Archive of Our Own

"Another day, another invasion," Tim sighs, squinting out the large glass wall of the Watchtower at the armada of alien ships. Dick offers him a wry smile in acknowledgment of the comment, and then goes back to watching as well.

Tim's not wrong, they certainly do get hostile visitors quite a lot. But it's rarely so...big, such a gigantic mass hovering just past the Earth's moon. There are about five-hundred ships out there, and Mr. Terrific estimates at least five-thousand individuals on each ship which is a lot of soldiers if this comes to battle, which it usually does. It's certainly a concerning situation.

"I still think this is a bad idea," Dick says, because he has to voice it at least one more time, not that he thinks Clark will actually listen to him. Superman has made up his mind and gotten the right people on his side, and that means they'll be going ahead with this plan.

Bruce has agreed to do it, but Dick can tell that the man isn't overly pleased by the course of action, either.

"And I hear you," Clark says earnestly. "But we have to at least try, don't we? We can't live our lives expecting the worst out of everyone in the galaxy."

Dick and Tim exchange a glance. They both see the way Bruce's mouth tightens slightly. None of them argue the point.

Diana, Donna, and Roy come striding in then, each of their expressions equally grim. Roy sends a tired smile Dick's way, which Dick returns, turning towards his friends. His eyes flick past them though, frowning; wasn't Damian supposed to—?

As if sensing his big brother's concerns, Damian appears very suddenly from behind the three older heroes, chin raised proudly, looking completely unconcerned by all the goings-on. Only because Dick knows him so well does he see the tightness in the boy's jaw, the overcompensation in his unbothered air.

"Status?" Clark asks, looking to Diana.

"The javelin is ready for departure," she says grimly. She glances out the Watchtower window, towards the large armada, and then back to Clark. "We are set to leave."

Damian makes his way over to where Dick and Tim are standing, and when he reaches them Dick pulls him against him, back to chest, and puts his arms around the boy's shoulders. Damian twists, growling in annoyance, but settles far more quickly than Dick's sure his brother would like to admit.

"How's it lookin' down there?" Tim asks, glancing at the younger boy.

Damian purses his lips, and then tightly says, "Wonder Woman is an adequate leader; the others are performing their jobs to full capacity."

Dick and Tim exchange another look. From Damian, that's singing praise.

"Time to go," Clark announces, and a few of the others nod, heading towards the elevators. Bruce goes to his kids first.

"Are you sure about this?" Dick asks, eyes sliding to the army just past their moon before back to his father. "Strategically, this is a bad move, I have to say."

Bruce hums, nodding, head tilted out the glass window. "I don't like the number of variables," he agrees. "But Superman, Wonder Woman, and Flash have made good points about the danger of preemptive strikes, and were quite adamant about first attempting to communicate."

"That doesn't mean it's a good plan," Tim grumbles, and Bruce doesn't say anything in reply, but that is in and of itself an answer.

"Any word from Red Hood?" Bruce asks, voice very specifically controlled, and Dick grimaces, shaking his head.

"No," he says softly. "Never got a response when we sent out the message. But he's been working on something under cover for a while, it's highly likely he hasn't seen any of our attempts at communication."

None of them are happy about that fact, not knowing where one of their own—their brother—is. Hell, even knowing where the others are hasn't alleviated much of Dick's stress about his family's well-being down on Earth (AKA not in his line of sight), but he still really wishes someone could locate Jason. He's definitely fine—it's not like the aliens have invaded—but in times of crisis...

"I'll see you all soon," Bruce says, nodding sharply, and probably thinks the way he lingers is subtle.

"Stay safe, B," Tim says, smiling a little.

"Do not allow the others to talk you into anything else foolish," Damian says stiffly, staring out the window and decidedly not at Bruce.

Bruce's expression doesn't shift, but still something about him seems to communicate a smile. "Of course, Robin."

And then Bruce is gone, off to join a group of Leaguers who plan to attempt to make contact with the lead ship of the alien armada. Off to go out into space in a small ship, just trusting that everything would be okay.

Well, no, Clark is the one trusting they'll be okay, that they'll be heard out and allowed to leave in peace. Bruce is accepting that this is something he's been outvoted on, and is going along to bring up the odds of any negotiations going well. He is the League's chief strategist, after all.

So Dick and his siblings and the rest of them have to just watch and wait and hope that their loved ones are going to be just fine. And they have to let it happen, because they're heroes and throw themselves into danger all the time for the simple reason that it's the right thing to do.

Roy comes over after what seemed to be an awkward conversation with Oliver, his brow furrowed and only smoothing out once he reaches them all.

"Well this is fun," he says brightly, smirking when Dick rolls his eyes.

"How's Lian?" Dick asks.

"She's fine," Roy says, smirk twisting to a grimace. "Jade's actually watching over Star while all this shit is going down—seems an alien invasion is good enough to get her to turn good for a day—so she's taking care of Lian since we're up here being pretty much entirely useless."

Tim huffs. "Yeah, I feel the same way. Nothing to do but sit here and wait. Christ, I hate this."

"We are men of action," Damian snarls, finally pulling himself out of Dick's grasp, glaring out the window. The javelin is far enough out of the Watchtower hanger that they can see it now, heading towards the armada. "We were not made to sit idly by and wait for news of war."

None of them disagree, and silence falls over the room, all of their gazes locked on the javelin as it gets further and further away.

It stops in front of the lead ship and pauses, hovering there.

And then it explodes.

Dick jolts, jerking forward towards the glass, eyes going wide. The breath freezes in his lungs, everything around him taking a single moment to slow down to a snail's pace, sound fading away to a roaring in his ears.

And then everything suddenly comes rushing back in, the shouting of his friends and family, the broken pieces of the javelin flying apart, and the alien ships speeding towards them and the Earth behind them.

Bruce and the others are dead, blown up. His father is dead, the man who raised him for eighteen years, who taught him how to fight and lead, who held him after his nightmares and laughed at his stupid puns. His father is dead, and so are the others. And they're about to be next.

Dick shuts off the grief and the pain and does what he has to for the ones still living.

"Head for the zetatubes!" He shouts. Tim, who had still been frozen staring out into space, snaps out of it and gives him a sharp nod, turning on his heels. Damian is too slow, barely dragging his gaze away from the destruction, so Dick grabs a tight hold of his hood and yanks, forcing him to fall into step beside him. Dick hates the way he sees Damian's expression shutter and then set, but if Damian locking his emotions away means he survives, then Dick can handle that fallout when it comes.

They make their way out of the atrium and through the halls, all of them sprinting. An alarm goes off, a loud bang and sucking noise, and then the doors to the zetatube chamber slam shut as a preventative measure, blocking the vacuum from reaching them.

"We're breached," Tim breathes, eyes wide.

"Hanger!" Dick barks, and they redirect. The alarm pulses in all their ears as they head one of the last two remaining avenues of escape from the Watchtower. The zetas were closest, and fastest; then there's the hanger, with all of their various ships, which many of them are skilled at piloting; and then last, there are the escape pods—farthest away, smaller, slightly harder to control, especially considering the giant very hostile fleet heading their way.

A separate alarm goes off, a few high-pitched beeps, and Dick curses, pulling his escrima sticks into his hands while he runs. He sees Roy grab his bow, and Damian draw his katana, and Victor activate his hand-cannon, all of them readying for the possibility of a coming fight.

Because that alarm means intruders.

The creatures are on them soon enough, screeching as they attack, their scaly bodies twisting and jerking in a snake-like fashion, different from how steady and solid their aim is with the large guns in their hands.

Dick and the others move on instinct, dodging and swerving and attacking. They begin down a separate hallway, and Dick tries to plot a new path in his head, the best way to reach the hanger in the quickest fashion, and the least likely to have them encounter their intruders.

They're going to have to split up.

"Roy, shaft in the left wing!" he shouts.

His friend looks over at him, eyes widening, and then his jaw sets and he nods sharply. "I'll see you soon, Robbie," he says, and there's a threat in his voice, that Dick'll have another thing coming if he tries to back out of it.

Dick can't stop himself from cracking a smile, and he nods. He splits the group in half in his mind, and then gestures at one side. "You all, follow Arsenal!"

Some of them look like they want to argue the split, but they hold their tongues, recognizing that there's no time for fighting amongst themselves, not when these creatures are all too happy to fight them anyway.

With Roy and that half of the group heading for one shortcut to the hanger—a short cut he, Roy, and Wally located back when they were young and exploring the Watchtower for the first time—Dick leads the rest to another. Their route loops around a bit more, but it goes through an area that is as of now clear.

Another alarm, and the hallway crashes in only three-hundred feet in front of them. Dick pulls up short, quickly spinning and heading down a different hall, trying to reanalyze and find a way to course correct.

They manage to get ahead of the creatures. Dick can still hear them, screeching and clawing, but for the moment they're not in any immediate danger, safe as they can be as they try to make their way to their escape.

When they reach Elevator Bank 3, Dick skids to a stop. Someone behind him almost slams into him, but he ignores it, mind running.

"Wing, we don't have time for an elevator ride!" Donna hisses, but Dick shakes his head, because that's not what he was thinking.

"Help me pry this open," he orders, darting forward, and his friend moves with him without questioning, enough years of trust between them that she gets the doors open with him before looking for an explanation.

Dick glances up the empty elevator shaft, seeing the box all the way at the top, and smiles. "Okay, we're going down this way to the hanger."

Tim smiles back at him, a little high on the adrenaline of it all rushing through him. Dick can sympathize. "Well, that's definitely fast."

"Troia, you first, take Red Robin down with you," he says, and Donna narrows her eyes at him, displeased. She knows why he's chosen her to start the group in going down; because he plans to go last, and if the creatures get to them before everyone can go down, then the ones that make it will need someone to get them the rest of the way.

She doesn't argue, though, simply clasps a hand over Dick's shoulder for a brief squeeze, then flies into the empty shaft.

Tim, however, does attempt to argue. "Nightwing—"

"Go," Dick snarls, and his little brother freezes. Then Tim straightens, clenching his jaw, and nods sharply. He leaps into the elevator shaft, hand stretched upward, and Donna clasps her hand with his effortlessly. They hang there for a moment, and then Donna lowers herself quickly, the pair of them vanishing from view.

"Robin!" Dick barks next. "Your turn. Grapple gun."

Damian says nothing, so Dick turns to look at him, only to find his little brother glaring at him, feet planted firmly, hands balled into fists.

"I will not leave you," he sneers, "so do not even attempt to get rid of me."

Dick's heart clenches. No, Damian needs to be safe. He needs to go now.

"This isn't a debate," Dick says coldly. "I gave you an order. Go."

Damian snaps to attention, but he doesn't move. "No."

A frustrated noise makes its way out of Dick's throat, and he turns to the rest of their group. "Canary?"

Dinah nods at him grimly, stepping forward. She pulls a clip from her belt, attaches it to the elevator cable, and jumps, sliding out of view.

Now Dick whirls back to face his little brother, snapping, "Okay, it is your turn. You need to go!"

"The only thing I need to do is be right here!" Damian shouts, not backing down.

Dick feels like tearing his hair out. "What the hell does that mean? You need to—"

"Robin's place is at Batman's side," Damian snarls. Dick freezes, eyes wide. Damian...

Without hesitation, Dick strikes out. Damian doesn't expect it, not even close, and so can't avoid the sedative Dick administers. The young boy sways and goes limp, Dick catching him before he could fall.

"Nightwing, what are you—?" Vixen begins to ask, startled, but doesn't finish the question, just watching. Dick removes Damian's grapple gun and connects the line to his utility belt instead, then connects the other end to the wall.

"You'll forgive me one day, little D," he whispers, and then hits the release button, lowering Damian quickly down the elevator shaft. The others will grab him, and he'll be safe.

Damian was never going to leave him, just like Dick never would've left him. This was necessary. He wishes it wasn't, but it was.

"Okay," he says tightly, gesturing to Vixen, "you're up."

She doesn't argue. Neither do the next three.

When it's just him and Ronnie left, the creatures arrive.

They fight well.

They fail anyway.

The last thought that goes through Dick's mind as he chokes on his own blood is that at least he bought Damian and Tim and the others some time.

There's blackness, then brightness, then pain, then perfect serenity.

Then he wakes up.

It takes him a moment to understand where he is, when awareness comes back to him.

It's dark, the filtered kind of light that comes from the curtains over his bedroom window. Dick recognizes it immediately. But still he doesn't...understand where he is. It feels like this isn't where he is, like the pillow under his head isn't his, the comforter isn't there, the clock on his bedside table is lying about the time.

But none of that makes any sense. That...doesn't make any sense.

The longer he lies there, the more settled he feels. There's something awful at the corners of his mind, something foreboding that makes anxiety tight in his chest, but it fades to the back of his head like a bad dream. He's fine. He's in his apartment, in bed, with still more time to relax before he has to get ready for the day.

By the time he drags himself out of bed and gets into the shower half an hour later, he feels far more solid and settled, relieved to push whatever his nightmare was away.

He's making breakfast when he hears his communicator beep. He frowns, glancing at the hot pan, and decides the bacon can survive unattended for a moment while he dashes into the bedroom.

Dick snatches the device off the floor where it must've fallen in the night and heads back for the kitchen, clicking to accept the call from whoever it is.

"Yello, Nightwing here," he greets, tucking it between his shoulders and ear as he pokes at the bacon with a spatula. The grease snaps and him and he yelps, very glad no one was around to see that.

That feels familiar, like he's done it recently. Weird; he only bought this bacon yesterday.

"We need you at the Watchtower," Bruce's voice comes out firmly.

Dick frowns, turning off the burner and putting a lid over the pan to control some of the continuing sizzle. "Did something happen?"

"We have an encroaching unfamiliar alien presence," Bruce tells him, and Dick jogs back into his bedroom, heading for the secret panel where he keeps his suit. "Multiple ships, currently approaching Earth."

"On my way," Dick says, and the line goes dead with a final grunt from his father.

Wow, another alien invasion. Didn't they have one like, yesterday?

Dick pauses, halfway into his suit. No, it's been a little while. It wasn't...yesterday. Two months ago, maybe, and it was such a small thing. Why does Dick's throat suddenly feel tight? Why is there a lead ball settling in his stomach?

Shaking it off, Dick finishes getting dressed and makes his way to his nightcycle, then towards the Bludhaven zetatube.

When he reaches the Watchtower and then the meeting hall, it's to find the present heroes deep in argument, some of them shouting across the large conference table at each other.

If this feels strangely familiar, Dick reminds himself, it's because the League argues about what to do quite often.

Shaking off the feeling, Dick steps up to the table and joins the conversations.

It's not until Bruce and the others are heading towards the hanger to board the javelin that the sense of foreboding and deja vu inside of Dick really rears its head with never-ending persistence. He frowns towards the door Bruce just exited, keeping himself from calling out for his dad to come back. Sure, the situation is tense, but that doesn't call for the overwhelming feeling inside of Dick that something's about to go wrong.

Something is going to go wrong.

"Wing?"

Dick looks over, finding Tim watching him with a worried furrow between his eyes.

"I..."

There's an explosion. They all whirl around, watching the javelin blow up, and Dick thinks, Oh.

The zetatubes are a bust. It felt so wrong to lead them there, but it was the logical choice. So is going for the hanger, and splitting up to get there, but he knows this is wrong.

As he's dying, choking on his own blood by an open elevator shaft, it all comes back to him.

This time, when he closes his eyes and dies, he prays to whatever being is listening that this time, he remembers everything from the beginning.

There's blackness, then brightness, then pain, then perfect serenity.

Then he wakes up.

It's like the first breath of air after being submerged in water for far too long.

Dick bolts upright in bed, gasping, eyes darting around for the threat.

But there's no one and nothing in his bedroom. When he listens carefully, he can tell there's no one else in his apartment, either.

It was just a dream. And it all feels so...distant now.

Something very bad happened, out in space. There was some sort of...explosion. A blaring alarm. Panic. Screaming, something scaly attacking, Damian's limp body—

Dick shivers and gets to his feet. It feels so cold in his room for some reason, and he goes to the bathroom, turning on the shower as hot as it will go, hoping it'll help him clear his head enough to put the fragmented dream behind him.

It was so...lifelike.

By the time Dick is flushed red and humming pop songs, he's mostly pushed the uneasy feeling behind him. He gets dressed and heads into the kitchen, rummaging around for some breakfast makings. He used the bacon yesterday so there shouldn't be—

There's a packet of new bacon in his fridge.

Dick frowns at it for a long moment, and then gets angry at himself; why is he confused? He didn't use the bacon yesterday, he bought the bacon yesterday. He hasn't...he hasn't cooked it yet.

He moves slowly, his mind lagging strangely, but he starts getting food prepared nonetheless. After a little while he hears his communicator go off from the bedroom and he glances at the bacon, determining that it can survive unattended for a few moments.

"Yello, Nightwing here," he greets after he's grabbed the device, heading back into the kitchen. He raises his spatula to poke at the bacon and pauses, frowning down at the pan. Should he do that? The sizzling grease might have a reaction.

He's distracted from his oddly uneasy musings by Bruce's voice coming through his communicator. "We need you at the Watchtower."

Dick turns off the burner and puts a lid over the pan, then jogs into his bedroom. "Did something happen?"

"We have an encroaching unfamiliar alien presence," Bruce tells him, and Dick freezes for a moment, twisting scales and inhuman screeching filling his mind. "Multiple ships, currently approaching Earth."

"On my way," Dick says firmly, feeling like he's echoing old words, and pulls on his Nightwing suit before heading for his bike and to the zeta.

Clark wants to make contact with them, in person. There have been attempts made to reach out electronically, to no success so far. He wants to try peace before jumping to war. He doesn't seem to understand that there's a lot of middle ground here, between a preemptive strike and going out in a small ship to hope they're open to talking.

He gets people to agree with it anyway.

Dick is the most vocal against the plan. He doesn't know why, but he knows he has to fight this. He knows this is the wrong choice.

"We're going to be fine," Bruce tells him right before they leave, and Dick must really look out of sorts about this because Bruce actually puts his hand on his shoulder, squeezing reassuringly. Dick wants to grab his hand and tell him not to go, but he makes himself stay still, refusing to act like a child who doesn't want their father to leave for work in the morning.

The ship explodes, and Dick feels like he's grieved this moment a thousand times.

"Head for the hanger!" Dick shouts, taking command like Bruce taught him. Tim jolts, looking to him with wide eyes, and starts moving. Dick reaches out without even looking to grab Damian's hood and yank him along with them.

"The zetatubes are closer," Tim says urgently as they run.

"They'll attack those first," Dick replies, his voice faint, and he knows it's true. "Let's head straight for the hanger, escape them before they reach that far into the Watchtower."

No one argues the point, trusting his judgment.

They're almost there—Dick can see the large hanger doors, just a few hundred feet ahead of them, when the creatures reach them, and the fight begins.

One of Victor's cannon blasts goes wide, hitting the panel by the hanger door. Another alarm blares, and Dick has only a single moment of panic to look at his two little brothers before the airlock opens and then they're simply no more.

There's blackness, then brightness, then pain, then perfect serenity.

Then he wakes up.

This time, it's too fresh, too real, for Dick to ignore it.

He holds onto the half-remembered dream, trying his best to remember as many details as he can, leaning into the uneasy feeling instead of away from it.

And he sees it, right there in his mind, clouded over but still present. The memories—because they are memories, Dick sees that now—don't want to be viewed, trying to fade into the background. And Dick wants to let them, this terror rattling around in his head, warning him against looking, but he has to know.

The alien armada. Clark's plan. The javelin getting blown up. The scaly creatures breaching the Watchtower. Them all dying, again and again and again.

Dick pulls on his Nightwing suit and calls Bruce.

"Nightwing, I was just about to—"

"I know," Dick interrupts. "We've got an alien invasion on our hands. And I—"

The words choke in his throat. He gapes like a fish, trying to speak, trying to tell Bruce what he knows and what's going on with him, but the words won't come out, frozen in his brain and unable to reach his tongue.

"Nightwing?" Bruce says sharply.

Dick tries again. "B, about the invasion. I've—" lived it already, three times. But again, the words refuse to come out.

Someone's done this to him, he realizes. Someone's done this to him, made him go back again and again, and then made him unable to tell anyone about it. But why? For what purpose? How does this serve them, and what does it have to do with Dick?

"Nevermind, we can talk at the Watchtower," Dick says quickly, thoughts racing. "See you soon." He hangs up.

The question is, who is capable of this kind of thing. Dick can think of quite a few names, magic users who could pull something like this, but none of them really have anything to do with alien-human relationships. What's their stake in this? How did they even know what was going to happen, and keep giving Dick the opportunity to change the outcome? And if they have this kind of juice, to easily send someone back in time multiple times, why not just get rid of the invasion themselves?

He needs to consult a magic-user, get their take on this. Zatanna is helping out with victims of a flood in Florida, so he doesn't want to bother her; he has no idea where Doctor Fate is; Jason Blood has been kind of MIA for a while now; Constantine, though. Dick can find Constantine.

There's a knock on his door. Dick blinks, and glances down at himself, fully dressed in his Nightwing regalia. He pulls off his mask and throws on a big robe over his costume, a pinch solution until he knows who it is.

Looking through the peephole, Dick is drawn up short by the sight of Tim standing outside his door, dressed completely as Red Robin and standing there casually. Dick throws the door open and yanks him inside, looking quickly up and down the hallway.

"What the hell, Tim?" Dick asks incredulously. "You realize we're supposed to have secret identities? What if you'd been seen!"

Tim gives him a look.

Dick frowns. "What are you even doing here, Timmy?" This hasn't happened the last three times.

"I was about to zeta to the Watchtower when Bruce told me you were acting strangely, so I came to Bludhaven instead. What's going on, Dick?"

With a grimace, Dick shakes his head. He knows this isn't going to work, but he tries anyway, opening his mouth. "Someone has—"

Again, his throat closes against the explanation, against the ability to explain. It's terribly frustrating, and he shakes his head again, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I can't tell you."

Tim frowns. "Why not?"

"No," Dick sighs. "I mean I literally can't tell you." Huh, so he can make allusions to what's going on. Interesting.

His little brother's frown turns into something thoughtful, analyzing the situation. "Did you try to tell B, and that's why he thought you were acting strangely?" Dick nods. Tim hums. "Do you know anything about this...blockage?"

Dick opens his mouth, and nothing comes out. He rethinks his approach, trying, "Zatanna would be great right now." His brother's smart enough to know what he's saying.

"Magic," Tim easily realizes. "Got it. Theory, or are you sure?"

Dick considers his words and says, "Or maybe Bruce would be helpful."

"Theory," Tim accepts with a dip of his chin. "Alright. But you're leaning towards magic, which I have to agree about. You're right that Zatanna would be great, but last I checked she's helping in Florida, so—"

"Any chance you know where Constantine is?" Dick asks. "I know I can track him down, but if we could skip that step...?"

"Gotham, actually," Tim says with a wry smile. "He showed up a few days ago for some sort of vampire case, and has been irritating Bruce with his presence ever since."

"Excellent," Dick breathes. "Let's go, then."

They find him in a random bar in the middle of Crime Ally, drinking his companions under the table. Dick and Tim have changed into their civilian clothes and approach, Dick sliding on the free barstool next to the elder man.

Constantine turns to look at him, and he smiles a tad drunkenly, but his eyes are still sharp. "Hello there, love." Then he squints, looking closer, and whistles. "Well now, that's quite a working you've got wrapped around that pretty head of yours."

Dick's heart leaps. "So you know what's wrong with me? Can you fix it? And quickly?"

Constantine glances past Dick towards Tim and then back again. "You're the big man's boys, aren't'cha? I thought you looked familiar, though not in all these layers. I liked the spandex better."

"Can you help or not?" Tim asks flatly.

Constantine dips his head. "I can. Let me finish my drink and we can be out of here." He picks up the beer glass in front of him and chugs the remaining liquid, then gets up, striding towards the door.

Dick and Tim exchange a look, and then follow.

"Is this really necessary?" Dick grumbles, shrugging out of his shirt and laying back on the table. Constantine offers him a smirk.

"I wouldn't say necessary, exactly," he says, and Dick frowns at him. "But it does aid in the magic, so just relax and lie back. We'll have this thing worked out in a jiffy."

Constantine puts his left palm on Dick's forehead and his right over Dick's heart.

"Are you sure this is safe?" Tim asks doubtfully, for the second or third time.

Constantine doesn't seem bothered by the repeated question, settling his stance beside Dick and saying, "Safe as life."

The elder man begins murmuring then, a mixture of what sounds like Latin and Greek, but Dick closes his eyes, tuning it all out. Constantine told him that there would be a little bit of pain and a tugging sensation, and so Dick waits, doing his breathing techniques over and over again.

When it comes, it starts with a tingle in his fingers and toes. The tingle spreads, making his limbs feel like pins and needles, like when a body part falls asleep and stings while it comes back online. The feeling gets worse and worse, and Dick breathes through it, hearing Constantine's voice rising in volume.

Suddenly there's an enormous amount of pressure, like Dick's being squeezed through a small tube. He struggles to breathe, forcing himself to not panic, and then just as suddenly as it began, it stops.

Dick feels dizzy, lightheaded, and allows himself to drift for a moment. His body's shaking a little, but he can barely feel it.

"Dick? Are you alright?"

He opens his eyes, blinking up, and two faces swim into view.

"Timmy," Dick murmurs, staring at his brother like it's the first time he's ever seen him. Tim's really growing up; just had his twentieth birthday, still basically running Wayne Enterprises—they don't hang out as much as they used to. Dick has to fix that.

Tim smiles slightly. "Welcome back. You've been out a while."

Dick blinks heavily. "I have?"

"How are you feeling, Dickie?"

Dick's gaze drifts over to the other face, recognizing Constantine. "Wha' happened?"

"Someone nasty put you in what looks to be a loop. Really tough working, kept your mouth shut about it all too." Constantine glances away, squinting, and then back to the man lying on the table. "Any clue who'd want to mess with you this badly?"

Still feeling pretty out of it, Dick shakes his head. Tim asks, "Can you find out?"

Constantine cocks an eyebrow. "I can track the source, if you like. The magic was strong enough for it. But it's not gonna be pleasant for you, Dickie."

Dick's head lolls, and he shrugs a shoulder. "I'd like to not watch my family die again."

Tim looks stricken, Constantine's expression turns grim, and they both nod. "Alright."

The chanting begins again, Constantine's hands returning to their places over Dick's head and heart. Pain like a dull throb starts to rise from those two spots, and Dick breathes and breathes as it spreads, getting hotter and hotter and burning—

Dick closes his eyes, and when he opens them again, he's no longer lying on the table with Constantine and Tim on either side of him. The ground isn't beneath him, and the sky isn't above him. There's just...nothingness, but he still feels surrounded.

"Hello?" he calls hesitantly, and there's a flash of light in front of him. When the light fades, there's a young boy sitting cross-legged in the air in front of him, no more than seven. He's smiling brightly, showing off his missing front teeth, and is currently wearing dinosaur pajamas.

Dick blinks.

"Hi!" the boy chirps. "I'm Ollie."

"Hi, Ollie," he says cautiously, glancing around. "What are you doing here?"

The boy—Ollie—shrugs carelessly. "Dunno! I was getting ready for naptime and then I got pulled here." He cocks his head. "Did you want to play?"

"Ollie, I'm here because something very bad happened," Dick says gently. "A lot of people have gotten—well, a lot of people are going to get hurt, very soon. Do you know anything about that?"

The boy's face scrunches up in concentration, and then his eyes light up and he nods quickly, getting to his feet. "You mean the men in the sky? In the metal thingy?"

The Watchtower. "Yes," Dick agrees, nodding back. "The men in the sky got attacked. I got hurt. And then I woke up at home, and relived the day a few times. Do you know why that is?"

Ollie's face breaks into a blinding grin, and he bounces on the balls of his feet in excitement. "You're Nightwing! Oh, it's so nice to meet you!"

Suddenly, the space around them blurs, and when it settles, Dick is wearing his Nightwing suit.

"I am," Dick agrees cautiously, his hands flexing in his gloves. "What does that have to do with being sent back in time?"

Ollie frowns at him, affronted, like he doesn't understand why Dick isn't getting this. "You're Nightwing!"

"Right," Dick agrees again. "I am. Have we met before?"

The boy shakes his head. "Nope! You saved my mama once, though, and she said you were awesome. An' my dad got me a Nightwing plushie that's super soft an' I like to carry it around with me. My friend Tommy and I like to play superheroes, 'cause he has this cool Black Bat plushie which is a Gotham hero, I told him, said he should support Nightwing as our Bludhaven hero, but he still thinks—"

"Ollie," Dick interrupts, as gently as he can. He thinks it all through. "So you're a fan, huh? Is that why you chose me?"

"Well, yeah," Ollie says, blinking at him. "The metal thingy was exploding. They needed help."

"How did you know it was happening?"

Ollie shrugs carelessly. "I know things sometimes. I know a lot of things. So much of it never makes sense, but the bad things are easy. There are so many bad things."

"So you kept sending me back to try to save everyone on the metal thingy," Dick says softly. Christ, who is this little boy? So much power, so much will to do good—how have none of them ever noticed such a powerful being right under their noses?

"You're Nightwing," Ollie says, as if that's all the explanation that's needed.

Dick smiles at the boy, and then kneels in front of him. "Ollie, it's a really great thing what you've done, giving me the opportunity to help all my friends. You're very brave, and very powerful." Ollie beams at him. "I have to ask; is it possible for you to get rid of the aliens who are threatening us? Instead of sending me back again and again, can you get rid of the problem?"

Ollie frowns at him. "That's what heroes are supposed to do. I'm not a hero, you are."

"You seem pretty heroic to me," Dick says honestly. Ollie's expression morphs back into joy.

"You mean it?"

"Of course!" Dick exclaims. "You're a hero, Ollie. So do you think you can do this?"

The boy smiles at him and closes his eyes. And everything goes white.

Dick comes to on the table with Constantine hovering over him, brow furrowed. "Alright?"

It takes a moment for Dick to feel settled, and then he nods, sitting up. He glances around and sees Tim a few feet away, pacing slowly as he talks to someone on his communicator. When Tim sees Dick upright, he smiles at him, relieved and warm. He says goodbye to whoever he's talking to and comes back over.

"Hey, how are you feeling?"

Dick considers the question for a moment. He aches a little, just a low-level throb throughout his body, but it's barely worth noting. His exhaustion is more noticeable, like he's just run a marathon or five. God, he wants to sleep for a week.

"I'm okay," he says, and murmurs a quiet thanks when his brother hands him his shirt. "What...how long was I out?"

"About half an hour," Tim replies, and his smile turns a little strained. "It was...freaky. You kinda, uh, floated in the air for a while, like hovering above the table." He shakes his head like he's shaking off the image, and continues. "Anyway, that was Bruce. Seems the gigantic armada of alien ships by the moon kinda just...vanished. Know anything about that?"

A little boy's face flashes into Dick's mind, the conversation he just had with someone with so much power, and so very young.

"I might," Dick agrees. "And tomorrow, we'll have someone we need to track down. But for now..." He pushes himself to his feet with a grunt. "Let's go home."