Nightwing 1. An Introduction

An Introduction:

My name is Dick Grayson, and I have died.

Most of you know me as The Boy Wonder, the first Robin, Batman or Nightwing. Maybe you don't know. It's okay if you don't. I didn't even know until recently.

When I say I died, I don't mean my heart has stopped beating. What I meant was that for almost two years, a brother and I had a severe case of amnesia. I didn't even know my name, my family or why I was being kept in an asylum for the insane. So technically, if you think about it, Dick Grayson had died; his body left to a confused and lost child.

Those first few months were hell, and I thought maybe it was. That perhaps the nightmares that haunted my evenings were memories of the sins I had committed in life; that the doctors and nurses who killed, raped and tortured patients were demons, and that the man with the painted grin was the devil himself.

I had been right about it all, and it hurts to think about how optimistic I had been. Expecting to escape and return home to a loving mother and caring father, maybe even a family of my own. A normal life in sense. Not that I'm ungrateful to have returned home to Wayne Manor, but after realizing that my nightmares were in fact my reality, was horrible to say the least.

I don't wish it never happened though. During that time I learned more about myself than before, and amongst all those devils and monsters, there was one angel. I know, I know. It sounds corny and lame. But it's the truth. Even if he doesn't believe he's a hero, or anyone else for that matter. I know how much he sacrificed to help me escape, and that debt will never be settled. I only hope that if he's reading this that he understands he's made the right choice in leaving. I can't escape my old life like he could. We were given the chance to start over, but I couldn't.

I'm sorry.

With all my regrets,

Richard John Grayson.

Aka, your John Doe.


	2. Chapter 1

"_I am no bird; and no net ensnares me. I am a free human being with an independent will."_ –_Charlotte Brante_

At first I thought it was a dream. The way the light fell upon the white walls and bed sheets, revealing dust that swam and created shapeless figures. I was content with not recalling anything in those first few minutes, drifting in and out of sleep. It took awhile before I started to realize I had never been here before; or at least I couldn't remember coming here.

Ten minutes of staring blankly at the ceiling passed; I started to realize I couldn't remember anything. Where memories should have been, a large black cloud blocked my mind. Even the simplest, most important fact was absent. My identity.

Despite the agony that gushed through my chest, I struggled desperately to sit up. After multiple failed attempts, I was able to prop myself against the headboard of the bed. Rubbing gently against my tender muscles I examined my surroundings.

The room was plain. A chair, desk, and bed were the only pieces of furniture. Then there were two doors, one open revealing a small bathroom, and the other closed with a small square window.

I sat on the edge of the bed, feet brushing against the cool floor. It took all my strength to stand. I stood shakily for a moment before my legs buckled below me. I fell to the ground in a heap of sore limbs.

Rolling onto my back I groaned at the pain. I flexed my toes and fingers, attempting to return blood and feeling to them. It took forever but satisfied I could feel them again, even if they were still sore, stood slowly. Using the wall as support I took a step; then two, then seven, until I was at the door of the bathroom.

Resting my head against the mirror I took a small moment to congratulate myself on the achievement. My legs and hands were shaking and sitting on the floor seemed like a fantastic reward, but I had come in here for a reason. The sink to supported my weight as I looked into the mirror on the wall.

Gazing back at me was a handsome man with tangled dark hair and blue eyes. It took a moment to realize it was I looking back. He-_I _smiled happily. I didn't know if it was vanity, but I felt relieved I looked like _this._

"What's your name?"I questioned aloud. The answer stayed hidden in the blank pages of my mind, and I frowned slightly. _Where am I? Who am I? Where is my family? Do I even have a family?_

My legs no longer felt like collapsing as I stood in front of the mirror. Determined to remember something, I continued questioning the reflection on everything. From the scars littering my skin, to what my favorite color was (I decided it was to be blue). I stood there for hours as I tried remembering who I was. I knew basic facts like countries, oceans, and planets. I even could recite pi to the fortieth decimal, maybe even farther if I wrote it. But when I tried thinking of my name, family or anything personal, there was nothing. Just black.

My interrogation had ceased with a click and the sound of footsteps. They continued until I could see shadows beyond the bathroom door. A mix of fright and hope made my heart race. Nervously I peeked outside the bathroom to see two men in scrubs, similar to my own, scowling back at me.

"Did you take your medication yet?" one demanded.

"Uh," I stumbled for words puzzled. "Excuse me?"

The other rolled his eyes and pushed his way into the small bathroom. I towered over him in height. "How tall am I?" I blurted aloud and immediately received a disapproving look from the man. Instantaneously I followed with and apology.

He pointed out a small orange medicine bottle and drinking glass beside the sink. "You're supposed to take two of these a day, before your sessions."

I shook my head lamely still not understanding and his patience had worn thin. "Take it, now," he demanded grabbing my hand and forcing it open. Shaking two white pills into my palm he then filled a glass beside the sink with water.

I reluctantly accepted the glass and drank the capsules down. Following me between beady eyes, his gaze never left as I swallowed. I don't even think he blinked once.

"Open," he instructed. Hesitantly I opened my jaw and allowed him to look inside my mouth. "Lift your tongue." Satisfied I hadn't hidden the pills he left the room. I followed behind him, unsure what else to do.

The other man leaned against the door looking bored. My earlier surveillance of height turned out to be wrong. I was nearly a foot shorter than the second man, but each also had at least fifty pounds on me. When his friend had returned they both studied me. "You think we should leave him here?"

The man who had given me the pills scoffed. "Nah, we'll drop him by Crane's office. Doc will wanna' see."

_Crane, that name sounds familiar. _I noted mentally. "Who's Dr. Crane?" I announced. The two men laughed cruelly at what I had said.

"He's your therapist." The tall one answered walking towards me.

I pulled away as he tried to grab my arm. "Where am I?"

"Arkham Asylum," the short one answered nonchalant. The tall one clutched my arm tightly and pulled me from the room into the hall. Doors identical to mine stretched in rows along the walls of the hallway.

"Let go!" I demanded, pulling from his grasp again. The shorter one reached for his pocket but the tall man held a hand up to stop him. Neither men were physically fit; I could outrun them, even fight them if I had to. But I didn't know where I would go, or how to escape this place.

"Look kid," It was the tall one talking. "We're just taking you to your therapy. You can either come with us, or get put in solitude."

The other man hovered his hand above his pocket threateningly. Realizing whatever was in his pocket was probably a weapon I became even more reluctant to comply; looking down the hallway I searched for any means of escape. Only white doors lined the walls for as far as I could see. Reluctantly I nodded and allowed the tallest to grasp my arm in order to guide me.

They walked on either side of me, as I was lead through multiple hallways. They had said I was to be taken to a Doctor at least. He would most likely own records containing my name. The thought that I would be able to find out who I was had become a small comfort knowing that whoever I was got me locked in an asylum. My imagination began to spin out of control, ensnaring me in a web of fearful anticipation. People aren't locked in mental asylums for no reason. Had I hurt someone? Was that why I had scars? The realization struck and I felt as though what little hope I had left was crushed. It all fit too well together and I began to dread learning my identity.

Ten minutes I walked quietly beside these strangers. We passed numerous doors identical to mine. Sometimes a face would peer out and watch in eerie silence as we passed. Other patients banged on the doors screaming non-sense. Sometimes to me, other times to my escorts. Horrifyingly it was mostly towards me. For once I was grateful to be shielded by the two men.

We reached the end of another hallway and they stopped outside a door. It was exactly like all the others we passed, except for a gold plaque below the window with the words _Doctor Jonathon Crane _engraved in delicate lettering.

The short man looked inside as he pulled out a collection of keys from his nurse's pocket.

"Dr. Crane," he called unlocking the door. The other man griped me roughly by the elbow. The name continued to give me an uneasy feeling. As though, it was a forewarning. Subconsciously I began to back away from the door, but the grip on my arm tightened to hold me in place.

The room was built in mock similarity to a therapy office. In the corner was a lounge couch, beside it a large wooden desk held stacks of paper and a figure hunched over writing. In front of the desk was another chair, like where a patient would sit. The theme was ruined however by the hospital bed and Crane, who was dressed in patient garments identical to mine. He glanced up as the door opened and smiled charmingly.

"Afternoon." He greeted and I felt queasy. I knew him, and I knew that I shouldn't be with him.

"You have a new patient." The man with they keys explained and grabbed my other arm. I fought as the two men pushed me forward into the room.

I struck backwards hitting the tallest man in the chin. He cried out and fell backward. Turning to strike the second nurse I was met with a piece of cool metal pressed against my hip. A foreign instinct told me to freeze. Looking down I recognized the silver color of a pistol as it pushed against my side.

"Get inside." He growled and reluctantly I stepped backwards into the room. The taller man stood glowering at me then quickly closed the door. There was a click of the lock leaving me trapped. Turning slowly to the Doctor I realized he could care less about what had just transpired.

This 'Doctor' Crane sat at his desk, writing down notes. Without looking to me he questioned: "How long ago were you given the pills?"

"About twenty minutes ago," I answered warily. My eyes sought for anyway of escape. There were no windows or doors other than the one I had entered and a bathroom in the far corner. I was trapped.

Crane looked up from his work and smiled me, but it felt unwelcoming. "Take a seat. Please." He gestured to the chair in front of his desk. I continued standing, but I felt dizzy from the adrenaline rush.

Realizing I was to be stubborn, he stood and circled around his desk to stand in front of me. "So you're Nightwing?"

Confused by the question, I thought about my answer then reluctantly answered "…sure?"

Crane's smile faltered slightly. "Do you remember your name?"

A tinge of hope struck me. "No, do you? Know my name?" I stepped forward eagerly.

"I've only ever known you as Robin and Nightwing." He looked about his room then back to me. "You really should sit. Those pills you took don't always settle well."

Reluctantly I moved to the seat across his desk. The doctor however continued standing. His glasses sat at the edge of his nose as he studied me from above. "You should know the other one is here."

"The other one?" I asked. Everything he was saying made no sense.

"The other Robin," he explained as if it were obvious. I stared blankly at him; the name meant nothing to me. Crane shook his head and laughed to himself.

"The protector of blüdhaven, the dark knight's assistant and greatest accomplice. You?" Whoever he thought I was, it was apparent Crane found it humorous.

"I think you're confusing me with someone else," I tried to explain. "I don't remember anything-"

"No I believe you're Nightwing," he lifted a hand to quiet me. "But you and Hood both seem convinced you can't remember anything. That may be true, but that's why I'm here. To help you remember." The way Crane talked made me feel sick. His intensions no longer sounded beneficial.

Glancing to a clock on his wall he smiled. "Before we start, I'd like to show you something." He returned behind his desk and opened a drawer. My face was beginning to grow warm and I realized that feeling of sickness had grown into my throat. My hands were becoming clammy and I felt as though I were going to be sick. Recalling what he had said earlier about the pills I quickly stood, but Crane was watching me from behind the desk. I felt so queasy I couldn't focus on what he held in his hand.

"Are you feeling alright?" he asked unconcerned.

My mind swam as the floor began spinning below my feet. Without answering I turned towards the bathroom, but Crane had moved from behind the desk and was blocking my way. How he moved so quickly confused me momentarily but my thoughts shifted back to my one goal. Reaching the bathroom before-

The thought was ceased when his hands stroked my face. In one hand he held a piece of fabric that scratched and irritated my skin. I pulled away from the touch. My vision was becoming blurred and colors swam and blended with each other. Placing all concentration on sight I tried focusing on Crane. The Doctor no longer stood in front of me.

A creature's head was a tan sack with crude stitching for its mouth and eyes. The shock had caused me to fall backwards onto the floor with a yell. It's mouth opened and closed, black animals crawled from the openings and swarming around the room. The _thing _leaned forward, spilling black goo and the furry animals onto my lap. The feeling of nausea returned, reminding me of the bathroom. Striking forward with my heel I hit the mask. There was a cry of pain as Crane stumbled backwards. The rooms atmosphere changed momentarily, the bats and the horrid things disappearing long enough for me to focus on the escape of the bathroom.

Standing to run, I felt a hand grasp at my heel. There was a stinging sensation that spread through my leg. I was too quick though, and escaped before the second hand could clamp down. Running to the bathroom I could hear Crane yelling behind me. My stomach heaved painfully and I could feel the vile spill from my mouth. I placed a hand over my lips hoping that would somehow delay it.

Crane banged against the door with his whole weight. Using my strength I held it shut as I fumbled for the lock. Hot liquid spilled from my mouth again and between my fingers as I struggled to force the door closed. The majority spilled past my hands and onto my shirt. Finally the lock clicked into place and I stepped away.

Gagging again, I quickly went to the toilet. Bending over the bowl it smelled of bleach making my head feel dizzy and the sickness in my stomach worsen. The world began spinning and I griped tightly to the edges of the bowl, forcing myself to stay upright. Another lurch forced the awful substance from my stomach and into the bowl. My mouth tasted of horrible sour acid, yet something bitter and wrong mixed with it. Through my blurred vision I could make the color of my vomit, red.

Horrified I struggled to breathe as the next wave spilled. Again and I again my stomach rejected its contents. The pain so intense that tears trickled down my cheek between each heave. I became convinced I was vomiting blood. My mind clouded with sickness and fear, I became hysterical. There was nothing I could do; I was going to die.

My body shook so badly that I could no longer kneel beside the toilet. Lying on the floor I stared hazily at my hands. Red covered them. The blood was beginning to dry, leaving red stains down my arms, chest and clothes. I pulled my hands close to my chest in mock comfort. Doctor Crane could be heard outside laughing and talking. The words made little sense to me and I tuned them out through the fatigue.

My stomach, with nothing left to reject, continued to spasm painfully. Drained of all feeling or indication I was to survive, I laid still. I was in pain, but too weak to care or change it. My sight was nothing more than fuzzy colors and my hearing filled with roaring. Convinced this was the last moment of my life, I pulled my legs closer to my chest in order to rest more comfortably. Black slowly began to chase the colors from my vision until it was all I could see.

I awoke to the feeling of a cool damp fabric washing away the filth from my face. Unlike the fabric of Crane's mask, it felt soft and comforting. Grateful to whoever it was I struggled to open my eyes. My vision was still fogged, but I could see brown and a misplaced blur of white. I tried to thank them, but it came out raspy and barely audible.

The stranger paused for a moment. "No problem." He answered simply before continuing. Silence passed awhile before the last of the filth had been removed from my face.

The cloth moved to my hands where it rubbed gently over my palms, even in-between my fingers. Allowing my eyes to open again, they struggled to adjust to the light. My vision became clear and I could see the man helping me.

He was young, early twenties probably. Hair lighter than mine hung in front of his face, but a single streak of white contrasted against the rest. His blue eyes were glaring at my hands as he gently rubbed away the crusted vile. Feeling ashamed of my current condition, and pitying the stranger cleaning me like a child, I withdrew my hand from him.

Looking up he began to protest but I shook my head and took the rag from him. Reluctantly he sat back and watched as I scrubbed my hands. The color resembled nothing of the red liquid I had seen earlier. It was instead a translucent yellow that smelled horrid. I was relieved it wasn't blood, but humiliated of being found like this. I vaguely wished I had died.

"Do you still feel sick?" he asked waiting patiently as my mind struggled to comprehend what he was saying.

"No," I answered simply, avoiding his gaze. He was a stranger, one I would probably never see again, but I couldn't help feel familiarity with him. I felt like I should trust him, and before I had thought about it I spoke again: "I was convinced it was blood."

He blinked then leaned back, away from me. He studied me for a moment before asking, "They had you take the pills?"

I nodded and he looked as though he were hiding his true emotions; "What's your name?"

I opened my mouth to answer from habit, but closed it when I realized I didn't know it. Recalling what Dr. Crane had called me; "Robin," I answered quickly. I liked the name, but felt it wasn't meant for me.

The stranger's blue eyes widened and he muttered the name to himself. "Nightwing?" he questioned, but it hadn't been for me.

"That's what Scarecrow had called me," I explained, excited that my identity may not be completely unknown. It was quickly replaced with fear. I was still in Crane's bathroom; he would still be outside that door.

The stranger tilted his head in confusion. "Scarecrow?"

Disregarding what he had just asked, I looked between the door and the stranger. "Dr. Crane, he attacked me, I was able to get in here before-"

The expression the stranger was giving me told me I was making no sense. "What?" I asked.

"This isn't Crane's room." He said positive.

"Who's room is it then?"

He shrugged and I stood, determined to prove we were in fact, in Crane's room. Ignoring his protests, I walked carefully to the door leading from the washroom and opened it. I was no longer in Crane's office.

The desk with piles of papers and lounge chair were now gone. Instead a simple, brightly lit white room sat outside the door. A bed with rumpled sheets was at the far end. It was my room; the one I had awoken in this morning. I looked back into the bathroom. The floor stained with splatters of vomit, and the stranger sat in the far corner.

"Are you alright?" he asked warily.

"How…" I stumbled for words. I couldn't explain it. Was it all just a hallucination? It couldn't be. Crane had attacked me, I remember feeling of fear from the mask, and the pain of his nails scratching into my heel. Realizing that would be something I could use for proof, I eagerly lifted my pant leg. Four wide scratches circled my ankle. It had drawn blood even, leaving scabs and pink skin as evidence. It hadn't just been a hallucination.

I looked to the stranger, expecting him to instantly understand the importance of the marks. He stood in the doorway with a raised eyebrow as I showed him the skin. "See, I had been in Crane's room earlier! He attacked me and left this!"

He looked skeptical, "How do you know you didn't scratch yourself when you were puking your guts out?"

I shoved the pant leg back over the marks and glared at him. "He was here! I saw him, and he wore some sort of," I waved my hands in front of my face, "burlap mask."

"You called him scarecrow."

I paused. "I did?"

"Yeah, when you first woke up." the stranger said. "Why'd you call him that?"

I thought for a moment. I remember calling him scarecrow, but why I couldn't fathom. It just…_fit. _"Maybe cause he wears a burlap sack on his head?" I answered, trying to sound sarcastic.

The stranger frowned before asking, "And you saw him with his mask, today?"

Again, I gestured to my ankle. "It had to be. The skin is still pink."

"And that means…what exactly?"

"Scratched skin only stays raised for about twenty minutes max. The color, however can stay pink for hours, depending on the scratch." I stepped back, shocked at all the info I just said. That wasn't something everyone one just knew. I thought for a moment, grasping onto where I could have learned that, but it was gone in an instant.

The stranger scoffed. "Were you some kind of doctor or something?"

I thought about that for a moment then decided that was unlikely. Judging my current personality I would be too chatty for a doctor. I needed to focus on the problem at hand. "Look, I saw Crane. I was in his room. I need to find him and ask him what he knows about me."

Again the stranger scoffed, then stood upright. "Good luck with that."

I assumed he would maybe leave. It didn't bother me; I needed to think about this. Figure out what had happened. A realization struck me. "How'd you get in here?" I asked looking around the room. The door leading outside my room was still shut.

"Your doors unlocked." He answered unconcerned. "They keep 'em unlocked twenty-four seven."

I laughed to myself at my stupidity. Of course it would be unlocked this whole time. "Isn't that a bit dangerous? Letting psychopaths wander the halls?"

He laughed. "Nah. They keep the real nutters in ward two. Locked up nice and tight." He wrapped his arms around his chest, mocking a straight jacket.

"Is that where Crane is?" I asked eagerly.

"He was. They released him a month ago." The stranger watched my curiously, awaiting my reaction.

"No," I shook my head denying the information. "He he's still here."

"He's not." The stranger replied.

"He is!" I growled frustrated. The stranger stepped back from me, glancing longingly to the door. "Get out," I demanded, running a hand through my hair.

He moved to the door then turned once more. "It's twelve o'clock. They're serving lunch down the hall and to the left. You can't miss it."

I watched angrily as he shut the doo behind him. Crane was here. I was going to prove it. He had to be here.


End file.

Nightwing, Horror, Mystery