway feel like I am on a lucid trip.

"...and grilled Fiorentina Strip Cut Sirloin Steak for his entree," Oliver stated.

"That is everything you want sir?" the waitress asks.

I would love lasagne.

But I also want to get my food.

The sooner I order, the sooner I eat.

The sooner I leave.

The sooner I get my good hour of sleep.

"Yes ma'am," I smile at her.

"Anything to drink?" the waitress asks.

"Just water," Oliver and I simultaneously say.

The waitress leaves to give our orders to the kitchen window.

"Um...so...did Tim...?" I ask.

"Tim told me that you don't have a very well rounded diet," Oliver laughs.

"He practically demanded that I don't allow you to get some sort of cheesy pasta dish."

"I take it that's what you usually get?" Oliver asks.

"Yes. Yes it is," I admit.

Well, never hurts to step out of my comfort zone.

"A salad though?" I ask.

"This one is very nice," Oliver promises.

"I'm sure, it's just I'm not really a salad person," I return.

"Oh, I know that," Oliver returns.

"I've made it my mission to get you to appreciate the joys of a good salad on of these days."

"Not to mention, it's a great way to eat a filling meal that covers a variety of vitamins that traditional starch and meat meals do not," Oliver finishes.

"I suppose," I attempt to chuckle, but end up releasing a ten second long yawn.

"Oh! Sorry," I apologize to Oliver.

"Honestly, Dick, you look like hell," Oliver states.

"You haven't gotten more than three hours of rest per day for the past two weeks, have you?" Oliver asks.

"That sounds about right," I return over another short yawn.

"You know how it is. No rest for the weary," I shrug.

"I know. But I also know that it's very important for us to always be at the top of our game," Oliver returns.

"I also know that I can accomplish five times as much in a night where I'm well rested versus nights were I am not."

"Gotham's going to hell," I state bluntly.

"Even more so now that cash bail has been practically abolished."

"This crime-wave? This crime-wave that served as the inner-city's response to a planetary invasion? All these vagrants who partook in these acts of violence and destruction are now flooding the streets again! It's...it's awful. It's an awful policy," I bemoan.

The interesting thing with speaking politics with Oliver is that although we have the same professions and ultimately the same goals, we have divergent political stances.

Oliver Queen believes the Democrat Party offers more to the values of America, as opposed to the Republican-favored ideology that Bruce and I share.

"Some effects of it, yes. But this country has always been about presuming innocence until guilt is proven," Oliver returns.

"There are so many innocent men who have spent years behind bars because they could not make bail. Because this country failed to give them their due speedy trial," Oliver states.

"Yes, but for every one innocent man, there are nine guilty men. And in Gotham, it's more like for every one innocent man, there are forty-nine guilty men!" I riposte.

"Even so, isn't our duty to the innocent man?" Oliver asks.

"Yes. And many innocent men and women will now suffer because of the criminals being let loose," I return.

"But they haven't been proven to be criminals in the court of law," Oliver points out.

"I provide solid evidence for any criminal I capture via a snippet of my video feed," I state.

"So do I. But the prominence of heresay and kangaroo courts in the British justice system played no small factor in America's decision to break away from the motherland," Oliver rejoins.

"On principle, I do believe that cashless bail is better," Oliver states.

"How often does the grit of reality follow the glory of the principle?" I return.

"Yet is that not the point of principle? An ideal for reality to strive for?" Oliver questions.

"So it is," I agree.

The waitress at this moment sets our glasses of water in front of us.

"I always did love debating politics with you," Oliver tells me.

"Ditto," I agree.

"How are you holding up?" I ask the thirty-five year old.

Even though I did not say it, Oliver knows what I refer to.

The last time we saw each other was in attendance for the funeral of his best friend: John Diggle. Codenamed Spartan, the ex-marine worked tirelessly alongside Oliver to bring peace to Star City's increasingly anarchistic streets.

He, like so, so many others, gave his life in defense of the planet that bloody Independence Day.

"He was my best friend. The best friend I ever had," Oliver mournfully states.

"I...I will always miss him."

"But his memory and the brotherhood we had lives on inside my heart."

"Giving me the focus, drive, and passion to go out each night and wake up the following morning," the blue-eyed billionaire concludes.

"I...you've always been such an inspiration to me Oliver. I...I don't know if I could forge on if I went through half of what you have gone through," I state.

Oliver's entire life has always been one of pain and suffering. When he was nineteen, the Pacific Ocean yacht tour he took with his Stanford friends during their spring break ended in a...mysterious...disaster. The only survivor of the shipwreck, Oliver had to transform himself from carefree teenager to hardened warrior to survive the next three years of hell.

When he finally returned to Star City in 2007, Oliver found that the forces behind that fateful wreck were none other than his own mother and uncle: Moira and Malcolm Merlyn. The ruthless brother and sister dyad planned to cause an "earthquake" that would level the entire city. One that would kill tens of thousands and destroy the livelihoods of hundreds of thousands. Thus creating an enormous chasm between the top one-percent and everyone else. One that would inspire mass rioting, vandalism, violence, and eventually civil war between the wealthy and the impoverished.

A civil war the wicked dyad hoped would spread throughout the entire United States of America, in allegiance with the goals of their master: the first Ra's Al Ghul. Robert Queen had discovered their vile plot, so the twins had made him "disappear". Fearing that Oliver did not have the same innate ruthlessness as Malcolm's son Thomas, Moira had offered up her only child on the alter of sacrifice, purposefully encouraging Oliver to take a yacht tour in the Pacific aboard a ship her brother had rigged.

Upon finding all this out, Oliver put the warrior techniques and archery skills he had acquired to use. Donning a green hooded suit, he became the Arrow: a perfect play on Malcolm's own name within the League of Shadows.

Initially driven by vengeance, Oliver sought to kill his uncle and mother. Yet upon killing Malcolm and seeing Moira commit suicide before his eyes, Oliver found the strength within himself to choose a different path. Thus the Arrow became the Green Arrow, and one of the greatest heroes this world has ever seen.

And went on to suffer loses and betrayals that would almost anyone else become more deranged than the Joker.

"I mean...if I lost Wally...I don't know what I'd be able to do," I whisper.

"You lost Koriand'r, your fiancee, that weekend. Also Alfred, the closest thing you had to a grandfather," Oliver softly reminds.

"Our grief...it's not a competition. We all understand each others pain, because we all lost someone that fateful day," Oliver states.

This is true.

Every hero lost a friend, mentor, lover, or family member that day.

"We are all our brother's keeper," Oliver states, giving me a meaningful look.

Gosh.

That's from my own speech!

"And from our shared brotherhood, we draw the strength to persevere through any and all adversities," I recite.

Feeling the emotions of that day threatening to overwhelm me, I look up at the ceiling and take several deep breaths before looking back at Oliver.

"Thank you. You always know the right thing to say," I gratefully state.

Hold up one second.

"Wait. How do you know that Alfred died that weekend?" I ask.

Tim and I had kept Alfred's death private. We...we knew that if we informed the superhero community of what happened, they would start asking how he died. Regardless of how well we stitched him up, Clark and Kara would see the clear path of a bullet through his skull.

After forcing the details from me, Wally would run off to find Jason so we could have a "heart to heart."

Wally would bring Jas...Heywood back before me in a second or two..

...And...

I don't trust what I would do.

I...I have had dark thoughts concerning Heywood lately.

I can't afford to put myself in a position where I will suffer strong temptation to break the code that I've kept for the past fourteen years.

Not now!

Not when Bruce lies in limbo.

"Just like you, I have a long, violent history with Slade," Oliver reminds.

If I recall correctly, Slade actually trained Oliver during the three years he spent adrift.

Took him on as his apprentice.

Then Oliver decided that the violent mercenary life wasn't for him.

The two had a violent crash, one which Oliver barely won by shooting an arrow into Slade's eye.

Oliver had thought the wound to be fatal, but he had vastly underestimated the regenerative effects of Mirakuru.

"Slade sent me a copy of his helmet feed to...remind me...of something he had once put me through," Oliver divulges.

Oliver went through this once?

"Oh my God! I...I didn't know," I exclaim.

"I...I only told Roy this," Oliver admits.

"Slade...back in 2008, he promised an 'eye for an eye' vengeance upon me," Oliver starts.

"So for several months, I found myself constantly looking over my shoulder. Expecting to see Slade there at any minute."

"Then, when I was having a couple drinks with my cousin and then best friend Tommy, Slade suddenly appeared in the penthouse."

"Slade then dragged me to a secluded forest, where he...force me...to...to choose between Tommy...and...Yao Fei," Oliver stutters.

"Yao Fei? As in your mentor from Lian Yu, Yao Fei?" I ask.

"Yes," Oliver breathes.

"It...it was one of the most horrible moments of my life...I...I didn't know what to do," Oliver stammers.

"I could either choose my best friend, or the man who made me," Oliver breathes, his eyes watering.

"And you chose Tommy," I whispered compassionately.

"That's...that's when he found out...about me. And after that...he hated me. He blamed me for everything that happened to his father," Oliver reveals.

"My God!" I gasp.

"I...I didn't know..." I whisper.

"That...that vile beast! Putting you through that..." I hiss.

"Slade made sure that whatever way I would choose, I would lose," Oliver states.

"After that...all I had left was Roy," Oliver finishes.

Roy told me that he met Oliver back in 2007, when the fledgling vigilante sought to halt the macabre plot of his mother and uncle. A fifteen year old street kid, Roy's guile, ingenuity, and hacking abilities proved invaluable to Oliver. So grateful was Oliver that he took Roy in as his ward, and promised to train him so that Roy could begin his own vigilante career.

At age eighteen.

Oliver had been very particular on that one, even when Roy pointed out that a twelve year old leapt around at Batman's side.

"Roy..." I state in mournful reminiscence.

Oh Roy...

Why, Roy?

Why?

"Do you know what my greatest regret is?" Oliver asks.

"What?" I ask.

I feel it has something to do with Roy.

Even though Oliver has no blame in Roy's decisions.

"How Roy and I parted..." Oliver starts.

"Oliver, Roy's choices cannot be placed on you!" I interject.

"My reactions can certainly be!" Oliver's voice raises.

"How...how I railed on him when I found out about his...addiction," Oliver stammers.

"I...I was disappointed. I felt that I had failed as the older brother I promised to be to Roy."

"And I took it out on him..." Oliver states regretfully.

"You had every right to be disappointed!" I rebut.

I'm not going to let Oliver blame himself for this.

"Roy knew what addiction looks like, what it leads to, better than any of us! It's how he lost his parents for Christ's sake!" I exclaim.

"Roy should have known the only way to treat the physical pain ailing him was to take time to rest! To heal!"

"But he didn't. He took a shortcut. A very destructive shortcut!"

"Every single day, he knowingly and willingly put you and the Titans in danger..."

"No!" Oliver shouts, his eyes flaring.

Stunned by the vibrant expression of anger from a man who never lost his cool, I immediately stopped in my tracks.

"Roy put himself on the line for us day in and day out because he wanted to be there for us," Oliver strains.

"Back in 2016, things were very, very bad for us."

"Your Titans suffered an extraordinary amount of losses that year."

I flinch at the memory of Terra's insidious war against us.

"I was struggling to regain stability in both my corporate life and vigilante life after the havoc that Tommy and the Ninth Circle infused into both." Oliver continues

"Roy wanted to be our rock...and we...I left him," Oliver finishes.

"At least you just booted him from the team. Me? I told him that if I saw him don his Arsenal uniform before he got clean, I would drag him in chains to the nearest asylum and hurl him in!"

"You meant well when you said that..." I try.

"But doesn't the message of our words lie in what the recipient hears? Not in what we imagine?" Oliver asks.

"Roy saw this as a complete betrayal and disavowal. So he left..." Oliver states mournfully.

"And became the mercenary Prometheus," I finish.

A moment of silence passes between us.

"Here you go, sirs!" the voice of our waitress chirps as she hands us our appetizers.

Oliver digs into his Crab, Artichoke, and Spinach dip while I begin to eat my large bowl of salad, replete with fruits, candied walnuts, and surprisingly some cheese.

At least there's some cheese in this.

"Hmmm," I moan in surprise and pleasure. Surprise at my pleasure.

"Good, right?" Oliver asks.

I nod enthusiastically.

"Roy...I still have faith he can come around," I voice.

"I...I try to reach him every time we meet."

"And Roy is the reason I wasn't in Bludhaven when it blew. Though I wouldn't come to realize this until a couple weeks later," I state.

"He always had a good heart, and still does," Oliver states.

"And so does Jason," Oliver opines.

Hold up.

Has this whole conversation been a subtle rebuke in how I've treated Heywood?

"I've given that boy every chance..." I start.

"Have you?" Oliver asks.

"You know me, Dick. You know that I'll always give it to you straight."

"And to me, it seems that you have given up on Jason."

"He's the one who gave up on us," I return.

"He's the one who told us that, and I quote, 'I hope I don't see a single one of you again'."

"He's the one who called us a 'bygone family'."

"And proved his point by not giving Alfred so much as a second thought against a damned Heywood!" I finish.

"His cousin," Oliver gently reminds.

"And may I remind you that your best civilian friend in high school was a Heywood?"

"A fact I would have forgotten completely if I didn't keep getting reminded of it," I grumble.

"Is it possible that your personal feelings regarding Gryphon are...clouding your judgment?" Oliver probes.

"If anything, my personal experiences with Gryphon serve as a constant reminder of what a Heywood is," I retort.

"Regardless of his lineage, Jason is still your brother. He is just as much a Wayne as you are," Oliver reminds.

"I..." I start.

"And he is one of the best fighters that I have ever seen. Heck, I would say that he is one of the twelve best martial artists in the world right now."

"Top dozen? I think you're being a little too generous. You could beat him any day of the week..." I start.

"Barely," Oliver replies.

"Given what I witnessed, I know I would be very hard pressed to win."

"If I won at all," Oliver opines.

Oliver has always been very humble.

Too humble in my opinion.

"Oliver, you give much more of a challenge in our sparring matches than Jason could ever hope to in all-out combat," I assert.

"He did disarm you," Oliver reminds.

"I...I was holding back on him," I reply.

Was I though?

"I have a question for you, and please answer this honestly," Oliver starts.

"If Jason were here, working side by side with you."

"How long do you think it would take to reign in this flood of crime?" Oliver asks.

"Jason and I working together?" I scoff.

"Sure, when Lex Luthor becomes the kindest soul on planet Earth!"

"In this hypothetical scenario, how long do you think it would take to reign in the flood?" Oliver repeats.

How long would it take?

I hate to admit it, but Oliver might be right about the top dozen thing.

Even if Heywood would most certainly be twelfth on that list.

Regardless, he could keep up with me.

I wouldn't constantly have to look over my shoulder to make sure he's alright.

More than that, Heywood...Jason Heywood understands crime.

He understands it like a surgeon understands the human body.

If I have to be honest with myself, it would take...

"A week," I respond.

"At most a week," I admit.

"I agree with that assessment," Oliver declares as he finishes his appetizer.

"And I think you may find that scenario to be less improbable than it may seem," Oliver vocalizes.

"Jason...he was born and raised here. That doesn't go away."

"He will come back. That is a fact."

"And when he does, how you receive him will be the key," Oliver states.

"Key?" I ask.

"Key to what?"

"Everything," Oliver finishes.

At that moment, our entrees are brought before us. Entrees we proceeded to enjoy alongside topics of a lighter note.

7:23 p.m.

Wayne Manor, Bristol Township, Massachusetts

Tim drives the limousine into the expansive garage of Wayne Manor.

So ends my day as CEO Richard Grayson.

So begins my night as Nightwing.

Oliver and I dined together for a very refreshing hour minutes. As much as I would have loved to stay for double the time, sundown is exactly at 8:00 p.m. tonight.

Due to the rampant murder and mayhem in Gotham, I meet with Commissioner Harvey Bullock at exactly sundown each night to discuss strategy. There is so much crime that Harvey splits the crime heavy Gotham districts between his police forces and myself.

When I gift-wrap the criminals I find, Harvey sends in the rookies to do the "clean-up."

Though recently, the police force has been stretched so thin that Harvey sends in the detectives to do the "clean-up," due to there being no rookies to spare!

As stressful as this system already is, it's about to get five times worse. Since the good Mayor De La Cruz decided in all his wisdom to force the police out of the second, third, and fifth precincts, I will no doubt have to be the lone representative of law and order in that region.

Harvey might just start pulling out his hair.

I'm about to start pulling out my hair!

Now that we are in the safety of the garage, I waste no time in opening my own door and sprinting into the manor.

"Dick! Wait up!" calls Tim, sprinting behind me in his white suit.

"Let me guess, you want to try the challenge again?" I call behind me as I bound towards Bruce's study.

"I can help you!" Tim insists.

"Not if I have to look over my shoulder every five seconds to make sure you aren't dead!" I retort as I dart into the study.

Reaching Bruce's desk, I press my thumb against the "collar" of the golden bust of William Shakespeare.

Accepting my thumb imprint, the bust opens to reveal the red scanner within.

"Identity, Richard John Grayson." I monotone as I align my right eye with the scanner.

"League Designation: A-17." I continue as I align my left eye with the scanner.

"Date of Debut: January 1, 2007," I finish.

"Accepted," comes the mechanical voice of the security system.

"Welcome, Nightwing," it finishes.

The bookcase at the opposite side of the room slides to the left, revealing an elevator.

Performing a final retinal retinal scan at the elevator doors, I state:

"Operation Batpole. Dos personas."

Dos personas allows Tim to come down with me without having to perform all of the tests himself.

"Accepted," comes the mechanical voice of the security system.

Bruce is nothing if not completely thorough.

We quickly file into the elevator as the golden doors open for us.

"Look over your shoulder every five seconds?" Tim bites bitterly.

I put my right hand on his shoulder, but the miffed teen shakes it off.

"Tim," I start.

"You are in grief."

"Your head isn't one hundred percent in the game."

"Neither is yours!" the mop-topped teen retorts.

"I've been doing this a lot longer than you have," I calmly remind.

"I can afford a mistake or two that Robin can't."

"If Robin isn't a hundred percent here," I state as I tap Tim's forehead.

"Then he will have a near hundred percent chance of sustaining a critical or mortal wound," I finish.

The elevator door opens to the lower level of the Batcave - the mission level.

"I am performing the challenge!" Tim declares.

I shake my head and roll my eyes.

Does he know when to give it a rest?

"Very well. Get your gear on! And I need to be on my motorcycle by 7:30, so hurry up!" I tell my little brother.

The "challenge" as we called it is the pre-requisite I set in order for Tim to join me on the field. In his full gear, Tim needs to land just one hit on my body in order to pass said challenge.

I don't make it easy for him; in fact, I use my full martial and athletic ability. Which naturally leads to me putting Tim down in one or two moves, all whilst dodging all of his blows and hurled Batarangs.

But there-in lies the point. What Tim has been missing is that this is not a critique on his skill level. Back in my Titans days, I always put Heywood down in one move whenever the angry Robin attempted to punch me.

What I'm trying to remind Tim is that the key to victory lies within foreplanning and ingenuity. During our odyssey, Tim transformed his lithe athletic form into the sculpted, muscular figure of a mini-body builder. His increase in body mass, skill, and confidence has led him to be more reliant on brute force and raw skill. All well and good, except that came at the expense of his cunning.

Upon the death of Tim's girlfriend and several other team members, combat became an expression of his rage and frustration. In this state, he performs beautiful, intense, powerful katas at the total expense of subtly and strategy.

And I will keep putting him flat on his face until he remembers his greatest weapon.

"Dick!" Tim calls out from behind me.

Tim stands in his full Robin attire. Crimson red ceramic torso armour, crimson red Spectra-woven sleeves, black Spectra-woven pants, and black ballistic gauntlets and boots. Completed with the black-and-yellow cape on his back and the black bo-staff in his hands.

I turn to him, still wearing my black suit and dress shoes from my day as Chief Executive Officer of Wayne Enterprises.

"Begin," I instruct.

Tim charges me, bo-staff lifted as though to spear me through the heart.

Just as he is a foot away from me, he sharply pivots on his left foot and brings his bo-staff in a circular sweep aimed at my right shoulder.

No doubt an attempt to make me duck.

A clever and skilled move.

But he's forgotten that I can easily jump five feet vertical on a dime.

Which I do.

From my vantage point in the air, I deliver a powerful stomp to Tim's face. One which sends him careening and falling flat on his back.

Landing on my toes, I bound to Tim and lightly press my right foot against his neck.

"Again, you went on autopilot," I declare.

"A skilled move. One that would work on nine hundred ninety-nine opponents. But you should have remember I'm the one in a thousand that will jump up, not duck down." I deliver.

"Keep a satellite and radio lookout for me while I go out," I tell Robin as I bound over to the display case.

"Dick!" Tim exclaims.

"You need help!"

"You ARE giving me help. From a safe and secure space in the Batcave," I remind as I take off my suit and tie.

"This is an extremely important job," I continue as I zip on my black Spectra-woven body glove.

"Alfred isn't here to do that anymore, so that's where you come in," I state as I don my Zylon-woven Nightwing armor.

"I couldn't do this without you bud," I assure as I pull on ceramic plated gauntlets and boots.

"You need a brother by your side," Tim declares.

Oh God.

Him too?

He also wants to sip tea with Heywood?

"When you reclaim your wits, you'll be right by my side," I promise as I ignite my motorcycle.

Gotham City lies fourteen miles to the south. The tunnel system actually continues for twelve entire miles in that direction, allowing me to come out to the surface a mere two miles outside of the city.

Given that I'll be meeting Harvey at the First Precinct, deep within the city, I'll probably want to average 65-70 mph within the tunnel if I want to make it to the precinct by sundown.

This life never is for the faint of heart.

As always, I encourage you all to review. I really appreciate anything and everything that you have to say.

Seeing how the story "Second Best" really is just as much about Dick Grayson as it is about Jason Todd, it was high-time to take a dive into Dick Grayson's head. What better way to witness his inner turmoil than to follow him around as he struggles to adjust to his new reality as CEO of Wayne Enterprises.

The next chapter will follow the events of the night of August 10, 2020, from Tim Drake's perspective. After that chapter, the narrative will shift once more to Jason Heywood-Todd.