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Nightwing swings in like a bolt of lightning, slamming knees-first into a would-be arms dealer.
The man goes down like a sack of bricks. As do the rest of them, while Nightwing throws kicks and electrified escrima in every direction.
Sitting on the rooftop afterwards, watching the arms dealers be rounded up, Nightwing can't help but think his debut is going smoothly!
His evolution from Girl Wonder: Robin, to mysterious figure of the dark, Nightwing, has been a process. He’s known he wanted to make the change for a couple years now, but putting distance between public figure Richard Grayson and Batman's partner was important enough that he put the transition off. So far, though, nobody has made the connection! Dawn approaches and it seems like the night is going to end on a positive note.
In the corner of his vision, a bright light hits the clouds.
The Bat Signal.
So much for smooth.
He taps his communicator, linking himself into the Bat's private channel. “The signal is up, who’s closest?”
“I can be there in five,” Batgirl responds.
Batman answers next; “ETA three minutes”
“Roger that!””
While waiting for Batman to reach Gordon, Nightwing breaks up a fight before it can begin. He gets all the involved parties (each heavily intoxicated) safely into their own cab towards home by the time Batman makes his report.
“Drs Quinzel and Isley have broken out of Arkham. They were last seen stealing a black car and heading south on Wilson Ave.”
“I’m just a few blocks from there,” Nightwing responds. “If they keep heading south they should pass by me any-”
As he’s scanning the streets a conspicuous black car comes barreling down the street, weaving haphazardly between other vehicles.
"Yeah, that's probably them."
“Nightwing, do not-”
“Engaging,” he says before muting his comm, and launching his grapple at the building across the street. Mid-swing, he throws two batarangs. Both hit their mark, slicing through the front tires of the getaway vehicle.
The car screeches to a halt and he lands forcefully on the hood.
Both villains duck out the driver’s side door, and make a break for it.
Nightwing takes off after them, leaping off the hood of the car and nearly tackling Ivy as she runs into an alleyway.
“Who even are you,” the woman growls as she dodges him.
“Nightwing,” he chirps, flipping out of the way of one of her rapidly growing vines. “Gotham’s newest crime-fighter!”
“Oh,” Harley squeals. “I know those flips!” The whole fight pauses as she points at him, grinning maniacally. “It’s the birdie, all grown up and in new feathers! We were wonderin’ where you got to! Bats has been so broody, we thought you got hurt or somethin.’”
“Uh,” Nightwing says eloquently, taken by surprise. “What are you talking about?”
“Your costume change!”
Oh, oh shit. “This is my only costume,” he flatly denies.
“We’re not dumb . You were Robin!”
Wow, he's already being connected to his previous identity. Better nip that in the bud. (Hah, plant puns.)
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he says, deliberately pitching his voice as deep as it will comfortably go.
“Aw please kid, just cause you got a new getup doesn’t mean we can’t recognize you!”
“Have you changed your pronouns?” Ivy asks succinctly, cutting directly to the point.
Nightwing droops. “He and him, please.” He knows these two. A little too well, at this point. He knows they’ll be on this like dogs on a bone, and if he doesn’t get in front of the rumors they’re going to spread like wildfire.
Harley bounces in place, her excitement apparently uncontainable. “Neat!”
"If you both could just, not tell people about this, that'd be great."
"We aren't going to out you, if that's what you're implying." Ivy sounds deeply offended by the implication.
Harley puts her fists on her hips, glaring at him. "Yeah, we're supervillains, not transphobes. "
“Okay,” he puts his hands up in surrender. Then, “All of,” he gestures, “ that aside, I do have to try and bring you back to Arkham.”
“Oh, boo!” Harley sticks her tongue out at him.
“Come on, kid,” Ivy groans. “Don't be a kill-joy.”
“I’m not a kid,” Nightwing protests, mildly insulted.
“You said the same thing when you were like, twelve.”