Nightwing: Legacy

Chapter 1.2

It's been 365 days since the Joker died. I retrieved his body and I burnt it. Then I gave the ashes to Harley, and together we burned those ashes and put him in a grave no one will ever find. He'll never hurt anyone again.

365 days have passed since I fought Batman, and I broke his back. Before, there was a chance of him walking on a cane with surgery, but now there's no way. His spinal chord was completely severed.

365 days have passed since Jason, Tim, Cass, Steph, and Barb returned. They wouldn't let me push them away. Sometimes I wish they did.

365 days have passed since the cure was distributed. The Cloudburst was destroyed, and when I returned to the city a month later, we slowly took it back from the gangs.

Not everything's been great, though. There's been mass graves, peaceful marches to try to stop the violence, and prisons built to keep criminals enchained.

Three months in Martinez killed himself. I now have the bullets, even the one he put in his own skull.

Steph had another breakdown, and she's been locked down with Tim at the Manor.

James's getting old, too. Six months in the Penguin revolted pretty hard. James was under so much stress he had a heart attack. But he's okay, just can't go in the field much anymore.

The bridges were rebuilt. The Batwing, or as I call it: Redwing, took out all the defenses keeping Gotham isolated.

We got supplies, we retook the city, the army even came and helped out. Though they didn't like me as much as the cops did. Gotham had slowly rebuilt, people were getting back to their normal lives.

Even me.

I asked if they wanted me back at Wayne Enterprises, and they all did so I'm still working there. Lucius and I started a new department for medicine, too.

But I haven't put on the suit in a long time, I can't bring myself to. Everything that happened, I have PTSD, still.

And not only from those times, but the times before, too. It's been a lot. And if I'm being honest, not a day goes by where I don't think about--

But I have my family back. I'm a hero. The name Nightwing is widely respected and feared. So things should be good, right?

No. I'll never be able to walk without a leg brace me and Lucius designed, all because of that damn break. And I hate looking at myself in the mirror because of my scars.

And the meds I have to take, for my fucked up head and my fucked up body, I don't feel much of anything anymore. It's like my brain is constantly playing TV static.

But you're not here to listen to my rant. You're here to get entertainment from watching my life fall apart. So let's get into it.

It was nighttime. The headlights of a white 1968 Porsche 911 lit up an abandoned railyard. Gravel, and cracked asphalt. Rusted iron rails and rotting wood planks.

There was a crumbling control deck near the center of the yard, and little levers to change the direction of the tracks.

Thomas Wayne sat on the hood of his car. He wore jeans, boots, a dark gray sweater and a black and white flannel jacket with a black hood.

He was looking out at the railyard, taking peace in how calm it was. The dull colors of rust and nighttime. The brightness of the graffiti on the side of an abandoned train car. The moon. The stars. The city in the far distance, peaking over green trees.