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…