Wingcave
Dick sat shirtless at the metal workbench, a towel pressed against the side of his ribs. The bullet had only grazed him, but the pain still burned. He hissed through his teeth as he poured antiseptic over the wound.
On one of the monitors, Alfred's face flickered to life and it was a full blue face, the old British AI voice steady as ever.
"You should be resting, Master Grayson. Most people tend to stop after being shot."
Dick smirked faintly. "Yeah, well, I was never great at being most people but I'm glad that new programming worked so you have a face now."
He wrapped the bandage tighter around his side, wincing as he pulled it snug. "But did you get anything on Black Mask?"
There was a pause on the other end but it was long enough for Dick to glance up. Alfred's usual confidence was muted, his tone more careful.
"Not much. The CPD's database only contains fragments, crime scene reports and half-finished testimonies. But there is a consistent detail."
"Yeah?" Dick asked, leaning back in his chair.
"Victims found without faces."
Dick's expression hardened, disgust flickering across his face. "He skins people alive?"
"So it would seem," Alfred said quietly. "A man who hides his own face behind a mask while taking others it's a charming symmetry, in a grotesque sort of way."
Dick shook his head. "And no one's stopped him?"
"Commissioner Gordon has tried," Alfred replied. "He's been chasing Black Mask for nearly twelve years. But Chicago's a large city, and corruption spreads quickly when fear is the currency."
Dick stood, grabbing the top half of his suit from the table. He started to pull it on, but stopped halfway, groaning as the wound on his side flared. Blood bloomed faintly through the fresh bandage.
"Yeah," he muttered through clenched teeth. "Sounds like Gotham all over again."
He zipped up the suit and reached for his mask, glancing at the dark reflection in the glass panel of his desk.
"Let's have a talk with the commissioner."
Alfred's voice came through one last time, a hint of wry amusement breaking his calm.
"Do try not to make a habit of getting shot, sir. It's terribly unbecoming for a man trying to build a symbol."
Dick smiled faintly as he slid the mask over his face, voice low.
"Symbols don't bleed, Alfred. People do."
He grabbed his baton and hopped on his wingcycle and drove off.
CPD Department
The precinct was dead quiet. Only the low hum of the old desk lamp filled the room. Commissioner Jim Gordon sat slumped over a pile of case files, a half-empty cup of coffee cooling beside him.
The lights flickered once. Twice. Then went out.
When they came back on, a man stood in front of his desk with his black and blue armor glinting faintly in the light.
Gordon jolted up, gun drawn.
"Don't move!"
The stranger raised both hands calmly.
"I don't mean you any harm, Commissioner."
Gordon's eyes widened as they landed on the blue bird symbol.
"You're him… the man in black and blue. The vigilante that's been popping up the last three months."
Nightwing gave a small nod. "Name's Nightwing. And I need to know what you've got on Black Mask."
Gordon's grip tightened on his gun. "Black Mask? Why the hell should I tell you anything?"
"Because you know I'm your one shot at fixing this city," Nightwing said evenly.
For a long moment, the only sound was the soft buzz of the fluorescent light. Then Gordon sighed, lowering the gun and rubbing a hand over his tired face.
"I've been chasing that bastard since I was a rookie detective. Twelve years. And now, as Commissioner, I still can't touch him. Half the department's on his payroll. I don't even know who to trust anymore."
Nightwing nodded slowly. "I think I know who he is."
Gordon's head snapped up. "Who?"
"Roman Sionis."
Gordon froze. "No… no, that's impossible. Roman's a pillar of this city. He's funded police housing, community programs and he's even been to my house."
Nightwing stepped closer, his tone steady. "One of the robbers from Chicago Federal said Black Mask wants the bank to launder his money clean. Now, who designed that bank's security system?"
Gordon hesitated. "Sionis Industries…"
"Exactly," Nightwing said. "And the security footage? It's gone dark every single time. Twelve robberies in three months and all during system maintenance."
Gordon slumped into his chair, the weight of the realization hitting him.
"I'm going to break into Sionis Tower," Nightwing said. "I'll find the proof. But I'll need you ready when I call it in."
Gordon took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. "How do I reach you?"
Nightwing tossed a small, sleek phone onto the desk. "You don't. I'll reach you."
Gordon picked up the phone, staring at it. When he looked up, the vigilante was gone vanished into the shadows.
He exhaled a long breath, lit a cigarette, and muttered under his breath.
"Damn ninja."
Sionis Tower
The tower cut through the skyline like a blade of glass and steel, its lights burning against the night.
From across the street, Nightwing crouched on the ledge of a construction site, binoculars in hand. His eyes tracked the building's patterns and there guards, cameras, and one faintly lit office at the very top.
"Alfred," he said quietly, "pull up the tower's blueprints."
His white lenses glowed faintly blue as a holographic projection shimmered in front of him and it was a 3D model of Sionis Tower rotating in midair.
"Display acquired," Alfred's calm voice replied.
Nightwing studied the glowing lines. "There. Ventilation system runs straight through the top office. Perfect."
He stood, tightening the grappling hook on his belt. "God, this suit has everything," he muttered with a grin.
He sprinted and dove off the edge of the building. The wind howled past him as he fired the grapple and the line hooked cleanly onto the tower's peak. The sudden jerk caught him mid-fall, swinging him toward the glass facade. His boots hit the side with a solid thud, rope tethering him to the anchor above.
"Let's hope WayneTech quality control still means something," he said, tugging the line once to test its hold.
Hand over hand, he descended down the vertical face, the city lights reflecting off his armor. The faint hum of traffic below echoed up the steel canyon. He reached the side vent and gave it a hard kick but nothing.
"Alright, stubborn type," he muttered, pushing off the wall and swinging back in with a powerful dropkick. The vent cover burst inward with a clang.
He slipped inside, sealing it behind him.
"Alfred, I'm in."
"Very good, Master Grayson," Alfred replied smoothly.
As he crawled through the narrow shaft, metal creaking under his movements, Dick kept his voice low. "You think teaming up with Gordon's the right call?"
"Yes," Alfred said. "It would help if the police were aware you're on their side."
Dick frowned in the dark. "Maybe. But this isn't Gotham. I know a Jim Gordon who's a good man but doesn't mean this one is. We'll see if he is the same man here."
He checked the holographic display again and it showed he was right above Sionis's office.
"Almost there," he whispered.
He reached the vent overlooking the room below and peered through. The office was immaculate too clean and too quiet.
"Alfred, scan the room. Traps, heat signatures, anything."
His lenses flashed blue as the AI processed the data.
"All clear, sir."
Nightwing exhaled, unfastened the vent, and dropped silently to the carpet. He landed in a crouch and moved to the desk, pulling a Nightwing-logo drive from his belt.
"Alfred, you're up."
"Downloading now. Estimated time: five minutes."
"Make it three," Dick muttered, scanning the office. He rifled through drawers, file cabinets and there was nothing but sanitized business fronts and legal documents.
"Come on, Roman. Everyone hides something."
He tapped on the wall panels, searching for secret compartments but there was nothing. The place was too sterile.
"Download complete," Alfred finally said.
Dick grabbed the drive, but before he could move, voices echoed from the hallway. He froze.
He leapt onto the desk, vaulted to the vent, and pulled himself up just as the door swung open.
Roman entered, his voice sharp and commanding as two men followed behind. "I don't pay you idiots to miss deadlines. Fix the accounts or I'll…."
Nightwing crawled deeper into the shaft, holding his breath as the sound of footsteps filled the office below.
Roman stepped in, his polished shoes echoing against the marble floor. He was calm too calm. He set his phone on the desk, muttering something into it. Then he stopped mid-sentence, hung up, and pressed a small button beneath the desk.
A sharp hiss filled the air.
Nightwing frowned and turned and saw green gas began seeping into the vent around him.
"Crap."
He kicked the vent open and dropped down hard, rolling to his feet just as the gas thickened. Roman stood behind his desk, smiling like a man who'd been waiting for this.
"Well, well," Sionis drawled. "The man in black and blue. Nightwing, right?"
Nightwing straightened, his white lenses narrowing. "You knew I'd come."
Roman chuckled. "Did you really think I wouldn't have a bug in Gordon's office?"
Nightwing clenched his jaw. "Son of a…"
Before he could finish, a figure dropped from the shadows behind him and he was tall, armored, with a sword strapped across his back and a single orange-and-black mask staring him down.
Deathstroke.
Nightwing spun, bringing his batons up as Deathstroke's sword hissed free.
"Roman," Deathstroke said evenly, "you should leave."
Roman smirked, backing toward the elevator. "Try not to kill him too quickly. I'd like to see what makes him so special."
The elevator doors slid shut behind him, leaving the two in silence.
Rain pattered faintly against the glass as Deathstroke took a step forward but glass shattered like a thunderclap as Nightwing dove through the window, the roar of gunfire echoing behind him.
Shards glittered in the city's neon light as he plummeted through the rain, cape snapping open for drag. Wind howled past his ears. He aimed his grappling hook and fired the line catching a radio antenna. His body swung out, cutting through the storm, before slamming boots-first onto a rooftop across the street.
He rolled, absorbing the impact, and came up on one knee, breathing hard. Blood still seeped from the bullet wound on his side the same one he'd barely patched a few hours ago.
Behind him, a shadow cut through the rain.
Deathstroke landed like a thunderbolt and he was silent, controlled, but heavy. The sword on his back gleamed as lightning split the sky.
They stood in the downpour, the world around them reduced to wind, rain, and thunder.
Deathstroke tilted his head. "You made a big mistake, kid."
Nightwing twirled his electrified escrima sticks, sparks hissing from the rain. "Wouldn't be my first, old man."
Deathstroke's visor glowed faint orange beneath the half-mask. "Still think you're playing hero? If so why heroes die?"
"Not playing," Nightwing said, stepping forward. "Just doing the job you won't."
They clashed.
The first strike came like a gunshot with Deathstroke's blade swept low, forcing Nightwing to block with both sticks. Sparks exploded, the clang of metal echoing over the city. Deathstroke moved with machine precision, every swing designed to kill, not test. Nightwing deflected, ducked, and rolled with his body a blur of motion and muscle memory.
A kick caught Deathstroke in the chest but it barely made him flinch. He countered with a punch that cracked like a sledgehammer. Nightwing's mask HUD flickered from the impact as he slid backward across wet concrete.
He gritted his teeth and lunged again.
Deathstroke parried easily, sweeping Nightwing's legs out from under him. Nightwing hit the ground, rolled, and kicked himself upright just in time to see a red scope flicker to life through the rain behind him.
"Miss me, kid?"
Nightwing spun around. Deadshot stood at the edge of the rooftop, rain running down his crimson armor, twin pistols raised.
"Great," Nightwing muttered. "Two-for-one night."
Deathstroke smirked. "Told you he'd be predictable."
Deadshot shrugged. "Predictable still pays."
They opened fire together with Deathstroke charging head-on while Deadshot rained bullets from the flank.
Nightwing dove, flipped, and slid between cover. Bullets sparked off the rooftop around him, his heart pounding. He vaulted a vent, rolled, and threw one electrified escrima stick. It ricocheted off a pipe and hit Deadshot's gauntlet, sending a jolt of blue lightning up his arm.
Deadshot cursed, shaking his hand. "You little shit."
Deathstroke was already on Nightwing. Their weapons clashed again, sword against steel rods, each impact echoing across the city.
"You are good." Deathstroke grunted, driving a knee into Nightwing's ribs. "Too bad you're still soft."
Nightwing gasped in pain but grabbed Deathstroke's wrist and flipped over him, landing a kick to the back of his helmet. "You talk too much."
Deathstroke turned and slashed. Nightwing ducked barely and the blade nicked his shoulder, drawing blood.
He grunted, spun behind Deathstroke, and cracked him across the back with both sticks, electricity sparking but the mercenary barely flinched.
Deadshot fired again. One bullet clipped Nightwing's calf, dropping him to one knee.
"Yeah," Deadshot called out, smirking behind his mask. "That's more like it!"
Nightwing flung a smoke bomb and dark clouds swallowed the rooftop. Through the haze, lightning flashes illuminated the silhouettes of three figures moving at once.
Nightwing vaulted from shadow to shadow, using his acrobatics to gain space. He ducked under a blade, rolled across the wet ground, then caught Deathstroke with a taser strike to the chest.
The mercenary staggered, armor sizzling.
"Now we're even," Nightwing muttered.
Then Deadshot fired blind through the smoke.
One bullet tore through Nightwing's side, reopening his wound. He stumbled forward, blood spilling down his ribs.
Deathstroke lunged.
The sword's flat side cracked against Nightwing's jaw, sending him spinning to the ground. His escrima sticks flew from his hands.
Deathstroke stomped on his chest, pinning him. "You're out of your league, kid."
Nightwing gasped, rainwater mixing with the blood at his mouth. "Yeah… I get that a lot."
He grabbed Deathstroke's boot and twisted, shocking him with a built-in charge from his gauntlet. The mercenary's armor sparked, and Nightwing used the moment to roll away. He kicked his escrima stick back into his hand and hurled it hitting Deadshot's scope dead-on.
"Son of a bitch!" Deadshot ripped the smoking eyepiece off. "That's it. No more playing around."
He unleashed hell. Bullets tore through signs, pipes, and concrete as Nightwing ducked behind a rooftop vent. Every breath burned; every heartbeat throbbed in his ears. He peeked out and Deathstroke was circling, cutting off escape routes. Deadshot was reloading fast.
Nightwing had seconds.
He flicked a compact explosive from his belt, primed it, and tossed it toward the edge of the rooftop. It detonated in a blinding flash, shaking the building. Both mercenaries turned instinctively.
That was his opening.
Nightwing fired his grappling hook toward the adjacent tower, hooked it to his belt, and dove off the rooftop.
Deathstroke was right behind him, sword sheathed, rifle drawn. He fired, bullets whizzing past Nightwing's head as he swung through the rain. Deadshot aimed from the rooftop, one eye glowing red.
"Got you," Deadshot whispered.
The shot rang out.
The bullet grazed Nightwing's neck just enough to throw off his swing. He slammed into a billboard, shattered through the panel, and crashed onto another rooftop. His body rolled limply across the slick surface before he finally stopped near the ledge.
Blood poured from his side. His vision blurred.
Deathstroke landed beside him with inhuman grace, sword drawn once more. He grabbed Nightwing by the collar and lifted him halfway off the ground. "You should've stayed out of this city."
Nightwing spat blood onto Deathstroke's mask. "Can't… I live here."
Deathstroke slammed him into the wall, cracking the concrete. The impact stole his breath.
He was done. Outmatched.
But when Deathstroke raised his blade for the finishing strike, Nightwing raised a single flashbang from his belt and whispered, "Not tonight."
The explosion lit the sky white.
Deathstroke stumbled back, momentarily blinded. Nightwing dropped, hit the ground hard, and rolled off the ledge.
He fell three stories, hit a fire escape, then another, until he finally crashed into a heap of trash in a dark alley.
The world around him faded into muffled rain and pain. His comm crackled weakly in his ear.
"Master Grayson?" Alfred's voice, faint but worried. "Your vitals good heavens, are you…. "
Nightwing groaned, dragging himself deeper into the trash bin, body shaking. "I'm… fine," he lied, voice barely a whisper.
But Nightwing didn't respond. His hand slipped from his comm, his chest rising and falling slower and slower.
Rain tapped against the metal bin lid. The alley glowed faintly from a neon sign overhead "Sionis Industries."
And in the dark, Nightwing finally passed out.
But a woman in a nurse outfit walks by with a trash bag and when she goes to put the trash inside finds Nightwing bleeding and on her name tag says Thompkins