Titans Tower gleamed in the bright summer sunlight. It looked as new, as energetic, as when Vic's father had first presented the building to the fledgling regrouping of the team that now counted his son as a member. It became more than their castle, their icon; it became their home.

Dick Grayson stood at the shore of Titans Island, tears of joy streaming down his cheeks. To think that he would love a building so much he would find himself crying over it. Vic would laugh, never admitting that he cared for the Tower every bit as much.

Even at this distance, he could clearly see the Tower doors as they opened, could hear the jumble of a dozen conversations as the other Titans filed out. Donna and Kory were laughing, walking arm in arm at the head of the procession. Behind them came Gar and Tara, arguing as they always did, but playfully. Joseph and Don carried on their conversation in the silence of sign language, while Hank glared at his brother from behind, uncharacteristically ignoring Wally as the speedster bumped into the larger Titan while avoiding the dead fish being thrown at him by Garth. Vic came out last, flanked by a somber Lilith and Raven, both of whom held aloft flickering candles.

Vic's armor was wrong, somehow. It covered too much of him, leaving his face a soulless mask. He gave no indication that he realized he was carrying something, or that his path took him away from the other Titans and toward Dick. Only when Vic cleared the last of the trees could Dick see what his friend was bringing to him.

A Wildebeest's severed head, its animalistic mask twisted into an evil snarl.

As he reached for the grisly present, its photoreceptor eyes flared to life. With no more warning than that, Titans Tower exploded, steel and glass shrapnel spraying across the island and over the water into Manhattan. From the wreckage rose a terrifying figure, a shadow in the shape of a lion, the very presence of which sucked all the warmth from the day and left Dick feeling chilled to the bone.

The Titans had scattered, trying to fight and flee simultaneously. Nightwing had to be there, to lead them to victory, but no matter how fast he ran up the hill, he found himself at the same distance from the Tower at which he'd begun. Of course he couldn't approach the Tower, he realized belatedly; he hadn't worn his costume, and Dick Grayson had no business fighting alongside the Titans. All he could do was watch helplessly as his teammates were struck down one by one.

Only Raven and Joseph were left now, neither of whom possessed the power to defeat the lion. It reached for them as they ran; Dick could see the terror in their eyes as it gained on them. He prayed that they would reach him first, so that they would be safe, but it was not to be. One dark paw swiped through them and they burst into flames, their bodies decaying before his eyes. As their smoldering skeletons collapsed at his feet, the lion let out a triumphant roar.

The roar echoed in Dick's scream as he jerked upright in his bed, shaking like a leaf. Even awake, the nightmare didn't end, because he knew it had been real. Joe, Raven, Danny, Charley, Arella -- all truly dead. All because he had failed as the Titans' leader. He had taken a leave of absence to deal with Bruce's problems, and so hadn't been with the Titans to see the warning signs until it was too late.

And even if it hadn't been his fault, his friends would still be dead.

He knew himself well enough to know that sleep would not return, so he pulled on his Nightwing costume and headed out into the night. Perhaps it was just as well, for Bl�dhaven was desperately in need of someone to watch over her nights. The city lay in the shadow of Gotham, just across the river from Batman's haunt, which was no longer considered a part of the United States. Even Bruce, who didn't usually play by American rules of justice, wasn't pleased with that. Nightwing fought to keep the same thing from happening to Bl�dhaven.

It was definitely an uphill battle. By day he worked with the corrupt, underfunded, and short-handed police department as a cadet; by night, he prowled as Nightwing. Even then, simply keeping track of all the criminals and gangs was a momentous task, not to mention trying to stop them. From money laundering and smuggling to simple smash-and-grabs, Bl�dhaven was awash in crime.

One such crime was taking place on the street below. He had automatically gone to the retail district, and sure enough, someone had targeted one of the small jewelry businesses that nestled between the larger department stores. It could be just a simple burglary, or perhaps the store owner had neglected to pay his "protection" money to Blockbuster, Bl�dhaven's equivalent of a local mafia boss. Whatever the reason for the break-in, he would put an end to it.

There was no outside surveillance; whoever was inside was working alone. He swung down to street level, landing next to the barred front window, just outside of visual range from inside the shop. He smiled; the wedged-open door indicated an amateur job, which would be relatively simple to foil. Removing a smoke pellet from his gauntlet pocket, he tossed the device through the open door and dove in after it, rolling under cover of the nearby counter.

The burglar cursed as smoke filled the front room. He made no rush for the exit, though, which meant either he hadn't seen Nightwing enter or he was incredibly stupid. Or both. Nightwing didn't mind; it gave him plenty of time to get into position.

The swearing grew louder as the burglar moved to leave, which was his signal to act. Springing out from his hiding place, he incorporated a solid kick to the jaw with his cartwheel, following through with a spin and another kick, this time to the side of the knee.

His opponent remained standing, and as the smoke cleared, he could see why.

A Wildebeest.

He cursed himself for assuming that the Wildebeest Society had gone under with the destruction of Azarath. They had existed before the Azarathans had taken over the group's reins, so it only made sense they would continue afterward.

The Wildebeest regarded him with undisguised annoyance, but without any recognition. A new member, perhaps, or one who had taken no part in the Azarathan affair. One who clearly didn't recognize Nightwing as Bl�dhaven's new protector, or realize that he was aware of the group's M.O. -- that alone would be reason enough to try to kill him.

He dodged the expected energy blast from the Wildebeest's glove and countered with a Nightarang thrown at the man's head, slicing through the mask and partially exposing his face. It was a delaying tactic, to give him time to pull an explosive Nightarang from his gauntlet; the bomb wouldn't hurt the Wildebeest, but it might damage his cybersuit and circumvent his powers.

But before he could even prime the weapon, he was hit with a sonic blast that sent him reeling, the explosive falling from his hand. When did the Wildebeests add that to their arsenal? He staggered behind one of the counters and dropped to his knees; the barrier provided minimal protection from the sound, but it was enough that he could uncover his ears as he searched for his ear plugs.

Guarded from the sonic assault, he pulled out another explosive and prepared to throw it, but he held back, knowing that something wasn't right. Peering over the counter, he saw a small device sitting by the door, but no Wildebeest. Cautiously, he moved toward the door, keeping the counters between himself and the possible bomb the Wildebeest had left behind.

When he reached door, however, he knew he'd been had. It was a sonic projector, meant to keep him hiding behind the counters as the Wildebeest escaped. He switched it off and removed his ear plugs. As if Bl�dhaven didn't have enough criminals, now he had to contend with the Wildebeests.

Again.

He picked up the sonic projector, retrieved his fallen explosive, and locked the store's front door before making his way back to the rooftop to ponder the implications of his discovery. Even if this Wildebeest didn't know who he was, it didn't mean that the others would be equally ignorant. One of them was bound to understand the threat he posed to them, and that would bring all of them out after him. His sole advantage was that they could only show themselves one at a time, or they would blow their own cover. Somehow, he would have to find a way to use that against them.

He was out again the following night, this time actively searching for information. None of the common street thugs had even heard of the Wildebeests, much less seen one. All signs were pointing to a recent arrival of the group in Bl�dhaven, though when it came to the Wildebeest Society, one always had to look in the opposite direction. More likely, the group had been in Bl�dhaven before he had made it his home, but they carried on their criminal activities elsewhere.

Or perhaps Bl�dhaven was simply one of several Wildebeest HQ points. There had been one in New York, when Azarath had used the Wildebeests against the Titans, but that could easily have been for the convenience of the Azarathans. He sighed. There were so many questions, and as usual with the Wildebeests, very few answers that made any sense.

It was the slightest of noises, but unmistakably a footstep. He flung himself to the side as an energy blast burned through the spot where he'd been standing. One question had been answered: they definitely had at least one member who knew enough to want him dead. They hadn't waited long to come after him.

He had to stay one step ahead; the Wildebeest's cybersuit gave his opponent greatly enhanced strength in addition to the energy blast, and he was no match for that kind of physical power. That much, he knew from bitter experience.

Leaping to another rooftop, he dodged around a cooling tower to keep himself hidden from his pursuer and pulled out his escrima sticks. The Wildebeest was heavily armored, but these were new weapons for Nightwing, so the Wildebeest wouldn't be expecting them.

He peered around the side of the cooling tower and saw the Wildebeest advancing with the slow, confident gait of a predator closing in for the kill. You just keep thinking that, pal. After what you helped do to my team, I'm more than ready to take you on.

A hand grabbed his wrist in a crushing grip and he spun around, unwilling to accept what his eyes saw: another Wildebeest. They were breaking their own rules to get to him, and that was very, very bad news. One Wildebeest he could conceivably tackle; an entire group of Wildebeests diminished his chances of success considerably.

He rammed the end of his escrima stick into the Wildebeest's photoreceptor and pulled himself free. Tossing his grappling hook to a neighboring building, he swung to yet another rooftop, almost avoiding another energy blast from the first Wildebeest. It grazed his side as he landed and he stumbled, pain shooting down one leg. He had to evade them, to give himself time to plan, so he yanked his grappling hook free and ran.

Right into three more Wildebeests.

Damn.

He was surrounded now; the next move was theirs. He could only hope that there was dissension in the ranks as to how they should proceed, because if they all agreed that killing him was the answer, the fight would be over shortly.

"Right," the first Wildebeest grunted as he joined up with the group. "This meddling son-of-a-bitch is all mine."

"Hold off a moment, Two," one of the others argued. "Don't you think we should bring him to Number One?"

"Hell no," Two replied. He turned to Nightwing and grabbed his jaw. "I remember you, �pal'. You tried to frame a friend of mine the last time we tangled. Number Eight. He ended up dead. You owe me for his life, punk."

So this was it. He steeled himself for the energy blast he knew would come.

It did come, but from an unexpected source. The bolt tore through the domed steel neck of Number Two's cybersuit and he collapsed, cursing, unable to rise.

Another bolt sliced through the night air, narrowly missing one of the Wildebeests. Individually, the Wildebeests were deadly fighters, but they had never been trained to function as a team. Panic ensued as each Wildebeest sought to defend himself from the unknown attacker, who managed to fell a second one with a shot to the neck.

Nightwing used the opportunity to slip free of the Wildebeests, who paid no attention to their escaping quarry. He swung over to another rooftop and tried to track the bolts back to their source. Three of the five Wildebeests had fallen, all shot in the same place -- apparently, the cybersuit had a weak spot that his mysterious ally was exploiting.

The Wildebeests had scattered now, and the flashes of energy were coming more erratically. They seemed to be originating from the tallest building around; a good offensive position, as the building itself served as a shield against return fire. He swung over to the building's fire escape and ascended to the roof to thank his anonymous cohort for the timely rescue.

He arrived as the man stood up and holstered his weapon, the Wildebeests having either been incapacitated or fled. Instead of acknowledging Nightwing's presence, though, he continued standing at the building's ledge, scanning the streets below for -- what? More Wildebeests? Was he expecting them to be out in such numbers? If so, why?

He decided to speak up. "Thanks for the assist. They really had me going there, for a minute." His benefactor turned toward him with a warm smile, and Nightwing found himself facing a greater shock than the reappearance of the Wildebeest Society.

"Joey -- ??"

Joseph nodded, his smile fading as he noted the look on Nightwing's face. �Is something wrong?' he signed.

It couldn't be Joseph. It couldn't be true. Dick had been standing right there when Slade killed him. And yet, he had recently met with a girl who looked just like Tara, with Tara's powers. Who was to say if she was really Tara or not, but if she was, couldn't this also be Joseph? This Joseph was still mute. Perhaps it was the thing in Azarath that hadn't been Joseph, though the memories and powers -- and in the end, the personality -- had all been Joseph's.

He would err on the side of caution. After what he'd been through, what all the Titans had been through, he had a hard time trusting anyone, regardless of whether or not the face was that of a friend. If it really was Joseph, he could ask for forgiveness later.

"So... �Joey'... what are you doing in Bl�dhaven?"

Joseph shrugged. �I was hoping you could tell me. I don't know why they brought me here.'

Nightwing's alert mode kicked in; the last time he'd heard Joey talking about �they', it was in reference to the Azarathans. God only knew what he was referring to this time. Nightwing wasn't sure he wanted to know, but he asked anyway. " �They' who?"

�The Wildebeests,' Joseph replied. �It was so long ago, it's hard to remember clearly...'

***

He awoke abruptly from yet another nightmare. It marked the nineteenth straight night of insufficient sleep, which had long since affected his ability to function. The Titans had recently tackled a trio of common criminals, Joseph being assigned to corner IQ, along with Starfire and Raven. He'd been utterly useless, even a hindrance, unable to get out of Starfire's path when she'd been repelled by IQ's force field. The collision hadn't permanently injured either of them, but it had prevented them from capturing IQ, and he should have been able to avoid it.

If only those damn nightmares would leave him alone.

He didn't usually suffer from frightening dreams; the few times he did, they were predictably about the Jackal. But these were unlike anything he'd ever experienced. They were otherworldly, incomprehensible, and terrifying. In them, he was being pursued by a lion -- or possibly only its shadow; the dreams never made that clear. He knew that if it caught him, it would kill him. For nearly three weeks now he had fought it off, waking up just before it could engulf him in the icy blackness of its body.

It was only a matter of time before the lion caught him. The lack of sleep was affecting his dreams as well, making his efforts at resistance harder and less effective. He had considered telling the other Titans about it, but what could they do? Possibly Raven could help -- so why did he feel like she was the source of the problem? He shook his head to try and clear his thoughts. He should tell Raven.

He yawned. He'd tell her tomorrow; if he was lucky, he might be able to get a few more hours of sleep.

Barely ten minutes had passed when he felt something brush his cheek. He opened his eyes as a powerful hand clamped around his neck, pinning him to the bed. In the darkness, he could just make out a familiar shape.

Wildebeest.

Panic washed over him. His powers were useless against Wildebeest, and they both knew it. He forced himself to calm down; if he could break free of Wildebeest's grip, he could escape. Not easily, but it was possible -- with enough maneuvering room, he was both quicker and more agile than Wildebeest.

He wasn't given the chance. Swiftly and violently, Wildebeest beat him unconscious.

***

"But that was over six months ago!" Nightwing exclaimed, stunned. "You were with us five weeks later, when Wildebeest went after Mother Mayhem."

Joseph shook his head.

Nightwing remained unconvinced. "So you don't know that Blood's curse is over, that Mother Mayhem had a daughter? Or that Donna found out she was raised by the Titans of Myth and calls herself Troia these days?" He continued with deliberate callousness, "Or that Danny Chase, Charley Parker, Arella, and Raven were killed by the Wildebeest Society, which was taken over by Azarath? You know, that lion-shape from your dreams?"

Joseph stared at him blankly, clearly shocked by what he'd been told. �Raven is dead?' he asked.

So are you, Nightwing wanted to say. Instead he just nodded, watching objectively as Joseph sat down on the ledge behind him, making no attempt to wipe away the tears that ran down his cheeks. If this wasn't Joseph, it was a damn better impersonation than the Azarathans had managed.

Guilt gnawed at him. Joseph had really cared for Raven, and the blunt revelation of her death was obviously very hard on him. But it was necessary. Too many impostors, too many betrayals, too many deaths; this time, Nightwing had to be certain. There would be time for apologies afterward.

"It's been half a year," he continued, his tone gentler despite his efforts to remain firm and impersonal. "Why were they still keeping you there? How did you manage to escape?"

Joseph didn't respond. Assuming he simply hadn't heard the question, Nightwing stepped closer, and was surprised when Joseph recoiled from him. Score another point for Joseph; he was walking on the edge of an emotional collapse, and typically, had given no warning signs. The first to help out when anyone needed it, he was also the last to accept help from anyone.

Nightwing sighed. Interrogation tactics would get him nowhere. Even if this wasn't Joseph, he had no right to inflict a mental breakdown as a test of authenticity. He sat on the ledge and put his hand on Joseph's shoulder in quiet reassurance. "You were expecting the Wildebeests to be out in force tonight, weren't you?" he asked. "They're after you; I just got in the way."

�Yes.' After a brief pause, the curt answer was followed by an explanation. �Number One got careless. We escaped last night, and he's been after us ever since...'

***

"Nice shiner, Jess," one the interchangeable Wildebeests commented. "You back-talking Number One again?"

She ignored him, continuing to focus on the sandwiches she was making. Number One had insisted she make herself more useful by taking over the supervision of the few remaining prisoners held captive in the Wildebeests' subterranean headquarters. It was the height of irony, as she was one of those prisoners, but it was better than being locked in Number One's bedroom all day.

Anything was better than that, even listening to the irritating fool beside her prattle on with more belittling quips. Why couldn't they all just leave her alone?

She stiffened with indignation as the man's hand slid over her posterior. Her grip tightened involuntarily on the butter knife she held, knowing as she did so that it would be of no use as a weapon. "So, Jessie, is Jewish tail as good as Number One says it is?"

"Get your paw off me, mamzer," she hissed through clenched teeth. She didn't expect him to know the Hebrew word for bastard, but it didn't matter; her tone conveyed the same message. She pulled away from him, shaking as much with rage as with humiliation. "Or I'll tell Number One about your unpardonable conduct toward me. I'm sure you know he isn't the forgiving sort. And it's �Dr. Cassel' to you -- to all of you mamzerim."

She threw the butter knife on the counter and stalked away, trying to appear more angry than upset. Thank God he didn't follow her. Maybe Number One had made it known that he considered her his personal property; if so, he hadn't done a very good job of it.

Her hair fell across her eyes and she stopped automatically to meticulously gather the unruly auburn strands, pulling them back into a bun. The only thing that was left under her control was her appearance, so she took great pains to exercise every shred of personal freedom, minuscule as it was. It was all she had left to make her feel human.

Rounding the corner on the way to the prisoners' cells, it dawned on her that she had left the sandwiches back in the kitchen. Number One wouldn't care that it was her first day with the assignment; he would hit her anyway. He enjoyed it too much to pass up an opportunity. If she was lucky, he would beat her unconscious, so she wouldn't have to be awake for the rest of what he would do to her.

The logical course of action would be to return to the kitchen for the sandwiches, but she knew the Wildebeest would be there, laughing, waiting for her to come slinking back so that he could mock her again. She could put a brave face on it, and say that she wouldn't give him the satisfaction, but that was merely self-delusion: she was afraid to go back. She was afraid of everything in this hell-hole, and her daily prayers for deliverance had gone unheeded for so long that she had forgotten what it felt like not to flinch from every touch or cry at every word.

Even the sickly yellow illumination from the lights in the dirty concrete corridor made her want to weep. She hadn't been permitted see the sun in months, not even filtered through one of the tiny, smudged basement windows that dotted the complex. No contact with family or friends, with anyone who cared what happened to her. She had never been so isolated in her life, and she didn't like it one bit.

Self-pity was forgotten momentarily as she approached the cells. As bad as her lot was, these people had it worse. Most of the captives had been held in the main compound, and were freed by the Titans after the former Number One had been killed. The original Number One, who had coerced her into providing first her knowledge of genetic engineering, and then her body, for his own edification.

Wild joy had overtaken her upon hearing the rumors of his death. He had been killed by the thing he had forced her to create, which in turn had been killed by the Titans. His death meant her freedom -- or so she had thought. She had found out otherwise when she had tried to leave.

Number Two had survived the destruction of the main compound, and had decided to appoint himself the new Number One over the remaining Wildebeests. A more violent and less intelligent man than his predecessor, he had slaughtered nearly all of the captives on the grounds that they were of no use to him. Only the few lucky enough to have come from wealthy backgrounds had been spared, to be held for ransom.

It was dubious luck at best, since people held for ransom usually turned up dead after the money had been paid.

The cells were adjacent, crammed together between storage rooms and utility nooks. Rusty old sewer pipes ran the length of the ceiling; the sound of water indicated that they were still active, though they seemed ready to dissolve with age. Water leaked from the pipe joints, making dark stains on the unpainted concrete walls and pooling in stagnant puddles along the floor. No one would ever think to look for someone here, which was probably why Number One had put them in this place. Although given Number One's sadistic personality, the fact that this was the filthiest wing of the complex might have played an even larger role in the decision.

She took out her key ring and pushed the proper key into the rusted door lock, turning it until she heard the latch draw back. Even unlocked, the heavy door didn't open easily, and it took all of her strength to shove it open.

It was a move she regretted immediately.

Had she not been a medical intern, she still would have recognized the odor. Something about the smell of human death triggered a gut reaction in everyone who encountered it, physician or not. Dead animals never smelled the same. Worse perhaps, in the case of skunks, but not the same.

She fumbled with the door, desperately trying to close it before nausea overcame her. There was a fleeting glimpse to be had of a woman's body in the corner of the cell, and then mercifully the door yielded, slamming shut on both the sight and the smell of death.

Gasping for air, she drew a shaking hand across her forehead, wiping away the beads of perspiration that had formed. Who the woman had been, or how she had died, was unknown. She would have to tell Number One, and he would blame her for that, too.

Several minutes passed while she collected herself, and then she quietly recited the Shema for the dead woman. Most likely it was the wrong religion, but it was all she knew, and as long as a blessing of some sort was said, the woman's soul wouldn't mind. That was the important part.

She followed the Shema with a prayer for finding better circumstances in the next cell. If she was confronted with another unpleasant discovery, she would lose her dinner for sure.

Hesitantly, she started toward the second door before remembering that she had left the key in the lock of the previous cell. Groping for the key, she only succeeded in dropping the entire key ring and swore in irritation. Finally, she took a deep breath and forced herself to calm down. Corpses never bothered her in medical school; why should they upset her now? The woman was a stranger, and she had seen dozens of dead strangers in the morgue. She picked up the keys from the floor and resolutely shook the dirt off of them. She had to stop this foolish dithering and get on with her work.

The cell was barely lit, and had a rank mildew smell to it. Its sole occupant was huddled in the far corner, blindfolded, his arms bound behind his back. The tattered rags that passed for his clothing appeared to be the remnants of pajamas that had started out white; even at the cleanest spots, they were a dingy grey, now. If he had shoes or socks at one point, they were long gone.

End, Part One

Part 2