Nightwing: Legacy

Chapter 6.1

When I was younger I idolized Robin. I idolized Dick Grayson and the work he did as Robin. And getting to be the next was exciting, but it was a lot to live up to.

I never did. I tried and tried, but I couldn't get it right. I was good, I could stop gunners shooting hundreds of rounds a second and not get a scratch on me. I could cut a rope before it was taught around me. I could do a lot. But it was never enough.

I was never good at feelings. My dad manipulated me and my mom didn't care. I learned that burying it down was the easiest way to escape the pain.

And it made me cold. Apathetic. And even my hero hated me. Dick Grayson spat in my face the first time I met him. He grew a lot since then, into a better man than I can ever hope to be. But I know he'd be proud of you.

Still, I think I bestowed my curse onto you. I tried my best for you, I truly did. I promised myself you would never know the kind of pain I had to. And I failed. Everything happened and I panicked and ran. Like I always do.

Selina was killed. Bruce's back was broken. We went in to try to clean up the mess. Steph was captured and tortured. Tim was mind-fucked. Damian was so stressed out he snapped and killed Dick before running back to the League of Assassins. Cass turned out worse than Tim.

I got them all out, somehow. And I freaked out and ran. I should have stayed to make sure everything was alright, but I didn't.

I'm sorry. I'm sorry that I wasn't there for you when you needed me. I'm sorry that I wasn't there when you didn't. It'll haunt me until I die... again.

I won't promise I'll be better, or that I can even be there before Christmas. But I'll try.

And remember, life is only as good as you make it. Make a good one. Even if I'm not there. Love, Jay-Jay.

Jason Todd sat at a desk in his apartment, writing that letter. He scribbled "Thomas" on the envelope with his black sharpie gel pen.

His eyes were tired, his features older. He was in his late twenties now, Twenty Seven years old with knee and back pain worthy of a forty seven year old.

Jason's hair was shorter, maybe two or three inches long, and his bangs were swept to his right. He sat in his apartment. Modern, clean, with a window overlooking Bludhaven and a healthy amount of weapons.

He looked up at a photo on his desk. He and Thomas sat on the hood of Jason's Mustang. Thomas was younger, maybe six or seven. That was right after Jason came back from the dead.

Jason remembered the moment he first came back. How Thomas was waiting for him, and the first thing he said to Jason: "I like your hair," noting the new lock of white hair in Jason's bangs.

The TV grabbed Jason's attention. "--And behind us you'll see the wreckage of Martin's Café in Gotham City. Yesterday it was attacked by a lunatic with some kind of superhuman strength. Later the building was wrecked by an explosion. The few surviving witnesses stated the man had black veins in his face..."

Jason's eyes went wide. He stood up, stuffing the letter in his inside jacket pocket before pulling out his phone and making a call. He held the phone between his ear and shoulder while he grabbed clothes from his dresser and stuffed them into a backpack.

***

Back at the warehouse, Thomas sat there, tied to the cold metal chair in barbed wire chains. His body was covered in red cuts, his nose was smashed and bleeding, his brow had a cut through it. His fingers twitched, the nails pulled from their beds and his left pinky bent at an odd angle.