Nightwing's Return Who: Dick Grayson NPCs: Proxy Where: Gotham Int'l. Airport, the Clocktower When: August 19, 2012 after 1:00 AM. What: Dick returns to Gotham, and wastes no time. Rating: PG-13 for some language. Status: Narrative.
Dick Grayson's trained eyes picked out the small pocket of assailants waiting around the corner. If there'd only been one, he might never have noticed. A dozen, however, stood out like nuns at a nightclub. They were waiting to ambush him. He thought arriving unannounced in the middle of the night would circumvent this problem. "So much for the low profile," he said under his breath. Dick didn't have time to deal with the circus of media clowns who'd been staking out the terminal at Gotham International Airport. Not tonight, not with his father murdered and too many questions raised.
Wayne Enterprises had its own private wing here, and after slipping an attendant a hundred dollar bill to arrange for his luggage to be delivered to the penthouse suite at Wayne Tower, Dick slipped into the closed, dimly lit hall with only his carry-on, and then into the back hanger where the private family jet rested, ready for use.
A quick scan of the hanger told him everything he needed to know. Bruce hadn't used it in months. Dick's bike, however, was waiting for him. Eyebrow raised, he marched across the hanger, his footsteps echoing slightly. On it was a folded piece of paper. Picking it up and unfolding the paper, he read the note.
'Thought you might need this. Always have an escape route.'
Despite having been paralyzed from the news, in a perpetual state of prepared unemotionality, Dick smiled at the letter. Tim's handwriting and trademark strategy. His forward-thinking always trying to put Dick to shame. Dropping his carry-on bag on the seat, Dick pulled out his gear. He was already wearing the form-fitting lightly armored suit since halfway through the flight, but all of his gear, conveniently made of industrial plastics and non-conducive metals to bypass security, needed equipping. Locking his gauntlets and boots into place, Dick played with the letter, slipping it between his fingers deftly before tucking it into one of the compartments. Lastly he affixed his mask to his face with spirit gum and shoved the civilian clothing into the bag, stowing it in the compartment under the seat.
Had it really been a year since he'd last set foot in Gotham? He could see the city's skyline in the distance, the lights of his home filling the night sky with their constant glow, and all that time away melted from his mind as if he'd never left. His hands squeezed the bike's grips, and Nightwing revved the motorcycle to life. Switching to stealth mode, he quieted the engine, and sped out from the hanger a swiftly moving shadow across the tarmac. The almost-imperceptible drop beneath the fencing made his stomach jump as he sped free of the airport's border and toward the city proper.
Tonight he hunted. But first, he needed to know everything.
* * *
The Clocktower in downtown central was a hidden fortress, built to keep curious parties out and equipped with the latest in anti-intrusion defenses. Non-lethal, of course, but there were a few new additions that would have been very painful, Dick noted, as he crept across the ledge toward the hidden access behind the northeast gargoyle. He noticed the new motion sensor plating and deftly avoided touching it, preferring to test his skills against the person who'd installed them. To her credit, it was technology that usually tried to keep up with the Bat family, and she could only work with what was out there. As usual, Proxy sat in an ergonomic task chair, reviewing an embankment of monitors filled with feeds from every corner of the city.
He folded his arms, looking at one of the screens. "King's knight to C6."
A loud curse, a crash and a raised coffee mug later, Proxy turned to stare at him. "Jesus, Dick, do you think you could maybe not do that?"
"Nice security upgrades." He grinned slightly. It was expected of him.
"Apparently not nice enough," she said, setting the mug down and brushing her hands on her shirt as she composed herself. "Guess what I'll be working on all day tomorrow?"
"Challenge accepted." He stepped over and put his hand on the back of her chair. "Hey, Proxy."
"Codenames? Sure." She replied, quietly. "I wish we could have told you in person."
"It wasn't like I was someplace that electricity had ever heard of. Satellite phone was the only way. What's this?" He pointed at one of the screens, which showed a view inside the GCPD's Major Crimes Unit. Dick recognized it well; it wasn't that long ago that he'd been working there. "We're spying on the police now?"
"It was something that your," she paused, changing tracks, "that Batman requested a few months ago. Not important right now. You just got back from a sixteen hour flight. Maybe you should get some rest. This can wait until tomorrow."
He shook his head, and their eyes locked in a silent struggle. Eventually, Proxy relented, sighed, and pointed at the coffee pot. "It's fresh."
"Later," he said. "Tell me everything."
"Most of it's already here," she said, handing him a WayneTech tablet with the day's edition of the Gotham Gazette, featuring an article on the front page of Bruce Wayne's murder. Proxy waited silently while he read it. After a minute, he looked up. "They really think it's random? He could never have been killed by some mugger so easily."
"Dick," she said, using his real name again. "He hasn't been in the game for months. He was wearing down, tired. Bruce was losing his edge..."
"No." He said emphatically. "He could be blind, broken and half-dead, and this couldn't have happened. There's more to this."
"The person who wrote that article seems to agree with you. I've been tracking her. She's digging. And she's tenacious."
Dick looked at the byline. "Who is Vicki Vale?"
"Vale's new to the city. Covered the Corto Maltese revolution before coming here. Now she works the City beat, and her editor threw her this case already. She's a pit-bull, Dick. We'll need to be careful, control what she has access to."
"I'm on it. What other leads do we have?"
"The police found what they think is the murder weapon. The problem is, it's registered to Louis Oswald..."
"The Penguin?!"
"Shh. Let me finish." Proxy pushed her glasses up against her face and frowned at Dick thoughtfully. "We can place him out of the country when the murder happened."
"Convenient," Dick added darkly.
"There's a reason Batman never got him behind bars. We need to be careful. Find out what his role was, if any. If you want anything to stick, we need to be smart."
Dick gave her an annoyed look. "You want to send Tim, don't you?"
Proxy smiled. "No offense, Nightwing, but Red Robin has your number."
"Red Robin?"
"You'll have to ask him."
Dick paced across the mainframe room, looking back at the tablet. "Please tell me that the young Asian woman that found him wasn't..."
"It was."
"Where is she?" When Proxy didn't respond, he turned and walked back to her chair. He gave her a questioning look. Eventually, after a pause, she answered.
"I... I don't know."
"God, Cass..." He knew if she'd gone off-grid precisely what she was up to. "Why did I ever leave?"
"Because he asked you to," she said quickly, trying to circumvent his self-doubt before he could go any further. "Because you needed time."
"I'm heading out." He moved toward the false door swiftly. "Keep me patched in. I'll be looking for answers the old-fashioned way."
"Dick!" Proxy yelled, folding her arms and giving him a stern look. When he faced her, his expression as stone-faced as Bruce's ever was, her face fell and her arms dropped. He reminded her of Bruce; it was unnerving. It was all business then. She squared her shoulders. "Nightwing. Be careful."
"Hnh." He left, forgetting to smile this time. He'd slipped. She'd seen the anger seething beneath the surface. There was little time to acknowledge the pain, to deal with the truth that he'd lost another father. No time at all.