Chapter Text
Hood is fast.
They’ve been searching for him for weeks now and this is the first time any of them has managed to get within a hundred feet of the crime lord. He has an irritating aptitude for avoiding Barbara’s cameras and operating under her radar.
All the reports and the small amount of footage Oracle has managed to gather so far has suggested he’s a street fighter who mostly relies on his guns and when he can’t, he hits hard and dirty.
This is - this is not that.
Hood hits look hard, but they’re also dizzyingly fast, carefully controlled, and ruthlessly efficient. Movements that are on the edge of familiar but put together into combinations she hasn’t seen before.
The feed from Nightwing’s mask camera is taking up the bulk of her center screen. She managed to redirect a security camera from two roofs over toward the pair as well, but it doesn’t have night vision, so the view of the figures moving across the rooftop is grainy and shadowed.
“Hang on, N,” Her terse voice echoes back faintly into her earpiece through the comm’s connection. “Batman is en route from the Bowery.”
An algorithm running in the background is analyzing the fight on the fly but it’s yet to offer anything useful.
So far Dicks’ been able to keep himself between the pissed off crime lord and any possible exits off the rooftop. Aside from one solid strike to his hip— ouch, he’s going to be feeling that for days—he’s been staying out of Hood’s reach, flipping in and out of range.
“I was hoping we could just—hey now, that’s uncalled for— talk,” Nightwing calls out, keeping his voice light while dodging the heel that was aimed at his teeth. “You’re a hard man to get a hold of.”
She knows from experience that Dick’s waiting for the other man to burn himself out on the attack. It’s quickly apparent that that isn't going to happen. Hood’s movements are neat and economical, minimal effort for maximum effect.
To make it even more complicated—and so very interesting the detective in her murmurs—the longer they dance around each other the more confident she feels that this isn’t even Hood going full out. Even through the helmet, it’s clear Hood is watching Dick’s movements carefully, and the man seems to be holding himself tightly in check.
“B is still five minutes out,” she prompts, voice steadier now.
“Alright then,” Dick murmurs, softly enough it’s for her ears only this time. “Guess I’ll have to engage.”
Another quick flip brings him into range and is followed by a hook kick with enough force behind it to dislocate a jaw. Or at least crack that stupid helmet.
Hood’s block is perfectly timed, almost like he expected the combination of moves, and then he sinuously shifts away to parry Nightwing’s follow up strike, moving like he’s been doing it his whole life.
Okay, so, Hood’s had training. A lot of training it seems. Just who exactly is this guy? Barbara flips through her mental rolodex, navigating briefly over to an axillary monitor to start pulling up lists of lesser known villains she’s been monitoring, before her attention is pulled back to the main screen.
Hood’s dodging another strike, twisting his momentum into a quick lunge that brings him inside Dick’s reach. Nightwing clearly expects a grapple, already moving to counter it, and totally misses the leg sweep until Hood starts to knock his feet out.
Barbara’s breath stutters in her throat for a moment, fingers still against the keyboard.
Nightwing’s springing backward the moment Hood makes contact, she can see his hands as they touch down briefly on the rooftop as the camera view swings nauseatingly through a 360 degree rotation, but it’s far too close to a near miss for her liking.
When Dicks finally stills and straightens upright, he’s three paces back, and Hood is standing perfectly still, stance loose but prepared, head cocked slightly to the side as he stares straight at Dick.
“I don’t want to talk.” The mechanized voice is flat. “And you’re not bringing me in.”
“Oh, really?” Dick smirks back, “You’re good, but I’m pretty sure I’m better.”
She expects an angry diatribe in response from Hood and is completely unprepared for the low chuckle.
“Well, you know what they say, about curiosity killing the … bird.” The soft taunt comes through even around the voice distorter. Hood’s feet are shifting, his body language broadcasting a clear dismissal as he turns partially away, angling toward the fire escape on the other side of the roof.
“Two minutes. Keep stalling.” Batman’s growl through the comm is set against a blur of background noise that signals quick movement.
“Okay, well, that sounds like fun,” Dick chirps, knowing it will reach all of his audiences, moving swiftly to intersect Hood’s path. “Let’s test your theory.”
Hood stops, stares, sighs. His head turns slightly to look back behind him, and if Barbara had to bet, he'd say he’s judging the distance to the building across the alley. One hand twitches toward his back before relaxing back down to his side.
It’s a long jump.
“There’s a bike parked in the next alley, N,” she grits out. “If he gets down to street level, we’re going to lose him again.”
There’s movement at the very periphery of Wing’s camera that Barbara knows well, he’s drawn his escrima sticks. Quiet tapping followed by a crackle of electricity means he’s turned on their stun setting.
This time when Dick speaks, his voice comes out hard. “Not this time, Hood.”
A strange quiver wiggles through Barbara’s gut.
And then Hood draws his guns.
Dick is more than well versed in dodging gunfire. It’s requisite training for any Bird or Bat, something even Barbara remembers from a lifetime ago before - well, before - lessons laid down on training mats spread out in the Cave, set against a backdrop of wings rustling gently, high above. Track the shots, watch the trajectories. Keep your center of gravity low, twist, bend, always keep moving. There’s a rhythm to it.
After more than a decade out on Gotham's streets and now Bludhaven’s, Dick is good at it. It’s as natural as breathing for him, quick, fluid and easy.
She’s never seen anything quite like this.
Hood’s moving just as quickly, and the shots are coming close together, measured in pace, each a little closer to Wing’s chest as he spins to get out of their path. She sees the purpose to it too late to call out a warning, just as Nightwing reaches the apex of his arc. Hood isn’t trying to hit Dick, he’s herding him.
There’s a blur of black-brown-red and then Hood is within range again. Dick lashes out with one of his escrima sticks, but the blow is deflected against Hood’s upper arm and the crackle of electricity disperses harmlessly against the insulating leather sleeve of his jacket.
“Fifteen seconds.” B’s growl comes through a second before another volley of shots and flurry of spinning kicks that ends with the butt of a gun slamming into Wing’s camera’s lense. The screen flickers and then goes dark.
Heart in her throat, Barbara spins to focus on the security camera footage. Fingers flying over her keyboard as she tries to enhance the livestream. The camera’s viewpoint clears just enough that she can just make out Hood’s final kick as Nightwing’s figure goes crashing over a railing, falling down two stories to the roof’s second level.
Nightwing’s shoulders hit the rooftop and he uses the momentum to roll backward before finally coming back up in a sprawl that could generously be called a crouch.
When she glances back, the rooftop above Dick is empty.
The sounds of a motorcycle roaring to life in the distance filters through the comm as a dark shape lands lightly on the now silent rooftop, stalking forward to stand over Dick’s form.
Barbara lowers her head into her hands and groans.