With Dick and James

Dear James,

This is a letter that I'd been meaning to write for years; and I mean that sincerely. I didn't want to lose touch with you, I didn't want to lose touch with anyone. But I couldn't help it. My life got complicated after my parents died, and I was in a dark place for a long time. By the time I came out, you were gone.

What happened to you, James?

-Richard "No one wants to see ya, Dick" Grayson

I remember him best with a trail of snot running down his nose. Looking back, it was obvious that he was allergic to the animals, but no one really said or did anything about it. Hew as a little boy, everyone figured, and little boys have snot running down their nose all the time. True to form, he was constantly smiling and running happily around the circus, and sometimes I was running with him. Not all the time, though, and I regret that. I played with James enough to be friends, but only as long as I was in the circus.

James was always younger than me, and I liked that. It made playing with him easy. The things that fascinated him were far simpler than those things that fascinated me. He wasn't very demanding, either. He was so happy to have someone that wanted to engage with him that he was willing to do just about anything I recommended. I don't want to overstate how important he was in my life, because the fact is that I forgot about him for years after I left the circus. But still, on the days where I was bored or sad or disappointed with life, playing with James helped me feel better, and I'll always be grateful for that.

"No one wants to see ya, Dick," James would often comment whenever I made my way to him. He never meant it, though, and he often flashed me the same, toothy grin to confirm that we were still friends. James was four years younger than me, so hearing such a lewd joke from him always brought a laugh to me and everyone else that heard it. None of us had to wonder where he'd picked up the language from, his father and some of the other adults around only censored themselves when a paying audience was around.

When I think back to these moments, I often remember James handing something to me. I think that was because I often found him with the animals. He liked feeding the elephants, and on more than a few occasions the tamer had to kick the both of us out of the tent for playing too close to the lions.

"My mom liked animals. She wanted to be a zoologist," he would often say. He always said it in the past tense. I never met his mother, and though I often wondered about her I knew better than to ask a question like that outright, so I always asked the same question, which was different from the one I really want to know.

"Is that what you want to be when you grow up?" I'd ask.

James would always shake his head and then correct me, "No, I want to be—" but he never continued the sentence the same way. The answers often differed, as if his soul weren't yet settled on what or who he was. I remember days where he said he wanted to be president, or a secret agent. Sometimes he'd say that he wanted to be an astronaut so he could see space, or a pilot so he could see the world. James didn't know what he wanted to do, but he knew that he wanted to be somebody. And I knew that he would, because even then I knew that he had that chance.

"What do you want to be," he'd ask after telling me about whatever career was occupying his mind that week.

I'd always shrug my shoulders and look towards wherever my parents were.

"I think I'll just stay in the family business. I'm really good at it, after all."

To prove that point, I'd do a couple flips. And even though he'd seen me perform on a real trapeze dozens of times before, he always clapped and laughed.

I wish I could say that this was a regular experience. Though it was frequent, it was hardly ever regular. I liked James, but he was still four years younger than me. We both still lived in a circus, where we were encouraged to work, and eager to help our parents. We played together infrequently, and there were many days where neither of us even crossed paths. The moments we did have together, though, we cherished as best as we could.

When my mom and dad were murdered, I entered a cycle of obsession. First, I was obsessed with revenge, and later I was obsessed with justice. I let being Robin take over my life, until there was little room for Dick Grayson to be his own, independent being. Seeing what that same thing did to Bruce has helped me from getting as bad as I could. I think I've gotten better at juggling these dual identities of mine, but for a long time, anything related to Dick Grayson came second in my priorities, and anything related to Dick Grayson's life before Batman came fourth.

I was 18 years old when I managed to enter a point in my life where thoughts of James entered my mind and made me want to reach out to him. I don't really know what spurred those feelings, I guess the time just finally felt right to catch up with James. I wrote a letter to C.C. Haly, catching him up on things since we last talked some months before, and I asked if James and his dad were still around. Haly told me that James and his dad left the circus not long after I had, following a dispute about pay during a fraught time for the circus. Despite their disagreement, they ended things on friendly terms, which is why Haly was surprised when Malcolm Byrd stopped calling and writing.

I was eighteen years old then. I wasn't just Robin anymore, I was Nightwing. I was my own superhero, my own man, and I had bigger and badder foes that occupied my time. Haly told me that he didn't know how to find James and Malcolm Byrd, and I just shrugged my shoulders, thought 'Oh well' and moved on. I think I rationalized it to myself by saying that I'd track them both down later, but I never did. I should have done more then. I could have done more then. Afterall, I was Nightwing.

The first thing that I did after encountering Minstrel was investigate my old friend, James Byrd. It took me about ten minutes to find out his whole story. He wasn't living on the streets, he hadn't been in jail, he didn't join the military, and he didn't even join another circus. James Byrd wasn't in some far away state or city, living an anonymous life of seclusion and secrecy. James Byrd was living right in Gotham City with me and Bruce, and he had been for years.

***

"There's no evidence that your friend is Minstrel," Batman said.

"It's him, Bruce, I can feel it."

Oracle cleared her throat, "Nightwing, I have to agree with Batman here. There's just nothing in this profile to suggest he'd do something like this."

"What is the exact profile that would suggest someone may turn into Joker?" Signal countered.

Batman grumbled, "You may have a point there, but we can't ignore that patterns have arisen before. Joker's emulators tend to be young, disenfranchised men, often with a history of mental illness, psychological trauma, and criminality."

"James lost both of his parents and grew up in foster care," I reminded everyone.

The news was a surprise to me when I first heard it. Malcolm had always seemed like such a strong and healthy man. When Barbara told me that he died of a heart attack, I could hardly believe it. It made me wonder about his life, the things that boys never noticed about the adults around them. Was he really so strong and powerful, or did he just appear that way to me?

Hearing about James' mother, though, was far worse. Barbara managed to find out that Jessica Byrd died from complications related to childbirth. She had to be operated on to safely birth James but wound up bleeding out faster than the doctors could treat her. An investigation and lengthy lawsuit later, James Byrd wound up with a trust fund worth $100,000 that would activate when he was 18. James would be able to go to college or buy a house, and all it cost him was his mom. I wasn't too surprised to learn this part of James's story, because even at a young age I realized that his mom had probably died, and his dad sometimes mentioned to mine how he had money set aside for James. Still, having all the details laid out for me was surreal.

In a way, James and Malcom were always invisible to me. I think we, as people have a bad habit of trying to create other people; we take the people we know and choose to understand them in contexts that we relate and connect with. Learning the specifics of James' history destroyed that image of him I'd kept in the back of my mind, then dusted off from time to time. He couldn't just be what I interpreted anymore. I was reminded that he was a real person with a real story, and that story was sad. And I was left to wonder how differently things might have gone if I had been around to help him deal with the loneliness and grief that had become characteristic of my own life.

"Yes, but then he went on to college, got decent grades, and works at the DA's office." Oracle pushed back.

"Harvey Dent was the DA," Signal said.

"Whose side are you on here, exactly?" Red Robin asked.

I assume that Signal shrugged, "I don't have any horses in this race, man. I'm just trying to get us all to be real here. We can't use a psych profile to guess who will or won't become a mad criminal like Joker because so many that exist are just exceptions to the rules we use."

"Signal's right," I said with a nod and a sigh, "James isn't disenfranchised in the same way a lot of criminals are, but that doesn't mean it's impossible. I'm going to continue my investigation."

"We're sitting on a powder keg here; we need you in the field." Batman pushed.

"I am in the field!" I said, defensively. Then I grimaced a bit, "I mean, I'm in the outfield at least."

"You're a mile away from all the protestors," Oracle mentioned.

"If my hunch is right, and James is Minstrel, then I'm at the perfect place. There's no way he's missing his chance to make a move on this protest, it's just too big."

"Still can't believe that cop got off," Signal muttered.

"This is Gotham, after all," Red Robin reminded him.

"All this gossiping is giving me a headache! Let's just get started already." Red Hood cried into his coms.

"If there's a fray, I can easily get to the protest and help. But so far, Minstrel being James is the best lead we've got, so I'm going to see it through." I hoped that reminding everyone of those simple facts would work in my favor. But stuff like that always depends on how rational Batman is feeling that day.

"Fair enough. Everyone remain on guard. For those of you that are still on your way, report in once you've taken position."

"Are we really not going to comment on the fact that Nightwing unironically used the word 'fray,'" Tim said, stifling a laugh.

I ignored him and focused on the task at hand. I turned the volume down on my comms so they couldn't distract me. Raising my scopes back to my eyes, I continued my observation of James in the building across from me.

James Byrd was a diligent worker, the kind that preferred to stay behind after hours preparing for the next day. As he worked, there was a subtle fire of passion burning in his eyes, and a serious tightness to his otherwise round jaw, as if whatever he was working on were the most important thing in the world. I was happy to see it, it was nice to know that James had found himself something to be passionate about.

I thought about what I'd read in Oracle's report; how James Byrd first attended a small college out in the Midwest before he transferred to Gotham University. I wondered what James was like in his college days. Was he more of a nerd, or a jock? His grades were good, but not extremely good, so I imagined that maybe he was just studious enough. I thought about what it would have meant if I could have met him then and become his friend. Would that even be possible? Putting aside my hectic life as Nightwing, I wondered if he would even want me as a friend. From his perspective, I left him and everyone in the circus for the life of a billionaire's heir, and I couldn't have even been bothered to contact him to be sure that he was okay.

I didn't know if James was Minstrel. Despite how adamant I was with everyone else that I investigate him, a part of me desperately wanted for my hunch to be wrong. Maybe Minstrel was another Black kid that was raised in the circus. Maybe the joke he made about my name was just a coincidence. If Minstrel and James were different people, then maybe there was still a chance to right my wrongs.

Of course, I wouldn't blame myself for James becoming Minstrel. Ultimately, our choices are our own; and while I'm certain that someone, somewhere hurt him so much that he began to believe the only thing he could do was hurt others in return, I don't think that means he had any less of a choice to become Minstrel. Nor does that mean that I should feel responsible. I still wondered what kind of hurt he would have gone through, and what I could have possibly done to help him deal with it. Could I have helped James and stopped him from becoming Minstrel? Could I still help him and get him to turn his back on that life before it was too late?

I sighed, finally understanding why Bruce struggled so much with Joker.

And just like that, I heard Bruce on my comms once again. The shock made me remember how long I'd been watching James, a unit of time that I'd been counting in the back of my mind but not paying close attention to. It had been nearly twenty minutes, and in all that time, James Byrd just typed away at his computer.

"Everyone converge on Signal's position! We have confirmation that Minstrel was in the area."

"Don't tell me he's the one that caused this riot. I thought Dick was sitting on Minstrel!" Red Robin shouted.

I bit the inside of my cheek angrily. "I guess I was wrong. It's not James."

"I'm sorry everyone," Signal said, with an unusual heaviness to his voice.

"Why are you apologizing?" I asked. I didn't hear his answer, and I didn't care. I rushed to my bike and sped towards his location. I was done wasting time chasing ghosts.