Nightwing: The Ultimate SI

[MoonyNightShade]

Chapter 1: Winning the Lottery and Then Some

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.

——————————

Author's note:

My first time trying out first-person POV. What do you think? Also... who's best girl: Hawk or Super?

 

[MoonyNightShade]

Chapter 2: Aces High, Jokers Wild

The explosion was followed by a sound I knew intimately from a thousand hours of video games and action movies: the cacophony of automatic gunfire.

And my first thought wasn't "Oh god, we're all going to die." It wasn't "I need to protect Chloe." It wasn't even "I should call the police."

My first thought was: Oh, hell yes. It's happening. First night and I already get a tutorial mission. Best. Isekai. Ever.

Around me, the restaurant erupted into chaos. Crystal glasses shattered as people dove under tables. Someone was screaming about calling 911. The elegant jazz music cut off abruptly, replaced by the sound of chairs scraping against marble floors and the muffled sobs of terrified diners.

But all I could feel was this incredible, electric rush of pure adrenaline. This was it. This was the moment every comic book fan dreamed about. Real superhero stuff was happening right outside, and I was no longer just some guy who had to watch it on the news.

I was the guy who got to do something about it.

"Dick!" Chloe grabbed my arm, her perfectly manicured nails digging into my suit jacket. "What's happening? What do we do?"

I looked down at her – and was surprised by how calm and controlled my voice sounded when I spoke. "It's okay. We're going to be fine. Get under the table, right now."

My hands moved with practiced efficiency, guiding her down beneath the white tablecloth while my body automatically positioned itself between her and the windows. Muscle memory. Dick Grayson's muscle memory, trained by years of crisis situations and Batman's paranoid contingency planning.

It felt amazing.

"Stay low, don't make any noise," I murmured to her, my voice carrying that perfect balance of authority and reassurance that probably came from years of talking scared civilians through dangerous situations. "This will be over soon."

Meanwhile, my brain was practically vibrating with excitement. Real gunfire. Real bad guys. Real chance to test out these new abilities. This is like Christmas morning except the presents are probably going to shoot back.

Through the restaurant's floor-to-ceiling windows, I could see the street scene unfolding like something straight out of a movie. An armored car had crashed into a fire hydrant, water geysering into the air. Money – actual stacks of cash – were scattered across the asphalt like confetti. And standing around the wreckage, looking like they'd stepped right out of the pages of a comic book, were four figures in playing card-themed costumes.

The Royal Flush Gang. Holy shit, it was actually the Royal Flush Gang.

Ten was lean and wiry, his costume covered in the appropriate number of suit symbols. Jack looked like a medieval knight who'd been hit by a truck full of neon lights. Queen was tall and imposing, her outfit a disturbing fusion of playing card imagery and practical body armor. And King – King was clearly the muscle, wearing what looked like a mechanical exo-suit with a crown motif that was probably supposed to be intimidating but mostly just looked like someone had bedazzled a forklift.

They were professional, efficient, and armed to the teeth. Perfect tutorial-level enemies for a newly-minted superhero's first night out.

I could hear police sirens in the distance, but they sounded far away. Too far away. These guys would be long gone before the first patrol car arrived, which meant–

"Everyone stay calm!" King's voice boomed as he and Queen stepped through the restaurant's main entrance, their weapons trained on the cowering diners. "Nobody moves, nobody gets hurt! This is just a simple withdrawal from the First National Bank of None-of-Your-Business!"

Okay, that was actually a pretty good line. I had to give him credit for that one.

"All we want is to finish our business outside," Queen added, her voice cold and professional. "Stay down, stay quiet, and we'll be out of your hair in five minutes."

This was perfect. They were providing the exact distraction I needed.

I squeezed Chloe's shoulder gently. "Listen to me very carefully," I whispered, leaning down close to her ear. "I need you to stay exactly where you are and don't make a sound, no matter what happens. Can you do that for me?"

She nodded frantically, her eyes wide with terror.

"Good girl." I gave her what I hoped was a reassuring smile. "I'll be right back."

"Where are you going?" she whispered.

"Men's room," I said, which was technically the direction I was headed. "Nerves, you know?"

And then, taking advantage of the fact that King and Queen were focused on controlling the main dining room, I did something that felt as natural as breathing: I vanished.

One second I was crouched next to Chloe under the table. The next, I was moving through the restaurant's shadows like I'd been doing it my entire life. My feet found the quietest spots on the floor automatically. My body flowed around obstacles without conscious thought. I slipped past a panicked waiter, through a gap between two service stations, and into the kitchen without making so much as a whisper of sound.

Batman training for the win. Holy crap, this stealth thing is like having superpowers.

The kitchen was empty – the staff had probably bolted the moment they heard gunfire, which showed excellent survival instincts. I made my way to the back exit, my mind racing with excitement and possibility.

Time to see what this body could really do.

The back alley behind The Cormorant was narrow, dimly lit, and absolutely perfect for what I needed to do. I found a spot between two dumpsters where the shadows were deepest and started exploring my outfit with the kind of methodical precision that felt like muscle memory.

The expensive dress shoes weren't just expensive dress shoes. There were hidden panels in the heels that opened at the touch of a concealed button, revealing compartments packed with what looked like the world's most advanced collapsible technology. The jacket had a secret lining that felt like regular fabric but unfolded into something that was definitely not regular fabric.

Wayne-tech. Actual, honest-to-god Wayne-tech. This is like having Q from James Bond as your personal equipment manager.

My fingers moved with practiced efficiency, assembling pieces that fit together with satisfying clicks and whirs. The mask was a masterpiece of engineering – lightweight, perfectly fitted, with lenses that enhanced my night vision the moment they activated. The suit itself was like wearing liquid midnight; it moved with me, breathed with me, felt like it had been tailored specifically for my body.

Which, I realized as I pulled on the fingerless gloves, it probably had been.

The escrima sticks were the final touch. Twin batons that extended with a flick of my wrists, perfectly balanced, crackling with some kind of electrical charge that made the air around them hum with barely contained energy.

I caught my reflection in a grimy window and nearly laughed out loud.

I look like a superhero. I actually look like a legitimate, honest-to-god superhero. This is the coolest thing that has ever happened to anyone in the history of anything.

The gunfire outside had stopped, which probably meant the Royal Flush Gang had finished loading their haul and were getting ready to make their exit. Time to crash their party.

I made my way to the mouth of the alley, my body moving with a fluid grace that felt effortless. Every step was perfectly balanced. Every breath was controlled. I felt like I could run up walls or leap across buildings without breaking a sweat.

The street scene was exactly what I'd expected: organized chaos. The gang had clearly been planning this job for weeks. They'd positioned their getaway vehicle – a modified van with playing card decals and what looked like armor plating – at the perfect angle for a quick escape. King was directing the loading operation while Ten and Jack kept watch. Queen was scanning the perimeter with the kind of professional awareness that suggested military training.

They were good. Competent. Experienced.

They just weren't prepared for me.

I took a deep breath, feeling my heart pounding with anticipation, and made my entrance.

The fire escape ladder was exactly where my instincts told me it would be. I grabbed it, used my momentum to swing myself up and around, and launched myself into the air with a twist that felt like pure poetry in motion. Triple flip – no, quadruple flip – stick the landing right between the gang and their van.

Nailed it. Oh my god, I actually nailed it. That felt incredible. My spleen is now somewhere in the vicinity of my throat, but holy crap, that was the coolest thing I've ever done.

"What the hell–" King spun around, raising his weapon.

I struck a pose that felt both natural and completely ridiculous – one escrima stick extended, the other spinning casually in my grip, mask gleaming under the streetlights.

"You guys look like a tough hand to beat," I said, putting every ounce of Dick Grayson's natural charisma into my voice. "Good thing I'm an expert at shuffling the deck."

The silence that followed was profound.

Oh god. That was terrible. That was possibly the worst one-liner in the history of crime fighting. Abort. Abort mission. Retreat to base and reconsider life choices.

"Who the hell are you supposed to be?" King demanded, his mechanical suit whirring as he turned to face me fully.

"Nightwing," I said, because apparently my mouth was committed to this whole 'confident superhero' thing even while my brain was cringing. "And you're about to fold."

Stop. Stop with the card puns. You're embarrassing yourself in front of the criminals.

Ten was the first to move, raising his automatic weapon with military precision. But the moment he pulled the trigger, my body reacted without conscious thought. I was already moving, already in the air, flipping sideways as bullets whined through the space where I'd been standing half a second earlier.

The world slowed down. Not literally – I wasn't suddenly the Flash – but my perception shifted into what I could only describe as 'combat time.' Every detail became crystal clear. The muzzle flashes. The trajectory of the bullets. The way Jack was moving to flank me while Queen tried to circle around behind.

This is amazing. This is like being inside the world's most advanced video game except the graphics are perfect and the physics engine is actual physics.

I landed in a crouch, rolled forward, and came up swinging. My right escrima stick caught Ten across the wrist, sending his gun spinning away into the darkness. The left one found the nerve cluster in his shoulder with surgical precision, dropping him to his knees with a grunt of pain.

Muscle memory for the win. I have no idea how I just did that, but it felt awesome.

Jack came at me with what looked like an electrified sword, because apparently the Royal Flush Gang had a theme and they were sticking to it. He was fast, well-trained, and probably dangerous under normal circumstances.

These were not normal circumstances.

I ducked under his first swing, pivoted on my heel, and swept his legs with a move that flowed so naturally it felt like dancing. As he went down, I tried to add a little flourish – a spinning kick that was supposed to look really cool – and nearly face-planted when my foot caught on absolutely nothing.

Okay, note to self: stick to the moves that the muscle memory knows. Adding freestyle choreography while in actual combat is apparently a bad idea.

I caught my balance just in time to dodge a blast of energy from Queen's weapon, which looked like someone had crossed a crossbow with a plasma cannon. The shot sizzled past my ear, close enough that I could smell ozone and singed hair.

Too close. Way too close. This is the part where people actually die in real life, isn't it?

But instead of fear, all I felt was this incredible rush of aliveness. Every nerve was firing. Every sense was heightened. I felt like I could take on an army and come out winning.

I closed the distance to Queen with a series of acrobatic moves that would have made a circus performer weep with envy – handspring, cartwheel, forward flip – and landed right in her personal space. Her weapon was designed for medium-range combat; she couldn't bring it to bear when I was close enough to see my reflection in her visor.

My escrima stick found the power coupling on her weapon with a precision strike that sent sparks flying. Her backup knife appeared in her hand like magic, but I was already moving, grabbing her wrist and using her own momentum to send her stumbling into Jack, who was just getting back to his feet.

They went down in a tangle of limbs and frustrated cursing.

Two down, one to go. This is actually working. I'm actually winning.

Which left King.

King, who was easily twice my size and wearing what amounted to a mechanized suit of armor. King, who looked like he could bench press a small car and probably had. King, whose weapons systems were built into his exo-suit and couldn't be easily disarmed.

He was grinning at me through his armored visor, the kind of grin that suggested he was about to enjoy this way too much.

"You're fast, kid, I'll give you that," he rumbled, servos whining as he raised his gauntleted fists. "But let's see how you handle some real firepower."

The mini-missiles launched from his shoulder mounts with a sound like angry wasps. I threw myself sideways, rolling behind the crashed armored car as explosions peppered the street where I'd been standing. Chunks of asphalt rained down around me, and I could feel the heat from the blasts singeing the back of my suit.

Okay, this is significantly more dangerous than the other three. This guy could actually kill me if I'm not careful. Think, think, think. What would Dick Grayson do? What would Batman do? What would someone who actually knows what they're doing do?

I peeked around the edge of the armored car, studying King's suit with the kind of analytical focus that felt half like Dick Grayson's training and half like my own years of obsessing over superhero technology. The exo-suit was impressive, but it was also clearly not Wayne-tech. It had that slight jankiness that came from being built by people with more ambition than budget.

And there – right there on his left knee – was exactly what I'd been hoping to find.

The hydraulic joint looks like it was installed by the lowest bidder. That's not military-grade engineering; that's 'we got this from a construction equipment surplus catalog' engineering. Time to exploit some shoddy workmanship.

I moved fast, using the wreckage as cover to circle around behind him. King was tracking my movement, but the bulk of his suit made it hard for him to turn quickly. I waited for him to commit to a direction, then darted in from his blind spot.

My escrima stick, charged with whatever Wayne-tech wizardry made it hum with electricity, found that weak hydraulic coupling with surgical precision.

The effect was immediate and catastrophic. Sparks flew. Hydraulic fluid sprayed everywhere. And King's left leg simply stopped working, sending him crashing to the street with a sound like a collapsing construction crane.

"Son of a–" he started to say, trying to bring his weapons to bear from his prone position.

But I was already there, both escrima sticks pressed against the collar of his suit where the armor was thinnest. The electrical charge flowed directly into his nervous system, and he went limp with a sound that was half grunt, half electronic whine.

And that's game over. Holy crap, I actually did it. I beat the Royal Flush Gang. I beat actual supervillains on my first night out.

I stood there for a moment, breathing hard, looking down at the four unconscious criminals scattered around the street like discarded playing cards. My body was singing with adrenaline and the deep, satisfying ache of muscles that had been pushed to their limits. I felt like I could run a marathon or lift a truck or–

Police sirens. Getting closer.

Time to go.

I gathered up the scattered money as quickly as I could – no point in letting the city's budget department wonder where their tax dollars had gone – and deposited it in the back of the armored car. Then I activated some kind of beacon device that I found in one of my suit's many hidden pockets, which would presumably signal the authorities that the criminals were secure and ready for pickup.

The whole cleanup took maybe thirty seconds, but by the time I was done, I could see the first police cruiser turning the corner two blocks away.

I looked up at the fire escape ladder I'd used for my dramatic entrance, calculated the distance and angle, and jumped.

Please work. Please let the superhero thing work for the dismount too.

It worked. I caught the ladder, swung myself up and over the edge of the building, and vanished into the shadows just as the police cars screeched to a halt in front of the crime scene.

Best. Night. Ever.

Getting back into my civilian clothes was almost as impressive as the suit-up had been, in reverse. The Nightwing gear collapsed back into its component parts with engineering precision, fitting perfectly into the hidden compartments of my dress shoes and jacket. Within two minutes, I looked like Dick Grayson again – albeit slightly disheveled and covered in a fine layer of dust that I really hoped looked like bathroom powder rather than 'I just had a fight with four supervillains' residue.

The restaurant was still in chaos when I slipped back through the kitchen, but it was controlled chaos now. The Royal Flush Gang members who'd been inside were gone – presumably they'd left when they heard the sounds of their teammates getting systematically defeated outside. The diners were starting to emerge from under tables, talking in hushed, excited whispers about what they'd seen and heard.

Chloe was exactly where I'd left her, still huddled under our table, still wide-eyed with terror.

I slid back into my seat with what I hoped was a perfectly natural movement, picked up a napkin, and started wiping a smudge of grime off my cheek that definitely hadn't been there when I'd left for the 'men's room.'

"Sorry about that," I said, giving her my most reassuring smile. "Got a little turned around looking for the men's room. Did I miss anything?"

 

[MoonyNightShade]

Chapter 3: No Game No Life

Chloe stared at me, her mouth slightly agape, a half-eaten bread roll still clutched in a white-knuckled grip.

"You were gone for twenty minutes," she said slowly, like she was trying to solve a particularly complex math problem. "There was gunfire. Explosions. People were screaming. And you... you went to the bathroom."

I gave her my most charming, apologetic smile while internally calculating exactly how long it would take to extricate myself from this situation and get home to start my new life properly. "Call of nature waits for no man," I said with a helpless shrug. "Though I'll admit, the timing was less than ideal."

She continued staring at me like I'd grown a second head. Which, from her perspective, I probably had. The old Dick Grayson would have been protective, concerned, asking if she was hurt. The old Dick Grayson would have wrapped her in his arms and whispered reassurances about how he'd never let anything happen to her.

The old Dick Grayson hadn't just spent twenty minutes living out every superhero fantasy he'd ever had.

"Sir? Ma'am?" A tired-looking police officer appeared at our table, notepad in hand. His uniform was rumpled, his expression suggesting this was just another Friday night in Blüdhaven. "I need to get a statement about what you witnessed."

Perfect. This would give me time to figure out exactly how to end this relationship without seeming like a complete sociopath.

"Of course, Officer..." I glanced at his name tag, "Martinez. Happy to help."

The next ten minutes were a masterclass in selective truth-telling. Yes, we'd been having dinner when the explosion occurred. Yes, we'd taken cover under our table as instructed. No, we hadn't gotten a clear look at the perpetrators. Yes, everything had happened very quickly. No, neither of us had been injured.

All perfectly true, technically speaking. I just left out the part where I'd spent most of that time systematically dismantling a team of themed criminals while wearing a costume that probably cost more than most people's cars.

God, I love being technically honest. It's like lying, but with legal immunity.

"The Nightwing guy showed up," Officer Martinez added, making a note in his pad. "First time anyone's gotten a good look at him in action. Witnesses say he took down all four of them single-handed."

"Impressive," I said, managing to keep my voice level while internally doing victory laps. "Any idea who he is?"

"Above my pay grade," Martinez replied with a grunt. "But whoever he is, he's good. Real good. These Royal Flush idiots have been pulling jobs all up and down the coast for months. Nobody's even come close to catching them before tonight."

First case, perfect success rate. I'm basically the Batman of Blüdhaven already. Eat your heart out, Bruce.

After Martinez moved on to the next table, Chloe turned to me with an expression that was equal parts confused and concerned. "Dick, can we please get out of here? I just... I need to go somewhere safe. Somewhere normal. Maybe we could go back to your place and watch a movie or something?"

And there it was. The perfect opening.

I looked at her with what I hoped was profound, soul-searching seriousness. The kind of expression that suggested I was grappling with deep, cosmic truths rather than trying to figure out how to dump her without looking like a complete ass.

"Chloe," I said, reaching across the table to take her hand. "This event... it's been a wake-up call. A sign from the universe."

She blinked. "A sign?"

"I can no longer walk the path of an ordinary man," I continued, channeling every overwrought dramatic speech I'd ever seen in a movie. "I have to follow my destiny, a cosmic calling that I can't explain but must obey. I must walk this path alone."

The silence that followed was profound. Somewhere across the restaurant, a piece of broken glass tinkled to the floor.

"Are you..." she started, then stopped. "Are you breaking up with me?"

"I'm freeing you," I said solemnly, "from the burden of a man who has been chosen by forces beyond our understanding."

This is possibly the most ridiculous thing I've ever said. But it's also kind of working? She looks more confused than heartbroken, which is exactly what I was going for.

"Dick, what the hell are you talking about?"

"I can't explain it," I said, standing and pulling out my wallet. "But I know, with absolute certainty, that my path leads somewhere you can't follow. Tonight was a warning, Chloe. A glimpse of the dangerous world that's calling to me."

I dropped enough cash on the table to cover our dinner, the broken wine glass, and probably the waiter's rent for the month. "I'll make sure you get home safely. That's the least I can do."

Twenty minutes later, I was standing on the sidewalk outside The Cormorant, watching Chloe's taxi disappear into the Blüdhaven traffic. She'd spent the entire ride to the taxi trying to make sense of what had just happened, asking if I was having some kind of breakdown, if this was about work stress, if there was someone else.

I'd stuck to my cosmic destiny script, even going so far as to place a gentle hand on her cheek and tell her that someday, when she read about the great deeds of Richard Grayson, she'd understand.

Poor girl. She's probably going to spend the next week telling her friends that I had a psychotic break triggered by witnessing a supervillain attack. Which is, technically, not entirely inaccurate.

But now she was gone, and I was free.

I hailed my own taxi, gave the driver the address to Dick Grayson's penthouse, and settled back into the leather seats to watch my new city scroll past the windows.

Blüdhaven at night was a study in contrasts. The downtown area where we'd been dining was all gleaming corporate towers and upscale restaurants, but even here you could see the edges of the rougher neighborhoods bleeding through. Neon signs for pawn shops and check-cashing places. Groups of teenagers clustered around convenience stores. The occasional police car cruising slowly through intersections with their windows up and their doors locked.

It was grittier than Gotham, somehow. Less dramatically noir, more practically dangerous. The kind of city where people kept their heads down and minded their own business because getting involved usually meant getting hurt.

Perfect for a superhero who wanted to make a real difference. Perfect for building a reputation without having to compete with Batman's shadow.

This is my city now. My territory. My chance to be the kind of hero I always wanted to see.

The taxi pulled up outside a gleaming residential tower that rose into the night sky like a glass and steel monument to wealth and success. The lobby was all marble and brass, with security guards who nodded respectfully as I walked past. The elevator ride to the penthouse felt like ascending to Mount Olympus.

And then the doors opened, and I stepped into paradise.

Holy. Shit.

The first thing that hit me was the sheer scale of it. The apartment was enormous – a sprawling open-plan space that seemed to stretch on forever. Floor-to-ceiling windows wrapped around two walls, offering a panoramic view of Blüdhaven that made the entire city look like a sparkling circuit board spread out below.

My God. I've seen smaller hotel lobbies. The sheer, unadulterated wealth. I could do cartwheels in here for an hour and not hit a single piece of artisan, minimalist furniture. This isn't a home; it's a victory screen.

The living room was a masterpiece of modern design. Low-profile furniture in blacks and grays, arranged around a real fireplace. A state-of-the-art entertainment system dominated one wall, with speakers positioned so precisely that I could probably hear individual raindrops in a thunderstorm soundtrack.

The kitchen was something out of a cooking show – all gleaming stainless steel and granite countertops, with appliances that looked like they'd been designed by NASA. I ran my hands over the marble island, giggling slightly at the smooth coolness under my fingertips.

I have no idea how to use any of this. I could probably burn water in a kitchen this advanced. But my God, it's beautiful.

I wandered through the space like a kid in the world's most expensive toy store. The walk-in closet was larger than my old apartment, filled with designer suits and casual wear that fit my new body perfectly. Hidden panels revealed compartments for various pieces of Nightwing gear – backup suits, extra weapons, equipment I couldn't even identify yet.

The bedroom was dominated by a bed that was less a piece of furniture and more a small continent. The windows here faced east, which meant I'd wake up to sunshine streaming across the city every morning. Like living inside a meditation app designed by billionaires.

But it was the framed photo on the nightstand that made me pause.

A younger Dick Grayson – maybe sixteen or seventeen – standing between Bruce Wayne and an elderly man who could only be Alfred Pennyworth. They were at some kind of carnival or circus, all three of them smiling genuine, unguarded smiles. Dick's parents' circus, maybe. Or just a moment of happiness in what I knew had been a childhood marked by tragedy and transformation.

For the first time since I'd awakened in this body, I felt a genuine pang of something that might have been guilt. I was living this man's life, sleeping in his bed, wearing his clothes. I was about to use his reputation and resources to pursue my own agenda.

But then I looked around at the penthouse again, at the view and the luxury and the sheer endless potential of it all, and the guilt faded into something more like gratitude.

I'm not going to waste this. I'm going to be the hero this life deserves. I'm going to protect this city, save these people, and maybe – just maybe – win the heart of the most incredible woman in the multiverse.

Thank you, Dick Grayson. I'll try to make you proud.

I found the laptop in what was obviously a home office – another space that was larger than my old apartment, with a desk that could have doubled as a landing strip. The computer was, predictably, a masterpiece of Wayne-tech engineering. It booted up faster than I could blink, connected to the internet at speeds that would make Starlink jealous, and had security protocols that probably classified it as a controlled substance in several countries.

Time for the great information dive.

My first search was simple: "Superman."

The results that flooded back confirmed everything I'd hoped. News articles from the past few months, all with headlines like "SUPERMAN SAVES METROPOLIS FROM ALIEN" and "WHO IS THE MAN OF STEEL?" The tone was optimistic, hopeful, with just enough complacency to suggest the world was already getting used to the idea of superheroes.

And there, in a high-definition photograph that made my breath catch, was David Corenswet in the red and blue. It was definitely him – the same face I'd seen in the theatre, but somehow more real, more heroic. This wasn't a movie still; this was actual news footage of Superman stopping a falling plane.

The Gunnverse. It's real. It's actually real. I'm actually truly definitely living inside the James Gunn DC Universe.

My second search was "Batman."

The results were exactly what I'd expected: grainy photographs, shaky cell phone videos, and articles that treated him more like a urban legend than a confirmed superhero. Headlines like "IS THE BAT-MAN REAL?" and "GOTHAM'S DARK GUARDIAN: FACT OR FICTION?" The general consensus seemed to be that something was definitely happening in Gotham, but nobody could prove exactly what.

Perfect. Bruce is still operating in the shadows, which means the wider world isn't ready for a complete superhero revolution yet. That gives me room to work.

But now came the real search. The one that mattered.

I opened a private browser, engaged every security protocol the laptop had, and typed in two words: "Hawkgirl."

The internet practically exploded.

Article after article flooded my screen. "JUSTICE GANG STOPS ROGUE METAHUMAN IN WASHINGTON D.C." "THE WINGED WARRIOR: WHO IS HAWKGIRL?" "INSIDE THE GOVERNMENT'S SUPER-TEAM."

I clicked through them with the manic energy of a treasure hunter who'd just found the motherlode. The Justice Gang was a small, officially sanctioned team working directly with the government. Guy Gardner as Green Lantern – already perfectly cast with Nathan Fillion's face grinning from multiple action shots. Edi Gathegi's brilliant Mr. Terrific, whose tech-genius reputation was apparently well-established. And then...

There she is.

The first clear photograph of Hawkgirl in action nearly made me fall out of my chair. She was mid-flight, wings spread wide, wielding a mace that seemed to be made of pure grit. Her costume was a perfect blend of ancient Egyptian mysticism and modern tactical gear. Her posture radiated confidence, power, and just enough danger to suggest that crossing her would be the last mistake you ever made.

But it was her face that stopped my heart.

Even partially hidden behind her mask, even caught in the middle of combat, there was no mistaking those features. The sharp cheekbones, the determined set of her jaw, the way she carried herself like she owned the sky.

Isabela Merced. It was actually, genuinely, impossibly Isabela Merced.

Holy. Fucking. Shit.

I clicked through to more photos. Hawkgirl at a Justice Gang press conference, standing slightly apart from her teammates with an expression that suggested she was barely tolerating the whole media circus. Hawkgirl in flight over the Washington Monument, silhouetted against a sunset that made her look like a warrior goddess from every mythology ever written.

And then – jackpot – I found her public social media profiles.

Dr. Kendra Saunders, archaeologist and "part-time government consultant." Her Instagram was a carefully curated mix of professional excavation photos, museum visits, and just enough personal content to suggest a woman who was confident, intelligent, and absolutely gorgeous.

That smirk. That damned smirk. It's not arrogant. It's a promise. A promise of a universe of trouble and I want in. I want to be the reason for that smirk.

I spent the next hour falling down the deepest research rabbit hole of my life. I found articles about her academic work, her theories about ancient Egyptian aviation technology, her controversial papers about the historical basis for winged deities. I found candid photos from archaeological conferences where she looked devastating in business casual. I found action shots where she looked like she could take on an army single-handed.

Every image, every article, every glimpse into her life just confirmed what I already knew: this was the woman I was going to marry.

Game on, universe. Game on.

I found the highest resolution photo I could – a professional headshot from her university faculty page where she was wearing a slight smile that suggested she knew secrets that could change the world – and set it as my desktop background.

Then I stood up, looked at my reflection in the darkened window, and made a solemn vow to my empty penthouse.

"Kendra Saunders," I said aloud, feeling slightly ridiculous but absolutely determined. "I don't care if you're an ancient Egyptian princess. I don't care if you can fly. I don't care if you work for the government and could probably have me disappeared with a phone call. I'm going to win your heart, and I'm going to do it with such style and panache that future generations will write epic poems about our romance."

The city lights twinkled below me like stars, and for a moment I felt like I was standing on top of the world.

Step one: become rich enough to move in the same social circles as a government-sponsored superhero archaeologist. Step two: orchestrate a series of increasingly elaborate 'accidental' meetings. Step three: deploy every ounce of Dick Grayson's natural charm until she can't help but fall for me. Step four: wedding of the century.

How hard could it be?

I turned back to the laptop, ready to start drafting what was probably going to be the most detailed romantic battle plan in human history.

Just as I was about to start drafting a 72-point plan to orchestrate our 'accidental' first meeting, a polite, distinctly British cough echoed from the penthouse entryway behind me.

——————————

Author's note:

Who could this person possibly be!? With a British cough too…

 

[MoonyNightShade]

Chapter 4: Tea, Sympathy and a Very Suspect Butler

I froze, my hand still on the mouse, my screen illuminated by the glorious, smirking face of my life's new quest.

Oh God. Oh God oh God oh God. Someone's here. Someone's in my apartment. Do I have enemies already? Is this a test? Are there ninjas in my living room?

I slammed the laptop shut with a speed that was definitely not normal human behavior, spinning around in my chair so fast I nearly gave myself whiplash.

And there, standing in the entryway with the quiet dignity of a man who had been personally trained by centuries of British decorum, was Alfred Pennyworth.

Holy. Fucking. Shit.

He was exactly what I'd imagined and somehow more real than any movie or TV show had ever managed to capture. Tall, distinguished, with silver hair that looked like it had been styled by angels and a posture that suggested he could serve tea during an earthquake without spilling a drop. He was wearing an impeccably tailored suit and holding a bag of what appeared to be groceries, his expression one of perfect, polite neutrality.

Which, somehow, was absolutely terrifying.

It's him. It's actually him. It's Michael Caine crossed with Sean Pertwee crossed with every perfect butler who ever existed. This is the man who helped raise Batman. This is the man who knows where all the bodies are buried – literally and figuratively. And he's looking at me like I'm a fascinating, possibly dangerous insect he's about to pin to a collection board.

"Master Dick," Alfred said, his voice carrying that perfect BBC accent that could make reading a grocery list sound like Shakespeare. "I do hope I'm not intruding. I took the liberty of bringing some provisions, as I noticed your refrigerator was looking rather barren."

Act normal. What is normal for Dick Grayson? Brooding? Vague athletic complaints? Definitely not giggling at pictures of a winged goddess. Definitely not fanboying over the greatest butler in human history.

"Alfred!" I said, my voice coming out about an octave higher than it should have. "Hi! Great to see you! What a... what a pleasant surprise!"

Too enthusiastic. Way too enthusiastic. Dick Grayson would be cool, collected. He wouldn't sound like he'd just inhaled helium.

Alfred's expression didn't change, but I swear I saw something flicker behind his eyes. The kind of flicker that suggested he was already running diagnostics on my behavior and finding the results deeply concerning.

"Indeed, sir. I thought I might prepare some tea, if that would be amenable. It has been quite some time since we've had a proper chat."

A proper chat. Oh no. This is an interrogation. This has to be how Alfred Pennyworth conducts an interrogation – with perfect politeness and Earl Grey.

"That sounds fantastic," I said, trying to dial down my enthusiasm to something approaching normal human levels. "Really great. Love tea. Big tea fan."

Big tea fan? Who says that? I'm already failing this test and it hasn't even started yet.

Alfred nodded with that same professional neutrality and moved into the kitchen with the kind of efficient grace that made every movement look choreographed. I watched him unpack the groceries – fresh vegetables, lean meats, what looked like expensive cheese – while my brain tried to process the surreal reality of having Alfred Pennyworth making me tea in my kitchen.

My kitchen. Alfred Pennyworth is making me tea in my kitchen. I could die right now and be perfectly happy.

"I trust your evening with Miss Chloe was pleasant?" Alfred asked, his back to me as he filled the kettle. It sounded like casual small talk, but somehow it felt like the opening move in a chess game. And I was definitely already on my back foot.

Right. Chloe. The date I just ended with the most ridiculous breakup speech in human history. How do I explain that without sounding completely insane?

"Oh, that," I said, waving a hand dismissively. "Yeah, I actually ended things tonight. It was time to shed my civilian shell, you know? Embrace the hero's journey. It's all very Joseph Campbell, if you think about it. Much much needed."

Alfred stuttered in his tea preparation. It was barely noticeable – just a momentary stillness – but I felt it like a physical weight settling over the room. Alfred Pennyworth did not stutter.

"I see," he said, his tone perfectly neutral. "Miss Chloe was under the impression that you were quite taken with her. Mr. Wayne mentioned that his connections had spoken rather highly of her character."

His connections had vetted her? Of course they had. Bruce Wayne doesn't let his adopted son date random civilians without a full background check. And I just tossed her aside with a speech about cosmic destiny.

"Right, well," I said, running a hand through my hair, "sometimes the universe has other plans, you know? Greater calling and all that."

"A greater calling," Alfred repeated, setting out two delicate china cups with the precision of a Swiss watchmaker. "How extraordinary. I shall be sure to cancel your standing Tuesday reservation at Giordano's, then."

He knows about my standing reservation. Of course he knows. He probably knows every restaurant I've ever eaten at, every person I've ever dated, every thought I've ever had. And that dry delivery – that was sarcasm wasn't it? Yes… definitely sarcasm. British, politely devastating sarcasm.

"That would be great, thanks," I said, trying to sound casual while internally panicking. "No more ordinary dates for this guy. I'm thinking bigger picture now."

Alfred began preparing the tea with the same kind of ritualistic precision he's brought to everything else, suggesting this was a routine we'd performed countless times before. He reached for a small jar of honey, then paused, looking at me expectantly.

"Your usual preference, sir?"

My usual preference? What's Dick Grayson's usual tea preference? Think. What would a rich, athletic twenty-something drink? Something healthy? Something sophisticated?

"Actually," I said, "could I get two sugars tonight? Feeling like mixing things up."

The silence that followed could have been tangibly measured with a precision instrument. Alfred's hand froze over the honey jar, his eyebrow executing the most minimal tightening I'd ever seen – barely a millimeter of movement that somehow conveyed the emotional weight of discovering a state secret.

"Two sugars, sir?" he said, his voice carefully modulated. "A new preference, I take it."

Oh no. Oh no no no. That was wrong. That was very, very wrong. Dick Grayson takes honey. Of course he takes honey. He's health-conscious, he's probably been drinking his tea the same way since he was sixteen, and I just broke a years-long routine like it was nothing.

"Just, you know," I said, scrambling for an explanation, "trying new things. New life, new tea preferences. Very symbolic."

"Indeed," Alfred said – and for the first time, there was a visible crack in his shell. His hands trembled slightly as he added two sugar cubes to my cup, handling them as though they were radioactive. "Symbolic."

He finished preparing the tea in silence, then brought my cup over to the living area where I'd settled onto the massive sectional sofa. As he handed it to me, his eyes lingered on my face for just a moment longer than necessary.

"You have a bit of... something," he said delicately, producing an immaculate handkerchief from his jacket pocket. "Just here, on your cheek."

The grime from the fight. I thought I'd cleaned it all off, but clearly I missed a spot. And now Alfred Pennyworth is personally cleaning my face like I'm five years old.

"Oh, thanks," I said as he gently dabbed at the smudge. "Clumsy evening. You know how it is."

"Indeed, sir. And that small tear in your jacket sleeve?"

I looked down at my arm, where there was indeed a barely visible rip in the expensive fabric – probably from when I'd rolled behind the armored car to avoid King's missiles.

He notices everything. Every single detail. This man is a walking surveillance system disguised as a butler.

"Would you believe I caught it on a taxi door?" I said with what I hoped was a sheepish grin.

"I would believe many things, Master Dick," Alfred replied, settling into the chair across from me with his own cup of tea. "Though I must confess, your evening appears to have been rather more eventful than a simple dinner would typically warrant."

Does he know? Is there even a point to keeping up this charade? He knows… right? He absolutely knows. He probably already has surveillance footage of me suiting up in that alley. He's probably already taken a DNA sample from my teacup to confirm I'm not an alien replacement.

"Just one of those nights," I said, taking a sip of my tea and trying to project casual confidence. "You know how Blüdhaven can be."

"Ah yes, Blüdhaven," Alfred nodded. "Speaking of which, I took the liberty of stocking all of your usual provisions. Organic chicken breast, sweet potatoes, that protein-rich quinoa blend you've grown quite fond of. All perfectly suited for maintaining your... evening activities. Although I wonder if you need them at all…"

Evening activities. He's talking about Nightwing's patrol schedule. Which means he knows I was out tonight doing superhero stuff, and he's probably wondering why I seem so energetic instead of exhausted.

"That's great, Alfred, really," I said, "but actually, I was wondering – did you happen to pick up any frozen pizzas? Maybe some potato chips? I'm thinking of branching out, food-wise."

Alfred went very, very still. Stilled more than he had at any other point tonight. So this was definitely the biggest shock of the evening; not the fight, not the sugar, not the breakup – but the junk food. For just a moment, every line of his body suggested I'd asked him to help me join a death cult.

At the rate it's been happening this evening, any more these 'going still' and it might just end up being permanent.

"Frozen pizzas," he repeated, his voice carrying the same tone someone might use to discuss ritual human sacrifice.

"Yeah, you know, junk food. Fun food. I'm thinking of loosening up a bit, lifestyle-wise."

"I see." Alfred set down his teacup, probably afraid he might drop it. "And this new... culinary philosophy... is part of your cosmic calling, I take it?"

He's judging me. The greatest butler in the DC Universe is judging my food choices, and honestly, fair enough. Dick Grayson probably hasn't eaten processed food since he was twelve.

"Just exploring new horizons," I said defensively. "Broadening my palate. Chloe got me into it," I added, throwing her under the bus even after everything else I'd done to her. I'm sorry, Chloe…

"Of course, sir. I shall make a note to expand your grocery list to include more... adventurous options."

The way he said 'adventurous' made it perfectly clear what he thought of this.

Okay, this isn't working. I'm failing every single test he's giving me. Actually, I'm failing even when he's NOT testing me. Time for a strategic pivot. If I can't convince him I'm the same Dick Grayson, maybe I can convince him I'm a better one.

I set down my teacup and leaned forward with what I hoped was confident enthusiasm. "You know what, Alfred? I think it's time I really embraced what this life has to offer. I'm thinking of making some changes around here."

"Changes, sir?"

"Yeah, you know – redecorate this place. It's a little too... minimalist. Too serious. I want more color, more personality. Maybe some neon. Definitely some gaming equipment. Really make it feel like a bachelor pad."

Alfred's expression suggested that I'd just proposed converting Wayne Manor into a laser tag arena.

"You wish to... redecorate," he said slowly. "With neon."

"And maybe get some advice on talking to women," I continued, really warming to the new playboy persona. "I mean, I know I'm good-looking and rich and all that, but there's this woman I'm interested in, and she's... she's incredible. Completely out of my league. I need to up my game."

This is good. This sounds like something a confident, wealthy young man would say. Playboy millionaire seeks dating advice from trusted butler. Totally normal.

"You are seeking romantic counsel," Alfred said, and I swear there was the faintest trace of something that might have been panic in his voice. "From me."

"Who better?" I said with a grin. "You've probably seen it all, right? You must have some insights into the female psyche."

Alfred was quiet for a long moment, studying me with the intensity of a scientist examining a particularly interesting specimen. When he finally spoke, his voice was softer, more careful.

"Master Dick," he said, "you seem to be in remarkably high spirits this evening. I must confess, it is a significant departure from your usual post-patrol disposition. Perhaps you've finally discovered the merits of a full eight hours of sleep?"

Post-patrol disposition. So the real Dick Grayson usually comes home from patrol tired and moody; definitely not bouncing off the walls with excitement.

"Just feeling good about life," I said, trying to dial back my enthusiasm. "New perspective, you know?"

"Indeed." Alfred stood up, smoothing his suit with practiced efficiency. "Well, I should leave you to your... new perspective. I'm sure you have a great deal to contemplate."

He's leaving. This interrogation is over, and I have no idea if I passed or failed. Actually, that's not true. I definitely failed. The question is how badly.

Alfred moved toward the door with that same fluid grace, but paused at the threshold. He turned back to look at me, and for the first time all evening, his professional mask slipped completely. What I saw underneath was concern – deep, paternal concern that made my chest tighten with unexpected emotion.

"Master Dick," he said, his voice softer than it had been all evening, "if you should find that your... cosmic calling... requires any assistance, or if you simply need someone to talk to, please know that I am always here. For you. For the real you."

——————————

Author's note:

Who else from the Bat Family should I include? I've never really been into Barbara or Tim. Maybe Stephanie? I'm leaning toward Damian for now.

 

[MoonyNightShade]

Chapter 5: Meet the Bat and the Cat

The summons, when it came, wasn't a phone call or a text, but the Bat-Signal projected onto my penthouse's panoramic window, a piece of theatrical overkill so perfectly on-brand that I could only applaud.

Oh my God. Oh my actual God. Batman just Bat-Signaled me. He projected his personal logo onto my window like I'm the mayor of Gotham and there's a clown-themed emergency. This is the single coolest thing that has ever happened to anyone in the history of anything.

I stood in my darkened living room, staring at the iconic symbol blazing across my floor-to-ceiling windows, and felt a grin spread across my face that probably looked certifiably insane. Most people would see this as an ominous summons from a notoriously grim vigilante. I saw it as the world's most exclusive invitation to the ultimate fanboy experience.

I stuck my head outside to see where the summons was coming from – and found nothing. Nada. Zip. Zilch. Was Bruce back together with Zatanna again? Poor Selina. I liked her too.

Getting back on topic.

Alfred talked. Of course Alfred talked. He probably filed a comprehensive report titled "Master Dick's Concerning Behavioral Anomalies: A Butler's Analysis." And now Bruce wants to have a little chat. In the Batcave. THE BATCAVE.

I was already moving toward my hidden suit compartments, my hands shaking slightly with excitement. Two weeks of being Nightwing, and I was finally going to see the holy grail of superhero headquarters. I was going to walk where legends had walked, touch computers that had saved the world, and maybe – just maybe – sit in the actual Batmobile.

Try to play it cool. Try to act like this is routine. Fail completely, but try anyway.

Suiting up as Nightwing had become second nature by now, but tonight felt different. Tonight I wasn't just putting on a costume; I was preparing for the performance of my life. I had to convince the world's greatest detective that I was still his adopted son, while also trying not to completely lose my mind over being in the same room as Batman.

No pressure. Just casually lie to the man who once deduced Superman's secret identity from the way he tied his shoes.

The ride to Gotham on my motorcycle was pure poetry in motion. The Nightwing bike was a masterpiece of Wayne-tech engineering, all sleek lines and silent power, cutting through the night like a bullet made of shadows. The wind whipped past my helmet, and for twenty glorious minutes, I wasn't thinking about cover stories or suspicious butlers or the impossibility of what I was attempting to pull off.

I was just a guy living the ultimate dream, racing through the night toward a meeting with Batman.

This is what freedom feels like. This is what being alive feels like. Every breath, every heartbeat, every mile of asphalt – this is what I was meant to be doing.

The entrance to the Batcave I chose was one of the more dramatic ones – a hidden waterfall that parted like a curtain when my bike's transponder sent the right signal. Because if you're going to visit the Batcave for the first time, you might as well do it with style.

Oh. Oh wow.

The cave opened up before me like something out of a fever dream designed by a billionaire with unlimited resources and serious psychological issues. The space was vast, cathedral-like, with stalactites hanging from the ceiling like the fangs of some primordial beast. The air was cool and damp, heavy with the smell of stone and ozone and the faint mechanical scent of advanced technology.

But it was the contents of the cave that made my brain short-circuit completely.

I'm actually here. I'm standing in the actual, honest-to-god Batcave. There's the giant penny – tacky, but iconic. There's the Joker card that makes my skin crawl just looking at it. There's the T-Rex that is completely impractical and the single coolest thing I have ever seen in my life.

I walked deeper into the cave in a daze, my helmet tucked under my arm, trying to process everything at once. The Batcomputer dominated the central area, a technological monstrosity that looked like it could hack the Pentagon, cure cancer, and calculate the meaning of life simultaneously. Around the edges of the cave, glass cases displayed suits from throughout Batman's career.

And there it is. In the flesh. Or the rubber, anyway.

I stared at one particular display case with a mixture of horror and hilarity. The infamous Batsuit with the sculpted nipples, preserved for posterity like some kind of cautionary tale about what happens when you let movie studios design your costume.

The Bat-Credit Card must be in a case right next to it. God bless you, Joel Schumacher. You were a madman, and I salute you.

"Nightwing."

The voice came from the shadows, deep and gravelly and exactly what I'd been expecting. Batman stepped into the light cast by the computer screens, his cape flowing dramatically behind him, and I felt my breath catch.

He's bigger than I expected. More imposing. The cowl makes him look like something that crawled out of humanity's collective nightmares and decided to fight crime for fun.

"Batman," I replied, trying to sound casual while every fanboy instinct I had was screaming at me to ask for an autograph. "Love what you've done with the place. Very... atmospheric."

Very atmospheric? That's what I lead with? Not 'thanks for the dramatic summons' or 'what can I do for you?' Just a comment about his interior decorating?

Batman's cowled head tilted slightly, and I could practically feel him analyzing my response, cataloging it against every previous interaction he'd had with Dick Grayson.

"Alfred says you've been... different lately," he said, moving closer with that predatory grace that made it clear why criminals wet themselves at the sight of him.

"Different how?" I asked, genuinely curious what Alfred's report had contained. "More handsome? More charming? Because I've been working out."

Deflect with humor. That's totally something Dick Grayson would do, right? Right?

The silence that followed was profound enough to have its own gravitational field. Batman stared at me for what felt like geological ages, and I began to wonder if this was how it felt to be interrogated by a living shadow with trust issues.

"You defeated the Royal Flush Gang," he said finally. "Single-handedly. In your first encounter with them."

"Lucky night, I guess," I said with a shrug that felt anything but casual. "They weren't exactly A-list material. More like D-list cosplayers with decent equipment."

Wrong answer. Definitely the wrong answer. The old Dick would have been tactical about it, analytical. He wouldn't have described a violent confrontation as 'lucky.'

"You called it 'a blast,'" Batman continued, and I realized he'd probably reviewed every piece of surveillance footage from that night. "You seemed to enjoy it."

"Well," I said, scrambling for something that sounded reasonable, "it's nice to know the training paid off. All those years of getting my ass kicked by you and–"

"Language."

He just Batman-voice corrected my language. I'm being scolded by Batman for saying 'ass.' This is simultaneously the most terrifying and the most awesome thing that has ever happened to me.

"Sorry," I said, not sounding sorry at all. "All those years of getting thoroughly beaten by you in training finally paid off."

Before Batman could respond to that, a new voice joined the conversation from somewhere behind the computer array.

"Oh, this is delicious."

No. No way. Please tell me that's not–

Selina Kyle emerged from the shadows like she'd been born from them, moving with the fluid grace of someone who could steal your heart and your wallet without you noticing either was gone. She was dressed in black – not her Catwoman costume, but sleek civilian clothes that somehow managed to be both elegant and predatory.

Holy crap. It's actually her. It's Catwoman. She's even more gorgeous in person, and that's saying something.

"Selina," I said, my voice brightening automatically. "You look stunning. I swear, you're the only person who could make a giant, evil-looking cave feel glamorous."

She smiled – a slow, knowing expression that suggested she was enjoying this far more than Bruce was. "Why, thank you, Dick. That's very sweet."

She called me sweet. Catwoman called me sweet. Bruce Wayne's girlfriend thinks I'm sweet. I'm going to die of happiness.

"Selina is here as an observer," Batman said, his tone suggesting he was already regretting that decision. "A second opinion."

"On what?" I asked, though I was pretty sure I already knew the answer.

"On whether or not you're still you."

Well. There it is. The whole thing laid out in one terrifying sentence. Batman thinks I might be an imposter, or mind-controlled, or replaced by an alien duplicate. And honestly, he's not wrong.

"I'm hurt, Bruce," I said, placing a hand over my heart in mock wounded-ness. "Here I thought this was just a social call. Maybe we could grab some coffee, catch up on each other's lives, bond over our shared love of dramatically billowing capes."

Selina made a sound that might have been a suppressed laugh. Batman's expression didn't change, which somehow made it clear that he was even less amused than usual.

"The Royal Flush Gang had been operating along the eastern seaboard for months," he continued, apparently deciding to ignore my attempt at levity. "They'd successfully evaded capture by law enforcement agencies in six different states. What made you think you could handle them alone?"

Because I've read their Wikipedia page and I know all their weaknesses? Because I'm living in a comic book universe and I have plot armor? Because I'm the protagonist and protagonists don't lose tutorial fights?

"Instinct," I said instead. "They looked manageable. Turns out I was right."

"Manageable," Batman repeated, like I'd just described nuclear weapons as 'somewhat dangerous.'

"They were themed criminals with playing card gimmicks," I pointed out. "Not exactly Darkseid."

Don't mention Darkseid. Why did I mention Darkseid? Normal people don't casually reference cosmic-level threats in conversation.

"You know who Darkseid is?" Batman asked, his voice sharpening.

Crap. Crap crap crap.

"Big gray rock guy? Shoots laser beams from his eyes? I've heard stories," I said, trying to sound casual. "You know how the hero community gossips."

Selina was now actively trying to hide her smile behind her hand. I got the distinct impression that watching Batman try to interrogate this new, flippant version of his adopted son was the most entertainment she'd had in weeks.

"Speaking of the hero community," she said, her voice carrying that throaty purr that probably made strong men weep, "I hear you've been doing some research lately."

Oh no. Oh no no no. She knows. They both know. Alfred didn't just report on my behavioral changes; he probably also mentioned my internet browsing habits.

Batman moved to the Batcomputer and touched something on the keyboard. The massive screen lit up with a display that made my blood run cold.

It was a detailed log of my online activity from the past two weeks. Hundreds of searches, all with one common theme: Hawkgirl. Articles downloaded, photos saved, social media profiles viewed. It was laid out like evidence in a criminal investigation, which, I supposed, it basically was.

I'm screwed. I'm completely, utterly screwed. There's no way to explain this that doesn't end with me locked in Arkham for observation.

"Is Hawkgirl a threat?" Batman asked, his voice carrying the weight of genuine concern.

Think. Think think think. What would make sense? What would explain this level of obsessive research that doesn't involve me confessing to having a celebrity crush on a woman I've never met?

"She's a wildcard," I said, moving closer to the computer and trying to project analytical confidence. "Look at this from a tactical perspective, Bruce. She's a Class-4 aerial combatant with extra-normal Nth metal ordinance and an unconfirmed reincarnation-based intelligence network. From a threat assessment standpoint, she's not a person; she's a walking, flying black box of unanswered questions."

That sounded good, right? Professional? Like something a competent superhero would say?

Batman stared at the screen, then at me, processing my explanation with the kind of focused intensity that had probably solved the Riddler's more annoying puzzles.

"You're conducting a threat assessment," he said slowly. "On a government-sanctioned hero."

"It's just due diligence," I continued, warming to my theme. "The Justice Gang operates with minimal oversight and maximum autonomy. Guy Gardner I understand – he's a Lantern, we know how that system works. Mr. Terrific is brilliant but fundamentally human. But Hawkgirl? Ancient Egyptian princess with magical weapons and the flight speed of a jet fighter? That's a lot of unknown variables walking around with a government badge."

Please buy this. Please, please, please buy this completely ridiculous explanation for why I've been cyber-stalking your son's potential future sister-in-law.

Batman was quiet for a long moment, his cowled head tilted in thought. "Your analysis is... thorough," he said finally. "Perhaps overly so."

He's buying it. Holy crap, he's actually buying it. The world's greatest detective is accepting my completely made-up threat assessment story.

"Better safe than sorry," I said with what I hoped was professional confidence. "Besides, if we ever need to work with the Justice Gang, it's good to know what we're dealing with."

"Indeed," Batman said, though his tone suggested he wasn't entirely convinced. "Though I would suggest that future research of this nature be conducted through official channels. A direct approach to Amanda Waller's office would be more appropriate than... this."

He gestured at the screen, which was still displaying my frankly embarrassing browsing history.

Official channels. Right. Because that wouldn't be suspicious at all. 'Hi, Ms. Waller, I'd like a comprehensive psychological profile on one of your agents because she's pretty and I want to ask her out.' That would go over great.

"Good point," I said instead. "I'll keep that in mind for next time."

The conversation seemed to be winding down, which was both a relief and a disappointment. I'd survived my first interrogation by Batman, but I was also getting kicked out of the Batcave way sooner than I'd hoped.

"There's gear waiting for you," Batman said, gesturing toward one of the equipment alcoves. "New escrima sticks, updated body armor. Alfred mentioned you'd damaged your jacket."

Right. The tear from the Royal Flush fight. Oh, that sweet man – he cares too much.

"Thanks," I said, moving toward the indicated alcove. "Though I have to say, the current gear is pretty impressive. Whoever designed it really knew what they were doing."

You. You designed it. You and Lucius Fox and probably a team of engineers who had to sign approximately forty non-disclosure agreements.

"I'll pass along your compliments to the design team," Batman said, and I could swear there was the faintest hint of amusement in his voice.

As I collected the new gear, Selina drifted closer, her movements casual but purposeful. She waited until Batman was focused on something at the computer before walking over to where I was securing the equipment to my belt.

"That was impressive," she said quietly, her voice pitched so only I could hear. "Most people can't lie to Bruce that smoothly. Not even the good liars."

She knows. She knows I was lying. She knows the whole threat assessment thing was complete bullshit.

"I don't know what you mean," I said, trying to project innocent confusion.

"Of course you don't," she replied, her smile growing wider. "Just like you don't have hundreds of photos of a certain winged government agent saved to your personal files."

How does she know that? How could she possibly know that?

"For the record," she continued, moving even closer, "I think it's sweet. Much more interesting than the old you, anyway. He was always so serious, so focused on the mission. This version has... personality."

She likes this version better. Catwoman likes the new me better than the real Dick Grayson. I don't know whether to be proud or terrified.

"Selina," Batman called from across the cave, "are you quite finished?"

"Almost," she called back, then turned to me with that brilliant, predatory smile that probably haunted the dreams of every man in Gotham.

She leaned in close, her voice a conspiratorial whisper, a brilliant emerald glint in her eyes, "For your 'threat assessment' files, dear. Her favorite flowers are tiger lilies, and she has a weakness for bad boys who try too hard. Don't tell Bruce I told you."

——————————

Author's note:

Bruce and Selina! Definitely my favourite pairing. What about you?

 

[MoonyNightShade]

Selina's parting words in the cave had done more than just give me dating advice; they'd given me a mission plan: to win, you couldn't just be better than your opponents, you had to be willing to play a dirtier game.

The penthouse had been transformed into a war room over the past week. Holographic displays flickered across every available surface, casting blue-white light across walls that had once been pristine and minimal. Financial charts, shipping manifests, and architectural blueprints covered my dining table like the battle plans of a general preparing for a two-front war.

Which, in a way, they were.

I stood in the center of it all, my expression cold and focused as I studied the data streams flowing across my laptop screen.

One variable at a time. LexCorp first – silent, surgical, undetectable. Get the intelligence I need about Project Prometheus, confirm the timeline, verify the performance specs. Then Penguin – loud, chaotic, devastating. Cripple his shipping operations just before the quarterly reports come out. Create the market conditions I need.

The plan was elegant in its simplicity. Lex Luthor's Gotham R&D facility had been developing advanced drone technology for the past eighteen months – technology that would revolutionize urban logistics and make early investors very, very wealthy. The Penguin's smuggling operations, meanwhile, controlled a significant chunk of Gotham's import/export business through a network of legitimate shell companies.

What the financial markets didn't know yet was that LexCorp was about to announce a breakthrough that would make traditional shipping methods obsolete virtually overnight. What they also didn't know was that one of the largest shipping consortiums in the city was about to suffer a series of catastrophic "accidents" that would tank their stock price right before the announcement.

Information asymmetry. The oldest game in the book. Buy low on the companies that are about to soar, short the companies that are about to crash, and retire to a private island with enough money to impress ancient Egyptian warrior goddesses.

I pulled up the LexCorp building schematics one more time, tracing the route I'd memorized through the ventilation system to the sub-level server room. Security was good – excellent, even – but it was designed to keep out corporate spies and curious journalists, not someone with Dick Grayson's particular skill set.

Twenty minutes to get in, five minutes to download the files, fifteen minutes to get out. Plenty of margin for error.

The Penguin's warehouse would be different. Messier. Oswald Cobblepot was paranoid, violent, and surrounded himself with people who shot first and asked questions of the corpses. But he was also old-school in his approach to security – lots of guns, not enough technology. He'd never see me coming.

And when I'm done with both of them, I'll have everything I need to make my first fortune in this new life.

I closed the laptop and began suiting up, my movements precise and methodical. Tonight wasn't about heroics or justice or protecting the innocent. Tonight was about taking what I needed from people who could afford to lose it.

Time to get to work.

The LexCorp building rose into the Gotham night like a chrome and glass monument to corporate ambition. Forty-seven stories of cutting-edge architecture and bleeding-edge paranoia, all of it designed to project an image of unstoppable forward momentum.

Perfect. The higher they built their towers, the more places there were for someone like me to hide.

I crouched on the edge of a neighboring building's rooftop, rain pattering against my suit as I studied the target through high-powered binoculars. Security patrols moved in predictable patterns around the building's perimeter. Camera placements were textbook standard. Motion sensors covered the obvious approach routes.

All of which meant they were expecting someone to come through the front door, or maybe try to scale the building from street level like an ambitious cat burglar.

They weren't expecting someone to drop in from above.

Thirty-seventh floor. Maintenance access to the ventilation system. From there, it's a straight shot down to sub-level three.

I holstered the binoculars and activated the grappling gun built into my gauntlet, feeling the familiar weight of Wayne-tech engineering in my palm. The line shot across the gap between buildings with a whisper-quiet thrum, magnetic clamp finding purchase on LexCorp's external maintenance platform.

The swing across the gap was pure poetry – that perfect moment of weightlessness followed by the controlled impact against the building's outer wall. My magnetic grips engaged automatically, and within seconds I was scaling the rain-slicked glass toward my entry point.

Movement is life. Hesitation is death. Bruce's first lesson, and still the most important one.

The maintenance hatch yielded to my lockpicks with barely a whisper of resistance. Corporate security focused on the obvious threats – armed intrusion, cyber attacks, industrial espionage through conventional channels. They didn't plan for someone who could pick a lock while hanging upside down forty stories above the street.

Amateur hour. Luthor's paying for premium security and getting mall-cop thinking.

The ventilation shaft was a maze of brushed steel and humming machinery, but I'd memorized every twist and turn from the stolen blueprints. Left at the first junction, straight for thirty meters, then down through the vertical shaft that connected to the sub-levels.

The real challenges began when I reached the secured zones.

The first obstacle was an electronic lock on the access panel leading to sub-level three – a quantum-encrypted system that would have stopped any conventional hacker cold. But Dick Grayson's toolkit included a few items that weren't available at the local electronics store.

Wayne-tech cipher device. Good thing Bruce believes in giving his kids the best toys.

The device attached to the lock's housing with magnetic clamps, its processors working through encryption algorithms faster than any human brain could follow. Thirty seconds later, the lock disengaged with a soft chime that sounded almost apologetic.

One down.

The corridor beyond was a sterile white hallway lined with biometric scanners and pressure-sensitive floor panels. Motion detectors tracked heat signatures from multiple angles, creating overlapping fields of coverage that would detect anything larger than a mouse.

Anything that moved like a normal person, anyway.

I pressed myself against the ceiling, using magnetic grips and sheer upper body strength to navigate the hallway like a human spider. My movements were slow, controlled, designed to avoid the motion sensors' tracking algorithms. What looked like an impossible security system became just another acrobatic routine.

Twelve point seven second cycle on the laser grid. Pressure plates calibrated for anything over eighty kilograms. Child's play. The real challenge is going to be the server room's quantum encryption.

The final barrier was a thermal sensor guarding the server room entrance – a system designed to detect the body heat of anyone trying to gain unauthorized access. I reached into my utility belt and withdrew a small cylindrical device, one of Bruce's more exotic gadgets.

The cryogenic pellet detonated silently against the sensor housing, flash-freezing the detection array and creating a localized dead zone in its coverage. I had maybe ninety seconds before the system's self-diagnostics detected the malfunction.

More than enough time.

The server room was a cathedral of humming processors and fiber-optic cables, racks of quantum storage devices that contained more computational power than most countries possessed. And somewhere in that digital maze was the information I needed.

Project Prometheus. Advanced autonomous logistics systems. Urban delivery drones with AI navigation and adaptive cargo management. Market disruption potential: total.

I connected my portable drive to one of the primary terminals, watching as progress bars crawled across the screen. Five terabytes of technical specifications, performance data, and projected deployment schedules. Everything I needed to time my investments perfectly.

Seventy percent complete. Come on, come on.

A soft chime echoed through the server room – the sound of a silent alarm engaging as the building's security system finally detected my presence. Automated countermeasures would be initializing, security teams would be converging on my position, and my window of opportunity was rapidly closing.

Ninety percent. Almost there.

The download completed just as I heard the first sounds of footsteps in the corridor outside. I pocketed the drive, activated a signal jammer to cover my electronic tracks, and moved toward the ventilation grate I'd entered through.

Clean extraction. No evidence, no confrontation, no complications.

By the time LexCorp security reached the server room, I was already three floors up and moving toward my exit point. They'd find traces of the intrusion eventually – frozen thermal sensors, bypassed locks, accessed terminals – but they'd never find the intruder.

Mission one complete. Time for the loud part.

The Penguin's warehouse squatted on the Gotham docks like a malignant tumor, all rusted metal and peeling paint that reeked of fish and corruption. Even from my vantage point on a nearby crane, I could smell the distinctive cocktail of rotting seafood, diesel fuel, and human desperation that characterized Oswald Cobblepot's business empire.

Target acquired. Time to make some noise.

This wasn't going to be subtle. Stealth had served its purpose at LexCorp, but here I needed chaos. I needed to create the kind of highly visible disaster that would make financial journalists write breathless articles about the risks of investing in traditional shipping infrastructure.

I studied the warehouse through my binoculars, cataloging guard positions and identifying critical systems. Two sentries at the main entrance, three more patrolling the perimeter. Light security for a criminal operation, but then again, Penguin's reputation for brutality usually discouraged casual interference.

Main power conduit on the north wall. Accounting office on the second floor, southwest corner. Refrigeration units for the legitimate seafood business on the east side. Perfect.

The first explosive charge was a thing of beauty – a Wayne-tech charge designed to disable rather than destroy, small enough to fit in my palm but powerful enough to take out a city block's worth of electrical infrastructure.

Target the systems first. Break their operations, then break them.

I dropped from the crane in free fall, deploying my hidden cape at the last second to control my descent onto the warehouse roof. The impact was soft, controlled, invisible to the guards below.

Phase one: darkness.

The charge attached to the main power conduit with a satisfying magnetic click. I armed the timer, gave myself thirty seconds to clear the blast radius, and moved toward the next target.

The explosion was perfectly calculated – loud enough to be heard for blocks, bright enough to temporarily blind anyone looking in its direction, but focused enough to avoid actual structural damage. The warehouse plunged into darkness as every electrical system died simultaneously.

Chaos theory in action. Remove one critical component, watch the entire system collapse.

The ventilation system was next. I dropped a smoke pellet into the main intake duct and listened with satisfaction as the building's circulation fans distributed a cloud of dense, disorienting vapor throughout the interior.

Disorientation is the goal. Break their systems, then break everything else.

The screaming started almost immediately – panicked voices of Penguin's thugs as they stumbled through smoke-filled darkness, their night vision ruined by the electrical explosion, their communication systems dead.

Time to go to work.

I descended into the warehouse through a skylight, my night vision lenses turning the chaotic scene below into a perfectly clear tactical situation. Men stumbled through the smoke, calling out to each other, trying to organize some kind of coherent response to an attack they couldn't understand.

Seven targets. Standard criminal muscle. Predictable movement patterns. This is going to be therapeutic.

The first thug never saw me coming. I dropped behind him like a shadow, escrima stick finding the base of his skull with surgical precision. He went down without a sound, his weapon clattering uselessly across the concrete floor.

One down. Six to go.

The second target was trying to reach what looked like an emergency radio. I dealt with him using environmental assets – a swift kick to a stack of fish crates that collapsed on top of him, burying him under fifty pounds of rotting seafood and ice.

Two down. And he's going to smell like that for weeks.

The third and fourth came as a pair, moving back-to-back through the smoke with their weapons raised. Professional technique, military training. Too bad they were dealing with someone who'd been trained by the Batman.

I used their caution against them, tossing a batarang into the opposite corner of the warehouse to draw their attention. When they turned to investigate the sound, I was already behind them, escrima sticks moving in a blur of precisely applied violence.

Four down. This is almost too easy.

The fifth thug actually managed to get a shot off – a wild spray of automatic fire that came nowhere close to hitting me but did excellent work ventilating a stack of shipping containers. I responded by introducing him to the concrete pillar he'd been using for cover, at velocity.

Five down. Basic physics: force equals mass times acceleration.

Numbers six and seven had found each other in the chaos and were trying to coordinate a sweep of the warehouse floor. Good tactics, solid execution. They might have even been effective against a normal intruder.

Unfortunately for them, I'm not normal.

I used the warehouse's overhead crane system to my advantage, swinging through the girders above them like some kind of urban Tarzan. They never thought to look up until I was already dropping into their midst, escrima sticks spinning.

Seven down. Time for the main event.

The stairs to the second-floor office were metal and concrete, designed to channel anyone approaching the Penguin's inner sanctum into a narrow kill zone. Under normal circumstances, it would have been a death trap.

Good thing these aren't normal circumstances.

I bypassed the stairs entirely, using my grappling gun to swing directly onto the office's external fire escape. Through the windows, I could see Oswald Cobblepot himself – shorter than I'd expected, but radiating the kind of dangerous intelligence that had kept him alive and powerful in Gotham's criminal underworld for decades.

He was barking orders into a dead radio, trying to coordinate a defense against an enemy he couldn't locate or understand. His umbrella – the infamous weapon that had killed more people than anyone could count – was propped against his desk within easy reach.

Time to introduce myself.

I came through the window in an explosion of glass and smoke, moving fast enough that Penguin's first shot went wide by three feet. His umbrella gun was impressive – definitely custom work, probably lethal to anyone without superhuman reflexes.

Too bad I have superhuman reflexes.

The bola caught him before he could chamber a second round, synthetic fibers wrapping around his expensive coat and binding his arms to his sides. A calculated application of force sent him spinning into the filing cabinets, where he ended up tangled in his own coat like an expensive, profanity-spewing burrito.

One bird down. Time to clip his wings.

I moved to his desk, where stacks of shipping ledgers and financial records represented the administrative heart of his legitimate businesses. The incendiary device was small, controlled, designed to destroy documents without starting a building-consuming fire.

Can't have the insurance companies getting suspicious about arson. This has to look like an electrical fire caused by the power surge.

"You have any idea who you're messing with, you freak?" Penguin sputtered from his position on the floor, trying to work himself free of the bola. "I got connections all over this city! You're gonna pay for this!"

Threats. How predictable.

I set the timer on the incendiary device and turned to face him, letting him get a good look at the Nightwing costume. He needed to know exactly who had just dismantled his operation.

"Heard the shipping business is tough, Ozzy," I said, allowing myself a small, cold smile. "Might be a bear market for birds."

And that's the sound bite that'll end up in tomorrow's newspapers. Perfect.

The incendiary device went off as I was leaving, controlled flames consuming months of carefully kept shipping records. Nothing that couldn't be reconstructed eventually, but the disruption to Penguin's quarterly reports would be devastating.

Phase two complete. Time to go home and count my future profits.

I perched on a rooftop overlooking the chaos at the docks, watching as the first police sirens wailed in the distance. Smoke was rising from multiple locations – the warehouse, the office, the scattered shipping containers where my smoke pellets were still creating atmospheric effects.

Beautiful. Absolutely beautiful.

The operation had been flawless. LexCorp's Project Prometheus data was safely secured in my encrypted drives, ready to be analyzed and leveraged. Penguin's shipping empire was in shambles, his stock prices guaranteed to crater when the markets opened tomorrow morning.

Information asymmetry. Market manipulation. Corporate espionage. And I haven't technically broken any laws that matter.

I looked from the chaos at the docks towards the distant, glittering towers of the financial district, a cold, predatory smile touching my lips for the first time all night. "Phase one complete."

——————————

Author's note:

Sorry been busy, but our boy's gonna make so much dough– it's gonna be crazy.

 

[MoonyNightShade]

The morning news was a symphony of my own secret composition: one anchor was reporting on a mysterious electrical fire that had crippled Gotham's largest shipping import-export business, while another was breathlessly announcing a surprise, paradigm-shifting tech reveal from LexCorp later in the week.

I sipped my coffee – some ridiculously expensive Ethiopian blend that Dick Grayson's kitchen had been stocked with – and watched the chaos unfold from the comfort of my silk robe. The penthouse's massive screen displayed three different news channels simultaneously, each one confirming that my nocturnal activities had achieved exactly the market disruption I'd been aiming for.

Beautiful. Absolutely beautiful. It's like watching dominoes fall, except each domino is worth about fifty million dollars.

The financial ticker running along the bottom of one screen showed Cobblepot Shipping & Logistics down eighteen percent in pre-market trading. Meanwhile, its smaller competitor, Orion Shipping, was holding steady – for now. But I knew that once investors started looking for alternatives to Penguin's suddenly unreliable network, those numbers would change dramatically.

Phase two of the plan is about to begin. Time to traumatize a Swiss banker.

I pulled up my tablet and checked the real-time market data, feeling a thrill of anticipation as I watched the numbers shift in exactly the patterns I'd predicted. Everything was falling into place with the precision of a Swiss watch – which was appropriate, considering I was about to make a very specific Swiss gentleman question his entire approach to wealth management.

11:30 AM in Geneva. Perfect timing. Mr. Klaus should just be finishing his morning tea and settling in for what he thinks is going to be a nice, boring day of conservative portfolio management.

I opened the secure communications app that connected directly to Rothschild & Richter, the venerable financial institution that had been managing the Grayson family's considerable wealth for the better part of three decades. The encryption protocols alone probably cost more than most people's annual salaries, which made sense when you were discussing the kind of money that could buy small countries.

The call connected after two rings.

"Guten Morgen, Rothschild & Richter, this is Klaus Richter speaking." The voice on the other end was crisp, professional, and carried the faint accent of someone who had spent his entire career managing the wealth of some ultra-super-super-rich people.

"Klaus, my man!" I said, injecting as much casual American enthusiasm into my voice as possible. "How's the weather in Geneva? Still all mountains and chocolate and fiscal responsibility?"

There was a brief pause. "Master Grayson," Klaus replied, his tone shifting to the carefully modulated professionalism he used when dealing with clients who might be having what he diplomatically referred to as "episodes." "Good morning. I trust you are well?"

He already sounds nervous. This is going to be even more fun than I thought.

"Never better, Klaus. Absolutely fantastic. In fact, I'm feeling so good that I want to make some changes to the portfolio. Big changes."

Another pause, longer this time. I could practically hear him pulling up my account information, checking the last time we'd spoken, probably wondering if I'd been drinking.

"Of course, Master Grayson. What sort of... adjustments did you have in mind?"

Here we go. Time to drop the first bomb.

"I need you to liquidate ninety percent of the discretionary portfolio," I said, keeping my voice casual, like I was ordering coffee. "All of it. The blue-chip stocks, the municipal bonds, the tech diversification package, even the shares in Wayne Enterprises… actually no, let's keep those."

The silence that followed was so profound I wondered if the call had dropped. When Klaus finally spoke, his voice had a slightly strangled quality that suggested he was trying very hard not to have a professional breakdown.

"I... I beg your pardon, Master Grayson? Did you say... ninety percent?"

"That's right. Liquidate it all. Turn it into cash. Beautiful, liquid, ready-to-invest cash."

Come on, Klaus. Ask me why. I've got such a good non-answer prepared.

"Master Grayson," Klaus said carefully, "the current portfolio is performing exceptionally well. The Wayne Enterprises holdings alone have appreciated nearly twelve percent this quarter. The municipal bonds are providing stable income, and the diversified tech package is hedged against market volatility. Liquidating these assets would represent... well, it would represent the systematic destruction of a carefully balanced investment strategy that has been refined over decades."

Poor guy. He sounds like I just asked him to burn down the Sistine Chapel.

"Klaus, Klaus, Klaus," I said, leaning back in my chair and grinning at the ceiling. "You're thinking like an accountant. I need you to think like a visionary."

"A... visionary, sir?"

"We're not playing for dividends anymore, Klaus. We're playing for a kingdom."

The sound Klaus made could have been a cough, or a sob, or possibly the noise someone makes when their entire worldview collapses.

"Master Grayson, with all due respect, what you are proposing is not an investment strategy. It is a kamikaze attack on your own net worth. The board would have my license for this!"

The board. Right. Because in the world of Swiss banking, there's always a board of stern old men in expensive suits who sit around judging other people's financial decisions.

"Relax, Klaus," I said, taking another sip of coffee. "I'm not asking you to explain it to the board. I'm asking you to do it. You work for me, remember? Not the other way around."

"But sir, the risk assessment alone–"

"Klaus." I let a note of steel enter my voice, the tone that Bruce Wayne probably used when he wanted something done without questions. "Execute the liquidation. Today."

There was a long pause, filled with what sounded suspiciously like weeping. Finally, Klaus spoke in the hollow voice of a man who was prepared to watch his professional reputation die in real-time.

"Very well, Master Grayson. The liquidation will be completed by market close. Might I ask... what you intend to do with the resulting liquidity?"

And now for the second bomb. This one's going to be nuclear.

"I'm glad you asked," I said cheerfully. "Once the funds are liquid, I want you to put every single dollar into one company: Orion Shipping. Yes, the little one from the Blüdhaven docks. All of it."

The silence this time was different. Not shocked silence, but the silence of a man whose brain has simply stopped processing information because the input has become too absurd to parse.

"Master Grayson," Klaus said eventually, his voice barely above a whisper, "are you... are you under duress? Are you being coerced? Should I contact the authorities?"

He thinks I've been kidnapped by financial terrorists. This is amazing.

"I'm fine, Klaus. Better than fine. I'm about to be rich in ways that would make King Midas weep with envy."

"But sir... Orion Shipping is..." I could hear papers rustling in the background, probably Klaus frantically looking up information about my chosen investment. "Mein Gott... it's a penny stock! Their entire market capitalization is less than what you spend on wine in a year! Their main competitor just suffered a catastrophic industrial accident! Investing now would look incredibly suspicious!"

He's not wrong about the suspicious part. Good thing I don't care.

"Klaus, my man, listen to me," I said, putting on my most reasonable, reassuring voice. "Don't think of it as liquidating a portfolio. Think of it as upgrading from a station wagon to a rocket ship. Trust me."

"A rocket ship," Klaus repeated faintly. "To where, exactly?"

"To the moon, Klaus. To the goddamn moon."

Another long pause.

"Very well, Master Grayson. I will... I will execute the trade. Though I feel compelled to note that this decision will likely be studied in business schools as an example of what not to do with inherited wealth."

If only he knew. In ten years, this trade is going to be studied as the most brilliant investment decision of the 21st century.

"You're a professional, Klaus. I trust your execution, even if you don't trust my judgment."

"Thank you, sir. Will there be... anything else?"

Oh, Klaus. Sweet, innocent Klaus. You have no idea.

"Actually, yes. One more thing. In three days, precisely at 11:45 AM Eastern Standard Time, I want you to execute a massive buy order for LexCorp shares. Use the initial profits from the Orion trade."

The sound Klaus made this time was definitely not a cough.

"Did you say... 11:45 AM? Precisely?"

"To the minute, Klaus. Not 11:44, not 11:46. 11:45 exactly."

"Master Grayson..." Klaus's voice had taken on the tone of a man speaking to someone who had clearly lost their mind. "The specificity of that timing suggests... well, it suggests insider trading. Which is a federal crime. Multiple federal crimes, actually."

Technically, it's not insider trading if the information comes from an alternate dimension. I'm pretty sure that's not covered under SEC regulations.

"Klaus, has anyone ever told you that you worry too much?"

"Yes, sir. Every day. It's what keeps my clients from ending up in federal prison."

"Well, today you can stop worrying. I'm not asking you to break any laws. I'm asking you to execute a perfectly legal trade at a perfectly legal time."

"But why that specific time? What happens at 11:45?"

What happens at 11:45 is that LexCorp is going to announce that their Project Prometheus drones just completed a successful test flight that revolutionizes urban logistics forever. But I can't exactly tell him that.

"Let's call it a hunch."

"A hunch." Klaus's voice was completely flat now. "You want me to risk millions of dollars on a hunch."

"The best investments always are, Klaus."

There was once again a very long pause. I could hear Klaus breathing heavily on the other end of the line, probably contemplating early retirement and a quiet life raising sheep in the Alps.

"Very well," he said finally. "Though I want it noted for the record that I advised against this course of action in the strongest possible terms."

"Noted and ignored," I said cheerfully. "Oh, and Klaus? One more thing."

"Dear God, what now?"

And now for the final touch. The cherry on top of my financial sundae.

"I want you to establish a new shell corporation to channel all these assets and future profits. Something clean, something professional, something that sounds like it could buy and sell countries."

"A shell corporation," Klaus repeated. "Of course. Because this day couldn't possibly get any more irregular."

"I want you to call it 'Hall Holdings.'"

"Hall Holdings," he said mechanically. "Any particular reason for that name?"

"Personal reasons," I said. "Very personal reasons."

"I see. Well, Master Grayson, I believe that concludes our... conversation. I shall begin executing these instructions immediately, though I feel compelled to mention that my cardiologist is going to be very unhappy about the stress this will cause."

Poor Klaus. He has no idea that in six months he's going to be managing one of the largest private fortunes in the world. He's going to be a legend in the Swiss banking community.

"You're a professional, Klaus. I have complete faith in your abilities."

"Thank you, sir. That is... surprisingly comforting, given the circumstances."

"And Klaus?"

"Yes, Master Grayson?"

"When this all works out exactly the way I said it would, I want you to remember this conversation. Because I'm going to need you to trust me on the next crazy scheme."

The sound Klaus made might have been laughter, or it might have been the noise a man makes when his sanity finally snaps completely.

"I shall... I shall keep that in mind, sir. Good day."

The line went dead, leaving me alone with my coffee and the glorious satisfaction of a plan in motion. I could picture Klaus sitting in his Geneva office, staring at his phone and wondering how his quiet, conservative morning had turned into a masterclass in financial terrorism.

Sorry, Klaus. But fortune favors the bold, and I'm about to be the boldest investor in human history.

I opened my laptop and pulled up a design program, spending the next hour creating a simple, elegant logo for my new company. Clean lines, professional typography, the kind of corporate branding that suggested serious money and serious people.

I leaned back in my chair, the logo for Hall Holdings' glowing on the screen, and for the first time since I'd woken up in this world, I felt the glorious, intoxicating freedom of my very own money.

——————————

Author's note:

Next chapter will have Robin!!!

 

[MoonyNightShade]

The first sign that I had company was the shadow that detached itself from the ceiling corner of my living room, a feat of stealth so impressive I almost wasn't annoyed that my multi-million-dollar security system had been bypassed by a ten-year-old.

Almost.

I was standing in my kitchen in nothing but boxer shorts and a Blüdhaven Police Academy t-shirt I'd stolen from the evidence locker after a particularly successful bust, eating Lucky Charms straight from the box while practicing what I thought might be a charming opening line for my eventual meeting with Hawkgirl.

"So, Kendra, I know you're probably used to guys who are all about the ground game, but I was wondering if you'd like to take a relationship to new heights–"

"That is possibly the most pathetic attempt at courtship I have ever witnessed."

I nearly choked on a marshmallow rainbow.

Holy shit. There's someone in my apartment. Someone who just critiqued my pickup lines. Someone who sounds like they're about twelve years old and have been personally trained by Batman to judge my life choices.

I spun around, cereal scattering across my marble countertops, and found myself face-to-face with roughly four feet of pure, concentrated disapproval.

Damian Wayne stood in my living room like a tiny, perfectly dressed monument to everything I was doing wrong with my life. He was wearing a three-piece suit that probably cost more than most people's cars, his posture was military-straight, and he was looking at me with the kind of withering contempt usually reserved for war criminals and people who don't use turn signals.

It's him. The demon brat. Robin V. The one who stabs first and asks questions never. He's even smaller than I expected, but somehow more terrifying. Like a very angry, very well-dressed hand grenade.

"Damian," I said, setting down the cereal box with as much dignity as a man in Lucky Charms-stained underwear could muster. "What a... pleasant surprise. Did Bruce teach you that ceiling thing, or is that more of a League of Assassins specialty?"

His expression didn't change. If anything, it got more disapproving, which I hadn't thought was physically possible.

"I am here on behalf of Batman," he said, his voice carrying the kind of formal precision that suggested he'd been practicing this speech, "to conduct a thorough psychological and behavioral evaluation of your deteriorating mental state. You will proceed with your daily routines as normal. I will be your shadow. Do not attempt to impede me."

He's serious. He's completely, utterly serious. Bruce sent him here to spy on me. My adoptive father sent a ten-year-old assassin to monitor my behavior like I'm some kind of dangerous psychiatric patient.

"Okay," I said slowly, "that's... that's a lot to unpack. First question: how long have you been watching me practice pickup lines in my underwear?"

"Seventeen minutes," Damian replied without hesitation. "In that time, you have consumed approximately 200 grams of processed sugar, attempted thirteen variations of the same inadequate romantic overture, and demonstrated a complete disregard for proper nutritional protocols."

Seventeen minutes. He's been standing in my living room for seventeen minutes, just... watching me be a disaster. This is my life now.

"And second question," I continued, "exactly what behavioral anomalies are we talking about here?"

Damian reached into his jacket and produced a small, leather-bound notebook, which he opened with the efficiency of someone who had clearly been looking forward to this moment.

"Erratic emotional highs following combat encounters," he began, reading from what was apparently a comprehensive list of my character flaws. "A sudden and inexplicable shift in dietary preferences from health-conscious to juvenile. The liquidation of a stable financial portfolio for high-risk speculative investments. A newfound and logically unsound obsession with a Thanagarian operative. Decreased sleep efficiency. Increased frivolity in conversation. And what Father describes as 'an alarming tendency toward humor at inappropriate moments.'"

They've been documenting everything. Every joke, every bowl of cereal, every late night spent researching Hawkgirl. I'm living under surveillance by the world's most paranoid family, and they've decided I'm having some kind of breakdown.

"Wow," I said, genuinely impressed despite myself. "That's... thorough. Did Bruce make you memorize all that, or do you just have a really good filing system?"

"I have perfect recall," Damian replied, closing the notebook with a sharp snap. "It is one of many skills that make me uniquely qualified for this assignment."

Of course he has perfect recall. Because having a normal conversation with this kid would be too easy.

"Right," I said, running a hand through my hair. "So you're here to... what, exactly? Take notes on how many times I use the word 'awesome' in casual conversation?"

"I am here to determine whether you remain psychologically fit for duty as Nightwing," Damian said, his voice carrying the weight of absolute authority. "Father is concerned that you may be experiencing some form of mental deterioration that could compromise your effectiveness in the field."

Mental deterioration. Right. If only they knew the truth was somehow even weirder than that.

"And how long is this evaluation supposed to take?" I asked, already dreading the answer.

"As long as necessary," Damian replied. "I have been instructed to observe you continuously until I can provide Father with a comprehensive assessment of your condition."

Continuously. I'm being assigned a tiny, judgmental roommate for an indefinite period. A tiny, judgmental roommate who probably sleeps with throwing stars under his pillow and considers 'fun' to be a character weakness.

"Great," I said, forcing a smile. "Well, in that case, welcome to Casa Grayson. Mi casa es su casa and all that. Just... maybe give me a heads up next time before you appear out of the shadows? I nearly had a heart attack."

Damian's expression suggested that having a heart attack would have been entirely my own fault and probably deserved.

"Your cardiovascular health is your own responsibility," he said. "Though I note that your current diet of processed sugar and artificial coloring is hardly conducive to optimal physical performance."

This is going to be a long week.

——————————

The morning routine evaluation began at exactly 7:00 AM the next day, when I woke up to find Damian sitting in the chair next to my bed, fully dressed and apparently having been there for some time.

"Your sleep schedule is sub-optimal," he announced as my eyes focused enough to register his presence. "Optimal recovery requires seven to eight hours of continuous rest. You achieved six hours and forty-three minutes, interrupted by three periods of restless movement and what appeared to be sleep-talking about 'tiger lilies.'"

He watched me sleep. This ten-year-old watched me sleep and took notes. This is either the most thorough psychological evaluation in history or the beginning of a very weird horror movie.

"Good morning to you too, sunshine. What about your eight hours of sleep?" I mumbled, pulling a pillow over my head. "Any other observations about my unconscious habits you'd like to share?"

"Your REM cycles are irregular, suggesting underlying psychological stress," Damian continued, apparently taking my question as genuine interest. "Additionally, your choice of sleepwear–" he consulted his notebook, "–a t-shirt advertising what appears to be a breakfast cereal and shorts decorated with cartoon animals, suggests a regression to pre-adolescent comfort behaviors."

I sat up and looked down at my Oswald pajama shorts, which featured tiny versions of a safety-conscious but fun-loving octopus scattered across a dark blue background.

Okay, he's not wrong about that one. But in my defense, these are really comfortable.

"They're fun," I said defensively. "Fun is allowed, Damian."

"Fun is a luxury," he replied with the stone-faced seriousness of someone who had never experienced a moment of frivolity in his life. "Discipline is essential."

Right. I'm arguing about pajamas with a child who probably considers smiling to be a tactical disadvantage.

The breakfast critique that followed was even more comprehensive. Damian watched with visible disgust as I poured Lucky Charms into a bowl, his expression growing progressively more horrified with each colorful marshmallow that tumbled out of the box.

"Your breakfast contains approximately forty grams of sugar, seventeen different artificial additives, and virtually no nutritional value," he observed, making notes in his little book. "A proper morning meal for someone in your profession should consist of lean protein, complex carbohydrates, and essential fatty acids."

"It also contains tiny horseshoes," I pointed out, fishing one out of my bowl. "That's got to count for something."

Damian stared at me like I'd just suggested we solve crime by throwing glitter at it.

"You are not taking this seriously," he said.

"Damian," I said, taking another spoonful of cereal, "you're ten years old and you're critiquing my breakfast choices. I think the situation has moved beyond 'serious' into 'absurdist comedy.'"

"I am eleven," he corrected with the kind of wounded dignity that suggested this was a frequent point of contention. "And my age is irrelevant to my qualifications."

Eleven. Right. Because that makes it so much better.

The workout evaluation was where things really went off the rails.

I'd decided to show off a little, using the penthouse's state-of-the-art gym to demonstrate that despite my questionable breakfast choices, I was still in peak physical condition. I launched into a routine that would have made Olympic gymnasts weep with envy – triple flips, handstand sequences, and a dismount that involved bouncing off three different pieces of equipment before sticking a perfect landing.

I turned to Damian with a satisfied grin, expecting at least a grudging acknowledgment of my athletic prowess.

Instead, I got a lecture.

"Your form is adequate, Grayson," he said, not even looking up from his notebook, "but your execution is ostentatious. You waste twelve percent of your energy on unnecessary flourishes. It is inefficient and, frankly, embarrassing to watch."

Embarrassing to watch. I just performed a routine that defied several laws of physics, and he's calling it embarrassing to watch.

"Those 'unnecessary flourishes' are called style, Damian," I said, trying to keep the irritation out of my voice. "Some of us believe that looking good while fighting crime is part of the job."

"Style without substance is meaningless," he replied. "Combat is not performance art."

Says the kid who wears a cape to fight crime. A cape, Damian. That's the definition of unnecessary flourish.

But I didn't say that. Mostly because I was pretty sure criticizing the cape would result in me getting stabbed with something sharp and probably poisoned.

The second-to-last straw came during the gaming session.

I'd retreated to the living room to play some Call of Duty, figuring that even Damian couldn't find fault with my video game skills. It was supposed to be my refuge, my one activity where a hyperactive eleven-year-old couldn't make me feel inadequate.

I was wrong.

"Your tactical approach is fundamentally flawed," Damian observed after watching me play for exactly five minutes. "You're prioritizing aggressive advancement over strategic positioning. In a real combat scenario, you would have been eliminated within the first thirty seconds."

It's a video game, not a military simulation. The whole point is to run around shooting things and having fun.

"It's called 'run and gun,' Damian," I said, not taking my eyes off the screen. "Sometimes the best strategy is to move fast and hit hard."

"Sometimes," he agreed, "but not in this instance. Your enemy has established overlapping fields of fire from elevated positions. The optimal approach would be to–"

Before I could stop him, he'd taken the controller out of my hands and was demonstrating his "optimal approach." Which involved a level of tactical precision that would have impressed actual Navy SEALs.

He beat the level flawlessly on his first try.

"As you can see," he said, handing the controller back to me with the air of someone who had just proven a mathematical theorem, "proper strategy yields superior results."

I have been utterly humiliated by a child who probably thinks 'pwned' is a type of chess move. This is my life now. I live with a tiny, homicidal, and infuriatingly good gamer.

The wardrobe critique was the final straw.

I was getting dressed to go out – nothing fancy, just jeans and a casual button-down shirt – when Damian materialized in my bedroom doorway.

"Your clothing choices are tactically unsound," he announced, consulting his ever-present notebook. "The designer labels make you conspicuously expensive, marking you as a potential target for robbery. The fitted cut restricts your range of motion by approximately eight percent. And the color–" he looked at my navy blue shirt with visible distaste "–provides insufficient camouflage for urban environments."

He wants me to dress like a ninja to go buy coffee. This kid wants me to live my entire life like I'm constantly preparing for a stealth mission.

"Damian," I said, my patience finally reaching its breaking point, "not everything in life is about tactical advantage. Sometimes people dress nice because they want to look good. Sometimes they eat cereal because it tastes good. Sometimes they play video games because they're fun. Not everything has to be optimized for maximum efficiency."

He stared at me like I'd just suggested we fight crime by having a dance-off.

"That attitude," he said solemnly, "is precisely why Father is concerned about your psychological state."

Right. Having fun is a psychological disorder. I forgot I was dealing with a family that considers 'enjoying yourself' to be a character flaw.

I was about to launch into a lecture about the importance of work-life balance when I had a better idea. A much more devious idea.

Time to change tactics. If criticism isn't working, maybe it's time to find this kid's weakness.

I walked over to the main entertainment system and started browsing through the streaming options, pretending to look for something to watch while I got ready. Damian continued his lecture about the tactical disadvantages of designer clothing, but I wasn't really listening anymore.

I was looking for something specific. Something I knew, from all my comic book knowledge, that Damian Wayne had a secret weakness for.

There it is.

I selected a nature documentary about desert reptiles and let it start playing on the massive main screen. Then I went back to getting dressed, pretending to ignore it completely.

"Furthermore," Damian was saying, "the excessive use of hair product creates a distinctive scent profile that could be tracked by–"

He stopped mid-sentence.

I glanced over at him and had to suppress a grin. His eyes were glued to the screen, where a narrator was explaining the hunting patterns of Saharan lizards. His expression had completely changed – the mask of professional disapproval had slipped, replaced by the kind of rapt fascination that only came from genuine interest.

Got you.

For the next ten minutes, I watched Damian Wayne, trained assassin and Robin, stand transfixed by footage of geckos and monitor lizards. His notebook hung forgotten at his side. His posture relaxed from military straight to something approaching normal kid. When a particularly impressive iguana appeared on screen, I swear I saw him lean forward slightly.

There he is. Under all that training and criticism and premature seriousness, he's still just an eleven-year-old kid who thinks lizards are cool.

It was almost... endearing.

Then he realized I was watching him and snapped back to attention, his professional mask sliding back into place so quickly I almost wondered if I'd imagined the whole thing.

"This documentary is factually accurate," he said stiffly, as if that explained why he'd been staring at it for ten minutes. "Though the information is of limited tactical value."

"Uh-huh," I said, not even trying to hide my smirk. "Very informative. Lots of... tactical lizard knowledge."

He shot me a look that could have melted steel, but I could tell I'd found his weakness. Under all that League of Assassins training and Bat-family discipline, Damian Wayne was still a kid who liked animals.

This is going to be useful.

I finished getting dressed while the documentary played, making a mental note to invest in some nature programming for future tactical deployments against my tiny roommate. When I was ready to leave, I walked over to where he was still standing, trying very hard to pretend he wasn't interested in the segment about desert tortoises.

"Don't worry," I said, clapping him lightly on the shoulder, an act that made him recoil as if I'd tasered him. "Our secret's safe with me, little brother. Now, how do you feel about getting a puppy?"

——————————

Author's note:

I've been itching to introduce Powergirl for a bit, but keep getting side tracked. Hopefully I can get to it soon.

 

[MoonyNightShade]

The day LexCorp unveiled "Project Prometheus," my net worth didn't just climb; it achieved escape velocity and punched a hole clean through the stratosphere.

Klaus Richter had called me at three in the morning, Geneva time, his voice shaking with what I could only describe as religious ecstasy mixed with severe psychological trauma. The numbers he'd rattled off had been so large that my brain had initially refused to process them as currency. They sounded more like astronomical measurements – the distance between stars, the age of the universe, the number of atoms in a galaxy.

Eight hundred percent return on investment in seventy-two hours. That's not a trade; that's a miracle. That's the kind of performance that gets you investigated by the SEC, profiled in Forbes, and possibly recruited by time travelers.

Klaus had formally resigned from Rothschild & Richter the next day. Not because he'd been fired, but because he'd apparently decided that his entire forty-year career in conservative wealth management had been preparation for this moment – managing the portfolio of a client who seemed to possess genuine prophetic abilities when it came to market timing.

Poor Klaus. He's probably going to need therapy. Or a priest. Or both.

But Klaus's psychological breakdown was a problem for future me. Present me had bigger fish to fry – specifically, a boardroom full of corporate sharks who had demanded this meeting after word of my "Orion Shipping coup" had spread through Blüdhaven's financial community like wildfire.

Time to find out if I can fake being a tech visionary as well as I can fake being sane.

The boardroom I'd leased for the day was a masterpiece of intimidating corporate architecture – floor-to-ceiling windows offering a panoramic view of Blüdhaven, a conference table that could have doubled as a landing strip, and enough chrome and leather to outfit a luxury spaceship. It was the kind of room where billion-dollar deals were made and careers were destroyed with equal efficiency.

And sitting in the corner, sketching in a notebook with the focused intensity of someone planning an assassination, was Damian Wayne.

My secret weapon. Or my secret liability. Hard to tell which.

I'd insisted he attend what I'd described to him as an "educational exercise in corporate warfare." In reality, I just thought it would be hilarious to watch a room full of expensive suits try to maintain their professional composure while being silently judged by a ten-year-old who could probably kill them all with a pencil.

Plus, if this goes badly, I can always claim I'm being mentored by a child prodigy. He's Bruce Wayne's kid after all. That's the kind of eccentric billionaire behavior people expect.

The assembled team was exactly what central casting would have ordered for "Skeptical Corporate Professionals." Mr. Sterling, the lead lawyer, looked like he'd been carved from granite and dressed by someone who considered thousand-dollar suits to be casual wear. Ms. Chen, the venture capitalist, was younger but somehow even more intimidating – the kind of brilliant, sharp-eyed professional who could smell BS from three time zones away.

They're all here because they have to be. Because the numbers don't lie, even when everything else about me screams 'fraud.' They think I'm either a genius or a criminal, and they're hoping I'm a genius they can profit from.

Sterling opened the meeting with the kind of dry, professional tone that could make a lottery announcement sound like a funeral eulogy. "Mr. Grayson, your recent... unorthodox but undeniably profitable trading strategies have attracted considerable attention in our community. We're here to discuss the potential establishment of a more formal investment structure."

Translation: 'We think you might be guilty of insider trading, but your money spends the same either way, so let's talk.'

"Gentlemen, ladies," I said, standing and moving toward the holographic display system I'd had installed specifically for this presentation. "Thank you for coming. Though I should mention upfront – we're not here to discuss investment strategies. We're here to discuss the future."

I touched the display controls, and the room filled with swirling, three-dimensional graphics that looked impressive and meant absolutely nothing. Pure visual spectacle designed to make whatever I said next sound more important than it actually was.

Okay, look confident. Eye contact. Project authority. Just keep using words like 'heuristic,' 'scalable,' and 'paradigm.' They're all staring at me like I'm speaking another language. Good. That's exactly the plan.

"The Orion Shipping trade wasn't luck," I continued, letting my voice carry the kind of quiet confidence that suggested I knew secrets they couldn't even imagine. "It was a proof of concept. A demonstration of what happens when you apply next-generation predictive analytics to market inefficiencies."

Ms. Chen leaned forward slightly, her expression sharpening. "What kind of analytics, exactly?"

And there's the first real question. Time to deploy the technobabble.

"We're pioneering decentralized data-sovereignty platforms," I said, manipulating the holographic display to show a complex web of interconnected nodes. "Traditional market analysis relies on centralized data processing, which creates inherent blind spots. Our approach uses distributed computational networks to identify pattern correlations that conventional algorithms miss entirely."

That sounded good, right? I'm basically describing blockchain technology that doesn't exist yet in this universe, but they don't know that.

Sterling's expression suggested he was trying to decide whether I was brilliant or completely insane. "Mr. Grayson, that sounds remarkably similar to theoretical frameworks that won't be commercially viable for years."

Crap. He knows more about this stuff than I expected.

"Mr. Sterling," I said, smiling like someone who had just been asked to explain why water was wet, "that's exactly my point. We're not building tomorrow's solutions; we're building next decade's solutions today. While everyone else is playing catch-up, we'll already be three moves ahead."

When in doubt, go bigger. Make it sound so advanced that questioning it makes them look stupid.

I moved to the next slide, which showed what looked like a molecular structure but was actually just a really pretty screensaver I'd found online.

"Beyond data analytics, we're also pioneering mycelial network logistics," I announced, as if this was a perfectly normal thing to say in a business meeting.

The silence that followed was so complete I could hear Damian's pencil scratching against paper in the corner.

"Mycelial... networks?" Ms. Chen said slowly.

Oh good, she's never heard of it either. That means I can make up literally anything.

"The most efficient distribution networks in nature," I explained, pulling up what I hoped looked like a convincing diagram. "Fungal networks that can transport resources across vast distances with minimal energy expenditure. We're developing bio-integrated packaging systems that use similar principles – fully biodegradable, self-optimizing supply chains that actually improve with use."

I saw this in a documentary once about how mushrooms are basically the internet of the forest. It sounds crazy enough to be revolutionary.

Sterling was making notes now, his pen moving with the mechanical precision of someone trying to keep up with concepts that were either brilliant or completely fictional.

"And the third pillar of our approach," I continued, warming to my theme, "is bio-integrated algorithmic market prediction."

I have no idea what that means, but it sounds impressive.

Ms. Chen's eyes had narrowed to the point where she looked like she was trying to see through my skull into my brain. "Could you elaborate on the algorithmic component?"

Shit. She's asking for specifics. Time to deploy the nuclear option: meaningful-sounding nonsense.

"Ms. Chen," I said, giving her the kind of patient smile usually reserved for very bright children who had asked very complicated questions, "we're not building a better calculator. We're teaching the abacus how to dream."

The silence that followed was profound. Ms. Chen blinked twice, opened her mouth, closed it, then opened it again before apparently deciding she had no response to whatever the hell I'd just said.

That was either the most brilliant thing I've ever said or the most ridiculous. Possibly both.

Sterling cleared his throat. "Mr. Grayson, these concepts are... ambitious. But I'm concerned about risk assessment. How do you quantify the potential for catastrophic failure in such experimental frameworks?"

Oh no. He's asking about actual business stuff. Numbers and projections and things that require real knowledge.

"Risk," I said, trying to buy myself time to think of an answer that wasn't 'I have no idea what I'm talking about.' "Risk is what happens when you don't understand the variables you're working with. When you have perfect information, risk becomes–"

"Your proposed supply chain is inefficient."

The voice came from the corner of the room, calm and matter-of-fact and belonging to a ten-year-old who had apparently decided to contribute to the conversation without looking up from his sketchbook.

"You have not accounted for the geopolitical instability in Markovia," Damian continued in the same conversational tone. "Which makes it a suboptimal manufacturing hub. A foolish oversight."

Holy shit. The tiny, homicidal nerd just saved my ass.

The room had gone completely silent. Every single person was staring at Damian, who continued sketching like he hadn't just delivered a master class in international logistics from memory.

"You see?" I said, seizing the moment, "This is exactly what I'm talking about. Traditional analysis misses these interconnected variables. My associate here has identified a critical flaw that most consultants would overlook entirely."

My associate. I just called a ten-year-old my associate in a board meeting and somehow made it sound impressive rather than insane.

Ms. Chen was looking at Damian with the kind of fascination usually reserved for exotic animals or natural disasters. "How old is your... associate?"

"Age is irrelevant when you're dealing with pure analytical intelligence," I said, which was certainly true in Damian's case. "The future belongs to those who can think beyond conventional parameters."

Sterling was scribbling notes furiously now, probably trying to figure out if hiring child consultants was legal or if I was running some kind of elaborate psychological warfare operation.

Both, actually. Though he doesn't need to know that.

"Gentlemen, ladies," I said, moving toward the front of the room for my closing statement, "what I'm offering isn't just an investment opportunity. It's a chance to be part of the next evolutionary leap in how we understand markets, technology, and the intersection between human innovation and natural systems."

I gestured toward the holographic displays, which were still showing meaningless but impressive-looking data visualizations.

"The Orion trade was just the proof of concept. A single demonstration of what becomes possible when you combine next-generation analytics with a willingness to see patterns others miss. Hall Holdings isn't just another investment firm – we're the R&D department for the future of wealth itself."

That sounded good. Inspirational but vague enough that they can't pin me down on specifics.

The room was quiet for a long moment, the kind of thoughtful silence that suggested people were either deeply impressed or trying to figure out whether they'd just witnessed genius or the most elaborate con job in financial history.

Finally, Sterling closed his notebook and looked up at me with something that might have been respect.

"Mr. Grayson," he said carefully, "your methods are... unconventional. But your results speak for themselves. Assuming we can establish appropriate legal frameworks and risk management protocols, I believe we can work together."

Translation: 'We still think you might be crazy, but crazy people who make eight hundred percent returns are the kind of crazy we can work with.'

Ms. Chen nodded slowly. "I'll want to see more detailed projections, but the underlying concepts are... intriguing. Especially if your associate there is available for consultation."

She wants to hire Damian as a consultant. This is the best day ever.

"Excellent," I said, moving to shake hands with each of them in turn. "Welcome to the future."

The next twenty minutes were a blur of handshakes, business card exchanges, and promises to have contracts drafted by next week. Sterling's team would handle the legal framework for Hall Holdings' expansion. Ms. Chen's firm would provide access to venture capital networks and high-end investment opportunities. Klaus would continue managing day-to-day operations from his new office in Geneva, probably while drinking heavily and questioning all his life choices.

I did it. I actually did it. I just convinced a room full of professional skeptics that I'm some kind of visionary tech genius, and all it took was supreme confidence and the strategic deployment of meaningless jargon.

When the last suit had left the boardroom, I found myself alone with Damian, who was still sketching with the same focused intensity he'd maintained throughout the entire meeting.

I should probably thank him for that save. Or at least acknowledge that he just made me look like I actually know what I'm doing.

I walked over to the windows, looking out at the city that was rapidly becoming my personal playground. Blüdhaven stretched out below us, all gleaming towers and busy streets, full of opportunities and possibilities I was only just beginning to explore.

Phase two complete. I'm officially a legitimate billionaire with a real company and actual professional staff. Now for the part I've been waiting for.

"Well," I said to the silent boy in the corner, who was now sketching the city skyline with frightening precision, "Phase two complete. Now for the fun part."

——————————

Author's note:

Okay, for all you crazy folks who made it through all the jargon– first glimpse of Powergirl in the next chapter!

 

[MoonyNightShade]

The problem with becoming a self-made billionaire in under two months is that the paperwork is an absolute nightmare.

I stared at the mountain of documents spread across my dining table – incorporation papers, SEC filings, tax assessments, and enough legal jargon to choke a law library. The holographic displays that had once shown my triumphant financial projections now flickered with the soul-crushing reality of quarterly reports and compliance documentation.

This is what they don't tell you about getting rich quick. The 'getting rich' part is exhilarating. The 'quick' part means you have to compress about five years of corporate development into eight weeks of pure administrative hell.

"Merger acquisition protocols," I muttered, squinting at a document that seemed to have been written by someone who thought clarity was a sign of weakness. "Subsidiary integration frameworks. Regulatory compliance matrices. I swear, Klaus is doing this on purpose."

Poor Klaus. He's probably still having nightmares about our first phone call. Now he's getting his revenge by drowning me in the most boring aspects of wealth management.

From his position on the couch, where he was reading what looked like a military tactical manual that was definitely not age-appropriate, Damian Wayne glanced up with the kind of expression usually reserved for particularly disappointing insects.

"Perhaps if you had approached your financial ventures with more conventional methodologies, the administrative burden would be more manageable," he said in that perfectly controlled voice that made ten-year-olds sound like disapproving Oxford professors.

Great. Now I'm being lectured about fiscal responsibility by someone still in school.

"Thank you, Damian," I said, not looking up from a particularly dense paragraph about international banking regulations. "That's very helpful. Really. I'll be sure to remember that the next time I accidentally become a billionaire."

Note to self: find out if there are any child labor laws that cover 'sarcastic commentary by precocious assassin children.' Because there should be.

The truth was, I was getting bored. The thrill of the heist – financial and otherwise – had worn off, leaving behind the mundane reality of actually managing success. I'd achieved my first major goal: independent wealth sufficient to move in the same social circles as government-sponsored archaeologist superheroes. But now that I had it, the day-to-day reality was a lot less exciting than I'd imagined.

Maybe I should have thought this through more. What's the point of having billionaire-level resources if I spend all my time reading about regulatory compliance frameworks? I could be out there living the dream, and instead I'm stuck here trying to figure out what the hell a 'fiduciary obligation matrix' is supposed to mean.

I was reaching for my fourth cup of coffee when the explosion hit.

It wasn't close – the sound was distant, muffled by miles of urban landscape – but it was big enough to rattle the penthouse windows and send ripples across the surface of my coffee cup. My head snapped up immediately, every instinct Dick Grayson had ever developed suddenly coming online.

That was not a construction accident. That was not a gas leak. That was 'something with superpowers just made a very large hole in something expensive.'

"Did you hear that?" I asked, already moving toward the entertainment system.

Damian was already on his feet, his book forgotten, his posture shifting into something that looked ready for combat. "Explosive device. High yield. Approximately 2.3 miles southwest of our position."

Of course he can triangulate explosions by sound. Of course that's a skill he has.

I activated the massive wall screen and flipped to the local news, just in time to catch the anchor in mid-sentence: "...breaking news from downtown Blüdhaven, where what appears to be an armed robbery is currently in progress at First National Bank..."

The image cut to a helicopter feed showing the street in front of a classic, marble-columned bank building. Three figures in animal-themed costumes were visible – one with mechanical wings, one with a shark-fin mohawk, one with what looked like fox ears and a tail. They were hauling bags of money toward a heavily modified van while firing automatic weapons into the air to keep the gathering crowd of police and civilians at bay.

The Terrible Trio. Fox, Shark, and Vulture. I know these guys from the comics. They're like... aggressively C-list. The kind of villains who show up to get their asses kicked by teenage heroes on a slow news day.

"Interesting," Damian said, settling back onto the couch with the kind of professional detachment that suggested he was mentally cataloging their equipment and tactical approach. "Animal-themed criminals. Predictable methodology. Suboptimal execution."

My ten-year-old brother is providing color commentary on a bank robbery like it's a sporting event.

I grabbed a bag of expensive imported snacks from the kitchen counter and settled in to watch.

The scenario was perfect for some new and developing hero to take on, there was no need for me to personally interfere.

Infact, this was exactly the kind of excitement my boring morning had been missing – a live-action superhero situation unfolding in real-time, with me safely positioned to observe from the comfort of my own home.

This is perfect. Front-row seats to the chaos, zero personal risk, and snacks. This is how rich people should experience crime fighting.

The news anchor was providing breathless commentary: "Police have cordoned off a six-block radius, but so far no officers have been able to get close enough to engage the suspects, who appear to be heavily armed and extremely dangerous..."

That's when she arrived.

She being an understatement of cosmic proportions.

Power Girl didn't fly in. She didn't make a graceful superhero entrance. She didn't descend from the sky like an angel or appear in a burst of light like a goddess.

She hit the street in front of the bank like a meteor.

Holy. Fucking. Shit.

The impact crater was easily fifteen feet across and deep enough that I couldn't see the bottom from the helicopter's angle. Cars parked within a fifty-foot radius were sent flying – not damaged, not moved, but flying through the air like they'd been caught in the blast radius of a tactical nuke. The shockwave shattered every window for three blocks, and the sound – even filtered through the TV speakers – was like the world's angriest thunderclap having a fight with a construction site.

And standing in the center of that crater, completely unaffected by the destruction she'd just caused, was the most magnificent sight I had ever witnessed in any universe.

That's not a woman. That's an act of God. That's a walking, talking, blonde-haired natural disaster in a skin-tight suit.

She was tall – not just tall, but imposing in a way that suggested she could arm-wrestle mountains and win. Her costume was white and blue, with a red cape that fluttered dramatically in the updraft from her own crater. Her build was... well, calling it 'athletic' would be like calling the Grand Canyon a 'slight dip in the ground.' She was built like an Amazon warrior who had been personally sculpted by someone with very specific ideas about what the human female form could achieve given unlimited resources and a complete disregard for the laws of physics.

And the... the window. It's a bold choice. Tactically questionable, perhaps. But as a statement? As a declaration of supreme, unbothered confidence in one's own personal... assets? It's a masterstroke. A goddamn masterpiece.

The news helicopter was circling closer now, and I could see her face clearly. Strong jaw, piercing blue eyes, and an expression that suggested she was about as concerned with the chaos she'd just caused as most people were with stepping on ants.

She announced her presence by redecorating downtown Blüdhaven with a new geological feature. I am in love. No, wait. Stay strong. Hawkgirl is the goal. But... my God. The level of 'don't give a damn' on display here is something to be studied. Revered, even.

The Terrible Trio, to their credit, recovered from their shock quickly. Fox was shouting orders, Shark was trying to get their van started, and Vulture was activating what looked like a jetpack built into his costume.

All three of them opened fire on Power Girl simultaneously.

The bullets hit her center mass – right in that famous 'boob window' – and pancaked against her skin like they were made of tissue paper. She didn't even flinch. She didn't dodge or deflect or put up any kind of defensive posture. She just stood there, hands on her hips, and let them empty their clips into her while looking mildly annoyed.

She's bulletproof. Completely, utterly, hilariously bulletproof. Those are military-grade automatic weapons, and she's treating them like a light summer rain.

"Fascinating," Damian said, his tone carrying the kind of clinical detachment I was beginning to recognize as his default setting. "Enhanced durability, flight capability, and considerable strength based on the impact crater. However, her tactical approach is concerning."

Concerning? CONCERNING? Talk about an understatement…

That's when Power Girl decided she'd had enough of being shot at.

Vulture was the first to try escaping, his jetpack firing up with a roar of exhaust as he lifted off from the street. Power Girl looked up at him with the kind of expression someone might wear when deciding which sandwich to order for lunch. Then she reached down, grabbed a concrete streetlamp that was probably anchored three feet into the ground, and ripped it out of the sidewalk like she was pulling a flower from a garden.

Oh no. Oh no no no. She's going to throw it. She's actually going to throw a streetlamp at a flying person.

She wound up like a major league pitcher and hurled the two-ton piece of urban infrastructure at Vulture with casual, devastating precision. It clipped his jetpack at the exact angle needed to send him spiraling out of control while simultaneously continuing its trajectory through the front window of Morrison's Dry Cleaning, which exploded in a shower of glass, steam, and what I assumed were very expensive cleaning chemicals.

She just used city infrastructure as ammunition. The Kryptonians really do cause the most property damage.

"Property damage assessment: significant," Damian noted, pulling out what looked like a small tablet and making notes. "Estimated cost of streetlamp replacement and storefront repair: approximately forty thousand dollars."

He's keeping a running tally. This is gonna end up extremely high isn't it?

Shark was next. He'd managed to get their getaway van started and was trying to accelerate away from the crater, tires smoking as he pushed the modified vehicle to its limits. Power Girl watched him for exactly three seconds, then moved.

I use the word 'moved' loosely, because what she actually did was disappear from her position and reappear directly in front of the speeding van faster than the camera could follow. The van hit her at approximately forty miles per hour.

Power Girl didn't budge.

The van, on the other hand, crumpled around her like aluminum foil hitting a brick wall. The engine block – a solid chunk of steel and iron that probably weighed half a ton – came flying out of the hood and landed somewhere in the next zip code. The van itself flipped end over end through the air, Shark still inside, and crashed through the bank's front facade in an explosion of marble, classical columns, and what I assumed were several decades' worth of financial records.

She stopped a speeding vehicle with her body. Just... stood there and let it hit her. And the vehicle lost. Decisively.

"Collateral damage continues to escalate," Damian observed, his stylus moving across his tablet with mechanical precision. "Bank facade reconstruction, vehicle disposal, potential structural damage to the building's foundation..."

Focus, brain. Stop being distracted by the tiny accountant. Pay attention to the walking miracle of destruction.

Fox, the apparent leader of the group, had taken cover behind an overturned police car and was trying to coordinate some kind of tactical response. I could see him shouting into a radio, probably calling for backup or heavy weapons or maybe just a priest to administer last rites.

Power Girl looked at him for a moment, tilted her head like she was considering her options, then launched herself into the air.

The sonic boom hit a split second after she moved, shattering every window for a six-block radius. The sound was like standing inside a thunderclap, and the shockwave was visible as a ring of displaced air that radiated out from her position like the world's most destructive smoke ring.

When the camera stabilized, Fox was unconscious, buried under a pile of glass and debris. The overturned police car he'd been hiding behind was now right-side up and parked neatly at the curb, apparently having been flipped back over by the same shockwave that had leveled everything else in a three-block radius.

She flew at the speed of sound. In downtown Blüdhaven. During business hours. The insurance claims from this are going to be legendary.

"Her disregard for collateral damage is appalling," Damian said, his voice carrying the usual disapproval. "She has caused an estimated four million dollars in property damage to stop a sixty-thousand-dollar robbery. Inefficient. Father would never approve."

Four million dollars. She caused four million dollars in damage to stop three idiots with guns and animal costumes. And she did it in under three minutes. That's not crime fighting; that's… honestly I don't know what to call it.

But I couldn't bring myself to care about the efficiency or the property damage or the insurance implications. Because Power Girl was now standing in the middle of the destruction she'd caused, hands on her hips, cape billowing dramatically in the wind created by her own sonic boom, looking absolutely magnificent.

My god... It's art. It's absolute, unapologetic, beautiful art.

The news anchor was struggling to find words: "Ladies and gentlemen, we've just witnessed... well, I'm not sure what we've witnessed. A new superhero has appeared in Blüdhaven, and she has single-handedly stopped what appeared to be a major bank robbery, though the... the methods employed were certainly... dramatic..."

Dramatic. Right. Like calling the sun 'somewhat bright' or the ocean 'moderately wet.'

I rewound the footage and watched her entrance again in slow motion, studying every detail of her impact, her posture, her absolute confidence in the face of armed opposition. This wasn't just power – this was power without limits, without hesitation, without any apparent concern for conventional approaches to problem-solving.

She's perfect. She's absolutely, terrifyingly, magnificently perfect. And she's here. In my city. In my territory.

Damian was still making notes, probably calculating the long-term economic impact of having a superhero whose idea of proportional response included urban renovation through strategic demolition. But I wasn't thinking about economics or efficiency or property values.

I was thinking about the fact that my carefully planned life had just become infinitely more complicated and infinitely more interesting.

This changes everything. The Justice Gang has Hawkgirl, but now Blüdhaven has... this. This walking natural disaster with perfect hair and zero subtlety. This is either the best thing that's ever happened to me or the thing that's going to get me killed in the most spectacular way possible.

The news feed was still running, showing Power Girl as she surveyed her handiwork with what looked like satisfaction. The Terrible Trio were all unconscious, the bank robbery was definitely over, and downtown Blüdhaven looked like it had been hit by a very targeted natural disaster.

I have to meet her. I have to see this up close. I have to know if she's real or if I'm hallucinating from too much caffeine and not enough sleep.

I reached for my phone, already scrolling through my contacts to find Klaus's number. Whatever meetings I had scheduled for the rest of the day were about to become significantly less important than investigating the crater-shaped calling card of Blüdhaven's newest hero.

"Cancel my afternoon," I said, my eyes still locked on the image of her standing amidst the chaos. "I have to go and see a crater about a girl."

——————————

Author's note:

The damage, people – it's just too much. Isn't that what's on all our minds?