GIFTS ~ Prologue

By: Marla F. Fair

Dead.

He's dead.

What am I going to do?

His wife and his grown child stare at me with those empty green eyes.

They blame me.

They always do.

I listen to the preacher. Words. Empty words.

I have never understood his interest or belief in this.

"I am the resurrection and the life. Where, Death, is your victory? Where is your power to hurt?"

It is here. In the eyes of a young woman, raven-haired, her golden skin gone white, standing next to the one she has chosen to love; his hand trembling as he watches her tears; powerless, impotent. He can do nothing.

Here. In the eyes of her mother, a woman who cheated death only to have it find someone she loved.

Here. In the small soft sounds of his infant son, too young to understand or to remember.

And here, in this breast. In this heart of mine which has ceased beating. For the space of a single moment I am suspended in time.

There is no God.

There is only Death and he is laughing once again.

ONE

"Bruce?"

"Bruce. What are you thinking?"

Bruce Wayne glanced up from the hard copy of the Gotham Times he held in his hand. They laughed at him but he stubbornly refused to accept obtaining all of his information from a monitor. There was something about holding the paper in your hand. Feeling it "Eh?"

"Earth to Bruce. Are you in there?" Dick Grayson grinned at his mentor, noting as he did how the lines of care and age which had altered his handsome face had managed to soften him, as though the passing years were finally something he could welcome and not yet another obstacle to overcome. As he switched his infant son from one arm to the other, a whispered word of thanks crossed his lips. Then the baby cooed and gurgled and his mind flew from his mentor to the little blessing in his hands.

Bruce Wayne held still, watching the pair for a moment and then said softly, "I might ask you the same thing. How is John?"

"Beautiful," his former ward breathed. "Absolutely beautiful."

The older man laid the paper down and crossed to where he could look directly at the child. So serene and beautiful. Nestled in his father's arms, safe and secure. He was not asleep, but murmured quietly, his large cerulean eyes opening and closing lazily.

"So like his mother." Bruce traced the golden skin with a long thin finger, ending with its tip in the child's madder-red hair. As the baby responded, gazing vaguely in his direction, he chided himself again for finding the absence of pupils unnerving.

"Another gift, yes. Like Kory's return." Dick took a breath and looked up to meet the other man's pale blue eyes, "I haven't told you lately how grateful I am for what you did. If you hadn't ~ "

Bruce's hand came up to silence him. He remembered still that day nearly twelve years before when Koriand'r lay dying, the day when he had decided Death had had enough victories and had made the decision that he would not have one more. Without consulting her husband, he had filled the Tamaranean's ravaged body with a volatile mixture of chemicals based on one of Victor Frieze's experimental formulas. He remembered as well attending her doleful funeral, which for him had been a travesty. Then, years of research, moments of hope and, ultimately, failure after failure. Until finally the hand of yet another megalomaniac, new to both his ward and him, had brought his indiscretion to light and granted her another chance at life.

Resurrection.

"I did what I had to do. You know that." Bruce hesitated a moment and then disentangling his hand from the baby's hair, lifted it to lay it lightly on his son's black head. There were no streaks of gray in it now, no sign of age due to the restorative powers of the Lazarus Pit. The risk they had taken ~ he, Ibn, Nightstar and Koriand'r ~ to save the life of this one who was more precious to them than anything had paid off. Bruce sighed. "You are my son. My firstborn in every way that counts. I love you and ~ through you ~ all that is yours."

Dick felt his eyes grow moist. His free hand found his former guardian's and lingered there a moment. "Bruce, I have never seen you so content."

The aging man controlled the shudder his son's words sent snaking down his spine. There were still times ~ even in the midst of the peace and security the end of the Metahuman conflict had engendered, in the heart of the joy that came from settling differences and taking off the masks ~ times when he still experienced the sensation of someone walking over his grave. Or rather, the graves of those he had loved and lost; the heroes who had walked and worked by his side who had gone before. Green Arrow. Black Canary. All the others who had died on that field in Kansas. Jason. his parents. And this one ~ who stood whole and healthy before him now ~ whose first death he had been unable to prevent. Only an odd quirk of fate that bound them both to the deceased madman, Ra's Al Ghul, had preserved his life, allowing him to rise like a phoenix from the liquid fires of the Pit.

The man who was still the Batman took a deep breath and forsook the shadows, consciously choosing to walk in the sun. Still, words escaped him. He simply nodded and then changed the subject. "Come on, the others are waiting."

Clark Kent stood next to his beautiful wife, aware with each passing second of the precious nature of the gift beside him; of her beauty and wisdom, and of the fact that she was his. He still remembered Lois ~ would never forget her ~ but time could heal wounds no matter how deeply felt, and in fact it had. She was talking with Dick's wife on the stone steps of the newly reconstructed Wayne Manor, once more a home, and was busy trying to disentangle young Bruce's fingers from his 'Aunt Kory's' incredibly long and voluminous madder hair. The Tamaranean was laughing.

It still did his heart good to see her here. She had to be a constant reminder to his old friend that life could win. Death did not always have to be the victor. Not until it was time. That was something his friend needed to acknowledge. Should have acknowledged years before. There had been so many long wasted dark years for him. Now. Now there was hope and renewal. Little John Bruce Grayson was the promise and seal of that. They didn't know yet whether he had inherited his mother's powers or would simply be a good man like his father.

It didn't matter.

He had the best of this world ~ old and new ~ to rear him and more than enough love for any child.

"Clark, are you leaving?"

Bruce and Dick emerged from the darkly wood-paneled interior of the Manor with the young man in the lead. His infant son was balanced on his shoulder like an acrobat while his father gently patted the small golden back. John was cooing and laughing with delight. The man who had been the Batman, who no longer chose to wear that mantle for reasons of his own, trailed a few steps behind him and though the sun shone mightily in a clear blue sky, his old friend sensed a dark cloud hanging over him. This was something the Kryptonian had not seen in quite a while and it troubled him.

Nodding to Diana, he moved past Dick to confront him "Bruce."

The silvered head came up. Caught unawares it took him a millisecond to mask the pain in his light blue eyes. Half a millisecond too long to fool his friend. "Eh? Oh Clark, I was thinking."

Clark frowned and looked over his glasses at him, his grey and white eyebrows arched to touch the s-shaped lock on his forehead. "About nothing good it seems. Are you all right?"

The older man glanced at his son where he stood at ease next to the alien princess, raising his own son high over his head and making him seem to fly.

"What? Oh, yes." Bruce's mouth turned up in a wry smile. "Spooking myself, that's all."

"There's a new twist on an old theme." Clark placed his hand on his friend's shoulder. "What is this? You've been so happy. At peace. Is there trouble?"

There was a pause and then he answered, "Nothing I have not created for myself."

"Would you like to talk?"

Bruce glanced again at the man before him, one it seemed he had known forever. One he called friend. He could be honest with him, no matter how much it hurt. Pulling back into the shadows so his voice would not carry to the laughing quartet on the lawn he asked, "Have you ever felt that. Well, that somehow what you have is more than you deserve, and that somewhere out there someone is waiting to take it away?"

Clark was taken aback. "Bruce! What is this?"

His old friend avoided the superhuman's eyes and instead looked at the toes of his boots which were black as usual. Old habits died hard.

"Clark, do you believe in God?"

A light feminine voice spoke with sudden irony. "You are getting old."

"Diana!" Clark lowered his glasses and frowned at her. Sometimes she was not the most subtle of women. "This is important."

She laughed. "You're telling me?"

As soon as the words left his mouth, her husband realized his mistake. He had met her Gods. She had insisted they dedicate little Bruce to them while her mother Hippolyte and several other divine beings had looked on.

"Bruce," Diana spoke, her tone serious and colored with concern. "The important question is: Do you?"

He looked beyond her to his son and daughter-in-law, at their laughing baby and then, at the older couple before him. There was something there. Something he didn't know, couldn't understand. Somehow, no matter how hard he tried, he was always on the outside of it. As if he was afraid.

Now, wasn't that something? The Batman afraid?

"Princess, I just don't know."

Later that night the man who had been the Batman lay in his monstrous bed wide awake. His small grandson lay nearby, sheltered in a warm haven of blankets and pillows, safely nestled so he would not fall. Koriand'r and his father had gone on patrol with several of the other guardians of Gotham and its surrounding areas while he had stayed home to baby-sit.

Baby-sitting. The Batman.

No, not baby-sitting. Surrendering. Letting go.

All a part of growing old.

Of death.

Disturbed without knowing why, but having a sense of what needed to be done, he dialed another old friend and asked for a favor.

The feminine squeal on the other end of the line was enough to tell him she was on her way.

Leaving Barda, one of the New Gods, to watch over his son's treasure, knowing the child was in capable hands ~ probably more capable than his ~ he left the mansion to slip behind the wheel of one of his multitudinous vehicles and speed down the dusty road toward Gotham. Checking the monitors, he made certain the Bat-bots were in place as back-up. Then, confident with his security measures, he turned his attention to the task ahead.

Soon a dark winged figure emerged from the cockpit-like seat of the sedan to move with lightning swiftness over the roof-tops of the darkened city, making his way towards one particular spot. In reality, it was a moment in time he flew towards, one that was forever written upon his heart in blood. A dark place. Or rather, a hallowed place.

If his black heart really knew what hallowed was.

This place. Crime Alley.

The years had actually been kind to it, for it was no longer a stinking filth-ridden byway where good people need fear for their hard-earned savings and their lives. Instead it had been reborn and was once again what it had been when he was a child: A place of light and laughter. A flower-strewn avenue which led to the newly renovated theater district. Most nights it was filled with Moms and Dads, with children, lovers and fools.

Tonight though, it was empty, as if it had known he would come.

Silently he landed, retracting the mechanical wings which had borne him aloft and stepped into the ebon shadows of a newly renovated building. The brilliant blue neon sign atop it, less than three months old, sparked and buzzed, its death gasps casting an eerie glow over the expensive Paver stones that now lined the street.

Here, in the shadow of what had once been a movie theater, Bruce Wayne's life had ended and the Batman's begun. Kneeling he reverently placed a gloved hand on the precise spot where so many years ago his parent's blood had run thick and red. He closed his eyes and listened to the sound of the shot. It still haunted him more than forty years later. So did the vision of his mother's pearls spilling onto the red ground, rolling far and wide as though seeking to escape the insanity.

This was where he had lost his gods. His parents. It was the place where any faith he had had died as well.

"Mom. Dad," he whispered, tears spilling down his thin lined cheeks. "I'm so sorry."

Nightwing raised his head, glancing at the woman who waited beside him. She nodded, a grim determined look on her beautiful heart-shaped face. And then he sighed. This was one of those nights when he had to step back, to let her go in before him, and it was no easier now than it had been the first time he had agreed to do so. But she had insisted. And he understood. Her own return from the dead was miraculous. So had his been. Roy and Donna and so many others had not been so lucky. Their deaths had hit her hard. And then after John's birth, as he held the small wonder in his hands, she had made him grudgingly promise he would learn to recognize his limitations. Learn to admit that his human body was no match for the likes of many of the rag-tag metahuman villains who still ran wild on the earth, venting their anger and frustration in mindless destruction.

The trouble was, he felt really good. Externally and internally he was twenty-five again, rejuvenated thanks to the age-reversing effects of the Lazarus Pit. He could run faster and breath easier than he had in years. He could jump and somersault like a boy of ten. But he also knew these were not his only strengths. He was a master at thinking and planning. Discovering. Detecting.

And being a father.

Kory had held his face in her hands and gazed into his crystal blue eyes, her own jade-green ones full of tears. She wanted him alive. Well. Whole. Not only for her, but for his son. She had argued powerfully ~ and he smiled at the word ~ that she was both stronger and faster than him. That the powers she had were given to her for a reason, X'Hal knew, and she should use them.

To defend her city. To guard her children.

To protect him.

"I have watched you die once, my love," she had whispered, kissing his lips, "I do not intend to do so again."

He could have said the same thing.

He nodded to her now and watched her take off, a fiery crimson trail lighting the night sky as she passed. Soon she was lost from his sight as she descended, dropping down behind one of the supposedly abandoned warehouses below. He drew a deep breath and sighed. Every time he became anxious or frustrated she had told him to hold the image of his young son's face before him and to remember what his own life had been without his father; to consider the man he might have been had the Graysons not plunged to their deaths on that fateful night. And even more, to consider the fate of the man who had taken his father's place. Not all little boys survived. Some did, but others died a little everyday.

Like Bruce.

Waiting for Kory's signal his thoughts turned to the older man and he smiled. Babysitting. Who'd have believed it?

A sudden cry and blast of red-hot solar power alerted him that something was wrong. Kory was not to have attacked but only scouted the area below. Standing tall, he aimed his night-vision glasses at the warehouse, hoping to catch a glimpse of what was going on inside. A second blast erupted and shingles flew off the roof as a solid form burst out and flew away into the night.

It was not his wife.

Telling himself to trust her he waited about ten seconds. And then swift as thought the Night-line snaked out into the darkness and he was gone.

Not far away Nightstar, the striking twenty-something daughter of Nightwing and Princess Koriand'r of Tamaran, paused in her patrol. She had recognized the red star power that illuminated the night and knew her mother was in the midst of a battle. Nodding to the others who patrolled with her and signaling them to go on, she bent her arms toward the glow and her will towards arriving at the scene of the conflict as quickly as possible.

Gliding silently over the old section of Gotham that was her regular beat, she hesitated as she noticed a dark still figure emerging from the shadows of what used to be one of Lex Luthor's prize properties and into the false dawn of the well-lit avenue which led to the Leslie Thompson Memorial Park.

"Grandpa?" she called as she descended to the paved avenue.

"Kory! Kory, where are you?"

Nightwing landed with ease outside of the vast warehouse they had targeted and glanced about warily. Just because he had seen one metahuman take flight, that didn't mean there weren't others left behind. Still he had not received the agreed-upon signal from his wife and that had him worried. Moving through the shadows he found an open window and quickly slipped inside.

Everything was quiet. Too quiet. He drew a deep breath and tried again to place the creature he had seen fleeing the warehouse as he had winged through the dark night towards it. There had been a trace of purple on its costume, like his wife's, but no glow, no power seething from within. It had flown, swiftly, drawing up into a ball and then spurted forward almost faster than his eye could follow.

Someone new no doubt. Another disgruntled grandchild of a hero, or worse, the old hero themselves. Some were down and out, without support, living on the streets. More had perished in that last battle between Captain Marvel and Superman than the ones whose bones had littered the battlefield. Some of the survivors had gone mad, unable to cope with what they had seen.

A sudden noise drew his attention and he halted. Behind a tall stack of wooden crates he spied a thick lock of deep red hair.

"Kory?"

There was a pause and then he called again.

"Kory, is that you?"

"Dick." The word was whispered, curt and short. "Get out of here."

"Kory, I." He glanced left and right and then moved into the shadows cast by the stack of boxes he was near. "I'm coming over."

"Dick, no! Stay where you are." Her voice was urgent, frightened. Then he saw her stand straight up and step into the light. "No!" Hers eyes fastened somewhere above him and she screamed as her starbolts flew. "Get down. Now!"

"What?" His lips formed the question, but even as they did, he obeyed her without thought.

It saved his life.

Seconds later he awoke on the hard wood floor, his head throbbing and pounding. He was nearly blind. As he heard his wife's star power lash out again, he raised a gloved hand to his head and brought it away covered with blood.

That shocked him. Someone or something had shot him. Plain shot him. No super powers. No metahuman surprises. No starbolts or lasers. Just a bullet.

Just a bullet? Quaint in 2022 perhaps, but just as deadly.

From the corona which surrounded her he could tell that Koriand'r now stood in front of the wooden crates nearest him, her hands blazing. She had forsaken her hiding place to protect him. Feeling guilty, as though he had somehow let her down, he tried to crawl towards her, but found the effort left him breathless. He hadn't realized he was that badly hurt. It was just a bullet wound after all. He raised his head to try to tell her that, but found that he had lost his bearings. His head pounded furiously. His vision was blurred. Still, he knew she shouldn't be that hard to find with the power of the unbridled sun pouring through her. Lifting his head again, he found her face and concentrated on it.

It was grim.

More so than a bullet grazing his forehead should have made it, but then again. He grinned. She was rather possessive.

An instant later he regretted grinning and passed out.

From somewhere behind a pile of twisted and burning boxes a pale hand drew back, holstering the automatic weapon it held. A sick grin twisted its already twisted face and a voice low-pitched and surly snarled, "Next time, boy."

Then it was gone.

"Dick? Dick?"

The man in question opened his eyes slowly and tried to focus. Someone was bending over him demanding his attention.

He didn't want to give it.

"Dick. X'Hal," they breathed. Turning to someone else nearby, they said with emotion, "there's so much blood."

"He'll be all right. He's strong," a gruff voice spoke with authority, it's tone harsh as though anger could mask the emotion within it.

He didn't recognize either of them. Or did he? Someone from his past?

Another out of focus face came into his line of sight and a cool hand touched his hot cheek, "Dad? Can you hear me?"

Dad?

Nightwing blinked again and tried to sit up.

"No, you don't." The first voice returned. "Lay back down. You mustn't move. Understand?" Strong hands forced him to obey as they pinned him to the floor. A whispered question was directed toward the owner of the other voice. "Can he be moved?"

"With care. I'll call the Bat-bots. They can carry him to the Manor and keep him steady." It paused. "We wouldn't want to leave him here long. It's drafty. Cold."

Cold? He felt like he was laying on a bed of fire.

"Besides, whoever did this might return."

"With all of us here?" The out of focus face spoke again. "They'd have to be crazy."

Another pause and then, "That's what I am afraid of."

Something beeped, seemingly far away. Nightwing raised a hand to try and chase the sound away and felt a cool hand encircle his. Then he heard a sudden intake of breath.

"Oh my God."

"I can't believe you left him here unattended. Bruce, what got into you?"

Dick Grayson awoke to harsh whispers that he supposed were meant to be too low to disturb him. He licked his lips and opened his mouth to call his wife's name, but his throat was too dry and it came out as little more than a soft croak.

"I didn't leave him unattended. Barda was here. Barda. I left the robots outside as well standing guard. You saw the condition they were in." Bruce hesitated, drawing a breath. "I doubt if even you could have stopped whoever it was."

There was a moment of icy silence. "If I had been here, I would have stopped them. or died."

"Barda almost did." He ran a hand over his forehead. The tall dark-haired woman had been carted off by Diana the day before, taken to the Isle for healing. He hadn't been able to reach Scott yet or her daughter.

Koriand'r watched him, trying to reign in her temper. They had been through this before, several times, the first only moments after they had arrived at the manor with Nightwing's wounded form in tow. She glanced at the hardwood floor near the entrance to the room and frowned. The hole she had blasted through it had been hastily patched and a rug tossed over it.

"I'm sorry ~ for that," she replied, tight-lipped.

Bruce stared at her, almost frantic. "Do you think I wanted this to happen? Don't you think I live every day knowing some crazed maniac may try to take me down, or worse yet, destroy me by destroying what I dare to love?" He hesitated and glanced at his wounded son, feeling the dark shadow hanging over him. "Don't you know they already have?"

A silence fell in the room during which Dick tried to raise his head, desperately wanting to intervene, needing to stop these two people whom he loved from tearing each other apart, but as he did, a severe pain shot through his temples which almost made him black out. Through the ebon night that sought to overwhelm him, he heard his mentor's voice break with emotion.

"If I could take his place I would."

Koriand'r was silent a moment. "I know that," she said at last, though there was no acquittal in her voice. "Bruce, forgive me. I know you are doing all that is humanly possible."

Grim words interrupted her. "No. I won't forgive you. There is nothing to forgive. I have failed. It is I who need to be forgiven, but not now ~ not yet. Not until we find whoever did this! And if I have done everything humanly possible, then I will just have to do what is beyond human strength." He drew a breath and Dick heard his booted feet move swiftly across the floor. "Excuse me, Princess, I have work to do."

Koriand'r's deep voice was strained. "Let me come with you ~ "

"No. You have work as well, here. Keep him safe. You are probably the only one who can. And don't let him get up." The footsteps moved away and out the door. They seemed to disappear but a moment later they were back.

"Koriand'r?"

"Yes, Bruce?"

She was closer to his bed now. Her voice caught and broke on his former guardian's name. He could tell she was crying. Why? Was he worse than he thought? Dick forced his eyes open and turned his head just in time to see his mentor strike away a tear and turn from the door.

"I am sorry."

The movement made him nauseous and he moaned without meaning too. His wife pivoted sharply, suddenly realizing he was awake. She glanced at the hallway but the old man was gone, and then she approached the bed, wiping her eyes quickly and planting a faint smile on a face worn with worry and fatigue.

"Dick? Love, are you awake?"

"Kory?" he whispered hoarsely, swallowed and then tried again, "Kory, what?"

"Shh, be still. You have lost a great deal of blood."

He frowned. That hurt too. "It was just a bullet, " he rasped.

"A bullet, yes. But just? Not quite." The tall red-head laid her hand on his forehead and shuddered at the fever raging there. "Bruce and Clark agree, there is something more to it. Some new technology. I think the word the STAR doctor used was 'nannites'. Apparently the bullet contained them. They are like microscopic living machines and they began to burrow into your veins shortly after the 'bullet' deposited them underneath your skin. They work very quickly and were wrecking havoc with your system. They think they have them stopped for the moment, but." She paused and drew a shuddering breath. "You could have died."

For some strange reason he felt the urge to comfort her. "But I didn't. Kory, I'm here." Her chin trembled and she sobbed once before regaining control. Dick stretched out his hand, refusing to give in to the wave of fatigue that was washing over him, threatening to carry him away. "Kory, what is it?" There had to be more. "Tell me."

She sniffed and for a second her great green eyes grew distant. Bruce had warned her not to. Told her it would be a mistake, that if she told him, she would lose him because once he knew, nothing short of Hell freezing over would keep him in that bed where he belonged and off the streets.

Still, she loved him too much to pretend or lie. And he had a right to know.

Leaning forward she kissed his brow where the bandage covered the damage left by the near fatal shot and then ran long golden fingers through his thick black waves.

"Dick. It's John."

He knew before she said the words. "Oh, God," he whispered.

"The baby is gone."

Continued in Chapter Two