Becoming Astray - Chapter 4 - Vverse (2024)

Chapter Text

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⣀⡀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⡔⡟⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢀⡠⢚⣉⣠⡽⠂⠀⠀⠀⠀⡰⢋⡼⠃⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⣀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⣀⢴⡆⠀⠀
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢀⡤⠐⢊⣥⠶⠛⠁⢀⠄⡆⣠⠤⣤⠞⢠⠿⢥⡤⠀⠀⠠⢤⠀⠀⠀⠤⠤⠤⡄⢠⠤⠄⠤⠀⠀⠀⠒⣆⡜⣿⣄⠀⡤⢤⠖⣠⣀⠤⢒⣭⠶⠛⠃⠀⠀
⢀⣀⡠⢴⣎⣥⣴⣾⣟⡓⠒⠒⠒⠺⣄⡋⢀⡾⢃⣴⢖⣢⣞⢁⣋⣉⣹⠏⠚⠛⢛⣉⣤⡴⢞⠃⣰⠾⠟⣛⣩⢵⢶⡟⣰⠇⠘⡼⢡⡟⣀⡋⢵⡞⠋⠁⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
⠈⠢⠄⠤⠤⠤⠤⠤⠴⠤⠴⠶⠶⢾⠟⣱⡿⢤⢿⣕⠾⣿⣿⣩⡭⢤⠞⣰⠶⢤⣀⡉⠓⢾⡍⣠⠴⠾⠛⠹⠡⣟⡁⢰⢏⣼⡇⢰⣿⢀⠟⠳⣤⣌⣦⡀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⡠⢃⡼⠋⠛⠾⠚⠁⠀⠈⠉⠀⠀⠸⣄⠏⠀⠀⠈⠙⠓⡟⣰⠏⠀⠀⠀⠘⠾⠛⠳⠞⠉⠁⠙⠋⠙⠚⠀⠀⠀⠙⠛⢿⣷⣤⣀⠀⠀
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢀⣜⡵⠟⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⣼⣿⣾⣿⣽⣽⣿⣿⢏⢫⣻⡹⡽⣰⢏⣯⠍⡭⡍⣭⢩⡭⢩⡍⡏⡏⣯⡍⣍⠙⡭⢹⣄⣤⠄⢠⠉⠓⢿⣕⡄
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠠⣯⠃⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⣸⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣽⣾⣾⣟⣯⣣⣱⣾⣟⣞⣸⣇⣳⣃⣿⣛⣷⣬⠧⠳⠇⠿⢧⢿⢀⣷⢸⠧⢾⢃⠇⠀⠀⠀⠀⠁

Been helping you all goddamn month.

What did you do?

You don’t remember?

I can’t remember.

What do you remember…

Last gig was… Koch.

Then, nothing.

V noticed piles of paramilitary combat bodies. He did what he had to. Twenty or so all in the same dark garb she’s wearing. They leave in case more come back. They’ll double in number with the mess he made. They watch and wait. A figure clad in a red mask emerges from the shadows. They’ve been compromised. A black-clad figure with a cape suddenly grapples onto the scene. Johnny moves to get as far away from Crime Alley as their legs can carry them.

Dick Grayson is having a Bad Day, and it just keeps getting worse .

The first of the month is supposed to be reserved for new beginnings, but the past just keeps biting back. Today’s the second anniversary of Bruce’s death, and more than part of him wishes he stayed that way. It's Wednesday, their first family dinner night. If he can keep himself along with everyone else together that long.

For an aspiring police officer, it’s almost embarrassing it’s taken him this long to realise his reality. He blinks at the urgent coordinates. While Bruce is eager to put on the cowl, he’s not ready to face Jason alive as Red Hood, let alone facing him as Batman. He slaps on his cowl angrily and hightails it out of the cave.

To think half a year ago he thought he could go back to living in Blüdhaven in peace. When Bruce turned up alive, he’d been trying to get Babs, Cass and Duke to move with him permanently this time. The engine roars to life. He’s never been so disappointed to be wrong. The last time Bruce and Jason were in a room together… He still sees the cutting motion at night, Joker's twisted smile at the chaos, and Bruce in the middle of it all.

Bruce’s horrific reaction to Red Hood’s presence in Gotham was more than enough motive to resume mentorship over Damian and Tim. He didn’t need more mentees in the mix but he’ll never turn them down. Just like Jason, he’ll never miss a call, never again .

Tearing through the city, across adjoining bridges, Dick curses quietly, knowing Bludhaven will have to wait a few more months.

“Blüdhaven’s not going anywhere,” a soft voice echoes in his ear. Oracle .

Dick scoffs as Gotham’s lights twinkle into view. He knows what Oracle, his lifelong partner, is actually thinking. It’s been six months since Jason Todd, former ward of Bruce Wayne and Dick’s would-be-brother emerged in Gotham as the crime lord Red Hood,and nothing’s been the same since. The thick kevlar surrounding him is a testament to that.

The miles count down towards his location deep within Red Hood’s newly carved territory. Things are changing, and people have noticed. Batman’s appearances are scarce, and when he shows, they never know which to expect.

He hates sharing the mantle, but knowing Bruce hates it more makes it worth it. His own emblem hasn’t seen nightlife since he took on Bruce’s responsibilities, as well as Batman’s. Oracle's voice crackles through the multimillion-dollar sound system and he swears tonight is the last night he puts on the cowl.

“I’ve notified Red Hood of your arrival. Things might be messy when you get there. Bruce isn’t making things easy.”

Crossing the bridge into North Gotham, his tone sours. “When does he ever?”

The humour flattens, “ Batman found Red Hood surrounded by bodies. Allegedly. I’m not gonna lie, it’s pretty damning…” With such a tentative truce, even a stray round would set Bruce off. But this? Dick slams the accelerator, pushing its limits. “Hood claims the non-intervention clause… Regardless of his involvement, he claims he didn't kill anyone, just a few kneecaps.”

Dick smirks despite himself, not many people are willing to challenge Batman, let alone newly returned billionaire-playboy-philanthropist Bruce Wayne . “Of course he is.” Dick knows exactly how this looks: a perfect crime scene. The twist in his gut tells him too perfect .

He can’t slam a panic button and call entrapment, not when he doesn’t trust either of the two parties. They have a treaty . And if they don’t, all of Gotham pays the price. Babs, the woman behind the modulator, prattles on as he enters the Southeastern quarter border. He continues on foot, grappling through the frigid night.

Keeping the momentum of his swing, Dick can’t help but be proud of the fragile communication they’ve established since the truce. “And Batman ?” Dick probes into the silence. “Oracle… What's Batman saying?”

He hears a sigh, “He's claiming he let Red Hood stay on ‘his’ territory as long as he didn't kill-”

“Bruce can shove his words where the sun doesn't shine,” he growls uncharacteristically. Dick hopes Batman’s gritty mood isn’t contagious. The only productive thing Bruce’s done is give Dick a few nights off a week and sign the freaking treaty. And apparently, he can’t even follow it right. “I'm almost there, hang on.” He cuts her off as the theatre comes into view, it’s no short swing. “Do you think he did it?”

“He actually wasn't there when it was instigated...”

He almost falters, but he’s not surprised as he nods. “I wish I could just believe either of them. What’s the evidence, cameras?” The first of the month, what a cursed night. He hates being a mediator.

Frustrated noises echo into his earpiece. “It looks like that. I know you hate this Dick but you’re the only one they’ll listen to.”

Across the horizon, Dick briefly eyes the Island of Blüdhaven before he dips below the skyline. Dropping down, he reigns his anger back refusing to be blinded by the same rage as Bruce. Voice steady, he calls in. “I'm arriving now, Oracle. You’re live on speaker.”

There are two black figures on a nearby lower rooftop, one pacing. Dick sucks in a breath, here goes nothing , before rolling into the argument. He stands with authorit, dressed in all darks with the commanding authority of Batman that Bruce has yet to take back. His father might tower over him but Dick’s earnt this city’s respect.

"What the hell kind of non-interference is this ! I use your comm channel, I cut back on the killing-" Dick flinches, neither party yet aware. Clad in high-density body armour and leather, Red Hood shoots a barrage of verbal attacks. He’s lashing out defensively. "Exchange information and this is the respect I get?" Red Hood lingers towards the building's ledge, one gun drawn and flighty. “Can't just punch me without any proof-”

Dick watches as Bruce paces. “Several dozen bodies in that theatre are proof enough of-”

Well, if it isn’t the welcome party of a lifetime , Dick thinks.

“Don’t need to justify myself to you. Hypocritical barstar-”

His jaw is tight as he assesses the scene. “Not thinking rationally…” Well, neither are you, Bruce.

Cornered and pacing like caged animals, a scuffle marks the ground, remnants of soot and grime surround them. “Wasn't me and you know it…” Red Hood calls out, body primed for a fight but refusing to move. “My ammunition proves it. There’s more of them than I have on me.” His venom gives Dick chills, despite the modulator, the drug lord sounds more like Bruce than he could ever dream to.

Dick’s had enough. He releases a frosted breath and steps from the shadows. “We both know you don't need ammunition to do that.” His presence stills them into a distilled shock. “B-”

“Stay out of this Nightwing .”

Dick ignores him, keeping his posture trained on Red Hood. He can deal with Bruce later. They’re both Batman, but at least one of them needs to act like it. Surprisingly, neither look a breath from death, just stiff with rage and blood-slicked shoes. He’s arrived in time. He can see Bruce's clenched fists, a mannerism once uncharacteristic, now the norm. Jason too, no Red Hood, holds a death grip on his pistol.

Oracle’s voice breaks the silence that falls. “I received a tip about a disturbance in the area. Red Hood responded to the callout.” Red Hood’s helmet bobs along, confirming the information.

Considering the gravity of the situation, he supposes the conflict is inevitable. Their treaty is too fragile to be rocked by allegations this early. They’ll get through this. As long as Red Hood isn’t framed Dick will call it a win. Staring down a veteran vigilante and a crime lord, Dick is hyper-aware that this truce is the only authority he has over them, and the only reason they’re on barely speaking terms. He hates being serious, he hates being Batman , but it’s the only way to get through to his family sometimes.

“I’ll bring in Gordon and do an initial forensics sweep tonight.” Two sets of tense shoulders begin to crumble with resolve. “But, I believe him.” It’s the truth, even if Bruce won’t hear it. “I believe Red Hood. I trust him.” Dick’s glad none of them are Metas, superpowered, because it’s a brave lie, and Babs knows it too. He straightens his posture, an unfortunate tell to mask his anxiety. His family needs him. He’s Batman, they will listen.

“This truce doesn’t work without trust .” Dick tries not to think of the scar along Jason's neck, or Tim in the Manor still wrapped in casts’. “We can’t jump to conclusions like this .” It’s not what a team does, it’s not what a family does. “We’re allies, act like it.” He speaks with finality, a scowl taking over as he approaches Red Hood with open palms. This is about rules . He has to reestablish trust as a vigilante, before being a brother.

“Listen to me, this doesn't prove anything .”

Dick spins, finger pointing and Batarang hot to touch. “No, you damn well listen to me, Batman . I will not have you break this family apart again . I was Batman for two years before you came back!” He tampers his voice, carrying over the rooftop’s still solitude. “This is not how things are done.” He shuts the man down, knowing the argument to come. “Not anymore . I don't care that you've been back for months, this doesn't excuse your behaviour.” Despite the mask’s white lenses, Dick knows the previous week’s argument still hangs thinly in the air.

He’s Innocent until proven guilty! You hear me? He is my brother , you can’t lock him away-

Tonight is ‘family dinner night’ and Bruce will not ruin this for them. His hands shake numbly. “I don't care if we have to get in a forensic team, but if he says he didn't kill those people, that should be enough for you.”

Dick takes a breath back, realising just how in Bruce’s face he’s gotten, squared up close enough to feel the heat of his anger. He finds no warmth or comfort as he turns away towards the carnage around them. He tries to tell himself that he’s making the right decision to trust the aloof drug lord. No, Jason wouldn’t do this, break their unsteady truce tonight of all nights… But, would Red Hood ?

He wants nothing more than to put the two assholes in a ‘time out’, enforce a restraining order or redraw their boundary lines. Dick sighs, it's supposed to be their first family dinner night. He was helping Alfred prepare, but any hope Jason might show is squashed as shouts reach his ears. This is Red Hood not his brother. He needs to remember that.

“He could have staged-” Dick narrows a look as Bruce throws another retort, better than another punch he supposes. Batman never hit Joker as hard as he hit Jason. It won’t happen on Dick’s watch. He can hear Oracle rerouting the others away from the brewing conflict. They never make this easy on him.

“This is my territory ,” Hood seeths in retribution. Part of Dick hopes Jason didn’t just sign to hold something over their heads. “ My patrol route, my responsibility. Which you crossed into without permission-”

Dick watches the two men riling each other up again with pointed fingers. It reminds him of his later days in Bruce's care. “How did it come to this, Babs?” He ushers the words like a prayer, knowing that her words soothe his old wounds like a balm. He remembers Bruce best when he was nineteen, before the shouting matches, before he was refreshingly replaced as his son by Jason.

“Maybe it's karma for the mullet,” she whispers back. That was before, back when Babs could walk and before his amnesia and was in charge of several ‘baby Batmans’. “But, it’ll be worth it, you’ll see.” Her soft voice holds the promise of a forever he’s not sure they’ll get.

He promised himself he wouldn’t become Bruce, so he does what his old man can’t. “ Enough .” The wind wraps around his cape, lamp light casting an imposing glow. The two raging forces still, and unlike when Bruce does it, it’s not from fear.

Hesitantly, Oracle speaks. “As I mentioned Batman, Red Hood wasn’t near Monarch Theatre when the first report came in.”

Dick accepts solemnly that at the very least, the very minimum, Red Hood didn't kill a lot of those people and gang activity has plummeted in mere weeks. This isn’t worth a feud over, at least not yet. “It’s likely this was caused by a larger gang war or insurrection going on.” He hurries the words. He won’t be interrupted anymore. “There are other factors, like the change in territory borders, but that’s still a working theory.” His steady tone offers a peaceful comfort.

Bruce averts his gaze towards the theatre, almost as if itching for action: to pace, to fight . Dick realises that there will never be enough evidence for him. In Bruce’s mind, Red Hood will always be a killer wearing his adopted son's face, a walking reminder of his greatest failure.

Red Hood’s tight posture screams at Bruce to kill himself, Jason or both. “You know damn well I didn't kill those people,” he seeths at him. His voice modulator does little to mimic tight control as venom seeps through. “This prickly little bitch shouldn’t be out here and you know it!”

Dick doesn’t allow himself to flinch, he won't, because then the pain’s real. Dick wants to tell him that he’ll always believe Jason, that he’ll be on his side and never let him down again- He’s walking away. He’s leaving him with Bruce. “Red Hood, wait!” Dick goes to grab his shoulder, and surprisingly Red Hood lets him. He’s met with a barrel to the head.

“No, f*ck him and f*ck you too. This is my turf. Don't believe I didn't kill these bastards? I'll give you a real bloodbath if you wanna see one so bad.”

Batman shifts, a rift in his demeanour. “Jason-”

Dick holds his breath wishing he trusted this man not to shoot him at one wrong word. Red Hood looks over his shoulder to shout. “ Don't start old man. He's a better Batman than you'll ever be. Hang up the suit and emotional clutch or I'll paint this city red.”

Dick feels his heart falter at the praise, it barely tames his shaking form. “Red.” He tries, unsure how much he can get away with. “Red, why don't you just let me handle this for now, Okay? Just take a breather, alright?” Red Hood doesn’t move so Dick doesn’t either. He can’t tell what he’s thinking with that hood of his. The scowling shadow moves closer. Dick snaps his head towards the movement knowing that Jason’s caught onto his placating tactics.

A hand silences them as he blocks their view, gun be damned. He channels a detached disposition as if he isn’t playing mediator between his once father and brother. “ Batman ,” Dick tries dryly. He can’t be seen as taking sides. “You cannot prove he instigated or was here when things happened.” Bruce tries to interject but Dick’s tired of his father's childishness.

“The fact this dispute is coming up tonight , I’m disappointed in both of you.” Dick knows the words don't mean much, having little interaction with both parties. Still, they carry a weight to put both to shame.

“Your trust is misplaced in a murderer, Nightwing .” It’s unspoken, but Dick knows he’s crossed another one of Bruce’s unmentionable moral ‘lines’. In Bruce’s eyes, one death makes you a killer. It’s a tightrope act in Bruce’s personal vigilante circus.

“I will investigate the scene with the Commissioner, with Red Hood’s approval.” The man in question nods. Batman stares gobsmacked and slack. “Batman. Return to base immediately .” It’s a dismissal Dick doesn’t dwell on, there’s only so far Bruce’ll let his acting authority push. Alfred will take care of the rest when the man’s sulking in his confines.

They stare in a tri-folded standoff before Bruce huffs, staunching cape billowing away and leaving him alone with Red Hood. He hears Red Hood’s finger twitch against a holster finally still into silence. They’re both livewires just waiting to be crossed. Dick doesn’t want to think about what Red Hood could have become if he hadn’t tracked him down for a truce, or if he took up the Titan's offer. He just can’t .

Dick’s never been the best at reading Bruce, but he’s better than most. Dick stands there, watching ‘Batman’ jump down and disappear, taking to the streets towards Wayne Manor. The shein of tightness along his jaw makes Dick question if this was a ruse to switch one inevitable confrontation for another. As an excuse, it’s the perfect out-of-dinner free card… Bruce doesn’t know ‘his’ kids well enough to like them or to know they’d be suspicious. But it’s time for that to change, at least one Batman should make it home for dinner tonight.

With the caped crusader out of sight, Dick turns to face air. Red Hood’s gone. He bites his lip and checks in. Oracle needs to forewarn the others. He fires his grapple and jumps down.

“Spoiler will cover your patrol route.” Dick nods, knowing Oracle likely has a camera trained on him.

Down up, Red Hood stares back, encasing his neck towards the roof. Dick never got the chance to know Jason and can’t read the man like his ‘father’, but it’s obvious he wants to be alone.

“What, think I need a babysitter too?” He says defensively, weapon still in hand.

It shocks him back to the present and Dick takes a step back after landing. “Jason-” Dick wants to reach out but steps too close, the man practically growls. “Oracle and I will handle this…”

Brooding, Red Hood mirrors his movement. “No, don't contact me again, circus freak . I never should have let my guard down.”

At his tone, Dick pauses, pinching the bridge of his nose, the Commissioner would note it’s a behaviour foreign to Batman’s persona. He sets aside that he contacted Dick , and takes comfort in the fact that the truce is still intact for now. Bruce entering the Theatre District did violate their truce. Regardless of Red Hood's actions, they’re at fault here.

The man snorts, treading further away into the crime-infested street. “You know what? I need some air.” In an alley, he lingers awaiting a response from the brother turned stranger.

Dick wants to smile because they’re actually talking, and no one’s getting stabbed or thrown sharp objects at. Dick decides to press his luck one last time. “Are you coming to dinner?” Jason’s hand drops from his weapon. Dick gets it, he really does. Even if Bruce hadn’t been let loose, it’s still… “Too soon?” The Red Hood nods, trickling from his eyesight. He feels eyes on him as he makes a slow retreat to the Theatre.

The horizon remains drearily dark as the clouds overhead. He allows himself a moment of composure before Oracle’s line hisses with life.

Dick can already feel the cowl sticking with his hair with perspiration. Tonight’s going to be long and bitter. “Alright…” Dick salutes the nearest street camera in hopes Babs, Oracle on the coms, sees him. He wishes he had any enthusiasm for this task. “Let’s get this place cleaned up.”

🅣🅗🅔 🅓🅞🅜🅘🅝🅞 🅐🅕🅕🅔🅒🅣

In an ominous derelict city, a street rat dreams of more.

Murky depths parting, V wakes in her body of marginally sound sense and mind.

It’s a nostalgic offence when the rotting smell of garbage itches like an infected wound. Her skin is rough, soiled by nights spent unkept. Her body protests at every coiled movement, consciousness trickles in and the air, the air…

V finds no solace, no quiet silence as memories crawl through the crack she tries so hard to keep closed from the once blinding white. But now, darkness is her friend. The stench of her own rotting corpse, a flatlined soul, with not a Nomad for hundreds of miles. There’s no prodding presence in her mind, only the unending burn of vile skin and chrome.

Barely a human husk, V recognises the feeling of being buried alive. Her knees find plastic, iron and charred flesh. Frantically, she brushes the fumes away, revealing Johnny’s face instead of her own. Metal plating creaks as V pushes against her coffin. The mark of death, or its memory, descends.

As harsh metal collides with malleable steel, V thrashes, kicking even just to feel online again as the sounds ground her. Consumed by the beams, the landfill dims from a sea of death and dread to meagre decaying scraps.

Glowing sunlight teases a way out, shining down on her borrowed skin and stolen chrome. V throws herself against the caging darkness, heaving in oxygenated air from the cracks as if from a vessel going under. From dank soil, the tumour of a memory recedes. Rustic green groans towards concrete grout but strangely, no vendors, sellers or sound.

Sarcophagus open, V breathes in renewed life as retribution. The sky is a beautiful grey and it’s air suspiciously crisp. The narrow corridor is bordered by low-level buildings opening into… Silence. The alley offers sweet reprieve from her lingering undead memories. It’s unnatural . No neon hues line the horizon, just a deconstructed waste unit.

Shock hits her. It’s the first time in months she can recall being alone in herself… Slowly V searches her surroundings as misplaced an important item. Her weapons are missing but that’s not it… sh*t. ‘Johnny? Johnny!’ Damn, where's the annoying bastard when she needs him? V turns in place, adrenaline pumping towards the dumpster.

How many times she gotta wake up in trash to not f*cking freak out about it, clearly not enough... f*ck, where’d the prick put her now? V’s memory swims with fading horrors of her resurrection. She realises the pixelated prick left her to wake up in some garbage disposal. ‘f*cking asshole!’ No wonder she feels so out of it.

Pacing, V assesses for damage. They slept somewhere other than the trash heap because everything hurts a little less: so she was hurt at some point… V shoves down memories of white ; of stumbling out of a building full of bodies and shakes off what literal sh*t she can.

If Johnny was present, he'd easily be able to overpower her. He said she’d have the wheel. Clearly he lied . V flexes her grapple arm before squinting in the midday sun. Limbs intact, and mind less scattered than usual, she runs up the alley wall with quick steps. Her body protests but time’s counting down until Johnny makes himself known and V intends to make every second count.

The day before the stench, there was white .

🅣🅗🅔 🅓🅞🅜🅘🅝🅞 🅐🅕🅕🅔🅒🅣

Dusted tech decades older than her, V felt the weight of sluggish dragging memories refusing to budge. A go-bag stands waiting, time’s running out. They’re drawing unwanted attention already.

Her most recent memory booted up, V takes in her surroundings as she gains lucidity. It wasn’t always like this for her, feelin’ like sh*t and tryna play catch up. But V makes do. Doesn’t have a choice realistically. She notes wooden pallets lining a back wall and sparingly spread hay coating the cool cement beneath her. Wooden boards, no visible windows… Or exits.

She groans getting up. If she hadn’t seen the Badlands firsthand, she wouldn't have believed the rural image before her, not even a cable in sight. “You’ve really outdone yourself this time,” V croaks. In her movement, a bottle of water topples over. V finishes it eagerly. “You still suck,” she calls out into the room.

A soft glow seeping from a panel is the only reassurance of daylight. Pain lingers, but it’s not prominent. Nothing broken, or immediate, except the desperate need for an outfit change. She’s well aware that her mental weakness makes her vulnerable. The absence of Johnny only adds to her unease as she tests the room’s durability.

Pressing on the wood, it’s weak. Poorly soundproofed at best. If Johnny hasn’t locked her in, why are they here? V can’t grasp the missing fragments of memory. The merciful sound of gunfire too close and too hollow. Rogue screaming. Looking down to see a silver hand. V grumbles, using the wall to steady herself as she pats down her strange black attire. There aren’t any pockets.

“sh*t Johnny. Weren't even able to grab my Agent?” She stills, unsure if the feeling in her chest is relief or trepidation. He hasn’t said a word to his summons. V slides against the wood.

One. Two. Five seconds,’ she counts waiting for a response. ‘ Twelve. Fourteen.’

‘Twenty.’

Her chest aches, and she breathes a sigh of relief. There’s a definite time gap, the longest she’s experienced between one awakening and the next.

‘Should be grateful. Sides, no need for an Agent here.’

She crosses her arms. ‘Doesn't look like the Badlands so I'd start coughing up an examination if I were you.’

Johnny materialises, crouched before her, shades twisting idly between his fingertips. “Don’t look so glum, kid. Be lucky you’re here at all.”

V shows him her award-winning Unimpressed Look, repressing the desire to flip him off so early after regaining her sanity. ‘Answers old man. Always need my Agent. Unless it’s my birthday and you got me, I mean us, upgrades ?’

He smirks, “You have a birthday ?”

V launches a fistful of hay his way half-heartedly with each question. “Where are we, why are we here? How. Long.” Johnny tenses his jaw but does squat else. “Johnny, how long? Gonna give me the Johnny Special Summary or the it-didn’t-happen I’m-ignoring-you combo?” He looks at her and V’s just glad he’s real. Well, an engram isn’t really real , but to be the only one to see him, and have him ignore her? The. Worst.

“Got a lot to say, not a lot of time to say it.” V nods along, not quite sure what to expect. “Been here awhile. Not goin’ anywhere too. Gonna give you the seat for a bit, work some sh*t out.” V raises a brow like that’s her decision to make. Well, things are complicated now. “Forget your Agent-” He stares her protest down before it starts. “Forget everything . Get your head straight and your feet steady, soldier-”

‘ Get the f*ck up, Samurai. We got a city to burn .’ V recounts with her unimpressed look paired with a handful of hay showering over the rocker-boy. V smirks, ‘ Heard the spiel, now what gives? No Agent? The hell you on about? Serious this time. Can’t leave me in the dark, engram or not. ’

He takes a step back at the term. There’s too much at stake. He doesn’t know who he can trust or how much V might remember if he speaks too soon. “Gonna be there with you. Just, get some food in you, keep your head down and for the sake of anything organic left in this world, don’t draw any iron. Got it?” Each word is jutted into her chest as he encroaches closer.

Goddamnit, he needs the words to sink in. He didn’t ask for this. f*ckin’ corpo rats screw everything up.

At V’s slowly pissed-off nod, he takes a step back. “Good. Don’t f*ck this up, V.”

Her balled fist goes slack as Johnny disappears, blinked out of existence. Even mentally, she can’t distinguish him from herself. Hay falls to her side as she thinks his words over. No Agent? No problem, she can handle that. Something tells her she wouldn’t have anyone left to call if Johnny’s behaving so high and mighty anyways. He’s letting her have control, great! But that’s not his usual MO. He’s plotting something, something big enough he’s hiding his mind over it.

Examining the wooden abode, there’s no evidence they’ve been here a while. V rherses his words. Not draw attention? No weapons? The hell he thinks she is? She’s wanted by the NCPD, every other corpo ‘n’ gang alike! Fat chance that’ll work.

She jumps up, about ready to make her own door before her stomach tightens uncomfortably. What is this, hunger ? V looks around aggressively for Johnny. If she wants to feel like sh*t she can go a week or two without food before finding herself in the Columbarium. It’s less time than organics get.

Lazy prick ‘too busy’ to feed them, some choom! V has been out a week at least. V might need less sleep to survive, but her Bioware needs a lot more fuel than that. The frustration builds and V kicks a hay pile before hearing a thud. Dusting the straw aside, V picks up a black bag. V pleads for any form of consumables inside.

V tries to contact Johnny to see if he's present but he’s obviously ‘tuned out’. No phone, no weapons but her hands, not even her own clothes. V feels sick at the loose layers, missing her leather and Kevlar with violent intent. No protection, no weapon and no backup… Surrounded by ancient wooden boards, V’s never felt so exposed, like a raw wire to the elements.

V realises… That motherf*cker never told her how long she’s been repressed under his slimy skin. Missing potentially weeks or more of her life, urgency sinks in. It’s time to figure out where the hell they are. Bag secure, V takes an assessing look at the wall of wooden boards. ‘Well, see you on the other side.’ She lifts her leg to bring it down-

f*ckin’ serious?

White envelopes her vision.

🅣🅗🅔 🅓🅞🅜🅘🅝🅞 🅐🅕🅕🅔🅒🅣

With half his face covered, it feels easier to pout.

“Let’s get this place cleaned up .” Oracle’s laugh is the closest thing to music across the com, it numbs over the sober scene. “No, that’s exactly how you said it! ‘Oh, this’ll be fun.’” The modulator distorts her imitation of his ‘Batman’ voice and Dick can’t help but smile, a rarity within the suit.

She clears her throat, “So, what exactly are we looking at here?” The words echo flux enthusiasm, Dick won’t be the only one missing out on Alfred’s well-orchestrated dinner tonight. “Come on Dick, don’t make me call you Batman . The sooner we get this over with, the sooner we go home .”

Dick doesn’t chastise her for the name drop, he’s too uncomfortable with the title, especially knowing Bruce’s urge to rip it back. He hovers in the Theatre doorway, surprised either of his family members managed their way in. The structure expands as he ventures further, opening like a tomb to a sea of bodies. He recounts a first person view of everything he takes in.

“At least forty down,” he whispers, hating how much the cowl has changed him, intentionally and otherwise. He steps around, feeling no unease at the all-too-familiar scene of violence.

Quiet is a bittersweet garnish to the litany of corpses he spies walking down an aisle. He’s only twenty-three, how is he the only one holding it together… How is this his life? Dick sets everything aside, trying to picture what Commissioner Gordon might say or what an officer might do. Compartmentalise, assess, move on.

He doesn’t want Steph, Duke, Tim… Anyone near this who doesn’t need to be. He pulls a small torch from his utility belt and crouches in a pool of blood. Some areas hold more crimson than floor. Dark black robes, covered features… Dick reels back in shock before darting around the room.

He can hear Oracle calling for his attention but Dick’s already moved on to assess bodies further down. They all hold the typical characteristics, but Dick can’t find any markings or insignias to be sure, only shuriken and katana… It’s hard to believe this is the League of Assassins, defeated .

“At least two separate organisations,” he murmurs. Bullet casings and blood splatter suggest a mix of close combat and ranged attacks. More than one combat style, likely more than one opponent, especially with these numbers. “Whatever group dared to challenge the League,” Dicks words slide off in shock. “Babs… They won .” This isn’t just a bloodbath, it’s a massacre .

Her words offer little consolidation as they guide him towards clues, away from the gory details. “See if it’s a known player. If it was any government body or one of the big two companies, they might have tried to scrub themselves from the scene-”

Dick nods, hearing her type away as he removes his hand from another unmoving pulse. This isn’t a Rogue’s work, or any known gang. High above them, he spots an outdated thing from the eighties and by far a long shot. “Check for footage.” Dick assesses the dilapidated building, two stories of grand amphitheatre seating. The crown of the Theatre District reduced to abandonment. One lens is all that remains of its security.

Oracle chirps, reading his mind. “They've either all been disabled, turned off, or just static. The place shouldn’t be connected to the grid so it’s not exactly a surprise. The area’s a total blackout.”

Dick realises that whoever did this, it’s exactly what they wanted. However, the League of Assassins aren’t the type to let death slide. Damian might even know some of these men… Dick needs to focus on the mission, he can’t let this get personal. “Can’t we just… Believe the Red Hood?”

“You know as well as I do with how new this ‘truce’ is that’s not an option here, Batman .” Dick continues, keeping a running tally of the dead, checking for any signs of life for ‘Batman’ to interrogate. He searches the bodies for useful information but finds nothing. Aside from the occasional busted kneecap and bootprint, there’s no evidence Red Hood was even here at all.

As he moves further into the dim cavern towards the stage, he begins to see them: Automatic weapons. Blood coating the ground grows and snapped skin isn’t as cold to touch. Still donning black, Dick feels bulletproof armour. “I found our second party,” Dick announces morosely at the bloodied stage.

The League likes to slash and slice, he has enough scars from Damian’s early years to know. Those before him share crushed windpipes and punctured lungs. Not Red Hood’s style either. There are fewer League members than ‘unknown agents’ but the fight appears disproportionally balanced considering the skill of The League. Dick’s cape trails a floor of red as he surveills the room. “Bringing katanas to a gunfight? Damian would be disappointed…”

Barbara hums and Dick decides he’s heard her tired enough for tonight. It’s sinking into early hours and they both need rest. “It looks like no survivors then… That, or they didn’t stick around.” Dick pulls out a few vials to soothe his Batman-level superstitions. “If they were after something… It’s hard to know.” He makes sure to get various prints from both parties. Means, motive and opportunity are potentially apparent, although not abundantly clear with so many missing pieces.

“Infighting again? When does it stop?” As Dick bags evidence, he wonders if Babs is still talking about the case. With numbers like these, it must’ve been something big, probably pre-arranged. He’s not getting Damian involved yet, that’s for sure. He’ll keep his pseudo-sibling-kids as far from the League of Assassins as possible.

Even when Damian was involved with the group, the League didn’t stray far from Chinatown. They generally respected either Bruce or Damian enough not to bother them without purpose. Dick finds Jason’s boots leading a trickling trail of blood from the building. It appears only Red Hood left evidence of his escape.

“Should I contact Spoiler?” Oracle asks cautiously, ready but hesitant to call in vigilante reinforcements.

Dick checks the time, he’s beyond late. “No. If she finished patrolling where we were... These guys will stay here till morning. It can wait. Let her get some rest and leftovers. I think the treaty’s seen enough action for tonight…” Dick pulls his hands from his creased nose, he needs to stop doing that. “Let Gordon know once I’m done and notify Red Hood when I reach the border… I’ll meet you back home.”

He can practically hear Bab’s giddy smile as he seals off the theatre as best as possible for Gordon come sunrise. He’s not Bruce, he knows when to stop. This can wait until morning, he has a family feud to deal with and a life outside the cowl.

🅣🅗🅔 🅓🅞🅜🅘🅝🅞 🅐🅕🅕🅔🅒🅣

The overhead sun sears through pearly thin clouds as stray rubbish picks up from between decrepit industrial buildings. Despite the air feeling cleaner and the streets brighter from above, a rotting musk wafts through the ghost town as V leaps across rooftops.

Johnny took their body to a warehouse and dumped some supplies. Relocating it is her best lead. It’s got to be someplace close by. She needs to mark it down. Disoriented and utterly alone, V turns from the charred city towards a brief glimpse of blue.

Behind her eyes, closed from this apparent abandoned settlement, Night City’s Centre is a gleaming monolith, a bastion of privilege contrasting the grimy, neon-soaked streets of her home. Eyes adjusting to the unrelenting glare before her, menacing spikes arch, pointing away as if to remove themselves from the city scum.

Vibrant glass reflects jewels across the bleak stone-faced city, blending with its rotting eternal gloom like a decaying corpse. Every crevice is cracked, and every free-standing structure, a gale away from collapse. V’s far from her corp-coded steel dominion. The gritty reality before her bares more of a resemblance to the dumpster she crawled out from than a city. No projections, no light, and certainly no life .

The city is a dying thing, as alive as herself. Surveying the unique lack of billboards, skyscrapers and technicolour ambience, V wonders where the noise went. The abandoned streets are fraught with restless energy, as if aware of danger lurking between the narrow, winding shadows. It’s a place of decaying beauty, value lessened further by those below her. But, from afar, V can’t hear a whisper.

She watches masked men in the shadows with sickly tension as they twitch opportunistically at each sparse person walking past. The silhouetted buildings stand like sentinels watching with her. She lingers under daylight, considering if she should give them pointers. V crouches, anticipating a quickhack to hijack someone’s neuralware, a drone to signal overhead or someone to beat them to their mark. Anything .

Leaving the scuff behind, she sleuths along angled rooftops. There’s fewer assailants in alleyways, less crowding, and some bold gonks walking with determined confidence, eyes darting between one another but never quite meeting. Each choom looks like the other. No cyberware, Posers, corpso or paramilitary freaks. Where the hell is she?

Night City holds a recognisable landscape, each feature distinguishable and… Currently missing from her view. She’ll need a better view than whatever this is to track down that warehouse. She hasn’t seen a terminal all day either. Her loose dark robes make her stand out. For now, V keeps to the dark, at least she’s dressed for it. Narrow back routes drive grating trills to her attention. V steps out, greeting cargo containers not unlike the one which held Johnny’s car. V ignores the pain, it’s probably Johnny’s anyway. If he was gonna come out, would've done it already.

On the outskirts of her vision, rising from the darkness of the horizon behind her, derelict streets call her name. V keeps her back turned from the thrill of adventure. She’s looking for a straw house or an industrial building housing straw. Johnny had a plan, dammit. And whatever’s in that bag, likely food and clothes at least, won’t go to waste. Johnny may have lied, again , but he demands chaos more than she does. If he says to lay low… He better have a damn good reason.

Without optics, V strains to see where the line of rail ends, likely sometime before the distant water starts. Low-level buildings protrude her view. She needs to get to a higher vantage point. At first, V considers the rail an abandoned NCART track. But there’s so much of it closer up and it resembles nothing like the maglev rail system.

The sun dips between passing carriages and V considers hitching a ride before spying on the perfect building for her purpose. Two tall columns that frame the facility, smoke climbs higher than surrounding structures can see. A third taller column peaks from the back - it's perfect. Maybe they're not as far from Night City as she thought. Barbed wire fences, large steel and concrete architecture, topped with a flickering fluorescent sign.

[XO Chemicals]

🅣🅗🅔 🅓🅞🅜🅘🅝🅞 🅐🅕🅕🅔🅒🅣

Approaching the factory, V notes towering structures and the distant hum of machinery. She approaches it with caution. The Ace Chemicals sign itself is crossed out with big bright purple letters that recur throughout the industrial complex.

Below the corrosive crosswalk, green fluid bubbles over. Its heat brings a lively atmosphere to the hollow plant. With sluggish movements, V makes no effort to silence her dragging footsteps. The sun has set, and the warmth of the neon vats below calls to her. They could be chemical, or toxic, but V’s had some pretty shady street meat in NC. She’d take the chance. The industrial warmth and technicolour flickers make her homesick for Heywood’s vibrant decay.

It’s been too long since she slept instead of just kissing unconsciousness, but properly shut down. She hasn’t felt safe enough for that, or warm enough for that matter. Now to top it off, she’s running low on whatever food’s left in her system.

It’s ridiculous. One would think if you’re paying the electrical to cook green soup, you might as well have some real food lying around too! More graffiti coats the walls as she climbs higher. Passing another strange eye graphic, V can't believe what she’s receiving, rather, not receiving.

V bounds the stairs of the plant in dismay, refusing to accept this reality. She stops at the next functional platform. This can’t be possible. She tries again but receives the same sensation. No net connection? Even in the Badlands... This just isn't possible. She needs to find a terminal, stat.

She's usually one for stealth, but she woke in a goddamn dumpster this morning and hasn’t seen an interface plug port since before her latest hitchhiking episode with jackass Johnny. V growls, arm primed for a beating as the trek to the top suddenly seems impossible. But to figure out where the f*ck she is, the only way is up. V shoves the safety rail collecting herself. The metal snaps from its screw base.

It scrapes along the concrete below, tearing down more pipe and pavement with it. The sounds carry as V moves on. She passes murals of orange bugs looking burnt under stuttering halogen crossed out in the same purple XO ink. Towards the top, rusting metal protrudes, as if to slow her pursuit. The air is thick with the acrid tang of chemicals even from above. V bangs her head as she reaches the highest maintenance overhang.

With a nervous breath, she pulls herself down the ledge before shooting a grapple towards the steel exhaust valve overlooking the site. It barely lands and V pulls on the wire to reach it faster. Grapple giving way, she clings, making the mailable metal sway. She tries to connect to the Net again. Nothing.

V hasn’t seen a proper terminal to jack her Interface Plugs into and thing’s aren’t looking good. They tap into her major nerve trunks and interface with the neural processor to send and receive signals. Finding out what sh*t she’s into might be the only thing holding her hope together, to return home. Her stomach growls in protest.

From her vantage point, V scans the horizon, picking the point where the metal lines end and the sea begins. The skyline is a jagged silhouette against the night. No skyscrapers, and certainly no blinding neon. V looks to the stars, there’s no sign of the Crystal Palace hotel, no overhead AVs… She frowns: nothing but the moon, some stars, and a figure of yellow light in the clouds. V doesn’t know what to believe anymore. Not net, no nothin’.

Frustrated, V hangs by her knees upside down. As tired as she is and as safe as she feels, she can’t rest now. She needs to find that stupid warehouse, that straw place where Johnny sent her, the bastard . Find the warehouse, find the bag, and do what she does best – survive.

It’s supposed to be simple. But with new perspective, this place is bigger than Night City. Once she pushed past the constant high-rise development, knowing where to look, she could always see the Badlands or Del Coronado Bay. The sliver of blue? Not even Morro Bay . Maybe the pollution holds some resemblance, but not enough to fool even her organic eyes.

Chilly winds whip around her. V curses her ‘robes’, tucking her hair away. A fleck of gold catches her eye. Her eyes widen as she reels back, hitting the barely stable structure. It’s hard to distinguish between the districts in low light, but the flames rip through buildings like a pyromaniac demonstration.

V gasps, tracking her landmarks back. If the train yards are there… She found the warehouse. V turns to the licking flames. There, that’s where the warehouse is. She watches her answers burn .

🅣🅗🅔 🅓🅞🅜🅘🅝🅞 🅐🅕🅕🅔🅒🅣

Rings of laughter play on repeat. There’s no domino on his face this time, only sweat and tears.

So much happened while Bruce was away that Dick almost finds it as a reasonable excuse for his behaviour, almost. It's been over a year and it's a thin lie to believe, even for him. The wind tries to pull him back, grappling on a windy night, and even now in the dark. He can’t fight his growing resentment; he embraces it with each hit.

He feels a little lighter with each fluid movement. The world is suddenly clear, it’s not black and white like Bruce says, but full of vibrant colour. It’s funny how blue is his favourite colour but all he ever sees is red. It’s hilarious, just like how hard it is to uncurl fingers that spend more time in motion than not. Dick likes to laugh, but he doesn’t like being the joke. His muscles strain. Joker's punchlines are always a cautionary tale and Red Hood’s emergence only feeds his delusions.

At 0300, surrounded by reinforced concrete and soundproof walls, Dick isn’t the one laughing, but he hears it all the same. He replays a scene from only last month. A long red line crosses Red Hood’s exposed throat, a haggard gash from a Battarang Bruce threw, saving Joker's life, but almost costing Jason his.

Dick wasn’t laughing then, and he’s certainly not laughing now. He pictures the four of them in that tense room, Bruce looking alarmingly composed. He replays the scene each night when he sleeps, never able to… When he opens his eyes, Joker stares back.

The real punchline? When Gordon turned up at Monarch Theatre hours ago, the crime scene was picked clean. Family dinner night and he was on the phone to the Commissioner, Bab’s father. When they arrived at the scene hours ago, they arrived to nothing but the smell of Clorox and peroxide.

Gordon was grateful when he shared what they had. But, several dozen bodies were removed in the middle of the night, and any answers along with them with no one the wiser.

If only Dick had stayed. His fingers clench and sweat drips from his hair. He can’t do this all night but he knows, every time he closes his eyes, he’ll be there. At least down here, he can fight back.

Dick’s been swinging for almost an hour now, and Joker just won't give up. He feels his tendon flare and healing ribs itch as he brings his arm back down again, and again, and again . When his fingers begin to shake; when he can’t guard his face any longer; when the hooks just won’t do it anymore… Everything gets too much, and he has to start over again.

Bruce, not Batman, wasn’t willing to hear that Red Hood’s story aligned with his alibi, his munitions, and local CCTV. He forbade Dick from going out in the cowl again, not like Dick ever wanted that ‘honour’. Stripped again of his identity of two years, just like when Bruce turned his tribute to his fallen parents into a turnstile mantle. Bruce is too blinded by his legacy to see the repercussions and his own darn control issues. Ouch .

Aches, everything that isn’t tender, aches. He missed family dinner, the evidence was destroyed, someone completely cleaned the scene and Tim wants to drop out.

Joker is easy to hate because it hides the truth. He paralysed Barbara, she’s in a wheelchair because of him . Dick screams, watching the impact dip from his elbow. Jason… His death is on Joker too. Dick jerks his knee. It’s not hard enough, he’s never enough. Joker ruined Harley's life, he’s killed... too many. It’s easy to hate . He makes it so easy . He missed family dinner but Dick doesn’t have Joker to blame for that.

If it weren’t for Jason’s reluctant truce, and Bruce’s dysregulation, Dick would be in Blüdhaven right now. Dick pulls his next motion. He wanted to be a cop, but here he is busting his knuckles in a basem*nt. Dick takes a step back, ignorant of the blood trail.

Dick shouldn’t have to give up being Batman, or Nightwing, or Robin for that matter. Maybe it’s time for something different. He raises his fists instinctively in thought, blood dripping, slicking its surface.

Dick missed family dinner, and still, Tim can't get his casts off yet. Joker’s paste-pale face rocks back and forward. He knows this isn’t healthy but still can’t bring himself to stop. How can he let Duke out to become a hero in a world where Red Hood’s fragile truce is one stray Batarang away from shattering? Dick shuffles, swaying slightly. He’s getting sloppy, but he won’t stop.

The Blue of the Nightwing suit is a distant memory. It always stood out but he only sees red . It’s the colour of Joker's smile when he dies, coloured by his blood. Red is the colour of revolution and mutiny. It’s the colour of anger, of revenge . A clean slate.

Nightwing is a murderer . The swing misses. Nightwing killed The Joker and Bruce, Batman, Bruce brought him back. Sweat pours from his skin, trickling into a mirage. The evidence is gone because he didn’t stay. Tim missed school because Dick wasn't around enough. Damian rotates through Academies because Dick can’t teach him kindness. Jason died because he wasn’t there, Babs is paralysed because he got her involved in this mess, and the truth is, Nightwing is a murderer.

With Blockbuster, he chose to do nothing. He knew Blockbuster would die. He could have done anything, something , but he watched. He actively stepped aside, enabled it. How can he call himself a hero?

His jaw locks and he swings adjusting for fatigue. He feels it in his shoulder before the contact. He doesn’t even feel bad for Joker. He’d do it again. It should scare him, but it doesn’t. A small part of him crumbles with the knowledge that he’s prepared to kill for this family. And in Bruce’s eyes, if he knew, he’d be cast out just like Jason.

He lies because Joker’s easy to hate. And Dick doesn’t know if he can un-mark his conscience enough to be Nightwing again, to let go of the cowl he loathes. Joker ignited a fury that burns hotter than the Bat-Signal against Gotham’s night sky. Since the moment he died, The Joker lit the match for this fire he feels inside. Not even an hour of beating his heart out seems to stop the burn. How many bad days is he away from being someone else?

Wrung out by the scene before him in the cold abandoned space, Dick tells himself his selfish lies. Joker goaded him, he wanted it. Not just that, he wanted Nightwing to be the one to do it , to ruin a pure-hearted hero's conscience in death. More than ever, Dick hates that phrase. He's human. And now, he's a killer too.

Joker hits the ground with a heavy slump, remaining uncharacteristically silent in the face of his killer. Just like Joker to always have to have the last laugh. He died with the last laugh with red-tinged lips. Maybe Joker’s not the real villain. Joker is easy to hate because it saves him from hating himself.

“Why couldn't you just stay dead!” Dick crosses the movement with each tear that falls. Bruce doesn't know he did the unthinkable – silencing the Joker’s laughter. It was he who dealt the final blow, and the first. He doesn't know the only thing he regrets is letting Bruce revive the psychotic clown.

Dick laughs, curling into his kneels and wheezing. Dick laughs because somehow miraculously, eight months ago, Bruce came back. His wrist is limp. His hair is wet and something smells. Dick missed family dinner and wishes Bruce never came back. Wiping his tears, Dick spits his disgust, aiming for one final blow.

“Leave the boxing bag alone, Hunk Wonder…” A halo of golden tangerine glow falls into his view, soft silky hands cradling his own. “I don’t think he’s getting back up.”

Dick lowers his other fist, taking in the gym’s disarray. The Joker, the boxing bag, is torn at the seam. At some point, he’d stopped punching a bag and started punching a person. Grief over his past actions threatens to consume him again. He presses his palms into his eyes. When was the last time he slept more than a few hours in a row?

Barbara, Babs as he calls his partner, whispers as she cards her hands through his hair. “Come back to bed.”

Sweat droplets shatter the floor. He knows what he needs to do, but he doesn’t know if he has the strength to do it. It’s only now that Joker's cackle simmers out, snuffed by Bab’s light. He’s panting. He can’t focus on her eyes. Was it always this dark?

Dick hit the nail on the coffin, but the joke's still on him. Red drips across the mats from worn blisters and improperly fit gear. He follows the trail back to assess the next day’s cleanup. But, when he turns back to the bag, all he can see is Joker's garish smile. Joker taunts him both in life and in death.

Joker died and still got the last laugh. Dick Grayson is a murderer, and Joker roams free. Dick goes to bed but he doesn’t sleep.

🅣🅗🅔 🅓🅞🅜🅘🅝🅞 🅐🅕🅕🅔🅒🅣

She’s aware of the metal crushing between her fingers, but she stays stone still.

She’s denting the metal like clay, but V can’t move, eyes stuck on the smoking skyline.

‘You had one job, kid.’

She yelps, the motion tearing at the material as it begins to unravel in spoiling layers.

Johnny holds out his hand.

V holds on to the folding aluminium rather than broaching the offending limb. For every movement she reaches above, the structure disintegrates twofold. “You sick f*ck! You just left me!”

Johnny barely touches the ground, hovering like a gargoyle crouching with unknown intent. He stares down at the kid’s raging vision and puts his hand away. Johnny leans towards the edge, perfectly balanced as V struggles with twenty-seven stories potentially, maybe more, below.

He looks up unimpressed. ‘ Thought you wanted that.’

“Cut the crap. You know what I mean!” She yelps again, “This what you want? Me. Gone. Again .”

That was your ticker. Out with the old, in with the new. Nothin’ personal, kid. Johnny doesn’t move, unphased by her pain. Saving you serious heartache. Said your goodbyes, just let go. Switched the contains. Enjoy a taste of your own goddamn medicine for once, V.

Johnny isn’t amused. It didn't take much. He pushes aside any residual guilt about what he’s done. He’s immaterial, he can’t actually help with this one. Instead, he knows how to push V’s buttons. He can get her to do anything he wants, including saving herself, and him by extension.

‘You do it if you’re so smart.’ He brushes himself off lazily, ignoring the peril on both sides. The width of the surface is half his shoe size at best. Still, he gets cosy enough to lay across the ruined maintenance catch. If he pretends gravity doesn’t exist, sometimes it just doesn’t .

She needs information. She needs to change. She needs food. All these things she needs, and none include Johnny right now.

‘Maybe I’ll see you in the next life, kid. Enjoy the fall.’ He reassesses the distance. ‘Forty stories might be more accurate actually…’

V grits her teeth and screams, launching her grapple as the metal sheet tears another ten feet. Scrambling for purchase, she clutches the solid surface for dear life.

Well, that was entertaining. He claps slowly. Bravo, encore.

‘Very Professional, V. Outstanding.’

Exhaustion clings like an unwanted virus. But the only real parasite here is Johnny. “If I could push you off, I would.”

He sighs, arm flung over his eyes in annoyance. He tries to remember if he can close his eyes, or if that’s a host-only privilege. ‘Didn’t even say anything,’ he says bored.

“Didn’t need to,” she grits her teeth, keeping her centre of gravity low to prevent a repeat.

‘Tell you what, stay out here long enough and we’ll both freeze. How’s that for you? Wanna go down as a Romeo-Juliet story with an old-timer like me? I sure don’t .’

V looks past the overwhelming sense of disgust and unease, seeing the warning for what it is. She takes a forlorn look at her smouldering hopes before making her way to the maintenance hatch. “Who’s Romeo Juliet?” She slips in waiting for Johnny to follow.

He pauses, blazed cigarette moments from his lips. “ What ?”

Somehow, despite the immense hunger, V finds the will to chase the asshole down as the begin the multi-story hike down. “You never said what happened, or how long I’ve been gone!” She trails after Johnny who takes pleasure in teleporting to the next landing, just as she reaches the last.

V already had to explain her grapple arm, an older model, only extends ten stories. Neither seems to be in a joking mode any longer.

Johnny's reply carries a hint of bitterness, rebounding down the unending staircase. "Now you know how it feels, V." Tension lays thick between them, but V’s too tired not to lose her grapple’s grip and too stubborn to give Johnny an inch.

They finally arrive at ground level and V’s about ready to collapse. She got sidetracked on the search and she’s running on fumes. When Johnny suggests the dumbest thing yet, V’s circuits are too fried to refuse.

‘Are you sure this is a good idea?’

Johnny manhandles her between two support beams. “No, but we’re doing it anyway.”

V hasn’t clued in that he acts as an extension of her cyberware’s sensors and capabilities. Two systems will drain the resource, their body. While he can’t see beyond V’s vision, he can sense small differences in light; heat; and sound beyond V’s own scope. More so now than ever.

‘For all I know, your last ‘good idea’ just blew up in smoke…’

Johnny brings his digital cigar down on V’s skin just to watch her yelp. It’s just her cyber arm, it won’t even crease the texture. He muses how much stronger he’s made V become, without even lifting a tangible finger from his own wasteside grave. He has her exactly where he wants her.

“More cyberware than you should ever have to have.” He gives her a pointed look as V curls between two chemical vats out of sight. “You die of frostbite; I will roll in my grave.”

He likes to think their souls bonded, both buried alive despite being miles and decades apart. If she lives, she might become stronger still. But that remains to be seen.

V wants to snark back, ‘You have a grave’ but knows that’s too far. She saw both before they… Left.

‘If these chemical vats get to me, they get to you too.’ V returns the dry stare. ‘Don’t tempt me,’ she warns.

If not for the quantity, then the quality, rarity and functionality of her cyberware, then the subtlety of her Bioware alone is more valuable than he thinks V realises. To equip so much is unheard of. But to be able to use that much power without losing your mind? It’s beyond lethal. MaxTac comes for people like her, if not the corps like Arasaka.

He’s started hedging bets with himself when she’ll notice the signs. He’s winning so far. Compared to The Relic’s complete system shutdown, Johnny gives himself enough time to cover his bases. And from what appears to be apparent trauma-induced codependency, Johnny doesn’t think he’ll have any problems.

Johnny crouches next to V’s sleeping form either as a silent vigil or as an oppressive guard. The world darkens as her retinas no longer take in the world around him. Johnny sighs, any Corp’s gotta go through him first. As long as they stay low, they won’t be found out. Their digital clocks are still counting. It’s up to V to distinguish between what’s what.

🅣🅗🅔 🅓🅞🅜🅘🅝🅞 🅐🅕🅕🅔🅒🅣

‘Get the f*ck up,’ he whispers unsure of who can hear him. With a smirk, Johnny hopes his next act is as quiet as he hopes. Lights flicker to life around him. No time, he raises his hand and swipes .

The air is heavy with a potent concoction affronting her senses. She goes to cough but can’t. Her Cataresist implant will take care of the chemicals she smells. Familiar with unconsciousness, V assesses if she needs to be awake now, or just conscious in general.

Strange, her back’s incredibly warm. Opening her eyes, Johnny’s got his goddamn silver prosthetic over her mouth. V tries to move but he tightens his grip. Awake! Awake now would be good. V seriously regrets not getting that Adrenaline Booster installed.

She takes everything in as fast as possible, feeling slow compared to Johnny who relays her statistics. She doesn’t even know what he’s counting; weapons? Bombs? She watches the shadows across the steel vats shrink and wonders if today will end with Johnny filling mass graves again, not that she can talk.

V freezes when she hears it, concerned he hastening sound of footsteps tdidn’t wake her first. Blinding white LEDs flood the room as they trickle in. Johnny didn’t escape: either he has a plan, or he simply can’t . V hopes it’s the former unless he plans on V fighting hand-to-hand against however many armed combatants are in the room.

‘So much for being abandoned .’

‘Relax, kid. Low-hanging fruit. They’re pawns, can take ‘em easy.’

V frowns, ‘Should I know what that is?’

He offers insight in hushed tones as they listen. ‘Somethin’ ‘bout a punch, lines? They’re cookin’ meth ‘n’ not happy ‘bout us bein’ here.’

They’re hungry and tired. V clearly doesn’t want to fight. Johnny senses it, looking at her as if she’s lost it completely. Suddenly, he pulls V back forcefully. Toxic chemicals spill over the vat she leant against. Simultaneously, V’s oversized boots scream across the linoleum floor. Johnny cringes at the sensory overload.

Her heart shudders as she catches herself, almost forgetting that Johnny can’t. He’s not real . She’s always been alone.

Johnny shoves her mushy feelings aside. “Not alone , just vampire syndrome. Now get your ass moving, now !” His words are forceful but tinged with fear as he looks over their shoulder.

The action kicks V into gear despite not understanding the metaphor. Stealth is already becoming a viable option. Fighting her way out will only draw more attention.

‘Sandevistan?’

‘Sandevistan.’

V dodges and waves between the vats, counting on spillage once they get too close. So far, they’ve yet to find her, but they know someone’s here. Adrenaline floods her system as the satisfying sound of safeties flicking off fills the air.

They won’t shoot here and risk ricocheting off the tanks. No, they’re prepared but… Confused. They were expecting something else. Good, they like unpredictability.

‘They’re the ones who should be afraid of us, V. Don’t let them forget it. sh*t, that’s not right. Keep out of sight-’

“Shut up old man ,” V mutters loudly only to hear the ‘pawns’ converging on their location. “sh*t.” With seconds to spare, V slips into the last remaining shadows and grapples to the walkway above. She rocks back before pushing off and nudging a vat of toxic acid stew towards those below.

‘C’mon V. Gotta go, gotta go!’

As soon as she lands, she knows she’s been caught. ‘Johnny, cover me if you can.’ V’s hair surrounds her face and the loose cloth provides anonymity. Weaponless and vulnerable, V counts fourteen making their way up the ramp with dark masks. It spans across several sections of the chemical plant.

V knows this way. Any further and she’ll be leaving her back exposed up forty flights of stairs if the engram isn’t lying. V considers dropping to the story below and snapping the walkway supports, again exposed to overhead attacks even if she drops to the story below.

‘There’s no time! Forget what stealth means? Go!’

V doesn’t understand the rush from the primate group behind her. They haven’t even begun shooting, yet, V’s learnt not to underestimate her marks after being underestimated herself so many times. Hidden from the doorway’s view as they approach a new section, V jumps up a pipe and onto the platform above.

V’s headed in the opposite direction before they’ve even entered the section. Gunshots ring out free from the vat’s unspoken threat. They reverberate off the metal walls too late. It’s exciting to move again, not worrying about consciously dying…

‘Snap out of it, V. V!’

Her thoughts catch up to her and V slows down. ‘...I’m still dying, aren’t I?

‘Don’t make me-’

“Don’t. Move.” There’s a barrel to her head. “Drop your weapons, now.”

V doubts he’ll believe the truth. His baritone voice speaks of regulatory bullsh*t that not even NCPD bother with anymore. ‘I’m pretty sure shoot-to-kill is on training day one, assuming they have one.’ Johnny doesn’t answer but his silence is enough.

V didn’t he just shoot her, she’s practically asking for it. V eyes the gun to her temple. ‘Worried I’ll kill us both?’

What’s the use, she’ll be a kid ‘till she dies anyway.

‘Don’t , V. You don’t know what’s at stake here-’

“Because you don’t tell me sh*t .”

The man leans in closer to hear. “What was that?” The side eye she greets him has his wrist slackening. V doesn’t bother using her Sandevistan. She wants to see them give up in real-time.

Driving her elbow back, she twists their wrists, forcing him to release the gun. Opportunistically, she commands control of the weapon. Three take a bullet to the heart as V rolls, headbutting their leader, now her shield.

She runs at them as bullets fly by before twisting into a leg sweep. V finishes the job, resounding bangs echoing as if time didn’t bend to its favourite Solo. V meanders back to the speechless figure awaiting her. Her face is impassively cold. She feels JOhnny’s speed behind her, matching her force blow for blow. ‘What did you want me to do, leave witnesses? No?’

‘This is a f*ckin’ crime scene now, kid!’ He paces around her, openly gawking at the pretty picture she’s left. V only shrugs.

She’s going to ruin everything he’s worked for. For once in her life, can V just stock f*cking everything up! They don’t have time to clean this sh*t, only the prints. They were guarding the vats, they’re valuable to them. Backup’s probably already inbound.

‘Goddammit. This is why kids don’t make good Solos.’

Her neck snaps towards him, “The f*ck you just say?”

He may have overstepped... ‘Name of the game was stealth… Evidence. Is. Everywhere.’ He splays his arms around in all directions. ‘Several missing persons was a manageable threshold.’

‘Then why didn’t you do something, huh?’ V steps into his space, blood stret fresh. V might be close to a foot shorter, but right now Johnny’s looking awfully tangible . Her RealSkin-coated metal digit digs into his sternum with each word. ‘ Gave. Me. Control. ’ She steps again, eyeing the ledge behind him. ‘Didn’t stop me.’ V shugs as Johnny’s out of runway, the ledge a half-step away. ‘Now you got a problem? Grow up.’

‘This isn’t like Night City-’

V points, gun in hand. ‘Oh, so you admit it. Right, how we’re not in-’

‘You trigger happy cyberpsycho, can’t even follow an order! Had about enough of your childish schemes.’

‘And I’ve had just about enough of you!’

The pistol’s to her head before Johnny processes her intention.

V’s gaze is deadly as she whispers hauntingly, “Gonna stop me now?”

Johnny stands at the edge of a ledge, but his life is in the hands of another. Within minutes, V has gone from hostage to hostage taker. She is dynamic, fluid and unpredictable to the environments trying to reshape her. Terrorist reputation aside, he’s the adult here. ‘Cut it out, kid. Not foolin’ anyone. Won’t stop you from havin’ free will…’

It’s a lie. They share a body, are either of them truly free? He can feel her emotions topple over like a boiler room exploding, the nuke that toppled ‘Saka Tower. But a tribute to her profession, V’s hand never waivers, steady on the trigger.

“Bullsh*t!” V spits. “‘Cause you can't .” V watches Johnny do maths on the remaining rounds. V isn’t so patient. “ Say. It. ”

He regrets the words too late. It goes against his entire being to obey a teenager . He doesn’t doubt her willingness to go through with it either. After spending an eternity with her consciousness, he knows the truth will set him free.

“We’re not in Night City anymore, V.” The girl’s eyes widen as he speaks aloud. V never loosens her grip, only rotating out of his reach unnecessarily. Standing beside her, he looks down at the acidic pits below. “I can V. But I won’t .”

Johnny’s hand pulls back from his head. V’s forcibly responds the same. Nothing makes any sense. How, how is this possible?

“...Unless I need to.”

V tries to keep it together in front of the rockerboy. Their hands move in sync as she lowers the gun.

“I trusted you to get us out of there, V, and I’m regretting it.” Johnny can feel her withering away in emotional agony. Teenagers , and their emotions goddamn.’

At least she left the scene sped out, makes them look like amateurs. He blips in front of the mercenary child.

She feels torn all at once. “Left ‘n’ didn’t tell me sh*t .”

He saw this one comin’. “It’s in the bag, V. C’mon. Still a camera to take care of. Wipe your prints. Get a wardrobe change, excited ‘bout that? Huh?” He nudges V through the motions, slipping a stray blade from it’s hidden home. “Your honours,” he passes it over. She doesn’t question it.

Outside the chemical works, a lone camera stands guard. It’s too late to attempt a Quickhack, and likely not worth it to just cut it so high up.

V slouches, covering her face before flinging the metal. A high pitch clink tells her the strike hit. ‘If the bag’s not in the warehouse, lead the way.’ Johnny doesn’t respond. ‘We share everything else, Johnny. A little information won’t hurt… At least get shoes that fit.’

As Johnny wades them West, the weight of his secrets feels oppressive. They’re the only thing he has of his own. V is his literal world and it’s exhausting. He can’t share everything, especially the information he knows will ruin her.

The kid’s head on his shoulder is the one thing restraining him from blowing the place sky high. He feels like a douche pulling her close as they walk. But as alone as Johnny is, V’s living in the same unfamiliar world now. One mistake and they’re both f*cked. Sometimes, the less V knows, the better.

🅣🅗🅔 🅓🅞🅜🅘🅝🅞 🅐🅕🅕🅔🅒🅣

[04-04-2015 0700 Local Time -75° 60' N 40° 60' E

Establishing secure connection

Booting proxy and rerouting traffic

Transmission success

Location: Encrypted

Status: Unknown

Commencing session runtime]

He’s far too old for this. Perhaps the idea of cloning has merit, or maybe this teenager will be the one to break him.

His office is a sanctuary from the hell this plot’s putting him through. He never misses, and he’s certainly never failed a mission. But in the ways that matter most, he’s let everyone he’s ever loved down.

It’s his greatest shame. It’s made him who he is. And yet, they want him to try again with a subject he doesn’t know. He doesn’t like her, let alone trust her. Like a bull in a china shop, she’s brash; irresponsible and unempathetic.

They want the perfection he never saw himself reflected in another. But with the knowledge that she moves steadily closer, everything has changed.

Paranoia draining, he spares a final glance behind. For now, the chaos is quiet. He reserves the urge to adjust the speaker sets again in impatience. As the secure link is established, he allows his resolve to loosen under an expectant gaze. With Batman’s brood holding the advantage, he won’t risk a compromise from a simple name slip.

“Well, if it isn’t gur Qnhtugre bs gur Qrzba urefrys . To what do I owe the displeasure, L2?” He responds as smooth and charming as ever.

The dry response is immediate. “ Fynqr . I see your wit is as sharp as your sword. I’m here on business, not to trade barbs.”

He raises a brow. The statement in itself is bemusing. She should be a master at table talk by now with how many lifetimes she’s lived. “Business, huh? Last I checked, you and lbhe Yrnthr were more into gur nffnffvangvba negf than commerce.”

“Even nffnffvaf have their codes and agendas. You, of all people, should understand that.” She moves closer in frame.

With the added inflection, he makes himself comfortable and adjusts to her good mood, looking less defensive. “So, what’s the deal? Or are you going to spar around it all day? No word from your offspring?”

She looks down, it reminds him that she’s no less human than he, just older. “No news is good news,” she responds slowly. “I understand him to be happy and well. Although, without his father, he still did not return.” Her eyes are soulless, barring into his. “And you, I expected you to keep a shorter leash.”

He chokes back a laugh, forgetting her strange sense of humour. “At least I have one. But…” Any playful demeanour dries from his tongue. “No change. The other is…”

“I understand. I found further pupils lacking after taking on my own. However, unless another opportunity presents itself, you must show your skill as a warrior through your apprentice.”

He cringes. The child wasn’t his to choose and they share zero commonalities. His training and her potential skill set are seemingly incompatible. But it’s not what she wants to hear. He is an asset and should perform like one. “I understand. I will. I know how important this is to your organisation…”

He spies the map splayed across another monitor. Hourly, a red marker tracks closer, appearing only days before. She’s been getting closer, but it concerns him that she hasn’t made contact herself. She isn’t missing anymore, any day now, she will make herself known. Why else would she be here, if not for him?

He studies his confidant closely, ignoring the pull on his heartstrings. There’s something else going on. “With the utmost respect, you’re one shade shy of a mud patch.” She twitches. “Tell me what’s wrong.” They have a global visage of what they will eventually accomplish. The variables in this premature stage are innumerable at best. One small setback could mean everything so details remain imperative.

A small smile traces her dark features. “Straight to the point, then. I need your skills for a… Delicate situation. And before you ask, yes, it pays well.”

It’s an invitation, not an order, likely a low-priority anomaly. Humming eagerly, he submits his interest. “I’m listening, ny Tuhy . But remember, I don’t play sides - I play the odds.” He doesn’t mention the tightness in her jaw regarding the topic. Instead, he listens, steadying the tilting screen.

The lights flicker. “I wouldn’t expect anything less.” The curved hint of amusem*nt shatters with the sound of broken glass. The noise resounds across his secondary set of speakers, emanating behind him as the shaking subsides. His benefactor purses a fine lip in curiosity.

A monitor for everything, his screens read the damage, the result of his current charge, nothing of note or significant value. It’s relatively low on richter scale. He sinks into his chair before adjusting another monitor. Something’s happening. Broken glass aside, the channels are dead and his contacts are quieter. From all his time abroad, he can taste the metallic overture of conflict before its interlude. He noticed it before, but this new job confirms it.

He doesn’t immediately respond when she speaks. “I do hope your security has not waned so much to invite an intruder. I expected better of you.” It’s a suggestively demeaning tone for such a light subject. The job must be more important than she’s allowing him to believe. Mind games are merely an occupational hazard in his field.

He shakes his head, tempted to show the disarray depicted elsewhere on-screen. “Nonsense. That was the…” His mind fires impossibly fast, but he blanks on a term to adequately describe his housing arrangement.

“Substitute?” She supplies

He hates the term. He could never replace one of his own but it’s above his control. A word finds itself on his tongue, “The stand-in, yes. You’re correct in your assessment. But you mentioned something else?” Tentatively, he watches her graceful features close into an imposing screen.

She continues with an elegant nod. “We received word from Puvangbja that a signal was broadcast across our frequencies, from within Gotham.” He straightens in interest. “As you are aware, we uphold the traditions of those before us.” Her knowing look has him recalling past visits to their islands.

He considers what he knows, the scope of his employer’s reach within Gotham and beyond. He can feel the city’s building restless energy. Whoever sent the signal has insider knowledge of their facilities, if not operations. Information he holds that other operatives won't. This isn’t a low priority.

His geographic reach and evasive relationship with the Bat brood provide the inner workings for a perfect mission. No wonder she undersold the task. “Those frequencies are on a need-to-know basis.” She’s not the only one who can understate their intentions. His fingers yearn for action and he accepts the challenge. “I’ll find what information I can Gnyvn .”

She leans from the frame. “You haven’t let gur Yrnthr down thus far. I look forward to seeing your craftsmanship, L9.” The screen blinks out, leaving a simple script in its place.

[Be Ready. - L2]

The text flicks across the terminal like a sworn instruction. He knows he let her down by promising what bare scraps of intelligence he can scrape up, rather than a piked cranium. But, despite being a man of many talents, time will always be his greatest adversary.

He doesn’t have time for games anymore, not with his future plans. He has to prioritise. He’s a specialist, a legend . He ignores the sound of glass scraping along tiles over the speakers. He’s shoved everyone away just to get here, even his brother-in-arms.

He's resigned himself to losing everyone he loves. He sent her away to keep her safe but it only made her want this life more: to be closer to death. It made her want to be closer to him, to be him. He won't let it happen again. He can’t let them know she’s coming. If she wants this life, it’ll be her choice this time.

They will drag her, his potential predecessor, down to dust if he’s not careful, just like they will his stand-in if she succeeds. Thinking of his understudy, he doubts she will deliver in ways he expects. He chose this life, he’ll be damned if at least one of his kids gets that choice too, free of H.I.V.E. and his allies' influence.

He can’t take the uncertainty of questioning whether his kids are even alive, because they’re usually not. The best he can do is train them, even then… As the red indicator blinks closer, he’s aware he’ll soon find out. His understudy might not be ready for his level of training, but as he looks towards the moving marker he thinks his predecessor might be.

He clears his surveillance alerts and double-checks the locator’s progress. Hiding his resentment, he leaves to deal ‘just measures’ on his new ‘understudy’. He looks forward to seeing the young girl’s deception skills improve.

In the meantime, he can wait for the wanna-be assassin to come to him, or he can go out in search of her. Looking at the board, he has a good inclination of which.

[Encrypted tunnel closed

Session shutdown]

🅣🅗🅔 🅓🅞🅜🅘🅝🅞 🅐🅕🅕🅔🅒🅣

His radio silence, even from before the theatre confrontation and before the truce, is becoming increasingly obvious. Dick was glad to have Steph visit for the night, she fills in the gaps at dinner.

The next day, after Steph goes home, Tim and Damian demand their own ‘sleepover’. When Babs reminds them it's a school night, Dick realises he hasn’t talked all day. He feels like he should have. ‘School night’ is normally his line, and isn’t that a weird phrase at twenty-three?

The Clocktower’s small study is his refuge from the chaos outside, now finally silent. So quiet, Dick worries Steph hid microphones around to snoop. He holds his head in his hands, questioning if he’s doing the right thing, moving to the ‘wrong’ side.

Cass gave him concerned looks as she tried to skirt in hugs throughout the day. Duke just seemed weirded out by the suddenly refurbished gym.

He signed the truce, but he’ll be struggling to meet his quota. And if that's not a bad reflection on the family as the head of the household, he doesn’t know what is. The guilt doubles when he realises this must be how Jason feels. The weight on his conscience is eating him alive and he needs to get out. He could ruin everything and-

“So… You’re not going back to blue?” He shakes his head solemnly. He can’t face his conscience, won’t . He doesn’t even turn to Babs. “Not even Discowing ?” Seeing him slump, a comforting hand falls on his shoulder. He smirks beneath his arm, Babs always knows what to say. “Bruce took Robin from you and now the cowl too.” She takes her time to process his announcement. “So you’re… Getting revenge ?” Her tone is non-judgemental but cautious.

Dick accepts the bate, revealing his smile he finally finds the confidence to say the words he swore he wouldn’t. “No. I’m going Rogue .”

🅣🅗🅔 🅓🅞🅜🅘🅝🅞 🅐🅕🅕🅔🅒🅣

A deathly chill settles over her shoulders. The night air leaves a frigid aftertaste even her cyberware can’t avoid because apparently , her thermal protection Bioware only swings one way. She walks through some stingy pool diner called Stacked Deck. Inside, there’s more alcohol poured than patrons present.

Johnny opens the pool bar door for her so naturally that V forgets that they’re one symbiotic limb. The patron finds solace in the bottom of a glass and the clack of billiard balls.

Running on empty, V realises while she doesn’t trust the guy, Johnny was a lot more unreasonable in the past. The change has her spooked, not that it affects much.

A quiet eclectic crowd takes residence but V only has eyes for the food. Fried, grilled or boiled, V wants it all. Johnny pulls her back. Eyeing a back corner booth they make it relatively unannounced until someone notices her clothes. V doesn’t acknowledge them.

They move through the crowd, unnoticed, a ghost among the living. Somehow Johnny gets to sit in the booth, as long as his eyes are trained on V. Studying the interaction, he finds a new appreciation for theft. He tries not to appreciate the kid's skill and he definitely doesn’t care.

He focuses on the warmth of the bar, Johnny swears there’s more to engrams than code. He’s conscious, regardless of his original form of consciousness. But across the room, looking over at small ‘helpless’ V, with dried splatter through her hair in a stolen assassin’s garb, she makes it look existing, and theft, look flawless.

With deft hands born of necessity, Johnny watches, then feels a half-eaten burger abandoned on a nearby table, retreat to a secluded booth shrouded in darkness. She made it look easy, and maybe for the kid it is.

Dismissing odd looks, V shields her face away until the murmured conglomerate of voices returns. Her clothes serve as a distraction, if anything. On the other side of the booth, Johnny looks over the menu in his iconic bulletproof vest, aviators and maroon real leather pants. He’s an ass but he really is a rock star.

‘ It’s not fair you get to keep your clothes ,’ V whines.

He snorts at the unintended delivery, just thankful to have any. ‘ What, the clothes I died in? Yeah, sure. Not fair you get to change .’ Skirting the age range, he puts a wager on V getting chased out of the bar. Dressed like a poorly fitted pillow, smelling like literal blood sweat and tears on top of her clearly underage status, Johnny looks forward to that physical discussion. He has to remind himself to lay low. If he can’t, then V certainly won’t. The kid sure knows her way around a co*cktail, he doubts she’s ever been booted.

He’s one of the oldest souls around, technically born in eighty-eight. But the gonk kid in front of him spends half her time talking him down. He never even wanted to know the girl whose life he intended to take over. He’s not sure if that’s changed. While he has to live with his mistakes, he regrets caring. He engraves scribbles on the table as he waits. He’s always waiting.

Taking in the experience, way better than dumpster diving, V cautiously bites now chewing. V frowns, how different is this place? Johnny looks at her expectantly. ‘I… Can’t taste it.’

‘Y’re tired. Give it a minute,’ he flatly responds. This was a lot f*cking easier when he woke up in a bum body in a dumb mind to beat down a wannabe Solo. Now he knows the kid. He rolls his eyes, tapping the table. They’ll need to eat five meals a day at this rate just to keep malnutrition away.

The meagre bite is a culinary revelation, an explosion of flavour. The tang of pickles, the smoky char of the patty, the softness of the bun—a symphony of taste stacked into a culinary masterpiece to deprived senses. It’s worth it, but Johnny knows its not enough. Feeling full is out of their price range.

“Holy. f*ck.” She breathes. “This is the best food I've had in my entire life!” V fist pumps the air as Johnny shushes her. Her first bite was cautious, but hunger quickly overrules caution.

‘It's not synthetic, that’s why.’ V’s eyes shoot up in surprise. ‘Less of the good stuff. More of the flavour. Gonna need to step up our intake by a lot .’

“No wonder the Corpos kill over this sh*t. This is amazing .”

‘Get used to it. They’ll realise you didn’t pay if you keep that up.’ He gestures to the burger that would have sold at auction back home. Her reaction makes Johnny curious about who he’s sharing a mind-space with now their search for a cure is over and they can co-acquiesce.

Johnny looks on with jealousy. ‘Favourite pizza topping, go.’

‘Anchovy.’ V tells Johnny, groaning through another bite.

Heathen , he thinks with no heat behind it. ‘Fish?’ He settles into the booth further to keep his senses tuned into the loudmouthed patrons. ‘Not bad for a street kid.’

His exposure to the Night City of now makes him wish he could tear all the corpo down. If he fought a revolution against a system that's spiralled outta control. V comes from a version of his city where he lost .

Focusing on her meal, it doesn’t feel so bad being stuck here with him . Wherever here is. Her world narrows down to the simple act of eating slow bites. She savours the fleeting moments of bliss. Johnny is silent and V can pretend she isn’t wanted by the NCPD, every gang and corp around. A lot of people are, V reminds herself. Just between herself and the burger, V wonders why no one’s come for the bounty yet.

Between mouthfuls, V tries to pry information from him again. For a punk Solo she’s pretty sh*t.

‘And where would that be exactly?’ V leans in expectantly this time.

He laughs knowing she looks crazy to everyone in here. ‘The place we go when we die,’ his smile is subtle as he kicks up his feet. It doesn’t have the desired effect.

V drops her burger, pleasant flavours choked out. “Mikoshi. The soul prison?”

Johnny’s gaze hardens. He looks into her eyes, shred of humour gone. “A cemetery .”

She shrinks back. ‘I’ve been present, what, a week at least?’ Shifting his neck, Johnny’s aviators give no response, his arms clasped and expression cold. ‘Don’t tell me you picked my niche at the columbarium already.’

The same Johnny Silverhand who promised to take who and what he wants whenever he likes, is the same mellow-headed rocker before her. V might not know his plan, but she doesn’t have the luxury of expecting to survive it. “Should call MaxTac on you for this sh*t. Oh, wait. Can’t .” V looks out towards the semi-abandoned lot. No Agent , no Net , no terminals , not even an interface port . He hates relying on Johnny, but he’s taken her someplace she’s afraid to know where. Are they dead? In some world without technology?

Outside, dark blue lowers overhead, cleared since yesterday. V can feel her insides churning as her body rips nutrients to shreds. Exhaustion pulls and at this rate, she only sleeps and eats every three days or so. They know she can't keep this up.

“Whatever’s in this bag better be worth it.” She’s almost as curious as she is dehydrated. Where’s the stims when she needs them?

Johnny leans forward, watching the burger slowly disappear. V needs as much food as she can get but not looking like this .

After having her fill with the food settling, her midsection writhers as it digests the new form of protein. It barely stops her from klepping more.

He looks up at the noise tutting, ‘Ate too fast.’ V flips him off and Johnny returns the favour with a smile, feeling more full and free in a long time. It's a stolen piece of normalcy when the last crumb disappears. It’s a small step towards stability and by far the best meal V’s ever had… But it doesn’t dull the ache.

Placing the menu down, his metal digits tap soundlessly. ‘Don't know how much you remember…’ Looking at V, he has her entire attention. She watches his fingers and he wonders if she can hear them move. ‘Got here, grabbed what I could. Never meant for it to be like this.’ V tilts her head in confusion. Johnny thinks of his plaque at the columbarium, and again in the Northern Oilfields where V engraved his initials. He gets up from his seat. ‘C'mon. You’ll see.’

Careful of lingering eyes they shuffle out the door as a cold front greets them. Barely a week and already blood on their hands, this is not the clean slate Johnny imagined.

🅣🅗🅔 🅓🅞🅜🅘🅝🅞 🅐🅕🅕🅔🅒🅣

As dusk blankets the sky with a sombre hue, V find herself at the wrought iron gates of an ancient graveyard. The air is still, carrying the faint scent of moss and earth. Gravel crunches, a backdrop to the echoing silence of the dead. No one lines up to mourn under the oppressive weather. Tombstones, like silent sentinels, line her path as V shouts ahead.

“Explain clowns later, don’t intend to be caught in this rain!” Puddles splash as two footsteps beat along the cemetery grounds. Gales blow across rows of headstones as she searches for the ever-disappearing engram. No matter what she does, he’s always out of reach.

‘How many people do you think are dead here?’ He holds his head, draped across a mount. V’s small figure nears but he speaks into her mind, clearer then day.

V slows, looking around at the seemingly endless grave plots, such a waste of space . “Uh, a lot?”

‘All of 'em,’ he says with an irritating smile.

V chases him down again. If she had iron, he’d be full of lead right now. “I think you're forgetting someone!” V says proudly sidestepping a headstone. V ignores the fact that she’s likely further on the spectrum towards dying than living and just exists amongst the fallen.

V's bemused scoff hangs in the air, giving way to frustration and unease when they make another random turn. "sh*tting me, don't know where you're going, do you?"

Johnny's confidence wavers, and he admits with a hint of uncertainty, ‘Not entirely, V.’

Finally, he stops, a grand entryway made from stone. Crafted from ancient stone slabs, textured columns flank the entrance with one word engraved in the arch.

[Sinosis]

V disregards the view and acts with a laborious push as stale air flushes out through the creaking doors. The doorway provides the only source of light. Inside, two tombs lay in the centre with a back wall where a tapestry of coloured masks hang.

“Impressive Johnny,” V looks around at the collection of masks with stark variety in design and make. Someone’s a collector. “Finally found someone more f*cked up than us.” Each mask is unique, representing a pantheon of emotions and expressions from a bygone era.

In the middle, a wide black skull stands as a chilling centrepiece likely designed to imitate a ceremonial headdress made from ebony. Turning in the crypt, the same smooth and polished surface of black ebony wood is reflected in the coffins laid on stone bases. Johnny walks up to a white but brightly coloured face with a red nose. ‘You have no idea, kid.’

V palms rough jagged crevices as they dip at the base of the casket. “Who were they? Someone important?” V doesn’t need to get caught up in another gang or corpo war.

He shrugs, ‘Dunno. Sinosis is all it says.’

V rolles her eyes and examines the room. Prominently on a pedestal, a tinged piece of stone rests isolated between the ebony caskets. One coffer is hacked in sections, splintering the wood. If V weren’t already seeing a construct, she’d say the place is rightly haunted. She gravitates towards a half-mangled orange mask parted down the middle, lined black. It's cut clean but the ends are frayed.

Well-versed in getting shot, and trying to avoid the experience again, V traces the rough carbon fibre edges and dense Kevlar. There’s a black bird mask close by, some only cover the eyes. They stand apart from the formal percaline and wood hanging from the wall. These coverings are made for combat .

V hopes the scuffed burn mark on the floor was here before Johnny meddled. She turns, this isn’t what they’re here for. “Where’s this bag , Johnny.” The man circles the room before waiting at attention behind the furthest crypt smugly. Goddamn it .

Resigning herself, a rumble echoes as she pushes back the casket. A heavy, musty scent pools over the acrid tang of decayed organic matter. Leathery and discoloured features give way to liquidation and time. Threadbare and faded cloth are indistinguishable in the decomposition.

She snatches the backpack and looks away. It's got a thick padded back but it's light even for her meat arm, V doesn't have high expectations. Ever meticulous, V pulls its contents eagerly. V pulls out three green paper notes.

‘Ah, the Lincolns.’ At V’s perplexed expression he explains, ‘They’re eddies. Fifteen of ‘em. Worth more here than in NC.’ Johnny watches V go to stashthe cash before realising she doesn’t have any pockets. Don’t lose the damn cash, kid.

Next, V pulls out half litre bottles. “ ChroManticore Carnival ?” V’s gonna chug the carbonated bottle first thing. V eyes Johnny leaning by a coffin, “You splurged . Glad, the water's so thin and salty here.”

V sighs, as she delicately cradles the items pulled next. It's a sweet revelation to see familiar food after her multiple encounters with dumpsters this week. She'd rather go hungry than blink back to her corpse rotting. V rummages through other name-brand labels with relief.

[Soy Paste]

[Nūtrisupplement]

[Tomato "Juice"]

[Filtered Rainwater]

“Nomad sh*t, no alcohol, you wound me…” V mocks the insult until palming something particular. “Holy sh*t. Couldn’t be bothered with my Agent but you brought Black Lace ?” V holds up the air-hypo injector as if holding the answer to life.

‘From that Maelstrom poser, Dum Dum.’ V turns the device over to read. He fills in the blanks, ‘Twenty-seven percent dextromethamphetamine, fifteen percent cannabinoid. Won’t even feel a thing for a few minutes.’

Two Biotechnica Nūtrisupplements, three hydration packs… She can make it last the week. Something clinks against the aluminium ChroManticore Carnival jar. V holds up a red warped triangle, “What’s this? Biotech… Nano circuitry?” Metallic circuits light its insides.

“Don’t touch it!” Johnny slaps it out of her hand, falling back with another circulatory patch against to a small package. V focuses on that instead: A box of Morley’s with a familiar word scribbled in neat cursive.

[Ebunike]

“Cigarettes, seriously ?” Not even the Biotechnica flavoured kind.

‘You never know,’ he drawls.

V's mind flashes back to when she burnt her lip on the damn things. Her mind strays, conjuring up a foreign memory. A flashback, but not her own. “You have a serious problem.” She goes to shove them back in, not commenting on her own habits but the tomb fades away.

Spreading the doors to Empathy open wide. Round after round of drinks. Booted through the club doors. A woman under her arm, V’s fist through a car window. The woman, Ruby, driving. V’s hand… Lurching back at the impact as they crashed.

Ruby… Grayson’s input . “Eww!” V drops the packet and wipes her hands, glaring at Johnny in horror.

He gives her his best what-did-you-expect shrug. ‘Cool your tit* nothin’ happened.’

Cheeks flaming and attitude flaring, V violently rifles through what’s left of the bag. A bulky hard drive lays at the bottom dusted with remnants of age. V wonders if the device is pre-Johnny era if that’s even possible . Setting the cumbersome box aside, V focuses on further contents instead. Feeling around, there’s something crushed beneath.

Discreetly hidden at the bottom, V carefully unfolds yellowed paper. It's well worn and thankfully in English. Vik is the only one V knows who likes paper, Jackie preferred books too but she's never seen pages so worn before.

It's a drawing labelled like the NCART across three large islands, each bigger than Night City. Tracing the lines over and under across a city she doesn't recognise settles in just how far from home she is. Nothing but Johnny's dry pessimistic comments and the name brands before her speak of familiarity.

There aren't any landmarks she recognises, only districts and stations, nothing to tell her which she is closest to. The supplies provide a limited buffer. V knows using any Speedware at this rate could kill them: she doesn't have the energy reserves for that.

In V’s confusion, there isn't much to decipher about their location, just a well-worn and faded map of a city she doesn’t know. Unfortunately, the map fixates on conjoining lines stuttering across the map. Even a partial set of coordinates are scratched out.

[-76° 40' N 39]

'Above, and below.' Tracing back from the bunker and using the freight yards as a reference, he estimates their rudimentary position. The map has likely been here a generation and he can't rely on its accuracy.

There’s a long string of words scribbled on the back but unfortunately, the map apparently fixates on underground tunnels and whatever a train is. It's not much use to them, but it could mean the difference between entrapment and escape down the track. V tucks the map away in frustration, planning to revisit it later when it's more pertinent. Priorities in line, V looks up at Johnny expectantly looking for more answers.

Johnny pours over the map. He makes a line at the top right to left before dragging his finger away.

Now knowing their general location, V assesses their gear. It's not enough and they both know it. But, if Johnny wants to lay low, does that mean she can't be a merc anymore? What kind of fixer would stay in this tech-starved island? Being a Solo… All she and Jackie dreamed of was to be in the Major Leagues. Not even Judy had asked her to give that up, proud her girlfriend was feared throughout NC and could protect her. This quest of his feels futile .

‘This... Ain’t gonna last long. Know that, right?’

‘ Yeah. Make the most of it then.’

V looks between the Nūtrisupplement, dull in comparison to her earlier burger. Johnny’s... Running from something, or someone, and he won't tell her what. He doesn't tell her much of anything . Eyeing the map of three islands, V knows she's completely out of her depth.

She needs to call for help, for Judy or Misty, even Rogue or Vik would take her in if she pressed hard enough or raised enough favours. Even in Heywood, she had better chances finding her next meal. She had connections: a community, she could steal or kill or blackmail.

The world has always been unforgiving. As prepared as she is to adapt and survive, V made her living of almost four years standing at the end of a trigger. No matter how low she lays, someone always gets shot. Restricted from her tradecraft, her livelihood, whatever situation they’re in now, it's already worse than Atlanta. Her stomach tightens even though she just ate.

‘Don’t wanna be in here when the storm breaks.’ V gives him a dubious look. ‘Just trust me, kid.’ She sighs like it’s the hardest thing imaginable. ‘Know less than you think, wasn't my idea. What, rather the streets ? ’ He scoffs, ‘Of course you would.’

“Stay here ? Would rather the Hotel piss Sophia over this tomb. Happy to leave.” Lifeless eyes from the mounted wall of masks follow her every move.

Looking around he comes to a compromise. ‘We’ll take what we need then go. Pack’s safer than we are at least.’

V looks at what may become everything she eats this week. ‘If I have to carry this, gonna eat it before we get anywhere.’

He rolls his eyes, eyes tracing the intricate masks surrounding them. ‘As if I didn't think of that. Look in the bag dripsh*t.’

There's another backpack, one of exceptionally sh*tty quality by the feel of it. Clothes seem to be the biggest thing he didn’t account for, found in neither bag. V stuffs the map, money, black lace and consumables away, leaving the rest. It’s suspiciously lighter, even without the ancient hard drive.

V returns the heavier bag reluctantly to the now sealed coffin. She can stretch the rations to four days, or thinly stretched to a week at most but her cyberware takes more energy than this to maintain itself. Street foods are densely packed for a reason, still, V expects to be a very hangry merc.

‘In. Out. Then we should change…’ He looks her up and down critically like a mannequin. ‘Change all of this,’ he gestures to all of her nonchalantly.

Ignoring him, she realises Johnny might have travelled a fair distance from her last conscious location. If V spun, she'd easily lose course of her origins. Death surrounds them. It’s nothing new but f*ck , she only has more questions now.

🅣🅗🅔 🅓🅞🅜🅘🅝🅞 🅐🅕🅕🅔🅒🅣

Babs pushes her glasses back, surprisingly happy for what Dick had professed. “I told you, Dick. Partners, always . I know you’ll find your way back and I’ll be here when you do.” She leans, kissing his nose. Her smile is wicked and knowing as she hands the plastic sheeted garment over.

Dick wishes he had that much faith in himself but he accepts the gift nonetheless. He’d asked for the picturesque water blue Nightwing emblem to be switched out to red. But this? Dick holds out the crimson-red suit in awe. It’s heavier, more durable to the elements.

It feels like a higher density of kevlar to spandex, but still enough to give him his gymnastic edge. The features are sharp and dark. Because of course, the woman he loves would enable him in even the worst ways. The cutting V ending at the shoulders distinguishes it from the Bats’ emblem , and no arm stripes to match a long absent Nightwing. Those who know him will notice, and those who don’t, won’t know.

“It’s perfect,” he breathes running his hands over the black gloves, spiking beyond the forearm, and a cowl. He’s used to the feeling by now but without a cap to accommodate the hair Bruce envies. He never has to worry about cowl hair again! It looks flexible yet durable. It’s even better than the one he commissioned for Duke. “You really are incredible, you know that?” He turns to Barbara in wonder who smiles fondly.

“So, what’s your name? I can’t exactly keep calling you Hunk Wonder.”

Dick laughs bashfully, “I mean, you could?” He feels his cheeks heat under her touch.

“I know you have a plan, and I trust you.” Dick nods solemnly, they both know how much is at risk. They’ve built a life in the manor, exponentially returning to the Clocktower, the base of Bab’s operations as Oracle. They were meant to be going to Blüdhaven together, as a family . Dick wanted to be a cop, but now he’ll be returning as a Rogue. “Model for me?” Babs wheels her way out of the doorframe. “I know you’ll look good in red.”

His lips quirk. Getting to see the other side might be good for him. This is going to be a total bombshell to Bruce. Dick hopes it’s a wake-up call instead of a one-way ticket to a recovery room. As he struts away, he misses how Babs bites her lip in worry.

When Dick re-enters, hair slightly shorter but smile a mile wider, he has a name. With a mischievous grin, he says, “Call me, Renegade .” Babs claps as he turns a full circle. It’s a perfect fit.

A soft vibration catches their attention. They share a quick glance before opening Dicks burner set aside on a nearby desk. He only just retrieved it from storage. “I’ve barely used this since I was seventeen.” He flicks the message open in a heartbeat. “That? Was Barry fast.”

Bab’s catches his superstition regarding his new understudy. Her heart pangs with guilt. Dick doesn’t know how much he’s missed playing emotional stunt double to Bruce and the culpability is an unexpected expression. “My money’s on Cass. She’s been picking fights since New Year's.” His head shoots up and Barbara’s face turns sheepish. “I was going to mention it, really.” His disbelieving look catches Babs in the act.

She sighs. “Fine. Your wannabe Protégé lost to Black Bat.” Her hands surrender as she tries to dodge his questioning glances. “I’m not saying who started it, but looks like you’ve got your work cut out for you, Mr ‘Renegade!’” She jabs her fingers in his side playfully. Dick sqirms. “Not that anyone could take down my girl,” she says proudly. Giving him a pitying look, Babs pats his freed untamed locks, amused by the predicament. “You have to tell them.”

“I know,” he whines, pressing his face against the table. Regardless of what he and Babs decide, Alfred needs to know first. When Dick ran away the first time, it was Alfred who tracked him down. When he was shot and developed amnesia, Alfred was the one who found him. If he’s committing to this , Alf needs to know why . There’s no good outcome if he doesn’t.

“Especially Cass.” Babs soothes his worries away. “She’ll call out your lies before anyone else if you let her.” He nods, slumping further into the hardwood. His training tells him the less who know the better. Nightwing hasn’t been seen in public for almost two years. He tried to keep up pretences but something had to give. “She’s worked so hard at learning how to talk, she’s going to miss her favourite teacher.”

Dick mulls it over. Its true, forewarning might help to establish some trust, but it could jeopardise everything . He can’t do that to the unstable family he’s trying to preserve by leaving. He’ll tell his pseudo-kid-siblings the appropriate amount, only enough to stem their snooping. He’s not Bruce, he promises not to keep them completely in the dark. The details can wait, Dick only hopes they can last long enough without him.

The divide’s already evident and it’s only getting worse. DIck’s committing to this with the knowledge that it will make things worse. Cass and Duke already stay at the Clocktower while Tim and Damian keep to the Manor. The last few month’s separation is hard enough but the boys need to know their father, to know Bruce.

Dick is their sibling and guardian, but he can’t take Bruce’s children from him. But, Damian doesn’t know Bruce and Tim grew up parenting the man alongside Alfred. Once again, Dick stands as the pillar of family support. Only this time, he’s reshaping everything .

Dick wishes he could keep everyone in the Manor, Steph included. But Blüdhaven calls him. He wants to have a civilian identity outside the mask. He wants to prove he can make a difference as Richard Grayson too.

But first, before having a real job and buying a house to settle down, he’s giving himself freedom to fail. To be bad , to mess up. Discowing hardly counts as a rebellious era and he doesn’t exactly count leaving the Manor. He was always a good kid.

Dick needs to prove to himself that his f*ckups don’t define him, that he can and will get back up. He swears that he doesn’t need Bruce’s approval and yet he lives off of his money and cowers for his approval. He never realised how much influence his domino had on his life, his sense of morality. With that gone and a cowl in its place, he is a new man.

Sometimes, he pictures a world where they stayed a happy family. Ideally, in a world where Jason didn’t die, Bruce married Selina, didn’t disappear and, no. Even then, he wouldn’t be able to refuse the pull of adventure. He’s travelled all his life. He may have been born for heights but sometimes heroes have to learn how to fall.