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T: so ik batman & robin aren’t actually cryptids & maybe the closest thing is manbat or smth but
T: theoretically
T: could it happen???
D: What happened.
T: nothing!
T: purely hypothetical
D: You know that’s not reassuring, right?
D: I was robin too
D: I know a fake hypoth when i see one. Whats the evidence so far
T: hypothetically. glowing blue eyes, breathes smoke, vanishes into shadows, skull head
T: like i can think of 12 ways to fake it easy
D: Then what’s making you suspicious, buddy?
D: Gotta be something
T: it scared b
D: shit. Is this an ‘nw omw’ situation or can I finish this eppy
T: were in the cave now so
T: whatre u watching?
D: Kitchen nightmares :) fun to watch a guy who yells And has emotional maturity after. Not thinking of anyone specific ofc
D: Sorry, not fair to him. I just like the drama
T: gordon ramsey could fight batman and win tbf
D: Gordon ramsay wouldnt NEED to fight batman to win
T: who do u think makes better food a or gr
D: I think thats a dangerous question
D: Ok theyre accusing him of planting a dead mouse in their restaurant gtg
D: (I dont actually gtg if you need me ofc)
T: i require an explanation when u get here
T: dead mouse???? bffr
D: “I’m talking about the dead fucking mouse I found by the door” “The mouse you planted, yes.”
T: well did he??
D: Dont think so? I mean he has plenty of other reasons to. Ill xplain later he’s threatening to pull the cameras. Poor grandma lady is begging for one more chance. Shes the one good thing in this restaurant
T: tell me l8r
D: We can wat h it sometime <3
Dick may or may not be seeking out a cryptid.
As a local cryptid himself, he feels like this is a perfectly normal thing to do. Ignoring the fact that he's a fake cryptid–for all he knows, they're also faking–it makes sense for them to get to know each other!
And, of course, there's the fact that this possible-creature-maybe-human scared his baby brother.
Dick just wants to talk, honest.
Which is why he's loitering near the same spot where Timmy got thrown the other night, waiting for someone-slash-something to try the same on him (keyword being try).
There's finally some amount of consistent appearance for this individual: over six feet tall, wearing dark clothing and some sort of cloak. Probably claw-tipped gloves, baggy pants (some people were talking about digitigrade legs; Dick thinks it's a trick similar to his own cryptid persona. Cryptid-sona? Cryptsona?).
The most eye-catching part of them is, of course, the red skull. Never any specific species; probably something crafted by them to look intimidating. Vaguely ungulate-like, with no bottom jaw attached, painted with a dark red resembling blood. Smoke that blooms from the nostrils or from the human mouth underneath the skull, and bright blue, glowing eyes set deep in the sockets.
...Eyes kind of like the ones staring at him right now, actually.
Dick tilts his head to the side, Nightwing beak and helmet going with in a smooth, birdlike motion. Using his modulator, he lets out a low, questioning trill noise, ducking slightly and scanning the area around the eyes.
The figure is at the edge of the roof. Seems like just their head was poking up above the wall, and now they move to climb over the lip. Dick sees those clawed hands dig into the rooftop gravel and hook, setting into the stone like a grapple. Broad shoulders, though their outline is broken up a bit by the draping fabric over them that flares out at the end. They stay crouched once they're on the roof, their cape draped off over the edge.
Their skull is deer-like, with a crown of branching black antlers. The red paint is splotched dark and with a hint of brown, like dried blood. There's a crack in the forehead that dimly shines a pale, icy blue.
Dick watches their head tilt in a motion mirroring his, almost as smooth. Then it exhales, deep fog streaming from the nostril holes. A low, rumbling churr comes from the figure, quiet but deep enough for Dick to practically feel it.
Dick has 'grown' Nightwing's vocabulary through the years, as it has supposedly 'learned to mimic' human words and sounds. He makes use of it now, saying, "hello," the sound carefully warbled and slightly mispronounced.
Despite knowing there's a human jaw hidden under the shadow of the skull, Dick can't make out any movement when the figure opens their mouth to reply "heLlo,” the word mangled and wrong like it was fed through a woodchipper before spoken.
Nightwing lets out a low chirp in acknowledgment, bobbing its head somewhere near a nod, and tilting it again in curiosity. "What... want?" it asks, not nearly as garbled as the skull-creature.
That gets him a snort, another plume of smoke-steam rising from the nose. "BloOd," is the very concerning answer, followed by, "Territory."
"Al-ley?" Nightwing asks, following it up with a quiet rising trill, similar to how humans generally raise their pitch while asking questions.
"Mine,” comes the resounding growl. The figure shifts slightly, switching to a more active crouch than resting, with three limbs on the ground at all times. A ripple of movement flutters their cape out, giving Dick a quick glimpse of ribbing like bones in a bat wing, before the shape settles again into an indistinct shadow. "Home."
Nightwing nods, head still tilted slightly. It makes a low churring noise in acknowledgment.
Nightwing, too, has a home that it is territorial about. It can understand.
"Mine, Robin," Nightwing adds, stiff feather-spines on its back raising slightly. Not a threat, but an implication of power, of backup. "Mine." It clacks its beak sharply.
Back off.
The figure tosses their head, the low glow from the crack in the skull illuminating the antlers briefly. "Alley, mine," they say. Shadows rise behind them as the cape flares into tattered wings, the dim light of the moon illuminating rips in membrane and the uneven shape of broken bones healed wrong. "RobIn snoOps."
Okay, so either this person has some serious special effects going on, or they're (it's?) the real deal. It couldn't have known that Nightwing would pick this building to wait, so a prepared shadow beam (?? or something?) would have been hard to set up, unless it's built into the costume–
He's overthinking. Warn Robin to be careful, and stay out of the alley while building rapport. Perfectly possible.
"Chick, cur-iii-ous," Nightwing clicks, but bows its head slightly in acknowledgment of the trespass.
Another snort, with more smoke. It's chilly outside, Gotham does tend to swing to the colder side during the year–especially with all the smog cover blocking the sun–but certainly not cold enough to have breath steam that much. Maybe something hidden inside the skull?
"Pest," the figure grumbles, but Dick thinks it's without ill humor. It shifts again, cape-wings shuffling as it turns in place, seemingly deemed this conversation over and about to leave.
Nightwing lets out another low churr (goodbye), and watches it go.
Huh. A lot less threatening or hostile to him than to B, although the Bat does have a type of reputation that Nightwing doesn't, especially earned during the time immediately after... Jason.
He can't help the automatic coo of ‘lost chick, lost Jay-Robin’ at the thought. Damn it–B always says Dick gets too in character about things like this. Dick hates proving his point for him.
The figure stiffens, freezes.
‘Lost Jay-Robin?’ it repeats without turning around. Its wings are half mantled, body leaning dangerously over the edge (if it was a human, at least). The mimicry is perfect; even the added tone to indicate a question is clear.
Dick–Nightwing ducks its head. It lets out a low chirp, then shakes its wings slightly, reordering the sharp feathers. With a low, sliding note, it dismisses the question. ‘Apology, nevermind.’
It lets out a deep huff, one last plume in the air before it tips over, wings snapping out at the last moment he can glimpse before it vanishes over the edge. When Dick rushes over to peer down and out, there's nothing to see. Nothing left behind except for the faint smell of smoke.
Damn. If it's not a real cryptid, then whoever it is has serious knowledge and supplies. Either way, someone to stay on the good side of.
‘Headed back,’ Dick-Nightwing chirps into the comm, ‘Information New-Alley-Creature.’
There are whispers tonight, of a bluebird at the edge of the Alley. Not crossed over–it would have noticed if so–but perched on top of a nearby roof, feathers barely catching the light. Its people murmur amongst themselves, occasionally running fingers over walls and ta-tap-tapping. Subtle, to draw its attention to their words.
Nightwing is being polite, after all. No need to be hasty, to send the local guardian off in a frenzy.
It isn't worried about Nightwing, it finds. Nightwing isn't arrogant-superior-claiming like Batman, or nosy-flittery-annoying like Robin. Nightwing stays away, far far away, never coming close until it's long past the normal time for approach. Nightwing hides away, hides away, in Bludhaven and space and a Tower on the other side of the country.
Normally it would fly from the ground to the rooftop, but it is on the ground for a reason. That is, its wings are feeling extra broken today, and while it can fly on them, it's a hassle. So it sticks with using them as weapons in a fight and as limbs to grip extra handholds in the wall as it climbs the brick and crouches down onto the lip of the roof.
Tonight is a good night, a steady night. Bison skull and horns, for strength and endurance and I will not seek out a fight, but you will not win. A good head for a meeting with a neutral party. It announces its presence with a soft snort, only a little smoke in the exhale.
Nightwing nods in acknowledgment, and chitters a ‘hello’ in Bat-speak. It understands the language instinctively. Sometimes it's difficult to remember why it does. There are flashes of memories, of feathers and wings, of chirps and clicks, of the safety of the shadows draped around him, warm under the darkness. But those are merely glimpses, a brief hint instead of a full explanation.
‘Hello,’ it chitters back, settling on its haunches with a hand to brace. Its wings fade into more cape than limb, a weight over its back, leather and fabric instead of membrane and bone.
‘Offering,’ Nightwing tells it, pulling out a paper bag. It smells of fried food and... warmth. Things cannot smell warm, but this offering does. Odd.
Cautiously–Nightwing isn't a liar, but it knows Nightwing will be deceitful, sometimes–it creeps closer. The smell is familiar. The scent prods at memories deep in his head, trying to coax them to the surface, but it brushes those away. This is not the time to be distracted by his before.
There are fries in the bag. Even without being in grabbing distance, it knows there are fries in the bag. It likes the fries, and its people know that. Makes sense that Nightwing would too.
‘Offering good,’ it decides, crouching and stretching a limb out to try and hook claws into the paper bag and pull the food closer.
Nightwing holds the food out obligingly, staying still as it grabs and secures the bag.
‘...Offering good,’ Nightwing hums quietly. ‘Alley-creature speak Bat?’
It snorts, expressing through body language the impression of What, like it's hard?
‘Speak Bat,’ it hums in confirmation, pulling out a handful of fries and carefully eating them one by one, ‘English, many. All talk talk talk,’ it chitters, half a complaint. Remembering speech was one of its more difficult trials after it woke up.
Nightwing makes a low, impressed whistle, then falls silent for a minute.
The fries are very good. It enjoys them.
Eventually, Nightwing says, ‘Alley-creature, human name?’
It knows Nightwing isn't asking its Name, obviously, so it doesn't bother getting offended at a possible danger. Easy enough, then, to shape its tongue around the word one of its people had breathed, early on in its return.
(They found out, later, that the man had seen it walk from the burning building, children in arms, and gone still with shock at the sight of it. He described to them, in halting words, how the flames of the building had licked across its back and wings and shifted to the bright blue of its eyes and scar, dancing across its form without burning.)
"Phoenix," it says, tilting its head to regard Nightwing fully.
After a nod, Nightwing pauses. ‘...Make Bat-name? Flame-Alley? Flame-bird?’
Something incredibly desperate flashes through it at the last suggestion. Memories of a story, a pair, of night and day, creation and destruction. Classic two sides of a coin, the type of tale prevalent wherever there are people.
It wants to be a pair. It wants to have a connection, it realizes. Somewhat horrible in its intensity, how much it-he-they wants to foster something between itself and Nightwing.
Did it want this before? Before he became it?
‘Flamebird,’ it confirms, removing the slight gap between the two words. It sounds right, like it was meant to be called that.
‘Flamebird ally,’ Nightwing hums, then adds a sloping whistle of, ‘friend?’
Don't get ahead of yourself, some part of it retorts automatically, thankfully in the safety of its mind. ‘Ally,’ it confirms instead, and finally decides to settle in a proper sit. Sometimes its legs can't decide what shape they want to be, and it's easiest to just stretch them out in front until they come to a verdict.
‘Nightwing friend,’ Nightwing adds, with a laughing little click. It mantles its wings and kneels as well, getting more comfortable, and letting out a chirp that shifts into a long hum of contentment.
It huffs at Nightwing, intentionally breathing out a large plume. ‘Annoying,’ it shoots back, though with an added whistle of 'teasing.' It pulls a fry from the bag and flicks it at Nightwing's head, hitting it in the beak. Ha!
Squawking dramatically, Nightwing shakes the fry off of its talons, complaining, ‘Mean, scheming’ with the matching 'teasing' whistle.
‘Innocent,’ it hums, ruffling its cape slightly and eating another fry. Who, it? Mean? Scheming? Heavens, no. Not it. It is charitable and nice and would never do something so horrid. ‘Dodge faster,’ it adds cheekily.
Nightwing's wings ruffle and it clacks its beak, jokingly offended. ‘Dodge from friend? From friend Flamebird, expect attack? Sad. Sad time now.’
It wishes it had a beak to clack in turn and makes do with a pointed head toss and a snort. ‘Ally,’ it says firmly, throwing another fry at Nightwing. ‘Train Nightwing. Nightwing need practice. Too slow.’
Flopping over onto its side, Nightwing lets out a dramatic sigh. ‘No train. Just sad. Betrayal.’
Then, Nightwing slides a wing under the fry and flicks it back.
Never one to waste food, much less an offering, it snaps its head and eats the fry out of the air with a dull click of boring human teeth. Then it chortles, low and deep, at Nightwing's drama. ‘Trick cannot stop me,’ it croons back. ‘Ally attack-train-betrayal Nightwing. No guilt.’
Nightwing chitters back, and it responds in turn, the Bat-speak flowing naturally from its mind.
That night, it has fries. It has a new ally. It has... fun.
All good things.