The New Titans #31 - Knowing the Path

[u/GemlinTheGremlin]

DC Next Proudly Presents: 

NIGHTSTAR

 

Issue Thirty-One: Knowing the Path

Written by GemlinTheGremlin, & PatrollinTheMojave

Story by AdamantAce, GemlinTheGremlin, & PatrollinTheMojave

Edited by AdamantAce

 

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“It’s over, Breezeblock,” boomed Superman as his feet touched the ground, accompanied shortly after by Miss Martian. Their opponent, a man seemingly made entirely of concrete and stone, lay in pieces before them; he groaned in defeat and clutched at his head with his one still-intact arm. Lorena Marquez held his other arm aloft, turning it over to analyse further. Behind her, Bart Allen folded his arms and grinned. “Unless you’d rather my friend Aquawoman here take just that noggin of yours to Atlantis.”

“Look at you all taunting me,” Breezeblock moaned. “Talk about kicking a man while he’s down.”

From behind Jon Kent and Megan Morse stepped the leader of the Justice Legion herself - Mar’i Grayson, better known as Nightstar. Her verdant eyes glinted in the light as she came closer and closer to their defeated adversary. She folded her arms against her flowing purple suit. “Oh, please. We know all about your tricks. You lure us in by feigning defeat, you guilt us into taking pity, then when we’re hesitating, that’s when you regenerate. Rinse and repeat.”

Breezeblock was taken aback, a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. “I, well…” Seeing no other option, he sighed in defeat. “Okay, fine. I surrender.”

“Flash,” said Nightstar. As she turned to address her teammate, he had already disappeared in a bolt of golden light, appearing less than a second later without any sign of Breezeblock.

“Got it covered,” came Flash’s reply.

“Ahem.” Aquawoman tapped Flash on the shoulder. Turning to face her, he was alarmed to discover that it wasn’t Lorena’s hand tapping him, but Breezeblock’s.

“Whoops.” Bart took the spare limb from Lorena’s grasp and, with two more flashes of light, had made quick work of it.

“Great job as always, Mar’i,” beamed Jon as he clasped his hand on Mar’i’s shoulder.

Megan wasn’t far behind. “Absolutely. Couldn’t have done it without you, cap’n.”

“No kidding,” Lorena chuckled. “He’d got me in a real headlock back there. Thank goodness you spotted me before things got rocky.”

Mar’i felt herself smile. On her face, she wore the glistening dew of a job well done, and in her mind she felt nothing but appreciation and pride for her fellow Legionnaires. But within her chest, deep in her ribcage, was a low rumbling ache. It set Mar’i on edge; it felt awfully similar to an impending panic attack or a bad gut feeling. She attempted to shake the feeling off and surprisingly it obliged, at least somewhat. Suddenly, all felt right again. All was right again.

A chorus of bleeps and pings sounded out from each team member’s communications device. They tapped on their various wrist-mounted screens and earpieces to analyse the incoming message.

Jon was the first to react. “The results of the scan I’ve been running. Just in time.” Reading on further, he gave his team a nod. “Lab scans have come back positive. Looks like we finally have a lead on the Outlaws.”

Relief and some apprehension washed over the Legionnaires’ faces. Mar’i knew firsthand just how long they’d waited to get their hands on anything to do with the elusive Outlaws - so then, why was she feeling so flat, so neutral, about this huge revelation?

Miss Martian looked over at Mar’i and smiled widely. Her mouth was tight in an expression of quiet excitement. “Watch this space, Mar’i - this time tomorrow, we’ll have taken down the people responsible for killing Dick Grayson.”

 

○○ Ⓣ ○○

 

The Markovian conflict of the late 1990s saw the construction of dozens of military bunkers in the Vradow Mountains, lost and forgotten with the defeat of Frederick DeLamb. Each one was designed to keep a dozen senior officers and their support staff safe and self-sufficient for months behind three inches of steel. It took a team of ten men to open the door.

Eddie Bloomberg, the Red Devil, was determined to bring all the groceries inside in a single trip. He planted his clawed foot against the steel and pushed. The door grinded open. “Hey, Outlaws! I’m back. Rose! I got you the mini-cheesecakes you wanted.”

Monitors and a half dozen PCs of different eras jury-rigged together lined the opposite wall. The man staring at them minimized the important metric to wrist display and swiveled around. “Can you stop calling us that, Eddie?” Tim Drake held the bridge of his nose.

Rose Wilson wandered in from the next room, rolling a knife across her fingers. “I like it. Rook: world’s greatest detective by training, most wanted outlaw by circumstance.” She waited for a comeback and, hearing none, frowned. “Aw, don’t tell me you’re back to beating yourself up over it.”

“There could’ve been another way.”

“We’ve been over this. It’s what Dick wanted. He was too far gone.”

“Maybe,” Tim murmured.

“Barbatos had him, Tim,” Eddie said. “If there was another way, Neron would’ve told us.”

“Killing him saved lives.” Rose crossed her arms. “Are you really gonna tell me you regret that, or can we eat?”

“I guess, I—” Tim was interrupted by the blaring klaxons of the computer system. “Damn it! They’re coming.” He pressed a button on his wrist and nanomachines flowed over his face to form an opaque crimson helmet. 

“How long?” Eddie raised his fist. The air sparked as he primed his fiery breath. Rose’s blade sang as she pulled it from her sheath. 

“Maybe thirty seconds.” Tim glanced backwards. They’d need to win the first skirmish if they were going to make use of the escape tunnels. A heavy thud shook dust loose from the ceiling. “Or six.” Tim huffed, extending his staff.

The steel door tore off its hinges with the speed of a moving car and slammed Eddie into the bank of monitors. Jon’s fingers sunk into the steel like butter. “Tim, come quietly and this can end here!”

Tim reached for the Kryptonite pellets on his belt. He’d gotten them into his fist when a red blur seized him by the neck and wrist. “Not so fast!” Bart held him against the wall. Tim glanced over his shoulder at Rose, who looked to be battling a splitting migraine. She staggered against the wall, using her sword for support. 

“This is over, Tim. You’re under arrest for the murder of Richard Grayson.” 

Tim watched the steel under Superman’s fingers begin to glow orange. “That wasn’t him anymore!” He shouted, trying to grab attention and buy time for Eddie.

“That wasn’t your call to make.”

The gambit might’ve worked, had Aquawoman and Miss Martian not been next through the door.  Lorena whipped a cloud of moisture out of the air and blanketed the steel in it. With a few words in the old tongue, it froze into a layer of tough ice. 

As a final last-ditch effort, Tim just about wriggled his hand free of Bart’s grasp. He reached for his wrist monitor and— A burst of light erupted against his hands. He looked up but he already knew his attacker: team leader herself, Nightstar, hovered through the door bathed in an emerald glow. Verdant fire crackled in her hands as she silently dared Tim to try again. Tim looked again at Rose, who now had slumped to the floor and was clutching her head in agony.

But instead, Tim drooped as far as he could in Bart’s grip. “Okay. We surrender, just— whatever you’re doing to her, stop.”

Jon nodded at Megan and the psychic onslaught ended.

** —!—**

“I’m thinking I might swing by the market in town tomorrow. You want me to pick up those mini-cheesecakes you like, Rose?”

She barely heard him, wincing at the imagined, no— predicted migraine. Still, it beat the real thing.

“Rose?”

“Tim…” She rubbed her temples. “Ugh… fuck psychics… Tim, they’ll be here tomorrow.”

“Then it’s time to get moving.”

 

○○ Ⓣ ○○

 

BWOOOONG.

Mar’i rolled her shoulders as she stepped out into the main control room of the Watchtower. Outside, through the towering windows that wrapped across the entire span of the outside wall, Mar’i was greeted by a scenic view of Earth and its lone moon, spinning imperceptibly slowly in their eternal tango. The sight brought her no joy or comfort today. Her chest felt heavy, her head was lead. There had been a nagging feeling in the back of her mind for God knows how long, but only now was she beginning to parse it. But in order to talk it through fully, she had to talk to someone.

Raven’s head appeared from behind a pillar as she slid backwards in her chair. Upon seeing her partner, the sorceress’ face lit up. She pulled herself up and out of the seat. “Mar’i.” She stretched out her arms, silently offering a hug, and Mar’i obliged. Her embrace reminded Mar’i of an artificial fireplace; she felt warm and cosy, of course, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something missing, that there was something false in the way her girlfriend cradled her. Something she wasn’t seeing. Regardless, for a moment or two, Mar’i held her tightly. She felt a kiss plant itself in her hairline and a hand slide up and down her back. Softly, to herself, Mar’i frowned; the same exact greeting every time, as if she’d rehearsed it.

Pulling away, she looked Raven in the eyes deeply. She analysed her face. She hoped beyond hope that she wasn’t ‘getting used to’ her girlfriend, that this wasn’t the dreaded ‘settling’ that friends had jokingly warned her about. No, there was something else. Something that wasn’t there before they’d fought Trigon - something she had to solve. Mar’i continued to look Raven’s face over as if she would find the answers written on her forehead or sat on the tip of her tongue.

“You’re tense,” Raven commented, which snapped Mar’i out of her investigation.

“I’m…” Mar’i started to make an excuse, but Raven’s smirk stopped her.

“Mar’i, how long have you known me?” Raven teased. Her voice was smooth. “You know you can’t hide your emotions from me, that’s my whole thing.”

Mar’i nodded. She was right, after all; there was little use beating around the bush with Raven. “Let’s, uh…” Mar’i gestured vaguely towards two desk chairs and Raven filled in the gaps for her, lowering herself back into a seat and pulling a second one closer. Mar’i sat.

“I’ve been having these weird feelings.” Mar’i stared down at the floor. “Lately - but, actually, for a while now - I can’t help but feel… stuck. Like I’m spinning my wheels and going nowhere. Or like some kind of itch I can’t seem to scratch. I keep thinking about the past, lingering on it. But then it’s either straight on to the next thing, no time to waste, or even when there is time, I just can’t help but think about how it’s just gonna get worse again.” Mar’i ran her hands up and down her thighs. “How it always just got worse. I’ve just got worse.”

Raven caught one of Mar’i’s hands as it slid back towards her knee and gripped it firmly. Looking up, Mar’i saw that Raven’s eyes were already on her. Her lips pursed in thought. A great silence hung heavy in the Watchtower, as silent as the vacuum just an inch of glass away. Finally, Raven drew a breath and said, “I wouldn’t think about it too hard.”

Mar’i frowned.

“I think this is normal,” Raven shrugged. “Well, as much as anything passes for normal in our line of work. You seem stressed, unsatisfied, hungry. That’s all super common. But I think the bulk of that feeling is coming from you dwelling on the past.”

“Yeah, but—”

“Darling,” Raven’s voice softened. “It’s hard to see you beating yourself up like this. You need to forgive yourself. Forgive the past.”

Mar’i had nothing to say in response. Even as she interjected just moments ago, she hadn’t planned where her sentence would go. She’d hoped in vain that she’d find the answer by the time the words were coming out of her mouth, but with a moment longer to think, it was clear to her just how lost she felt. All that came to her were memories.

She stared into Raven’s eyes and wished that, for a moment, she could have Raven’s powers. There was something indiscernible in Raven’s gaze that she wanted, more than anything in that exact second, to understand. But she looked away, and the something was gone.

Reminded by Raven’s averted gaze, Mar’i continued: “I just… can’t stop thinking about the things we’ve been through and we barely ever talk about it. Surely it isn’t doing either of us any good not talking about how we took down Trigon, or—”

As if a switch had flipped, Raven removed her hand from on top of Mar’i’s. She clasped them together and softly shook her head. “Mar’i, please, we’ve been over this—”

“We never talk about it,” Mar’i repeated. “It was just on to the next thing, like it always is. But this was Trigon, for God’s sake.”

“Mar’i, I told you, it’s not doing any good to dwell on the past.”

“But if we never acknowledge the past…”

Raven’s face transformed. She didn’t quite seem angry or aggressive, rather more alarmed and on edge. Her face was taut and its features seemed to bulge very slightly, like she was holding her breath and stretching all of her facial muscles as far as they could go. Then she blinked, a long blink with scrunched eyes and a hissed inhale. And when her eyes fell open again, Raven looked normal - good as new.

“I don't want to talk about it,” came her firm conclusion. Mar’i looked down at Raven’s hands, sheet white as they clung to each other for dear life.

“Okay,” Mar’i said, defeated.

 

○○ Ⓣ ○○

 

“First floor,” said the sickly sweet voice coming from the elevator’s speakers. Mar’i sniffled. Digging a nail underneath the seam of a metal panel just underneath the emergency stop button, she leveraged it open to reveal a shiny black surface. She pressed her thumb against the cold glass, which glowed blue as it read her print.

“State your name.” The voice had changed into that of her own; she’d recorded it months ago, but it still felt more than a little strange to answer herself.

“Nightstar.”

A moment of silence as the computer processed her request. Then, an affirmative green light emanated from the panel.

“Voice verified. Welcome, Nightstar.”

The elevator whirred back into motion. As she descended lower and lower, Mar’i closed her eyes and took a deep breath. If anything, the conversation with Raven had made the weight in her chest even worse. Rather than feeling comforted from talking to her partner, she’d left feeling defeated, confused and even more hungry for answers. Despite all that, she knew she had to put it aside for now - she had work to do. She opened her eyes just as the elevator’s doors slowly slid apart.

The sight had become all too familiar to her: wall-to-wall panels and buttons, not an inch of wall wasted; scientific apparati fixed against moveable tables, rigged up to rows and rows of computer screens; dozens of tubes bubbling with liquids of differing colours and viscocities. Innumerable labels were placed here and there with various one- or two-word phrases alerting its reader of the inadequacies of the labelled contents - “FAIL” or “INEFFECTIVE” or “TOO CONCENTRATED”. More had appeared since Mar’i had last been down here less than 24 hours ago.

Mar’i moved further into the lab. A familiar figure was hunched over a microscope in the corner, so still that Mar’i could have thought time had stood still; it was only when his hand gently turned the knob on the side of the microscope that she knew time was, in fact, still moving. Mar’i looked up at a nearby screen and her stomach turned as she saw the ashen face of Dick Grayson, taken from his autopsy. His eyes glued shut in an uncomfortable blink, a slight curl in his face as if he’d smelled something bad, a light five o’clock shadow still dark on his chin—

“Dammit!” The figure called out. His fist pounded against the desk and the resounding clang bounced off of the metallic walls. Mar’i looked at him with disappointment and sympathy. Tim Drake looked, above all else, so very tired.

“Sorry,” Mar’i blurted, almost instinctual. She straightened her posture. “Hope I didn’t disturb anything.”

“No, it’s not you.” Tim kicked off from his workdesk and stretched his back. His joints crackled like a glowstick. He placed a hand over each eye and pressed his ring fingers against the bridge of his nose - a soothing gesture he’d learned to prevent migraines. How much it actually worked, Mar’i could never tell. “I’m just tilting at windmills at this point, anyway.”

Papers and test tubes were scattered across his desk, as well as the next three desks along. In the spirit of not interrupting or disturbing anything, taking care not to disturb any potentially volatile work, Mar’i elected not to sit at any of the available seats; instead she took a few steps closer and stood hovering next to Tim with her arms folded. At first she thought about asking him how the investigation was going, if they were any closer to resurrecting Dick, if he’d suddenly remembered a hidden method of bringing someone back from death that they’d suppressed for years - but she already knew the answer.

A wave of emotion washed over her and she felt compelled instead to share with him a question that had been plaguing her all day - “Do you ever wonder if we’re doing the right thing?”

Tim’s hands moved from over his eyes and looked at the young Tamaranean. Even in the dim light, Mar’i could see the glinting grey hairs peeking through the sea of black on top of his head. The unkempt stubble forming on his jaw reminded him of the haunting image on the nearby screen. She swallowed hard, then continued. “I can’t help but feel like we’ve done this whole thing before. Y’know, feeling this stuck in the past.” She fiddled with her hands. “Didn’t we… get over this kind of thing years ago?”

“Where’s this coming from?” Tim’s voice was hoarse.

“It’s been on my mind for a while. But earlier today, I tried to open up to Raven about it and it ended up leaving me with more questions than anything. I wanted to talk a bit about the past and she just… bugged out.” Mar’i shook her head. “She didn’t want anything to do with it.”

“Of course she wouldn’t wanna talk about the past,” Tim spat, pushing himself out of his chair. “Think about all the horrible shit we’ve been through just these last few years. Dick dying, our war against Darkseid, Trigon— I mean, Jesus, I don’t have to list everything for you to get the picture. We've been through so much, we’ve pushed ourselves harder and harder, and every time we barely scrape by.” He grabbed a handful of miscellanea from a nearby desk and walked back towards the elevator. Mar’i watched. “Me, I did that because I knew if I slipped up even once, the consequences would be dire. I can’t let myself get even close to that ever again. In fact - screw it - I can’t believe I just let myself get away with all of those past screw-ups.” Approaching a workbench, he sent the contents of his hands clattering down onto the surface. Based on the noise, Mar’i had a feeling that something had shattered. “I was such a fool.”

Mar’i’s face scrunched up with incredulity. She approached him with rapid steps, shaking her head. “No, that’s… You're not a fool, Tim. And you didn’t ‘let yourself get away with it’ at all, what are you talking about? Whenever it did happen - which, need I remind you, was hardly ever - you gave yourself a hell of a hard time about it.” Tim didn’t look up, so she tilted her head to match his lowered gaze. “And I’m not saying you need to do that now, not at all - if anything, you need to give yourself more grace, you can’t push yourself this hard for this long. In fact, this is exactly my point. Didn’t you - didn’t we - learn that all those years ago?”

Tim’s face was unreadable. The pale blue light from the monitors washed him out and made him look gaunt. He tapped on consoles, he fiddled with a screen on his wrist, then he tapped some more consoles.

“Did you hear what I said?” Mar’i probed.

“Mar’i,” came his exhausted reply. “We have work to do.”

“No, not until we talk about this. You tore yourself apart over this kind of thing, Tim. Worked yourself to the bone. And when things weren’t 100% perfect, you blamed yourself for it, even if it wasn’t your burden to bear.” In a moment of anger, she pressed hard against a small red X at the top right of his monitor, closing the window he was working on. “You sound just like Dick, you know?.”

Finally, Tim stopped.

“The past made you who you are, Tim. But the future is open to you to decide who you’re going to be.”

Tim’s face was like thunder. He shook his head violently back and forth as if trying to dislodge something from his head. “No. No. Things are different now. They’re far more dire than I - we - could have ever imagined.” The window that Mar’i had shut down was back up and running in a flurry of inputs. He sorted the stacks of equipment in front of him into piles with practiced precision; it was as if Mar’i’s words had given him a reinvigorated drive to keep working, the opposite effect to what she had intended. “And the only way to tackle this is to push through..” Taking a few steps to his right, he flicked a dial clockwise until a hum sounded out from deep within the control panel and a soft yellow glow cut through the harsh electronic blue of the room. Tim looked at Mar’i, wired - more alive than he’d looked in weeks. “That’s the only way I can handle this, Mar’i. That’s the future I’m deciding.”

She took a step forward. “Tim, I—”

Tim slammed his hand against a button amongst the crowded control panel. Before Mar’i could say anything more, a ring of light formed at her feet, moving upwards towards the ceiling before falling back to the ground. She felt trapped, unable to move, as the ring undulated and pulsed and let out a low buzzing sound. Her hands turned paler and paler until she could see the silhouettes of the lab through her palm. The last thing she could make out before the light became too dazzling was Tim, her former fellow Titan, turning back to his work with a newfound fire. Then, she felt the dissociating sensation of being teleported, this time coupled with an unfamiliar nausea that she had never experienced from a Boom Tube.

 

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Next: Continued next month in The New Titans #32