The August Alternate Ending In the midst of creating August, it should surprise no one that a couple alternative endings were conceived for the story. Most of them (thankfully) did not make it past a "wouldn't it be awful/cool/interesting if we did this?" stage, but one (unfortunately) actually found print. It is fair to say that most of the Potato committee has a love/hate relationship with the alternative ending, as it spawned a thoroughly terrible AU that we all have toyed with a little bit, usually leaving off half finished stories feeling completely chilled and sorry we ever did it. But we thought we'd pass some of it along anyway. Don't hate us. You'll probably be happier if you don't read it. But if you decide to take the plunge, the alternative ending departs the canon August as of the August 18, 1600 timestamp. To remind you of what was happening then: The Machete Assassin had been taken down that morning. Batman had returned to Gotham to finish the case against Blockbuster. Dick had finally been moved upstairs and was showing the first signs of responsiveness. Filb and Amy had taken Spud to lunch and returned him to the Grayson home sound asleep. Dinah had suffered a bit of a breakdown and been taken back to the Manor to rest. In the alternative ending, Tim also has made his way back to Gotham, but has not suffered the breakdown seen in canon. So that's it. It's all in one post because it's safer to keep it contained. Read at your own risk. :) August 18, 1954 The ringing of the phone woke Dinah instantly. She resisted the urge to answer it herself, knowing Alfred regarded such actions as a reflection on him. That it had already taken him five rings to answer would gall the gentleman's soul -- if Dinah were to answer for him? A sixth ring, and then Alfred's cultured tones drifted through her open door. "Wayne Manor." Dinah lay on the bed, deciding whether to get up. Alfred's voice continued. "Yes, Miss Barbara. I was planning to go pick her up in just a -- Miss Barbara, what's wrong?" Dinah sat bolt upright, listening intently. "Dear God," Alfred breathed, and Dinah snatched up the phone. " -- id all they could, but he just -- his heart --" Babs voice dissolved into weeping. "Babs? Babs, I'm here. Is it Dick?" "He's gone. I can't believe he's gone," she sobbed. "Babs, is someone with you? Where's Spud?" "He's still sleeping. It happened so fast. He--" "Babs, listen to me. Is there someone with you?" "He looks so peaceful..." There was a pause and suddenly a new voice was on the line. "Hello?" "Who is this? Is Babs -?" "My name is Doris," the strong, matronly voice assured her. "I work for STAR Labs as a nurse. I came down with the team, but I thought it best if I stayed." "Is she okay? What happened?" Dinah asked. She dimly wondered where Alfred had gone, but her priority was Babs. "Is this her mother?" Doris asked. "I'm her partner, Dick's step-mother. Dinah." "Well, Dinah, she's just lost her husband after a grueling 3 day fight." Dinah closed her eyes. "No," she whispered. "When?" "She called us when he started crashing at 7:45. Doctor's called it at 7:53." "Miss Doris," Alfred's voice interrupted, sounding faintly unsteady, "if you would be kind enough to stay with her until the family -- " "Absolutely." She paused. "I met Nightwing more than once, when he was with the Titans. He was a good man." "One of the best," Alfred agreed quietly. "One of the best." August 18, 1956 Alfred gently removed the receiver from Dinah's hands, replacing it back on the phone's base. "Miss Dinah--" She looked up, not really seeing him, remembering instead how it was when Ollie died. She would have done anything to spare her friend that feeling -- anything. "Miss Dinah, one of us needs to tell Master Bruce." Bruce! He -- she didn't know what he would do. She'd run afoul of his strange inability to grieve before they were married, after Jim Gordon had died. That had been bad. This -- She anxiously met Alfred's eyes, but there were no answers there -- just the tired pain of an old man. She took a deep breath. "I'll do it. And Leslie and the community?" Alfred looked visibly relieved. "I can make those phone calls." He stood and walked toward the door, where he hesitated. "Miss Dinah?" "Yes, Alfred?" "Don't let him -- at least get him to --" "I'll do what I can, Alfred." She rose to her feet and began what felt like the longest walk of her life. August 18, 1957 "Damn," Roy cursed as the phone at the Titan's communication center began ringing. He wrestled with the game controller, seeking to boost his score the few more points he needed to beat Impulse's high score. The phone, however, was a potent distraction, and he found himself suddenly mowed down by enemy drones. He threw the controller down in disgust and picked up the phone. "Titans Tower." He managed to sound almost civilized. "Is this Master Roy Harper?" Roy felt his stomach go cold. The cultivated voice on the other end of the phone could only belong to one man, and his tone did not sound of good news. "This is Roy. Alfred?" "Master Roy, I'm calling at Master Dick's instructions. He said you would know what needed to be done to notify --" "Alfred, what's this about? Is Dick awake?" Roy asked hopefully, although in his heart of hearts, he knew. "I'm afraid, Master Roy, that Master Dick - passed away at 7:53 this evening." An icy calm came over Roy. "I understand, Alfred. Yes, he did leave instructions here. Be with your family -- we'll notify the community." The gratitude in Alfred's voice was unmistakable, as telling as the break in his voice when he delivered his message. "Thank you, Master Roy." The line went dead. Roy pressed the button which disconnected the phone and set the handset in his lap as he reached for the keyboard. His actions were deliberate, a set of rote commands established by the playbook. Roy pulled up Dick Grayson's file, entering the keystrokes that would show the date and time of death, sending an automatic message to the entire superhero community. He watched as background on Dick's file faded to inky black, leaving only the top lines visible: "Nightwing - Deceased." He stared at his work for a long moment. Then he reached for the phone in his lap, hurling it with deadly force and accuracy at the monitor where he had been playing his game - a monitor which had been blinking the words "Game Over." "Whoa, Arsenal! Easy on the equipment!" Argent exclaimed, entering as the monitor exploded in a shower of sparks. "Nightwing is going to be seriously pissed at you." Roy whirled on her, his eyes blazing and hands clasping ineffectually at his side. "No, Toni," he said. "He's never going to be pissed at me again." He stormed by her, almost knocking her down. "Hey!" she protested, rubbing her arm where he had brushed her. "What's eating him?" she muttered, moving to deal with the busted monitor. Then her eyes caught the larger screen, and she felt her knees give way in shock. August 18, 1958 Robin was there with him, helping him get files into order. In fact, it was Robin who saw her hesitating on the stairs of the Cave. "Dinah?" he asked. "Tim. Bruce." Batman looked up, seeming almost annoyed. "What is it?" "It's Dick --" She couldn't force the words out -- saying them would make them real. With a glance back at his partner, Robin crossed to her, reaching out for her. "Dinah, what is it? Is he worse? What's going on?" Dinah bit her lip, trying to hold back tears. "Oh, Tim. He's -- he died, Tim. He just -- died." Robin stared at her. "No," he whispered. "No, it's a mistake. He can't --" Dinah met his eyes, tears streaking her face, and for a moment they clung to each other. Batman had frozen at Dinah's words, and watching him over Tim's shoulder, Dinah could see the line of his jaw stiffen. She released Tim and straightened herself, reaching a hand in Batman's direction. "Bruce--" He turned and headed toward the Batmobile. "Come on, Robin. We have work to do." Robin actually took two steps after him before stopping at the base of the steps. He glanced back at Dinah, then at Batman's retreating back, and he seemed to make a decision. "No." Batman stopped and turned. "These files need to get to the Bludhaven Police." His tone was level, a flat statement. Tim reached for his mask and pulled it from his face. "Maybe they do," he agreed. He dropped his mask to the floor and then unclasped his cape to join the mask. "Maybe that's exactly what needs to happen now." He took a deep breath and stared hard at Batman. "What I know right now is one of my best friends on earth just died, and I wasn't there. I haven't been there. I've been the dutiful son, accepting your orders without question. I wore his dammed *suit* to protect your precious secrets. The game is over, Batman, and no amount of 'justice' or 'revenge' will make up for what I just lost." Tim turned back to the stairs, holding his hand out to Dinah. "Come on, Dinah. I'll drive you to Babs." August 18, 2001 Spud woke up with the distinct feeling that something was wrong. He was in his room, but he didn't remember getting there. He had been out to lunch with Amy and Filb, then - he must've fallen asleep in the back seat of the police cruiser. It was sort of dark in his room -- not full night, but not daytime through the blinds, either. No nightmares. Maybe that was the key, sleeping in the day. Still, he couldn't shake the wrong feeling. He lay still, listening carefully to the familar sounds of his home. It was quiet. Too quiet. He sat bolt upright, listening harder. There was no hiss of the respirator in his parents' room, no beeping of the heart monitor. Maybe Dick woke up? He sprang from the bed, racing across the hall -- and froze in the doorway. An old lady in white gave him a sad look and held out her hand. "Come in," she whispered. He stared at her uncertainly, realizing that Babs was on the other side of the bed, her head bowed to leave her almost hidden behind Dick's still form. Dick's -- "NO!" Spud screamed, jumping onto the bed, onto the empty space that was usually Dick's side of the bed, but they'd moved him over more to Babs' side. Spud sprawled his body across the empty space, hooking his arms desperately around the broad chest -- the still, unmoving chest -- the chest he'd huddled against in the worst of his Scorch nightmares -- where he'd listened to Dick's calming voice and soothing heartbeat, nestled safe. "Wake UP!" he screeched, trying to pull Dick's shoulders up, succeeding only in making his head loll. Babs lifted a tear streaked face and set a hand on Spud's forearm. "Spud--" she whispered, her own voice hoarse. "NO! He's my daddy! He promised I would have a daddy. Daddy, please wake up. Daddy--" He was already getting cold. Spud didn't care. He wrapped his arms more tightly around Dick's shoulders, sobbing into his neck. "Please. I didn't mean to make you get hurt. I just wanted to help. I just wanted to be your real little boy." Spud felt a strong hand rub his back comfortingly as he begged and cajoled his father, making promises, threats, anything to try to bring him back. He felt arms try to lift him, and he screamed, clinging more tightly to the stiffening body. He heard Babs' voice talking to him, but he couldn't make out the words. He sensed a whispered argument around him, but he didn't care. "Daddy," he whispered, lifting his face for a moment to kiss Dick's death-pale cheek. He almost didn't notice the faint pricking sensation in his arm before darkness closed in on him. August 18, 2229 "Get out!" Barbara's eyes flashed green fire as she glared at the man who had just stepped through her front door and into her kitchen. Dinah, one hand still on her husband's arm, turned to Barbara in surprise. "Babs--" "He is not welcome in my home, Dinah. Get. Him. Out." Bruce gently disengaged from his wife, letting his arms fall to his sides and meeting Barbara's glare evenly. "Barbara --" "Do you think you have something to say? Do you think you have ANYTHING to say that's going to make this better? Do you think you have a RIGHT to say anything? He was your son, and you LET HIM DIE!" Bruce stepped back, visibly shaken by Barbara's words. He glanced around the room, but no one else would meet his eyes. Tim stared at the floor, and Alfred quietly slipped from the room. Dinah had turned her back, her hand to her face. There was only Barbara, her fury cold and concentrated on him. He tried again. "Barbara, I --" "You what, Bruce? You're sorry? Sorry isn't enough anymore. Maybe when you fired him that first time - or the second time. Maybe you could fix that with sorry. Or maybe when you suddenly realized you *forgot* to adopt him after doing the same favor for Jason Todd. Sorry might have been enough. Or when you never even TOLD him that Jason had died. Did you think to CALL him when I was shot? Or were you more worried about your own damned shame? Don't think for a SECOND that I don't know that you LAUGHED with that psychopath that night!" Bruce took another step back, feeling suddenly as if there were no air in the room. "How about we move forward in time? You think the sting of that Azrael fiasco ever left him? Because I know it didn't. And when you shut him out of Gotham during No Man's Land, then NEVER BOTHERED TO CHECK if he survived that hell mission to Blackgate? I'M the one who had to deal with his fever dreams when he asked where you were." "He--" "SHUT UP! You've had your chance to say your piece, and you chose silence. You could've told him you loved him -- you had a million chances. Instead you kept that card selfishly close to your chest. You played him like a child -- played us all like children! Do you remember when my father died? I do. I remember how the world was tiptoeing around poor Bruce. He was MY father, and you were willing to make Dick CHOOSE between you and me." She took a shuddering breath. Then she said, more quietly, "And you won." She seemed to fold in on herself for a moment, her breathing ragged, and Bruce stepped forward hesitantly. He reached his hand out, then let it fall to his side. "I never --" he began. Babs head shot up, her eyes boring holes into him. She spoke through clenched teeth. "You always win, you bastard. You sit in your cave and you brood because you know it will get you exactly what you want. You just say the word, and poor little Dicky comes running for another round of your abuse. Well, he can't come running anymore." Dinah gently set a hand on Barbara's shoulder. "Babs--" Barbara jerked away. "No, Dinah. This stuff has been left unsaid for too long. I should've told him before, about the nights Dick CRIED for his frustration with him. That's right, Bruce. Your strong, brave little soldier. Never saw that side, did you? "You could've come. Three days -- *three days* -- he lay here dying. And all it would take was one word -- *one word* from you! You could've ORDERED him to live. And he would've. He couldn't hang on for me, for Spud -- but for you! He would've held heaven and hell at bay for you if he thought that would earn him your love!" "I love him --" Bruce started, his tone strangely broken. "LOVED, Bruce. Past tense. He's GONE. He's gone, and no Batman is going to bring him back." Bruce stared numbly at her, her words hammering inside his skull: gone, gone, gone, gone. After a moment she turned from him in disgust. "Get him out of here. I never want to see him again." Bruce Wayne turned and fled back out into the night. August 19, 0013 Bruce Wayne sat with his hands on the steering wheel of the Jag, his eyes fixed straight ahead. He'd been sitting like this for a very long time. *One hour, thirty-three minutes,* the Bat reported. Bruce ignored him. Dick Grayson was dead. Dick Grayson was dead. Dick Grayson was dead. *He was a good soldier.* "He was NOT a fucking SOLDIER!" The shout fell deadened by leather seats and a curly maple dash. *Language,* the Bat admonished. Dick Grayson was dead. Dick Grayson was dead. Dick Grayson was dead. *Nightwing.* Dick Grayson. "He was my son," Bruce whispered. *MY son.* "No." *Robin.* Dick. He wanted to cry, but the Bat wouldn't let him. *He fought the good fight.* "Your fight." *Our fight. The GOOD fight.* Dick Grayson was dead. Dick Grayson was dead. Dick Grayson was dead. "No more." *No choice.* "There's always a choice!" But he could hear the hollow echo of his parents' dying breaths. The fall of pearls through his haunted soul. They bounced upon the broken body of a teenaged boy, floating now in an ocean of blood. *We owe it to them.* "You let him die," he accused weakly, echoing Barbara's words. *No. He died in battle.* "He shouldn't have." But now he remembered the boy's eyes, the fall that repeated itself over and over, demanding that he push harder, fight longer... *MY son,* the Bat noted grimly. "He took my son with him," Bruce mourned, remembering the smile... There was a ch-kunk sound, and the passenger door opened. Bruce turned, watching numbly as the little boy pulled himself into the seat and pulled the door firmly shut behind him. He turned serious hazel eyes to Bruce's blue ones, and in those eyes were gaping wounds in youthful bodies, spilling blood in growing pools over the Bludhaven cityscape. "Make me Robin." Bruce started to protest, twisting his lips to form a "no," to tell this boy to go back to his grieving mother. But inside him, the Bat was grimly smiling. *MY son.* Sometime Later... Through the Looking Glass an Alt-August Tale by Kerrie Smith Aaaaaaaaa-liiiiiiiice… Aaaaaaaaa-liiiiiiice… Have you come to visit me, Alice? She sat in the cell, her arms tangled around her knees, rocking, rocking, rocking. A cell. The cell of a madman. No, the cell of a madwoman, because that's what she was. Mad. Aaaaaaaaa-liiiiiiiice… Aaaaaaaaa-liiiiiiiice… Oh, you can't help that. I'm mad, you're mad. We're all mad here. It had started with the flash of the full moon, reflected in the sharpened steel he wore at his side. The steel that slashed and tore and gave little boys nightmares when the moon was full. His gaze met hers on the rooftop, and beneath the light of the moon, they began the dance. The step, the counter, the reverse, the return. His sword sang in the full moon, snapping at her arms, her legs, but never biting. Her body twisted and spun, driving him back. The sword's song changed, higher, more desperate, tempo increasing. And then she landed the blow. The blow that stopped his heart. And then she counted. One. Two. Three. And then the counterblow. And the smile crept onto his lips, because Sons of the Bat didn't kill, he knew that. They spilled their blood, but would take none of his. And then the blow came again. One. Two. Three. Counterblow. And the smile was less this time. Again. He tried to attack, tried to strain against his instincts to gasp, to claw at his chest. Counterblow. Again. Counterblow. Again. Counterblow. Again. And he lay on the rooftop, in the full moon, and smiled, because Sons of the Bat might play, but they did not kill. And then she reached out with two fingers, and it was all there. The hook, the rip, the splash of warm blood, all there in the light of the full moon. And she stood there, the Daughter of the Bat, holding his throat in her hand, staring down at the man who would cause no more little boys to toss and turn in their sleep. It should hurt, she thought. It should prick at her brain, make her breath catch, make her fall to her knees, puking on the ground under the watching moon who knew what she had done. But it didn't hurt, it didn't turn her stomach, it made her glad. And she lifted her head to the night sky and laughed at the moon. Then she kicked his body off the roof, and watched it twist and spin and hit the ground with a crunch, and she laughed again, and danced on wings of monofilament into the night. Aaaaaaaaa-liiiiiiiice… Aaaaaaaaa-liiiiiiiice… Have you come for tea? No, I expected not. And she had gone towards home, pausing on the rooftop next to hers, as always, and staring inside. He paced the room, talking on the phone. Always the phone when these things happened. When someone lay lifeless, when little boys lay dreaming of monsters swinging great blades in the moonlight. Whether it was a sword in the gut or a bullet in the spine, it was always the phone. Bullets. Bullets. There would be no more monsters with great blades, but there might be bullets, screaming out of the darkness, and there might be phone calls and nightmares, and she knew exactly what she had to do. Aaaaaaaaa-liiiiiiiice… You've found me, have you? Oh, you followed the White Rabbit? How very clever of you, Alice. There was no dance, this time, no singing swords, no blinding moonlight. There was she and he, and the hook, the rip, the splash of warm blood, and he who had killed so many lay at her feet, his white throat torn to shreds. And there was screaming, screaming from the cell next door. From the man who could never decide, but had decided that he didn't want to be in a cell next to a corpse, decided even without his coin. And then there was another hook, another rip, and another splash, and his parti-colored throat lay in her hand, as well. Then is was cell after cell. Some fought, strained against their jackets, squirmed and swore and cried. And she held their throats in her hand. And the doctors and the attendants, she knocked out, leaving them lying in the hallway. Because they didn't understand. They hadn't watched little boys tossing and turning, the sheets soaking with sweat, because they had faced dragons in the moonlight. Cell after cell, floor after floor, throat after throat. Until one cell remained. The door shattered under her kick, and he looked at her. "Welcome, Alice. I've been expecting you. Have you come for tea? No, I expected not." And she looked at him, and didn't understand. "You've found me, have you? Oh, you followed the White Rabbit? How very clever of you." And she stood in the doorway, and didn't understand. "You must think I'm mad. Of course I'm mad. You can't help that. I'm mad, you're mad, we're all mad here. "Twinkle, twinkle little bat, how I wonder what you're at--" She extended one hand, and he stopped suddenly. "The Jabberwock is a hard beast to slay, Alice. Your Vorpal Blade is sharp my dear, but the beast has so many heads. So many throats." And she started to lower her hand. "Alice? What are you waiting for?" And then she understood. Aaaaaaaaa-liiiiiiiice… Aaaaaaaaa-liiiiiiiice…. He crept into the cell, eyes trying to make sense of what he saw. What he'd seen in every other cell in Arkham Asylum. The corpse, the bloody hole in its neck; the Mark of Cain. It was there. The Mad Hatter. And in the corner, a dark shape, the Daughter of the Bat, the girl he loved, sat, her arms tangled around her knees rocking, rocking, rocking. "Cassandra," he whispered. "Please. Let's go home." And she looked up at him, moonlight reflecting her eyes. "Why? There's plenty of room." A shy smile crept onto her face. "We're all mad here." The End August 22, 0154 Spud opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling. He no longer woke in panics. There was no longer any need for panic. He listened carefully. There. A sniffling sound, some gasping. Spud got out of bed and walked into the hallway. A light was on in the bathroom. Spud could see it under the door and in that crack that ran up the door. The door wasn't all the way closed. He pushed it, just a little, looking in curiously. Dinah lay on the floor, her arms wrapped around her middle. Her forehead was on the linoleum and tears slid sideways down her face towards the floor. The bright yellow rug was all bloody. At one time, or to another person, it might have seemed like a lot of blood. But it wasn't as much as had come out of Him that night, and Spud hardly blinked. "Did you get shot?" Spud asked calmly. "Or cut?" Dinah shook her head, more tears rushing from her eyes. "Get Babs, Spud," she whispered. "Call the doctor. Call Tim." "Can they help?" Dinah just closed her eyes and cried harder. Future--August + 6 or 7 years The window exploded in a shower of glass. They don't always do that, you know. Those safety panes like they have in schools - those just give a little when they break your shoulder. This window, though -- good old fashioned plate glass. I could feel the little slivers work their way into the kevlar weave and dust my hair with razor edges. I had barely rolled to my feet before he loomed over me, lifting me by the front of the costume. He could only do that because it was too big on me - I had finally reached my father's height, but not his build. His face was in mine, his mouth a grim line. "Put. It. Back." I stared coldly back. "No." His expression twisted, a feral grimace of pain. Then he was gone. I sank to my knees, and the glass bit my flesh, sealing my triumph with blood.