The dust hadn't even begun to settle when the sound of shattering masonry echoed through the street. Mark hadn't just hit Killcannon; he had become a human railgun. With his teeth grit and his muscles locked in a desperate display of newfound power, Mark had driven his shoulder into the villain's chest, the sheer momentum carrying them both through the front of a dry cleaner's and out the back wall into an alleyway.
Killcannon was a mess of sparking cybernetics and groans. He lay amidst a pile of red bricks and twisted rebar, his vision swimming in a kaleidoscope of concussive shock. He tried to push himself up, his metal arm whirring with a pathetic, grinding noise, but his limbs felt like lead. He didn't even know what had hit him—only that it was yellow, blue, and moved faster than anything he'd ever fought.
Back on the main street, See-more stood frozen. His giant central eye blinked rapidly, the mechanical shutter clicking as it struggled to process the blur that had just deleted his partner from the battlefield.
"Wh-what the? K-Killcannon?" See-more stammered, his voice trembling through his helmet. "Uh, Cannon? What the fuck dude?"
He began frantically switching his vision modes. Thermal showed the fading heat signature of the hole in the building; X-ray showed the structural damage. He spun around, searching for the second intruder—the one in the dark tactical suit. He zoomed in on the rooftops, then out to the perimeter, his eye darting with mechanical precision.
Then, a breath of cold air hit the back of his neck.
"Looking for someone?"
The whisper was low, calm, and terrifyingly close. It sent a primal jolt of electricity down See-more's spine. He tried to pivot, his hand reaching for the gadgets on his belt, but he was far too slow. Nightwing—Dick—was already in motion. With a fluid, practiced grace that made it look more like a dance than a fight, Dick delivered a sharp, precise karate chop to the base of See-more's skull, right where the helmet met the suit's neck seal.
See-more's giant eye rolled upward, his knees buckled, and he collapsed into a heap on the pavement.
"Well, that was quick," Dick said, exhaling a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. He stood over the unconscious villain, adjusting his gloves. For a fleeting second, he looked down at See-more and felt a pang of nostalgia, reminded of a third-rate villain from the old comic books he used to read back in his original world. "Rest easy, Cyclops."
His attention immediately shifted to the gaping hole in the building across the street. He sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose as Mark flew back through the hole, looking slightly disheveled but triumphant.
"I got him!" Mark shouted, landing with a heavy thud that cracked the sidewalk. "Did you see that? I hit him so hard he didn't even have time to fire his laser!"
"I saw it, Mark," Dick said, gesturing broadly to the devastation. "The whole block saw it. Along with the dry cleaner's interior and the two cars you toppled with the shockwave."
Mark's excitement faltered as he looked around. A sedan was flipped on its side, and the front of the 'Sudsy Cleaners' looked like a meteor had struck it. "Oh. Right. Damage control."
"Rule number one: collateral is a grade," Dick teased, though his tone was warm. He was genuinely proud of how Mark had stepped up, but he couldn't help but criticise how it couldn't have been handled well enough. "You did great, but next time, maybe try to tackle him up instead of through."
Despite the mess, a sense of accomplishment hung in the air. Within minutes, the sirens of another batch of well armed police arrived. Dick and Mark assisted the officers in securing the villains with high-tensile restraints. As the sirens wailed, a small crowd began to gather at the police tape, including a few local news crews who had arrived with surprising speed.
Mark's eyes lit up. He saw a reporter from Channel 3 adjusting her microphone. "Is that ... .no freaking way? Hey, Dick, how's my hair? Do I look heroic enough? Maybe I should strike a pose near the—"
Before Mark could finish his sentence or fix a single strand of hair, he felt a firm grip on the back of his collar.
"Wait, what! NO! My interview!" Mark wailed as Dick used his momentum to bolt in the opposite direction, dragging his brother into the shadows of a faraway alley.
"No press on day one, buddy," Dick laughed, releasing him once they were out of sight. "Keep them wanting more. Besides, we have work to do."
—--------------
The rest of the time was a whirlwind. It wasn't all punching high-tech villains and crashing through walls. Dick led them through the city, teaching Mark that being a hero was about the small things, too. They spent an hour helping the fire department clear debris from a minor traffic accident on I-95. They spent another thirty minutes searching for a lost golden retriever named 'Buster' for a frantic seven-year-old.
At one point, Mark found himself hovering twenty feet up a willow tree, gently coaxing a terrified kitten into his hands while an elderly woman cheered from below.
"You know," Mark said later as they walked toward their rendezvous point to head home, "the kitten was actually harder than Killcannon. It scratched the hell out of my gloves."
"But look at the public relations," Dick pointed out, gesturing to the "thank you" they had received from the local precinct. "People feel safe when they see you helping. It's not always about the big fights."
By the time they reached the Grayson household, the sun was dipping below the horizon, painting the sky in hues of violet and orange. The smell of roast chicken and garlic mashed potatoes wafted through the front door, a stark, domestic contrast to the smell of ozone and burnt rubber they had endured all day.
Dinner was a lively affair. Nolan was absent, again, having been called away to the Guardians of the Globe headquarters for an emergency briefing regarding something important. But his absence didn't dampen the mood much.
"And then Dick just... poof! He appeared behind the guy with the big eye! It was like he turned invisible!" Mark explained between massive bites of chicken. He was animated, his hands flying as he recounted the day's events to Debbie.
Debbie sat across from them, a soft, indulgent smile on her face. She listened to every word, her heart swelling with a mixture of pride and a lingering, motherly ache. She looked at Mark, his face glowing with the thrill of his new life, and then at Dick, who was calmer but clearly satisfied.
"Hello? Earth to mom," Dick said, snapping Debbie out of her thoughts.
"Everything alright, mom?" Mark asked, sensing how zoned out their mother suddenly got.
Debbie chuckled and said that she was recalling the old days.
"I still remember when you two couldn't even walk without tripping over your own feet," Debbie said softly, her eyes misty. "I spent years changing your diapers, cleaning scraped knees, and worrying about whether you'd make friends at school. And now... look at you. Saving the city before dinner."
"Mom, please, not the diaper talk," Mark groaned, his face turning a bright shade of red. "We are superheroes now. Superheroes don't have diaper histories."
Dick chuckled, leaning back in his chair. "Speak for yourself, dear brother. I'm sure the press would love that 'origin story'."
Debbie laughed, the sound warm and grounding. "I'm just glad you're both safe. Your father... he worries, even if he doesn't show it. And so do I. But seeing you two together like this? It makes me feel like the world is in good hands."
—-----------------
As the night wore on, the house fell into its usual rhythm. Debbie headed to bed early, exhausted from her own day of real estate meetings. Mark, drained from the physical and emotional tax of his first real day of heroics, practically stumbled into his room. Within ten minutes, his rhythmic, heavy snoring could be heard through the wall.
But Dick remained awake.
He sat on the edge of his bed, the moonlight filtering through the blinds. His body felt energized, wired in a way that only those raised in the shadow of a certain Bat could understand. For Mark, the day was over. For Dick, the night was just beginning.
He moved with practiced silence, pulling his suit back on. He checked the hinges of his escrima sticks, ensured his utility belt was stocked, and tightened his boots. He didn't use the door; he slid the window open, the cool night air rushing in to greet him.
Mark was built for the sun—for the grand displays of power and the bright blue sky. But Dick? Dick was a creature of the rooftops and the silhouettes. There was a different kind of crime that happened when the sun went down, a grittier, darker element that didn't wait for a hero in bright yellow spandex.
With a final glance back at his house, Dick slipped out into the night, a dark blur against the stars, ready to see what the city looked like when no one was watching.