Wingcave
The elevator doors slid open with a quiet hiss. Dick stepped out wearing his McDonald's uniform, a paper bag in one hand and exhaustion written all over his face.
"Master Grayson," Alfred's voice greeted through the cave's intercom. "You do realize I could easily hack into any billionaire's account or government vault and make you comfortably wealthy for several lifetimes?"
Dick chuckled, tossing his hat onto the couch. "Yeah, but then I'd have to live with that guilt. I'd rather earn my paycheck the old-fashioned way. Grease stains and all."
A synthetic sigh echoed through the cave. "You are far too noble for your own good, sir."
Dick peeled off the uniform, now in a black tank top and workout shorts. As he stretched, he thought "I don't know if that's me… or the original Dick's values bleeding through. But either way, stealing just feels wrong.
"Alfred," he said, "catch me up on the world."
"Of course, Master Grayson. Tony Stark has publicly revealed himself as Iron Man. A spider-themed vigilante has been sighted in Queens. The Fantastic Four recently defeated a self-proclaimed 'Doctor Doom.'"
Dick froze mid-stretch, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. So it's all beginning… he thought. The age of heroes.
Before he could reply, a sharp alarm echoed across the cave.
"Alert: armed robbery reported at Chicago Federal Bank," Alfred announced.
Dick grabbed his suit from its case. "Hold down the fort, Alfred."
"Very well, Master Grayson. Do try not to destroy another motorcycle."
"No promises."
Downtown Chicago
Ten masked men burst into the derelict structure, panting from their escape. One of them yanked off his ski mask and exhaled hard. "Alright, boys we lost that freak in black and blue."
The others relaxed just for a second.
Then a shadow fell over the window.
Nightwing dropped through the glass in a perfect flip, his boots slamming into the nearest thug and sending him flying into a wall.
"Sorry to drop in uninvited," he said, straightening up, twin escrima sticks sliding into his hands. "But I'm gonna need you all to surrender."
Their answer came in a hail of gunfire.
Dick dove for cover, bullets tearing through rotted wood. "They never just surrender," he muttered. He clicked his sticks together forming a blue metal shield. Bullets sparked off harmlessly. He dashed forward, slamming the shield into a thug's face, then split it back into two sticks and hurled one across the room. It cracked another man square in the temple, dropping him cold.
When the last casing hit the floor, seven men were left standing. They stared him down with bats, pipes, knives, and planks in hand.
Nightwing twirled his sticks lazily. "Alright, fellas. Last chance to walk away with your teeth."
No one moved.
He sighed. "Didn't think so."
The first thug swung a bat. Dick ducked, spinning low. A sharp jab to the ribs and one to the jaw down. Another lunged with a knife. Dick caught the man's wrist, twisted, and pinned him to a crate with his own momentum.
A pipe came crashing down behind him. Nightwing flipped backward just in time, kicking the attacker square in the chest. As he landed, he pressed a button with electricity danced along his escrima stick. One hit, a flash of blue light, and the man convulsed before collapsing.
The remaining four circled him. "Smart," Dick said, grinning. "Now you're thinking like a team."
They rushed him together.
He met the first head-on with his sticks crossing to catch a wooden plank, twisting and breaking the thug's knee with a precise side kick. He pivoted into a spinning elbow that dropped the second. Another swung a crowbar; Dick ducked, grabbed his belt, and flipped him clean over onto his back. Without breaking stride, he kicked the dropped crowbar into the air, caught it, and used it to block the last thug's bat before driving it into his ribs.
Only one man remained but he was trembling with the pipe shaking in his hands.
Dick holstered his sticks. "You sure about this? You could still call it a night, grab a beer, rethink some life choices…"
The thug screamed and charged anyway.
Dick sidestepped smoothly, grabbed his arm, and flipped him straight through a dusty table. He pinned him down with a knee to the chest.
"You're lucky I'm not the guy who trained me," Dick said quietly.
The thug dangled halfway out the shattered window, held only by Nightwing's grip on his collar.
"Alright, buddy," Dick said evenly. "You're gonna answer some questions, okay?"
"S-screw you, freak!"
Dick sighed, tightening his hold. "I really hoped you wouldn't say that."
He tilted the man farther out until the thug's sneakers scraped the brick. "There've been a lot of robberies targeting Chicago Federal lately. People with military-grade gear. That's not normal. Who are you working for?"
"If I say his name," the man stammered, "he'll kill me!"
Dick's tone hardened. "You're gonna want to take your chances with me instead."
The thug broke instantly. "BLACK MASK! It's Black Mask! He wants to buy the bank and run it! He's staging the robberies so he can 'save' it, clean his money through it, make everyone think he's the hero!"
Dick froze and thought. "Black Mask… he's here too?"
Before the man could say another word the thug's head snapped back, lifeless. Dick ducked instantly, scanning the rooftops. A red laser sight flickered against the wall.
"Sniper," he muttered. "Figures."
He dove behind cover as another shot shattered the window above him.
Dick exhaled through his teeth. "No rest for a hero."
But suddenly a phone rings and Dick froze.
A cell phone was duct-taped to the wall beside him, its ringtone echoing through the empty floor.
He tore it free, flipped it open. "Hello?"
A casual voice came through the speaker, calm and almost amused.
"Yo, man. Just wanted to say nothing personal. Business is business."
Dick's eyes narrowed. "You're the sniper."
"Yeah," the voice replied. "Name's Deadshot."
Nightwing exhaled slowly, pressing his forehead to the cold concrete. "Him too… of course."
"So let me guess," Dick said, his tone dry. "You get paid to shoot me and call it a night?"
"Exactly," Deadshot said. "No grudge. Just clean work. And I don't miss."
"Guess we'll test that."
Dick pulled a smoke pellet from his belt. "Let's see how good your aim is when you can't see."
He dropped the bomb and a thick gray cloud flooding the hall. Before the echo faded, Nightwing sprinted toward the shattered window, leapt out, and fired his grapnel. The line hissed and pulled him upward, flinging him across the gap between buildings.
He landed hard on the opposite rooftop, rolling smoothly to his feet. His eyes scanned the shadows then locked onto a red gleam glinting through the smoke of a nearby rooftop.
A single red eye. Deadshot's scope.
Nightwing's body moved before his mind caught up. He sprinted, parkouring across AC units and satellite dishes. Deadshot turned, rifle raised.
The bullet sliced past Dick's cheek, close enough to sting. He dove behind a vent, heart pounding.
Another shot ricocheted off metal. Deadshot's mechanical tone carried across the rooftops.
"You're fast. I like that. Usually, they're dead before I finish my sentence."
Dick pressed his back to cover, smirking. "You talk a lot for a guy who never misses."
"I like a challenge."
Another bang. Dick slid out just as the bullet whizzed by and hurled a wing-dart. It hit Deadshot's shoulder with sparks flying off his armor. Deadshot stumbled, then fired three more rounds in rapid precision, forcing Nightwing to roll off the ledge and swing under the roof's edge.
He swung up from the other side flipping over Deadshot's head and landing behind him. A strike from his escrima stick cracked against Deadshot's backplate, sending him stumbling forward.
Deadshot recovered instantly, spinning around and drawing a sidearm in one motion. He fired. Dick deflected the first shot with his electrified stick and the bullet flattened midair in a burst of light.
"Nice toy," Deadshot said, reloading without looking.
"Thanks," Nightwing replied. "Got it from my imaginary billionaire mentor."
Deadshot smirked behind his mask. "Cute."
They clashed again with Deadshot's precision versus Nightwing's momentum. Every strike Dick threw was calculated to disrupt his opponent's balance; every counter Deadshot made was surgical, efficient. Sparks flashed off armor, metal, and concrete as blows connected and weapons clashed.
Dick swept Deadshot's legs, but Deadshot fired mid-fall forcing Dick to twist away, the bullet grazing his side. He gritted his teeth and lunged back in, hitting Deadshot with a flurry of strikes with a baton to ribs, knee to gut, elbow to jaw.
Deadshot reeled, caught himself, and headbutted Dick through his mask lens. "You're good, kid. You don't fight like a cop."
"I'm not," Dick said, wiping blood from his lip. "Cops don't move like this."
He flipped backward as Deadshot drew his wrist-mounted gun, firing in a blur of smoke and flame. Dick used his escrima sticks to deflect the shots, diving into a slide that carried him behind Deadshot. He slammed a shock dart against the mercenary's armor with electricity arcing across his body.
Deadshot roared, tearing it off, but the brief jolt gave Nightwing the opening he needed.
He twirled his sticks and brought them down in a cross-strike with one to the shoulder and one to the back of the helmet. Deadshot dropped to one knee, disoriented. Dick disarmed him with a kick, flipped the rifle up with his foot, and tossed it over the ledge.
Deadshot, dazed but grinning, looked up. "Guess I found my equal."
"Equal?" Nightwing said, spinning his sticks once more. "Nah. Just better cardio."
He hit Deadshot with a final spinning kick that sent him crashing into a vent. Sparks erupted as the mercenary collapsed, groaning.
Nightwing stood over him, chest heaving, mask glowing faintly in the dark. He extended a hand. "You're done Deadshot. Don't make me call the cops."
Deadshot gave a low laugh. "Wouldn't matter. The guy who hired me'll just bail me out."
Nightwing tilted his head. "Black Mask?"
Deadshot's silence said everything.
Before Dick could respond, a small explosive charge went off near Deadshot's gauntlet with a blinding flash and concussive force.
When the smoke cleared, Deadshot was gone.
Dick sighs and says "This might as well be called Gotham not Chicago." Dick leaps off the roof and lands in a alley calling his Wingcycle to him and he rides off into the night.