The blue light of the smartphone screen was the only thing illuminating Dick Grayson's face in the darkness of his bedroom. Outside, the suburban silence of the Grayson neighborhood was punctuated only by the occasional chirp of a cricket or the distant hum of a car passing several streets over. But inside Dick's mind, the gears were turning at a mile a minute.
He thumbed through a digital news aggregate, his eyes scanning headlines that most people would find mundane. For Dick, however, every piece of information was a puzzle piece. Ever since he had realized he was reincarnated into this world—a foreign universe that seemed to have its own unique wrinkles—he had been looking for signs of the familiar.
His thumb stopped. His breath hitched.
"Chicago's 'Bat' Strikes Again: Vigilante Foils Midnight Heist at Tech Plaza."
Dick's eyes narrowed, a slow smirk spreading across his lips. He tapped the article, pulling up a grainy, low-light photograph captured by a security camera. It was a blur of dark purple and yellow, a lithe figure swinging away from a group of bound-and-gagged criminals.
Batgirl
He felt a strange surge of warmth and nostalgia. Ever since he'd arrived here, he'd wondered if he was the only cosmic anomaly—a lone traveler with the DC's tag dropped into this unknown reality. But the signs were starting to appear. A year ago, a man named James Gordon had been appointed Commissioner of the Chicago Police Department. Dick had done his digging; Gordon was once a veteran cop from the East Coast who had moved here for a "fresh start." He had a daughter, Barbara, a standout student at a local university.
And then, eight months ago, this batgirl appeared in Chicago.
It's kind of good to know that I'm not the only one, Dick thought, leaning back against his headboard.
He looked at the ceiling, a flicker of hope crossing his mind. If there was a Barbara, if there was a Gordon… maybe there was someone else? Someone with orange skin and a fire in her eyes?
Starfire or Kori… if you're out there, please let us find each other, he prayed silently. He knew the odds were astronomical, but in a world where men flew and gods lived in the suburbs, "impossible" was a relative term.
"Boys! Dinner!"
His mother's voice drifted up from downstairs, breaking his reverie. Dick tossed the phone onto his bed and stretched, his joints popping. He composed himself, smoothing out the "mundane" mask they all wore and headed down.
—---------------
The dining room was filled with the savory aroma of Debbie's cooking. Mark was already seated, piling mashed potatoes onto his plate with an enthusiasm that only a teenager with a developing super metabolism could possess. Debbie was setting a bowl of greens in the center of the table.
Nolan's chair was empty.
"Dad's still out?" Mark asked, looking at the empty seat.
"Busy night," Debbie said with a practiced, patient smile. "There was a crisis in the South Pacific he had to look at, and then something about a rogue satellite near the atmosphere. He might be back for dessert, but don't hold your breath."
"Hmmm, okay," Dick shrugged.
"So," Mark said, trying to sound casual despite the excitement vibrating in his voice. "Dad took us to see a friend of his today. To get the… you know. The outfits."
Debbie raised an eyebrow, a playful smirk dancing on her lips. "Oh? Was it dear old Arthur?"
Dick, who had just taken a bite of chicken, looked up. "You know Art?"
Debbie giggled, a sound that always made the house feel warmer. "Know him? Dick, Arthur Rosenbaum has been a close friend of the family since before you were born. He's the only man your father trusts with a sewing machine. Actually, he's the only man your father trusts to see him in his underwear."
Mark groaned. "Mom, please. Eating."
"He's a good man," Debbie continued, ignoring Mark's protest. "It was Cecil who introduced us to him, actually. Back when your father was first starting out."
Dickk paused, his fork halfway to his mouth. "Wait. Who the heck is Cecil?"
The atmosphere in the room shifted slightly.
"Cecil Stedman," Debbie replied casually, as if she were mentioning a local librarian. "He's the Director of the Global Defense Agency. The GDA."
Dick nearly choked on his water. He coughed, grabbing a napkin and wiping his mouth. Mark stared at his mother in genuine shock. "Wait… the GDA? Mom, isn't the identity of the GDA Director supposed to be, like, the most classified secret in the United States? People shouldn't even know if he actually exists."
Debbie shrugged, reaching for the salad tongs. "Oops. Was that a secret?"
Dick's eyes twitched. "Mom, you just casually dropped the name of the most powerful man in the intelligence community like you were talking about a guy who mows the lawn."
"Well, he's been over for dinner," Debbie said, completely unfazed. "He's a bit stiff, smells like cheap cigarettes and coffee, and he has that rather large scar on his face, but he's always been very polite to me. He brought over a very nice bottle of wine for our fifth anniversary."
Both brothers shook their heads, a laugh bubbling up inside of them. This was their mother, grounded yet incredible. She lived in a world of titans and shadows, and she treated it all like neighborhood gossip. It was her superpower—the ability to remain grounded while everyone around her was flying.
Setting aside the shock of Cecil's identity, the trio spent the rest of dinner talking about Art. Debbie delved into the history of how Art had designed Nolan's iconic white and red suit.
"You should have seen your father," she said, leaning in as if sharing a secret. "The first time Art took his measurements, Nolan was so stiff. He stood there like a statue, refusing to move an inch. He was so stoic, trying to maintain this 'alien warrior' persona, and Art just kept poking him with pins and telling him to 'stop holding his breath or the crotch would be too tight.'"
Mark let out a bark of laughter. "Dad? The stoic Omni-Man? Getting told off by a tailor?"
"Arthur is the only person allowed to talk back to your father," Debbie laughed. "It was a sight to behold."
—--------------
After the plates were cleared and the kitchen was tidied, the energy in the house settled into a quiet hum. Mark and Dick migrated to the roof—a frequent haunt for them. It was a place where they could speak freely, away from the walls of the house.
The night air was cool, and the stars were beginning to pierce through the light pollution. Mark sat on the edge of the shingles, his legs dangling over the gutter. Dick stood a few paces back, watching his brother.
"Nervous?" Dick asked quietly.
Mark didn't answer immediately. He stared out at the horizon, where the lights of the city met the dark expanse of the sky. The silence stretched on, heavy and thick.
"I can't shake it, Dick," Mark finally said, his voice barely a whisper. "The suit makes it real. Dad's stories… the GDA… knowing that people are going to look up and expect me to save them. What if I'm not fast enough? What if I'm not strong enough?"
Dick walked over and placed a firm hand on Mark's shoulder. "Then you get faster. And you get stronger. But you don't do it because you're afraid of failing them. You do it because you care about them."
Mark looked up at him. "How are you so calm about this? You're getting a suit too. You're going to be out there with me."
Dick smiled, a small, knowing expression. "If you can't shake off the nervousness, Mark… then choke it out. Use it. Let that adrenaline keep you sharp. But don't let it paralyze you."
Mark gave him a weird look. "'Choke it out'? That's your advice?"
Dick sighed, sitting down beside him. "Look. First of all, you can't be a good hero if you don't get your head straight. Everyone gets nervous when they start something big. I'm willing to bet even Dad had a hard time on his first night time."
They both went silent, imagining a younger Nolan Grayson. They pictured him back on Viltrum, or perhaps his first time on Earth. Their father had grown up in a world of warriors, raised by super-powered parents in a society that had values and expectations.
"Think about the pressure he was under," Mark mused. "Coming here, knowing he had to represent his entire race. Helping all those different civilizations Dad told us about. The pressure must have been astronomical."
Dick nodded, his mind drifting to what they were told about Viltrumite history. The missions, responsibilities and so much more. He looked at Mark's profile, seeing the genuine desire to do good in his brother's eyes.
"You know what?" Dick said, standing up and dusting off his jeans. "Let's not go that deep tonight. We'll drive ourselves crazy thinking about the weight of the universe."
Mark stood up too, offering a weary but appreciative smile. "Yeah. You're right. One step at a time."
"Exactly. Tomorrow we're just two kids with new clothes," Dick joked. "Go get some sleep, hero."
"You too, bro."
As Mark headed for the window to climb back into his room, Dick stayed on the roof for a moment longer. He looked toward the direction of Chicago, thinking of a girl in a purple cape. Then he looked up at the stars, wondering if a princess from Tamaran was looking back at the same sun.
Dick sighed and left for his room. He just couldn't wait to get his hands on his supersuit.