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Indiana in the autumn was a rhythmic blur of rust-colored cornstalks and crisp, biting wind. It was the kind of place where a man could disappear, which was exactly why Dick Grayson was there, and likely why the man he was tracking had chosen it as a hideout.
Dick adjusted his posture, keeping his stride chill. He wore a simple navy hoodie and ripe jeans, looking like a friendly neighbor out for a walk. And of course not, a secret vigilante tracking a leak from a Hive cell that had bypassed Blüdhaven’s borders. Well, he wasn't walking alone.
Trotting happily at his side, her three legged, blur of grey fur, of excitement, was Haley—better known to the internet as Bitewing.
"Easy, girl," Dick chuckled, feeling the tug on the leash. "I know, I know. New smells. But we’re working, remember?"
Haley responded by sniffing a discarded soda can with the intensity of a forensic scientist. Dick sighed, a small smile tugging at his lips. He’d brought her along because he couldn't bear the "puppy dog eyes" she gave him at the door, and honestly, a man walking a dog was the ultimate urban camouflage. No one suspected a guy with a one-eyed pitbull mix of being a high-level vigilante.
They were moving through a quiet residential neighborhood in Shelbyville. The houses were spaced apart, separated by tall oaks. It was peaceful. Until, Haley suddenly went rigid.
She didn't bark. She just stopped, her ears perking up, her tail vibrating.
"What is it, girl? See a squirrel?"
Dick looked ahead. Standing by a wooden telephone pole was a man. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and wearing a dark blue collared-shirt with a brown leather jacket over top. He had long, dark hair tucked behind his ears and a look of focused, quiet intensity that made Dick’s internal "vigilante" ping instantly.
The man was currently struggling with a roll of packing tape. His left hand was shoved deep into his jacket pocket, while his right hand tried to flatten a piece of paper against the pole.
As Dick got closer, he saw the paper. It wasn't a "Keep Out" sign or a political flyer. It was a photo of a very fluffy, very white cat with blue eyes.
MISSING: ALPINE. White. Friendly but shy. Please call ***-***-****.
The man looked up as Dick approached. His eyes were blue and weary. He looked like he hadn't slept in three days.
"Hey," Dick said, his voice warm and disarming. It was his 'Nightwing' persona. The friendly neighbor who everyone trusted. "Lost a friend?"
The man looked at Dick, then down at Haley. His gaze lingered on the dog for a second too long, before returning to the poster.
"Yeah," the man said. His voice was a low rasp. "She got out two nights ago."
"I'm sorry to hear that. I'm Dick, by the way. And this is Haley."
Haley wagged her tail tentatively. The man’s expression softened, just a fraction. "Bucky" he grunted.
Dick noticed the way Bucky held his left side. It wasn't an injury. The weight of the jacket hung differently on that side. Body armor? A weapon? Dick wondered.
"We’re just passing through," Dick said, gesturing to the neighborhood. "But I've got a good eye for runners. Does she hide or run?"
Bucky leaned against the pole, looking exhausted. "She hides. Usually high up. She’s smart, but she’s small. There are coyotes out here."
"We'll keep a lookout" Dick promised. "Tell you what, why don't you give me one of those? I'm headed toward the park on the north side. I can put it up on the community board there."
Bucky hesitated, then handed over a flyer. As he did, his sleeve pulled back just an inch. Dick caught a glimpse of something black and metallic, not the skin-tone synthetic he’d expected if it were a standard prosthetic, but something high-grade.
Dick didn't blink. He’d seen weirder in Gotham on a Tuesday. "Got it. We'll find her, Bucky. Cats are survivors."
"Some of them are," Bucky muttered, looking back at the empty street. "Some of them have had enough 'surviving' for a lifetime."
Two hours later, the "mission" and the "cat hunt" collided in a way only Dick Grayson’s life could manage.
Dick had tracked his lead to an abandoned grain silo on the edge of town. It was a classic villain trope, secluded, industrial, and smelling of damp concrete. He’d tied Haley’s leash to a sturdy fence post a safe distance away, giving her a chew toy and a "stay" command that she mostly obeyed.
He had just slipped into his suit. When he heard a thud.
Nightwing melted into the shadows of the rafters. Someone else was here.
Down on the floor of the silo, three men were hovering over a reinforced crate. They were Hive agents alright, wearing those ridiculous yellow-and-black tactical vests.
"The buyer is five minutes out," one of them said. "Ensure the drive is encrypted. If the Bat finds out this tech moved through Indiana, we’re all dead."
"The Bat isn't here," another sneered.
Suddenly, another silhouette dropped from the ceiling. They landed heavily, like an anvil.
It was Bucky. But he wasn't the tired guy with the cat posters anymore. He was wearing a dark tactical vest, and his left arm was fully exposed—a dark, vibranium masterpiece with a red star on the shoulder. He didn't use a gadget or gun. He just punched the first agent which sounded like it hurt like hell..
"Where is she?" Bucky growled, grabbing the second agent by the throat.
Nightwing frowned from the rafters. Wait, is he working the same case? Does he think the Hive kidnapped his cat?
"I don't know what you're talking about!" the agent gasped.
Nightwing decided it was time to intervene before the Winter Soldier accidentally turned the silo into a morgue. He flipped down, his escrima sticks snapping into his hands.
"Actually," Nightwing chirped, landing gracefully between Bucky and the third agent, "I think there’s been a bit of a misunderstanding. Though, honestly, the yellow vests are a crime in themselves."
Bucky froze. He looked at the masked man in the blue and black suit. He recognized the voice. "The guy with the dog."
"The guy with the dog has a name," Nightwing said, slapping a knife from the third agent hand and landing a roundhouse kick to the man’s chest. "It’s Nightwing. And you’re Bucky, right? Nice arm."
Bucky didn't laugh. He threw the agent he was holding into a stack of crates. "These guys moved through the woods where I lost Alpine. I saw them carrying crates. I thought..."
"You thought they'd catnapped your cat?" Nightwing finished, grinning slightly at his own joke, backflipping over a shipping container to kick a gun out of an agent's hand. "Unlikely. These guys deal in stolen data, not strays. But hey, since we’re both here, mind helping me finish the dishes?"
In less than three minutes, the agents were unconscious, and neatly piled in the center of the room.
Nightwing hummed, clicking his sticks together and magnetic-locking them to his back. "You’re good. Military? Or one of those 'super' types?"
"Both," Bucky said. He looked at the crate they were guarding. He kicked the lid off. Inside wasn't a cat, it was a series of high-density servers.
His shoulders slumped. The adrenaline died down, replaced by that same crushing weariness Dick had seen earlier. "She's not here."
Nightwing walked over, placing a hand on Bucky’s human shoulder. "Hey. We'll find her. My mission is done here. I just need to call the local authorities to pick these guys up. Then, I’m an expert tracker. Let’s go find Alpine."
They were back in the woods, the sun beginning to dip below the horizon. Dick was back in his civilian clothes. Haley leading the way.
"You know," Dick said, breaking the silence. "I've worked with a lot of 'grumpy' guys. Capes, masks, the whole bit. "
Bucky looked at Haley, who was currently burrowing her nose into a pile of leaves. "I’m not a hero, kid. I’m just a guy trying to keep a cat alive."
"Sometimes that's the most heroic thing you can do," Dick replied softly.
Suddenly, Haley stopped. She looked up and started barking like crazy.
High in an old-looking, twisty oak tree, tucked into a crook between two thick branches, was a ball of white fluff. Two blue eyes reflected the fading light, wide with terror.
"Alpine!" Bucky’s gently yelled.
The cat meowed, a tiny, pathetic sound. She was stuck. The branches were thin and slick with evening dew, and a large owl was perched about ten feet above her, watching with predatory interest.
"She’s too high," Bucky said, his hand twitching. "The branches won't hold my weight. If I try to climb, I'll shake her off."
Dick looked at the tree. It was a forty foot drop to a bed of hard roots. "I've got this."
"Wait-"
But Dick was already moving, and started climbing the tree.
He reached the branch just below Alpine. It lay heavy under his weight.
"Hey there, pretty girl," Dick whispered, keeping his voice sweet as to not startle the white fluff more, "You’ve had quite the adventure, haven't you?"
Alpine hissed, shrinking back.
"I know, I know. I’m a stranger. But I’m a friend of the guy with the metal arm. He’s really worried about you."
Dick reached into his pocket and pulled out a small packet. He’d grabbed it from a gas station, on the way. Catit Creamy Lickable Cat Treat. The universal language of feline peace offerings.
He tore it open. The scent of salmon hit the air.
Alpine’s nose twitched. The fear in her eyes stayed, but her stomach made the decision. She crept forward, one shaking paw at a time.
Below, Bucky held his breath, his hands clenched so hard his knuckles turned white.
Dick waited until the cat was inches away, licking the treat. Then, with a movement so fast it was almost invisible, he scruffed her gently and tucked her into the front of his hoodie, zipping it up so only her head poked out.
"Gotcha."
He descended the tree in a series of controlled drops, landing lightly on his feet in front of Bucky.
He unzipped the hoodie.
Bucky didn't say a word. He reached out with his right hand and took the cat. Alpine immediately buried her face in his neck, purring so loudly it sounded like a small engine.
Bucky closed his eyes, leaning his forehead against the cat's fur.
"Thanks," he whispered.
"Don't mention it," Dick said, patting Haley on the head.