Chapter Text
The only thing Dick is sure of at this point is that this night has gone completely off the rails.
One minute, Nightwing and Robin are sneaking into Black Mask’s warehouse. The next, a security light is flashing overhead, and they’re surrounded by a dozen armed goons. A brief volley of gunfire and an unfortunate encounter with a couple of tasers later, and Dick and Tim are cuffed and tied to a set of chairs. They’ve lost their gear, their weapons, and possibly some of their dignity, Dick thinks sourly.
He hears the slight rasp of shifting kevlar beside him and turns, focusing his blurry eyes on Robin’s slumped form next to him. Tim looks like he’s just starting to come around, muscles twitching as he shifts restlessly against his restraints.
The warehouse they broke into, which was supposed to be a drug supply depot, is actually home to a maze of unopened wooden crates, a wall of servers, and one very prominent screen. Mask’s crew is busy pulling more crates from the loading dock, the servers humming softly in the background all the while.
Ignoring the muscle spasms rolling painfully through his neck and shoulders, Dick focuses on wiggling his spare lock pick free from his left glove. His hands and fingers jerk haphazardly with each spasm, and it feels like an eternity later when he finally gets the pick to slide free.
That’s when the night takes an even harder turn toward nowhere good.
At the back of the warehouse, the voices of Mask’s goons are getting louder, more agitated, and fewer in number. Dick cranes his neck and watches incredulously as Mask’s goons are pulled into the darkness, one after the other, like a trailer for a bad horror movie.
“Oracle was right. This was a trap,” Dick mutters as he spots a dull gleam of red deep in the warehouse’s shadows. “But Mask didn’t set it.”
“Then who did?” Tim hisses.
The Red Hood prowls forward out of the darkness.
Blue light from the monitor refracts sharply off the angles of Hood’s helmet. If the man’s surprised to find them here, Dick can’t read it in his body language. Hood slows as he nears them, his hands lifting to hover over the guns tucked into his thigh holsters as he spins in a careful circle. There’s a very slight tilt to the angle of Hood’s head as he turns. He’s looking up, checking the rafters.
Dick resists a reflexive look upward in response, gnashing his teeth in frustration. Batman had been in the Diamond District all night handling a series of bomb threats. Oracle had set the night’s mission parameters for Nightwing and Robin and was active in their ears before things went sideways, so she’s probably already called for backup. But it's unlikely rescue is here already.
“Hood,” he calls sharply. “What are you doing here?”
Hood doesn’t look back at Dick. He must be satisfied with what he sees in the rafters though, because he stops to kick briefly at the pile of gear Mask’s goons stripped off of Dick and Tim, before moving on to the computer set up. He pulls a flash drive from his pocket and plugs it into the monitor before typing rapidly at the keyboard.
Tim makes a soft, annoyed sound, twisting to try and get a better look around Dick at what Hood is doing. On the screen, a status bar starts loading. The lock pick shifts in Dick’s sweaty hand, almost dropping free. He squeezes it tightly.
“Hood!” Dick tries again, frustration leaking through into this voice.
Dick stares as Hood turns slowly until the white eyepieces of his helmet are staring straight at them. He stands there momentarily, hands planted firmly on his hips. Dick doesn’t need to be able to see under the helmet, to know that Hood is smirking at him now.
“Why Nightwing, Robin,” he drawls. “I didn’t see you there. What’s a couple of birds like you doing grounded down here?”
Hood doesn’t wait for a response, just steps away from the computer, moving around Dick and Tim toward the crates filling the back of the warehouse.
“Hood, get back here!” Dick commands, uselessly, as the crime lord disappears completely from view.
Dick curses softly and goes back to working on his restraints. Mask’s goons were surprisingly adept at tying the knots. He has the cuffs unlocked and is working on undoing the rope around his forearms, when he feels a shift in the air around them. The darkness seems to deepen.
Batman melts out of the shadows, stalking across the open floor of the warehouse toward where Dick and Tim are tied up.
“We’re okay, just lost our comms—Hood’s here,” Dick whispers hurriedly, gesturing with his head to where he saw Hood enter the maze of crates. “He took out all of Mask’s goons.”
Bruce stiffens, instantly more alert, the cowl’s whiteout lenses flicking over them both before rising to scan the warehouse.
“We’re fine,” Dick urges again. “I’m almost free. Go after Hood before he gets away!”
Bruce’s jaw hardens before he turns and moves to slip between the crates, the darkness engulfing him once more.
Dick starts a count in his head while he goes back to steadily working on the knots. His internal clock is at just over a minute when the glow from the nearby monitors suddenly brightens. The status bar on the main display has reached capacity and is blinking steadily.
Hood materializes out of the shadows behind the computer array like a wraith.
“Batman!” Tim yells. “He doubled back!”
Hood moves quickly, forgoing stealth for speed, ripping the flash drive from its port, and punching a few rapid keystrokes.
“Hood’s at the computer!” Tim shouts again, near frantic.
Hood doesn’t pause; he smashes his fist into the monitor, spins, and sprints for the nearest exit.
“B! West door!” Dick calls desperately.
Hood is fifteen feet from the door and closing when Bruce drops down from the rafters in full Batman form, cape billowing behind him.
Dick grins at the sight, a familiar thrill racing down his spine. The smile stretching across his face feels Robin-bright. Some things never get old.
Hood pulls up short.
“Red Hood,” Bruce growls, rising to his full height.
“Batman,” Hood returns steadily. Dick can see the indecision bleeding through Hood as he shifts backward. The pair moves in tandem, circling each other slowly.
Hood’s hands are hovering loosely at his sides, but he doesn’t move to draw his guns. Instead, he reaches for the knife sheaths secured at his hips. His left arm rises, crossing over the front of his chest. There’s a large knife with a curved blade in Hood’s hand, held at the ready with the blade angled out. Hood keeps his right arm tucked close to his body, his hand near his hip. He’s twirling a smaller karambit in his palm, his index finger hooked through the finger guard. The movement flows in rhythm with his steady steps.
“This ends tonight, Hood,” Bruce growls.
Hood cocks his head to the side, unimpressed. “Mask is on his way. This party will get a lot less private when he gets here.” The words come out flat and emotionless through the vocodor in his helmet.
Batman tenses, shifting forward slightly.
And then Hood leaps, spinning through a series of quick, arcing swipes. The attacks glance harmlessly off the suit’s armor as Bruce counters easily, but Hood is already dancing back out of reach.
Dick recognizes the confidence Hood is moving with from their own rooftop fight, but it’s somehow more. More fluid, more intent. He’s testing him, Dick realizes, startled. Hood’s testing Batman. Who is this guy?
And once he’s looking for it, Dick can clearly see the careful engagement in Hood’s next pass before he withdraws lightning-fast, feeling out Bruce’s level of response in return. Bruce’s movements are equally assessing, he’s looking for the best way in while trying to limit the risk of injury. He doesn’t seem concerned by Hood’s attacks, just cautious.
There’s another quick lunge from Hood, but this time Bruce tries to grab him in the follow-through. For a moment, it looks like Bruce has him. But then Hood twists like a snake and breaks away, leaping back a few steps to circle Bruce again.
Hood’s low drawl buzzes out of the helmet. “Sure you don’t want to tend to your caged birdies over there, Bats, and save our fight for another day?” He bends his knees slightly, sinking down lower into his stance.
“I’m not going to let you keep killing people in my city, Hood,” Bruce growls in response.
Hood’s shoulders give a little twitch. “Crime Alley isn’t your city, Batman. Never has been.”
What? Just how long has Hood been operating in Gotham, Dicks wonders in confusion. How could they have missed him?
Hood darts forward, his forehand slashing in an arc while his offhand cuts in with an upper thrust. There’s a shriek of metal on metal as Bruce catches and binds both of Hood’s blades in his gauntlets, trying to break Hood’s hold on the weapons. Hood strains against the pin, one leg striking out to curl around Bruce’s, trying to pull him off balance.
Hood is more than just a crime lord with some martial arts training and impressive knife skills, Dick realizes, as Hood transitions seamlessly into a series of classic Krav Maga knee and lower leg strikes. Much more, Dick amends, as Hood finally breaks away from Bruce’s grasp and retaliates with a series of aggressive Arnis-style counterstrikes.
The grappling skills and breakneck chase through the Bowery last week had been equally unwelcome surprises. Dick’s looking forward to paying Hood back in kind for that trap he led them into. It took almost two days for Dick’s hearing to recover after the face full of flashbangs he took. Every time they go up against Hood, it’s like he’s a different person. It’s surreal and deeply frustrating.
Hood retreats back a pace, gliding through a patch of brighter light from a streetlight outside that’s flooding in through one of the warehouse’s high windows, and then slipping into an area of darker shadow. His helmet tilts back slightly, turning up toward the window.
“You won’t make it,” Batman growls.
“I’m not going to let you take me in,” Hood snaps.
Bold, Dick thinks. Or overconfident. But nothing Hood has done so far has suggested the man’s anything but ruthlessly pragmatic.
Bruce doesn’t say anything in return, but his low growl is clear enough. Hood twists and drops down low to avoid the accompanying batarangs Bruce hurls his way. When he slides out of the dodge, Hood resettles in a way that has Dick sitting up straighter, his instincts screaming. Hood’s stance is different now, his weight redistributing over his front leg as he rises onto the balls of his feet, and the angle of his blades shifts.
Dick swallows dryly as a new picture comes together. Assassin. Shadow. Hood is League.
If he hadn’t spent over a decade fighting beside Bruce, Dick would’ve missed the slight hesitation in Bruce’s step as he clocks the change wash over Hood.
And then Hood strikes, light on his feet, movements silent and quicksilver fast. Bruce meets his advance, gauntlets rising to parry the knives. They crash together, break apart and then clash again, picking up speed, individual movements almost too fast for Dick to track.
Dick can’t remember the last time he’s seen Bruce fight like this. He’s not holding back on any of his punches, and he’s pulling moves Dick has only seen recently on the training mats. He’s the better fighter of the pair, but Hood, god, Hood is holding his own.
Hood is moving with a grace and laser-tight focus that should take years of experience, especially when faced with the full force of the nightmare that terrorizes Gotham’s underworld. He absorbs Bruce’s hits with grim determination, rolling with the blows and harnessing the momentum to come back swinging.
Dick goes back to blindly working at the knots binding his arms, afraid to take his eyes off the pair as they dance violently around each other. He can feel Tim next to him doing the same. The tension in the air feels like it's reaching a breaking point.
Hood darts through a beam of moonlight coming through a skylight, and Dick is struck suddenly by the differences between Hood’s and Batman’s silhouettes. Hood’s tall, only a couple of inches shy of Bruce’s height, and his shoulders are broad. But once Dick looks past the jacket, it’s clear that while Hood is strong, he isn’t carrying nearly as much muscle bulk as Bruce. There’s a lankiness to Hood’s frame, like he’s still filling out, still growing into himself. Like a teenager, Dick realizes with horror, a teenager on the cusp of adulthood.
No. No. All the things Hood’s done? There’s no way Hood’s not an adult.
Bruce drives a brutal punch toward Hood’s solar plexus, and the harsh motion pulls Dick out of his shock. Hood doesn’t flinch; he just grabs onto Bruce’s gauntlet and yanks, backflipping under Bruce’s arm as the momentum pulls Bruce forward. Metal flashes in the glow of the streetlight as Hood strikes out mid-flip. He aborts the move abruptly as Bruce, already moving in anticipation, strikes his knee up directly at Hood’s helmet.
Hood lands roughly from the flip, pivoting to meet Bruce’s attack again as Batman spins and lunges for him. Dick inhales sharply in anticipation, but Hood side steps again, the blade in his offhand sweeping in to score a gouge along the suit’s chest plate. But Bruce is solidly on the offense now, pressing Hood back step by step.
Bruce connects with a solid kick to Hood’s side that should be enough to knock him off his feet, but somehow, Hood turns the impact into a twisting flip that pushes him out of reach.
And what the— that’s a move Dick knows all too familiarly.
Bruce freezes for a fraction of a second, and Dick’s stomach tightens painfully.
Hood takes the opening and lunges forward, ducking inside Bruce’s guard. A particularly nasty exchange of blows ends with Bruce’s head snapping backward. A thin spray of blood spatters across the floor as the tip of one of Hood’s blades scores a shallow line across Bruce’s cheek. Hood doesn’t pause, just launches himself into a two-footed kick, the soles of his heavy boots crashing into Bruce’s chest.
Batman stumbles back, landing hard against a stack of crates that groan under his weight and then break apart with a sharp crack of wood giving way.
Hood lands lightly in a crouch. The familiar cla-chunk of a grapple firing echos in the quiet, and his body disappears into a dark blur in the rafters above, a crash of glass following a moment later.
There’s a soft sizzling sound and a whoosh-pop of hot air as the computer mainframe bursts into flames. The fire crackles merrily in the silence.
“Oh my god,” Tim breathes into the stillness. “What just happened?”