Chapter Text
A life saved for every life taken. There was a time Dick had thought redemption would be that simple.
That he would be forgiven if only he kept count, if only he promised the ghosts to make things right. He wasn’t sure if he ever really believed it, but the thought had kept him sane. Had stopped him from going somewhere with no return.
But then he’d sheathed his swords, and the nightmares hadn’t stopped. The scars hadn’t disappeared. The guilt hadn’t stopped tearing him apart.
Forgiven by who, exactly?
He could never forgive himself.
And he could never forgive Slade for making him into a monster.
Still, what else was he to do? His education, his skills, his life; they all began and ended on the rooftops.
So to the rooftops he would take.
He couldn't erase Renegade’s sins, but maybe Nightwing could make a difference for the people of Blüdhaven.
That would just have to be enough.
The handle of the backdoor Nightwing had been watching jostled. A thief wearing a ski mask popped out his head, then stepped into the cold night when he found the alley abandoned.
“Hurry up, you shitheads,” he hissed as he held the door for his partners in crime.
Dick grimaced when he saw the gun pressed in his hand. The Lycra of his new suit allowed him to soar like Kevlar never could, but it wasn’t exactly bulletproof.
Four more idiots wearing the same ridiculous ski masks hurried outside, heavy duffel bags pulling on their shoulders.
“Calm down,” another one said. “You know I made a deal with the cops.”
The first thief peered up at the dark rooftops. “It ain’t the cops I’m worried about.”
Nightwing didn’t move when the thief’s eyes raked over him. It would only betray his presence.
After a few agonising seconds, the man looked away.
The last thief closed the door behind him. “Don’t tell me you believe those fairy tales.”
“My cousin’s a dirty cheat, but he ain’t a liar. Said two of his friends got snatched by a nameless mask right in front of him.”
They all turned their backs, hurrying away from the crime scene.
“Even Batman stays out of Blud,” one of them said. “What kind of hero would burn their hands on this shithole?”
Dick smiled from his perch up on the roof. What hero, indeed. He cut a shadow into the moonlight as he stood, casting the alleyway into darkness.
He’d end this quickly.
He was already three stories down when the thieves turned around, somersaulting one, two, three times to stop himself from going splat on the concrete.
Yeah, he was never going back to Kevlar.
“It’s him!”
“Shit—”
“Told you there’s a bat in Blud!”
The thief with the gun aimed his weapon, but Nightwing shot out his grapple, the iron claw bashing it out of his hand. The man howled and doubled over, pressing his ruined arm against his chest.
At least the hundreds of hours Slade had made him spend on the shooting range hadn't been totally useless.
“Not a bat,” Dick said as he holstered the grapple. “Though I’m flattered by the comparison.”
None of the other thieves had firearms, as was the norm for low-level heists in Blud. Why bring the extra weight when no one gave a shit, anyway? They probably could’ve done this in broad daylight had Nightwing not stumbled upon their merry little band.
One thief dropped his duffel bags, turned, and made a run for it. So predictable.
Nightwing flung out a throwing star. It hit its target square in the back, the thief howling out as the blade cut into his skin. He fell forward face-first, head hitting the pavement with a crack that screamed concussion.
The other thieves stared at him with wide eyes.
Shit. He hadn’t—
Why had he thought it was a good idea to carry those around? This was why he’d already swapped his swords for escrima sticks—he’d been working so hard to stop himself from reacting with deadly force, but it was a slow-going battle.
He could switch the stars for bolas, maybe? But those would be impossible to carry around without a belt, and he really didn’t want to make any more changes to his Nightwing suit.
“Terry!” Another thief also dropped his loot and raced towards his friend. Only he didn’t slow down when he reached him.
No, he ran and disappeared around the corner.
Silence.
“Traitor!” one of the other ones yelled.
Nightwing sighed. Great. He’d stumbled upon these idiots on the way back from an already long patrol, and now he couldn’t call it a night until he’d tracked down that coward.
But first, three unarmed thieves still stood before him.
“So, how are we doing this?” he asked. “Hard or easy?”
The three of them shared a look, then balled their fists.
Nightwing smiled. At least these guys had some self-respect.
He pounced forward and slammed his heel into the first man’s chest. The thief crumpled like a sack of potatoes, but he should be alright—Dick hadn’t felt anything break under his boot. One down, two to go.
He danced out of the way of a clumsy fist, then used his opponent’s own momentum to bash his face against the brick wall. There went another one.
A glint of metal caught the moonlight.
Renegade reacted before he did. He deflected the kitchen knife with the palm of his hand, then plucked it out of his victim’s grasp.
Touching the hilt felt like coming home.
“Fuck—” The thief stumbled back, but Renegade grabbed his shoulder to stop him from retreating. The knife fluttered between his fingers, blade darting out the moment his grip was firm.
The tip froze a hair’s breadth from the man’s throat.
Shit.
Shit. He wasn’t supposed to—
He’d almost—
The knife clattered to the concrete. He let go of the thief, uncaring the man scrambled away and fled the alley.
Dick looked down at his hands. Dick. Not Renegade.
Never again Renegade.
Why. Why wouldn’t that part of him just die a quiet death?
Fuck Slade. Fuck him and his fucked-up games. Fuck his fucked-up training and the fucking torture it had been.
Fuck.
He balled his hands into fists, then opened them again, repeating the motion until his fingers stopped feeling numb.
Deep breaths.
He hadn’t killed.
He hadn’t, but it’d been way too close.
Who was he trying to fool by playing hero? Slade had ruined him, and he’d allowed it to happen.
It had felt fair in the beginning. Some people just deserved to die—why should Zucco get to live when he’d killed his parents? His innocent parents, guilty of nothing but being at the wrong place at the wrong time.
“The universe’s an unfair place,” Slade had told him when he’d handed Dick his first blade. “We have to make our own justice.”
And God, Dick had been so glad someone had finally understood.
Make his own justice. It had been those very same words that had planted the seed of rebellion. Because the older he grew, the more he saw of the outside world, the more he realised that Slade didn’t care about justice.
He was just a predator in love with the thrill of the hunt.
Dick took a deep breath and forced himself back to reality. He needed to get the two men he’d knocked out to the police station. Needed to return the duffel bags filled with money to the store.
And finally, he needed to chase and capture the two cowards that had gotten away—he couldn’t let Nightwing’s reputation slip after barely a month of patrolling.
If he gave up on the cowl now, he would have nothing left. The years of planning his escape, of dreaming about being where he was now, free to make his own rules and play his own games—
It would’ve all been pointless.
He could do this.
Nightwing stared up at the first of the two thieves he’d been tracking. The man was strung up by his feet to a lamppost, unconscious and bleeding like a stuck pig from long cuts that marred his body.
None of the cuts were deep enough to kill, but when he pressed his finger against the man’s neck his pulse was painfully slow, the puddle of blood below him way too big.
Whoever had done this had left this man to die. Had they watched Nightwing’s fight and decided to ‘help’?
He glanced up at the rooftops. He hadn’t been at his best tonight, but it still must’ve taken a good amount of stealth to remain out of his sight. Not good.
Now he was going to have to worry about this, too—because the Bat in the next city over might come knocking a hell of a lot sooner if he thought this was how Nightwing operated.
He’d hoped that choosing a city this close to Gotham would throw Slade off his scent, but it had definitely been a dangerous gamble.
One evil for another.
He cut down the thief and hauled him over his shoulder, trying his best to ignore the smell of copper that soaked into his suit. He was going to have to take a detour to the clinic before going after his final target.
Stars were already disappearing on the horizon when he aimed his grapple at the nearest roof. It wouldn’t be long until sunrise.
Who needed sleep, anyway?
The unknown reaper had gotten to the last thief only one alleyway over. He’d been propped up against a dumpster, the same deep cuts marring his body. When Nightwing crouched and pressed a finger to the man’s neck, he found his pulse slow but still going, just like his buddy’s.
These slices were too long to be made with a knife. It had to have been a longsword, or—
Dick’s breath hitched.
Could it be?
No, it was too soon. It had to be too soon.
His fingers trembled as he measured out the length of the cuts. One full hand and one and a half pointer fingers.
He let out a breath. If it weren’t for the brick wall against his back, he would’ve fallen over with relief. Thank God. Slade’s broadsword left cuts at least two hands long. No, this length, plus the slight curve of the welts—
It screamed League of Assassins. Which was, you know, still a problem, even if he’d much rather face some ninjas than his former master.
Something moved in the corner of his eye. A hooded figure disappeared behind the edge of a rooftop on the other side of the road.
Bingo.
Nightwing turned to give chase. The unconscious criminal should have at least two hours left before he bled out, and by then there would be more than enough early birds awake to call 911.
That he was playing hero didn’t mean he was a saint.
He grappled up to the rooftop, racing after the assassin the moment his feet hit the concrete.
The assassin sailed across the rooftops. Their hood stayed up even though their cape fluttered behind them, a single katana strapped to their small back. Definitely League. They flitted between the rooftops with a trained ease, each limb in harmony, each move calculated and graceful.
There probably weren’t many people that could keep up with them, but Dick had been running across rooftops since he was eight. And at six, he’d been playing tag with the other carney kids up in the big top, scurrying across the ropes and metal pipes that held their stage lights.
The distance between them shrank each step.
Four rooftops. Three.
Then two.
At one, the assassin turned around and pulled their blade. No use running when they were getting outpaced.
Nightwing blinked when they made eye contact. Because that wasn’t the face of a somewhat-smaller-than-regular assassin—it was the face of a child.
A child with piercing green eyes that held nothing but anger.
The boy charged, tip of his blade aimed at Dick’s throat.
He pulled his escrima sticks from his shoulders to deflect the blow.
Assassin boy snarled, then charged again. This time his first thrust was a feint, followed by a rapid flurry of cuts.
Nightwing could barely keep up, blocking the kid from cutting his abdomen, his chest, his throat. His escrima sticks were similar to the twin swords he’d carried as Renegade, but they didn’t have the same length or weight, didn’t have pommels to stop a katana from slicing right through his fingers if he made a mistake.
The kid smirked when one of his escrima clattered to the ground.
Oh, he was so lucky he hadn’t run into the person Dick had been a few years ago.
He jumped back to put some distance between them. “Can we talk?” He didn’t want to hurt the boy, but it was getting kinda hard to stay on the defensive when each jab was aimed at his heart or throat.
The kid held his sword between them. “I do not see a use in conversing with incompetent fools.”
“And I don’t believe in fighting five-year-olds, but here we are.”
“I am not five.”
Ah. Sore spot. “Still a bit young to carry that sword around, aren’t you?” He hadn’t figured Ra’s the type to use children, but he wasn’t very surprised either—he and Slade always raved about having standards, but neither had shied away from breaking their own rules if it suited their needs.
Kid must’ve had a shit childhood with the League, though. It took a lot of training to get that good.
“It’s a katana,” the boy bit.
“I know it’s a—” Nightwing sighed. “Look, kid. Do you have a number I can call? I’ve had a long night. I’m not in the mood to babysit.”
That had been the wrong thing to say. The kid tightened his fist around his blade, then charged again. He sliced it sideways, Nightwing only just ducking out of the way of being decapitated.
“Can you chill it with the vital blows?”
The kid snarled and jabbed at his heart.
Nightwing was forced to push the blade away with the palm of his hand, sharp edge biting right through his Lycra gloves. The wound throbbed as he pulled his arm back, blood dripping onto the rooftop. This couldn’t go on much longer.
Child or not, he was going to have to retaliate soon.
“Last warning,” he said.
The kid darted forward.
Enough.
Dick whipped out his escrima and hit the boy’s sword arm like a viper. The kid sucked in a breath as he lost grip of his weapon, eyes wide in disbelief.
Both of them watched the katana fall.
Nightwing caught it a hair’s breadth from the ground, then froze when he felt its weight in his hand.
No.
No, he shouldn’t—
He dropped the blade, metal clattering to the floor.
He’d almost killed a man with a kitchen knife earlier, and now he’d thought it was a good idea to aim a sword at a child?
He couldn’t trust his hands. Couldn’t trust his training. Couldn’t trust his instincts.
Who knew what would awaken if he wielded a sword so similar to the ones he’d used as Renegade?
Cutting throats, stabbing hearts. Numbness creeping into his fingertips as he forced his victims to fess up their sins.
And Slade had watched. Slade had watched and said ‘good job’ even when the blood wouldn’t wash away from under his fingertip, when his dreams wouldn’t stop smelling of copper and fear.
Breathe. He had to breathe. Fuck, was he really going to have two episodes in less than an hour? This was getting ridiculous.
“What is wrong with you?” The kid asked. He’d taken his katana back, holding it loose in his hand as he stared.
Dick didn’t answer.
“You would have won if you had used my blade.”
More silence.
“And you could have easily killed those imbeciles.”
Dick let out a laugh that turned into a cough. That had been the whole problem.
“Can’t say I appreciated you almost finishing the job,” he said between breaths. “Stealing doesn’t exactly deserve the death penalty.”
The boy’s frown cut deeper into his face. “They sealed their fate with their dishonourable actions.”
Oh, the kid was in deep.
“But why should a pipsqueak like you get to decide that?” Dick asked as he straightened his back. His breath came easier now, cold air allowing him to blink away the dark edges in his vision. “What makes you so special?”
“You sound like Father,” the kid mumbled.
“Father?”
The kid grimaced. Another sore spot, then. “I do not have time for this. I should—“
“Get back to the cave before your dad murders us both? Because yes, yes you should, you little hellspawn.”
Another vigilante in a purple suit swung onto the rooftop and stalked towards the little assassin.
The kid took a step back, tensing his muscles to flee.
“If you run, so help me I will tell B about the swords you’re hoarding below the floorboards.”
Nightwing’s heart beat in his throat. Because this was Spoiler, one of Batman’s many strays. Right here in Blüdhaven.
The kid gave her a suffering sigh. “I would have returned before sunrise.”
“And how many body bags would you have left behind?”
“I haven't killed.”
Spoiler raised an eyebrow.
The kid pointed his katana at Nightwing. “Tell her.”
And suddenly, he had Spoiler’s full attention.
Dick opened his mouth, then closed it. Shit. He should’ve run the moment she swung onto the rooftop—if this shit had anything to do with the Bat, he should stay far, far away.
A kid affiliated with the League in the care of Batman? It screamed trouble. Did the League even know he was here? Dick was far from ready if Ra’s decided to take a closer look at Blud—Slade had met up with the man often, which meant the villain had gotten a good look at Renegade throughout the years.
“Go on,” the kid ordered. “Explain that I did not dispose of those imbeciles.”
“I— uh, I guess technically they weren’t dead?” Nightwing said. “I had to rush one to the clinic before he went on blood loss, though.” He pointed his thumb over his shoulder. “And the other one may or may not still be bleeding out back there.”
The boy frowned. “They were supposed to live.”
Spoiler sighed. “This is why you can’t be sneaking out. It’s not safe, you can’t even tell when you’re using deadly force.”
And for the first time this night, the boy’s confidence faltered. His shoulders drooped as he bit his lip. What was he? Nine? Ten?
Not much older than Dick had been when Slade had pushed a gun in his hand.
Spoiler’s expression softened. “You know B’s never going to let you patrol for real if you keep doing this.”
The boy stared down at the concrete. “But how can I show him I’m ready if he will not let me prove myself?”
“By staying put and showing him you’re capable of following orders,” Dick said before he could stop himself. Obedience, after all, was what kept the inexperienced alive long enough to learn the game.
Or so Slade had claimed.
“Right,” Spoiler said after a tense silence. She gave him an assessing look, then held out her hand. “Sorry for the late intro. I’m Spoiler, vigilante and occasional babysitter.”
Dick stared at her hand.
She must be wearing a comm, which meant every bird and bat in Gotham could be listening in. He’d always known he’d have to have some contact with them this close to Gotham, but he hadn’t wanted it to happen this early. Nothing he could do about it now, though. Antagonizing them would only make him seem more suspicious.
He took her hand. “Name’s Nightwing.”
Spoiler eyed the blue bird on his chest. “Nice. You know we appreciate some good bird imagery over in Gotham. Batman's gonna to be happy I found out your name—he’s been insufferable since he found out about your existence last week.”
Last week. That meant he’d eluded Batman’s eye for a whole three weeks—not bad, all things considered. He and Slade had never stayed near Gotham for longer than a week to prevent being discovered.
“You guys do good work over there,” Nightwing said as he let go of her hand. “The baddies don’t mess around.”
Spoiler gave him a smile. “We also have BatBurger.”
The kid had sheathed his katana while he and Spoiler introduced themselves, still wearing that eternal frown. Dick was starting to think it was just his face.
“Does little hellspawn have a name?” he asked.
The boy opened his mouth.
“No,” Spoiler interrupted.
“But—”
“I’m not calling you Batboy. I know there’s been a Batgirl, but it’s not happening. You’ll have an eternity to figure out something better after the Houdini act you pulled tonight.”
“Do not patronize me.”
Spoiler held up her hands. “Just saying. You sneaked out when you had explicit orders to stay put. You went all the way to another city, a city we were all told to stay away from because an unknown mask had popped up. What if Nightwing here hadn’t been so nice? Or what if you had ruined any chance of an alliance by attacking him?”
The rooftop fell silent.
Spoiler narrowed her eyes. “Please tell me you didn't.”
The kid jutted out his chin. “The fool chased me. Was I not supposed to defend myself?”
Spoiler looked up at the sky, muttering something unsavoury under her breath. She turned to Nightwing. “I’m so sorry about him. Are you hurt?”
Dick clenched his hand into a fist, hoping the blood seeping from the cut would blend in with the black of his suit. “I’m not so green I can’t handle a child.”
Spoiler snorted. “He might be tiny, but he doesn’t pull his punches.”
“I have yet to be bested by a seven-year-old.“
“I’m ten,” the kid bit.
Dick nodded sagely. “That explains a lot, actually.”
Spoiler let out a startled laugh. “Oh, you’re going to fit in great.”
Mr Frowny Face looked seconds away from bursting, knuckles white and shaking. “Father does not need more useless minions!”
“Don't worry," Dick reassured him, "I don’t think I’d make a very good minion. I prefer to fly solo.”
The kid let out a huff, shoulders slumping in relief ever so slightly. He really wasn’t as subtle as he thought he was.
He must be a brand-new addition to Batman’s flock, or Dick would’ve seen him on the cover of at least one trashy tabloid—being taken in by Bruce Wayne tended to catch attention.
Because yes, he knew Wayne was Batman. Had known so for years, courtesy of Slade. His master had never told anyone but his apprentice, because, in his own words, he ‘needed the sword above Wayne’s head to make him stay in his lane.’
The Bats’ alter egos being semi-famous made it a lot easier to keep track of them. Dick had studied Gotham’s tabloids and trashy celebrity news closely since arriving, trying to gauge just how careful he should be.
Bruce Wayne himself had a bit of a reputation as a playboy, but nine times out of ten it was Selina Kyle—Catwoman, because the line between hero and villain was confusingly blurry in Gotham—caught on his arm.
His children—both the adopted ones and the friends of the family, because that line was blurry, too—only appeared in the tabloids occasionally, Wayne and his lawyers making it very, very clear that exploiting them was a big no no.
There was Tim Drake-Wayne, alias Red Cardinal, seventeen-year-old whizkid and heir to Wayne industries. Most recently featured in the Gotham Gazette for coming out as bisexual at last year’s Pride.
Then there was the vigilante standing in front of him, Spoiler, eighteen-year-old honorary Wayne kid and pre-med student. Most recently featured when she’d crashed a live TV interview with Wayne because, quote, ‘You promised to take us laser gaming, Bruce. Are you a dirty liar?’
The oldest was twenty-four-year-old former Batgirl Barbara Gordon, who'd been a full-time wheelchair user since a run in with Joker three years ago. She’d only spoken to the press once after it happened, pushing her own chair with shaky hands and an unwavering expression. She now called herself Oracle and ran the computers.
Finally, the last official addition had been Cassandra Cain, an eighteen-year-old former assassin who used short sentences and rapid sign language to communicate. She was good at staying away from the cameras, but her alter ego Black Bat had become a legend when she’d used clumsy sign to introduce herself as ‘Buttman’s new sidekick’ on public television.
That had even earned a snort from Slade.
And now there was the ten-year-old mystery kid who sneaked out to kill maim people.
Honestly, he wasn’t surprised to see new grey hairs pop up on Wayne in every single newspaper. It couldn’t be easy to live with a family like that.
He had vague memories of Haley’s being like that, too. Calling the other performers auntie or uncle, spending his afternoons bouncing between their trailers, eating together, living together, being a family in everything but blood.
He hadn’t kept contact with the Circus after leaving. Had never even typed their name into a search bar, too afraid of what he’d find.
He’d thought about going to see them when he’d escaped, but ultimately decided against it. Slade would most definitely be looking for him there, and even if they’d been a family all those years ago, he no longer deserved to be a part of that.
Point was, there was no trace of this kid anywhere near the Waynes. He’d probably defected or had been rescued from the League only recently.
“Once I become Batman, I will make all of you obsolete,” The kid said.
Spoiler snorted. “I think B would give it to Harley before even considering you.”
The kid bared his teeth. “As his only blood heir, his legacy is my birthright.”
“You know that’s not how things work around here.”
“They should.”
“They really, really shouldn’t.”
Blood heir? As in, Batman’s actual biological child?
That was… unexpected. And the kid was so clearly brainwashed by the League, too…
There was a story there. Guess he had to add it to his infinite list of things to research.
But first, it was time to end this impromptu meeting. The cut on his hand was beginning to sting, and he could only hide the blood from Spoiler for so much longer. The horizon was already turning purple, too, sunrise only minutes away.
He gave the two of them his best smile. “This has been nice, but I have adulting to do when the sun comes up.”
Only then Spoiler seemed to realise just how late it had gotten. “We’ll get out of your hair,” she said as she pushed the kid towards Gotham. It was quite the trip back, at least half an hour of rooftops interrupted by a stretch of flat highways that was impossible to cross by grapple. They both must’ve come in some sort of vehicle.
Spoiler froze halfway across the roof and pressed her hand against her ear. “You sure?” She asked. Then, after a silence, “Got it, Bossman.”
She strode back towards Dick, rummaged through her belt, then held out her hand.
In it, a comm.
Oh, hell no.
“Bats says hi,” she said. “Says he’ll respect your autonomy here in Blüdhaven too, as long as you promise to call if you need help.”
Nightwing pushed her hand away. The promise of backup wasn’t worth it, not when they would turn on him in an instant if they found out about Renegade. “What is he, my dad?”
At that, Spoiler got a dangerous glint in her eye. “Careful what you wish for, Mystery Man.”
“I’m in my twenties.”
“Age has never stopped him.”
Dick shook his head, wry smile on his face. “Thanks, but I work alone.”
Spoiler shrugged and put the comm back in her belt. “Your loss.”
His loss, indeed.
Nightwing jerked his head towards Gotham’s skyline. “Get out of my city.”
Spoiler gave him one last look-over, then saluted. “See you around, Nightwing,” she said as she disappeared.
The kid pulled his hood back up. He hesitated on the edge of the roof, back already turned. “Goodbye,” he mumbled towards the horizon. Then he, too, was gone.
Dick shook his head. That goodbye seemed as much of a ‘thank you for not tattling about cutting your hand’ as anything, even if his pride had stopped him from apologising properly.
Like a little kitten unable to retract his claws.
Cute.
Dick froze at the thought.
No, not cute. The kid had maimed him, for Christ’s sake. Cute. Where had the thought even come from?
He turned the opposite way those nuisances had disappeared to.
Even if he wanted nothing more than to go home, his conscience demanded he check if the second victim little hellspawn had left was still bleeding out in that alleyway.
Choosing a city this close to Gotham had been a mistake. He must be flying too close to the sun: a former villain, murderer, and mercenary trying to build a life right under the nose of the greatest detective on earth.
He should be making plans to leave. To make a new identity. To run far, far away before his past could come to light.
But all he could think about was Spoiler’s outstretched hand.
And he knew it wasn’t meant for him, but.
He wished he could’ve taken the comm.