The first thing I was aware of was the taste of an over-oaked, needlessly expensive Chardonnay.
The second thing was that I definitely hadn't been drinking Chardonnay five seconds ago. Hell, I hadn't been drinking anything five seconds ago. I'd been in my crappy studio apartment, probably falling asleep to another rewatch of Justice League Dark, and now–
Holy shit. I'm not in my crappy apartment anymore.
The realization hit me like a freight train made of pure dopamine. My eyes snapped into focus, taking in details that my brain shouldn't have been able to process this quickly. White tablecloth. Crystal stemware. Soft jazz playing from speakers I couldn't see. The gentle murmur of conversation from other tables. The smell of money and lobster bisque.
And sitting across from me, looking absolutely gorgeous in that completely forgettable way that screamed 'supporting character,' was a woman I somehow knew was named Chloe.
"Dick? You okay? You look like you've seen a ghost."
Dick. She called me Dick.
I felt my face arrange itself into what I instinctively knew was a perfectly charming smile – the kind of smile that probably got me out of trouble on a regular basis. "Just appreciating the wine," I heard myself say in a voice that was definitely not mine but somehow absolutely was. "Sorry, got lost in thought for a second."
Meanwhile, my actual thoughts were going something like this: WHAT THE ACTUAL HELL IS HAPPENING RIGHT NOW?
But the panic lasted about half a second before it was completely overwhelmed by something else. Something that started as a tingle in my chest and rapidly expanded into full-body euphoria.
Because as I sat there, maintaining perfect eye contact with Chloe while my mind raced, I was becoming acutely aware of exactly what body I was sitting in.
This wasn't just any body. This was a body that felt like it had been personally crafted by the god of superheroes and handed down from Mount Olympus with a note that read "Try not to break the universe with this thing."
I could feel the coiled power in muscles I'd never had. When I shifted slightly in my chair, there was zero joint pain, zero stiffness, zero of the daily reminders that I was a slightly out-of-shape guy in his twenties who spent too much time at a desk. Instead, there was this incredible sense of... readiness. Like every muscle fiber was just waiting for permission to do something amazing.
I caught my reflection in the polished surface of a serving spoon, and nearly choked on my wine.
Jesus Christ. I'm beautiful.
Not handsome. Not cute. Beautiful. The kind of beautiful that made people do double-takes on the street. The kind of beautiful that launched a thousand fan art pieces. Sharp cheekbones that could probably cut glass, eyes that were somehow both piercing and warm, and a jawline that definitely had its own zip code.
This was comic book handsome. This was protagonist-of-your-own-action-movie handsome.
"The wine's really that good?" Chloe laughed, and I realized I'd been staring at my reflection a little too long.
"It's adequate," I said smoothly, while internally screaming OH MY GOD I'M HOT. I'M SO INCREDIBLY HOT. IS THIS WHAT CONFIDENCE FEELS LIKE? IS THIS WHY ATTRACTIVE PEOPLE ARE SO INSUFFERABLE?
I took another sip of wine – which really was over-oaked and probably cost more than my old monthly rent – and let myself process more of the surface memories that were filtering through. Dick Grayson. Nightwing. Blüdhaven. Wayne money. Fighting crime with circus acrobatics and more gadgets than a James Bond movie.
And slowly, carefully, like fitting together pieces of a jigsaw puzzle made of pure wish fulfillment, the bigger picture started to emerge.
This wasn't just any DC universe. The memories were too specific, too fresh. There were clear recollections of news coverage about a "new kind of hero" in Metropolis. Someone who wore red and blue and smiled like he actually enjoyed saving people. Someone who'd recently dealt with what the news had very carefully called "an extraterrestrial incident."
The Gunnverse. I was in the actual, honest-to-god James Gunn DC Universe.
Which meant–
Oh. My. God.
Isabela Merced as Hawkgirl is real. She exists. She's somewhere out there right now, probably being devastatingly gorgeous and wielding ancient weaponry like she was born to it. And I – I have a legitimate reason to be in the same room as her. Multiple legitimate reasons, actually, considering I'm apparently one of the good guys now.
I must have made some kind of expression, because Chloe leaned forward with concern. "Dick, seriously, are you feeling alright? You've been acting a little strange tonight."
Strange. Right. Because the real Dick Grayson probably didn't spend dinner dates having internal existential celebrations about the cosmic lottery he'd just won.
"Just work stuff," I said, which was technically true if you considered 'figuring out how to live the ultimate superhero lifestyle while wooing ancient Egyptian warrior princesses' to be work. "You know how it is."
"The community center can be stressful," she agreed sympathetically.
Community center. Right. Dick Grayson's day job. Helping underprivileged kids, being a positive role model, doing actual good in the world. The kind of genuinely decent work that would look fantastic on a dating profile, especially when backed up by abs that probably had their own gravitational field.
"It's fulfilling work," I heard myself say. "The kids are great."
And while I was saying that, my brain was busy calculating exactly how quickly I could wrap up this date and get home to explore the full scope of my new situation. Not that there was anything wrong with Chloe – she seemed nice enough, in a 'pleasant background character' sort of way – but she represented the old Dick Grayson's life. The Dick Grayson who apparently took gorgeous women to expensive restaurants and made polite conversation about his nonprofit work.
I had bigger plans. Much bigger plans. Plans that involved finding out exactly where Hawkgirl was stationed, what her patrol schedule looked like, and whether ancient Egyptian warrior goddesses were impressed by guys who could do quadruple somersaults while fighting crime.
"So," Chloe continued, cutting into what was probably the most expensive piece of fish I'd ever eaten, "Bruce was telling my father that things in Gotham have been... well, you know. Quieter lately."
I nearly snorted. Quieter. Right. Because when Batman was involved, 'quieter' usually meant 'the really scary stuff is happening where you can't see it.' But to Chloe – whose father apparently moved in circles where casual conversation with Bruce Wayne was normal – it probably just meant fewer news reports about costumed lunatics trying to poison the water supply.
"Bruce has a way of handling things," I said diplomatically, while thinking: Bruce Wayne is Batman and I know where the Batcave is. I know where the Batcave is. I can probably access the Justice League's contact information. I might actually have Superman's phone number.
The thought hit me with another wave of euphoria. Not only was I living in a universe where superheroes were real, I was one of them. Not just any superhero, either – I was one of the good ones. One of the competent ones. One of the ones who looked fantastic in tight clothing and had a reputation for being charming and capable and absolutely lethal when the situation called for it.
I flexed my hand slightly under the table, just to feel the way the muscles responded. There was so much power there, so much potential. I could probably leap across this restaurant in a single bound. I could probably fight ten normal people at once and not break a sweat. Hell, I could probably–
"Dick, you're doing that thing again."
"What thing?"
"That thing where you look like you're planning something," Chloe said with a smile. "It's the same look you get when you're about to suggest something crazy."
Crazy. If only she knew. The craziest thing I was planning was figuring out how to casually run into an ancient Egyptian warrior goddess and somehow convince her that I was worth her time. Everything else – the crime fighting, the acrobatics, the probable millionaire lifestyle – was just going to be a fun bonus.
"Maybe I am planning something," I said, giving her what I hoped was a mysterious smile. "Maybe I'm planning to suggest we get dessert."
She laughed. "You're terrible. You know I'm trying to be good."
"Dessert isn't a crime," I pointed out, while mentally adding: Unlike some of the other things I'm probably going to be doing in the near future. Because let's be honest, there was probably some kind of law against using advanced combat training and Wayne family resources to stage elaborate meet-cutes with cosmic-tier beautiful women.
Not that I cared.
"Besides," I continued, "life's too short not to have dessert."
Which was absolutely true, especially when you'd just been handed a life that most people could only dream about. I was young, I was gorgeous, I was rich, I was skilled, and I existed in a universe where my ultimate celebrity crush was not only real but theoretically accessible.
The only downside was that I was currently stuck in what might be the most boring restaurant in Blüdhaven, making small talk with someone who seemed lovely but absolutely was not part of my long-term plans.
Time to start wrapping this up.
"Actually," I said, reaching for my wine glass, "maybe we should think about calling it a night soon. I've got an early morning tomorrow."
Which was true, sort of. I had an early morning of exploring my new life, testing my new abilities, and figuring out exactly how to insert myself into the larger superhero community. Preferably in a way that would put me in regular contact with a certain archaeologist who could fly and looked like she'd stepped out of every ancient mythology fantasy I'd ever had.
I was feeling pretty good about my smooth transition toward ending the date. Confident, even. Maybe a little too confident.
Because as I reached for my wine glass, I forgot one crucial detail about my new situation.
I had no idea how to calibrate this body's strength.
My fingers closed around the delicate crystal stem with what felt like normal pressure. What should have been normal pressure. What would have been normal pressure if I were still in my original body, instead of one that could probably bench press a small car.
The wine glass didn't just break.
It disintegrated.
The entire stem simply ceased to exist between my fingers, turning into a shower of crystal dust and tiny shards that caught the restaurant's ambient lighting like deadly confetti. The bowl of the glass fell toward the table, wine sloshing everywhere, while I stared at my own hand in shock.
The sound was sharp and sudden in the quiet restaurant – not just the crash of breaking glass, but the weird, almost musical tinkling of crystal dust hitting the tablecloth. Every conversation in a ten-foot radius stopped. The waiter who'd been approaching our table froze mid-step. Even the jazz music seemed to pause.
"Oh my god, Dick!" Chloe gasped, half-rising from her chair. "Are you hurt?"
But I wasn't looking at her. I was looking at my hand – at the few tiny crystal fragments still clinging to my fingers, at the complete and utter absence of the wine glass that had been there a second ago.
Holy shit.
I just destroyed a wine glass by accident. I literally crushed it into powder without even trying.
And instead of being alarmed or embarrassed, I felt this incredible surge of... glee. This was awesome. This was better than awesome. This was proof that everything I'd been hoping was true actually was true. I wasn't just in Dick Grayson's body; I was in Dick Grayson's superhero body. The body that could go toe-to-toe with metahumans and win.
I was a walking goddamn death machine.
And it was the most amazing thing that had ever happened to me.
I managed to arrange my expression into something appropriately sheepish, looking up at Chloe with what I hoped was embarrassment rather than barely contained excitement.
"My apologies," I said to the waiter, who had appeared at our table with remarkable speed and was already beginning to clean up the crystal debris. "I guess I don't know my own strength tonight. Please, add it to my bill."
The waiter – a professional who had probably seen worse things than mysteriously pulverized stemware – just nodded and continued cleaning. "Of course, sir. No problem at all."
Chloe was looking at me with a mixture of concern and fascination. "I've never seen you break anything like that before. You're usually so... controlled."
Controlled. Right. Because the real Dick Grayson had probably spent years learning exactly how much pressure to apply to avoid accidentally destroying everything he touched. It was probably second nature to him by now.
Well, I'd learn. How hard could it be?
"Just one of those nights, I guess," I said with a self-deprecating smile. "Maybe I should stick to water from now on."
She laughed, settling back into her chair as the waiter finished cleaning up the mess. "Maybe that's a good idea. Though I have to admit, there's something kind of... impressive about accidentally crushing a wine glass with your bare hands."
Impressive. I liked the sound of that.
"Hidden depths," I said mysteriously, while thinking: Lady, you have no idea. I'm basically a one-man army now, and I'm just getting started.
The waiter had finished clearing away the crystal debris and was laying down fresh napkins to cover the wine stains. The other diners had returned to their conversations. The crisis, such as it was, had passed.
Which meant it was time to get this date back on track toward its conclusion. I had a new life to explore, and sitting in an overpriced restaurant making small talk was not how I wanted to spend my first night as a superhero.
"You know what?" I said, giving Chloe my most charming smile. "Maybe that was a sign. Maybe we should–"
Just as I was about to suggest we get the check, the entire restaurant's floor-to-ceiling window bowed inward from the force of a deafening explosion down the street.
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Author's note:
My first time trying out first-person POV. What do you think? Also... who's best girl: Hawk or Super?