Chapter Text
SPENCER
06:00:00.
The deafening alarm that wakes me from peaceful sleep is nothing short of torturous in this awful, rainy weather that is a staple for Gotham City. It’s the kind of climate that makes living a little heavier some days. Especially here, where the sewers reek of rotten eggs and ammonia, flowers never bloom, and bad guys run around in broad daylight.
I sit up with a groan, rubbing sleep out of my eyes as I try to get my bearings; I had another late night last night and now I'm paying the price, as usual. I manage to trudge out of bed somehow and get going to the kitchen to put on a batch of coffee, and while it boils, I prepare my usual breakfast; simple and effective. I pour the coffee and sit on the kitchen aisle to eat. Just me and the sound of rain pellets as company.
My morning routine goes pretty smoothly, shower, get dressed, pack my lunch for the day and before leaving I tug a hoodie on. I step a foot out and then stop in my tracks to stare at the chest of drawers next to the front door and my heart clenches. Even though I know what I’m looking at, even though it’s the same picture that’s been there for 9 years. I scoff as I step outside and think back.
4 years, 4 long years of living alone. I shake my head as if that would make the reminiscing stop, but it doesn’t, it lives with me.
I usually walk to the clinic but between last night’s events and the rain, I opt for my shitty car with the shitty radio, still it has its charm, I guess. I unlock the clinic when I finally arrive, beating the Gotham morning traffic without road rage is almost a blessing.
I sit at the front desk and check today’s patients, noticing some familiar names and not-so familiar ones as excitement floods my veins.
Physical therapy is one of my joys in this dreadful life. This is a vile city, the clinic is a stark contrast of what’s going on outside, it’s where people come to get a second chance, a painless tomorrow. Plus, I get a chance to help others, which in return makes me feel better about my other…actions in life.
I kill some time by organizing patients’ history and preparing the material I need for today as the front door bell rings and I hear footsteps. “Spencer!” A high-pitched voice calls out.
When I peek from the room I’m in, I see one of my pediatric patients, a sweet girl called Ophelia who broke her clavicle by jumping off a tree and needs some rehab.
“Hey sweetheart,” I smile. “How are you today?” I get to her and smile at her caretaker before squatting to greet her properly.
This kickstarts my day and it progresses swimmingly, a steady rhythm of familiar faces, small ‘thank you’ gifts from patients that warm my heart and the thrill of what comes after dark.
The clinic lights hum as I lock up for the night. Gotham’s sky is cloudy, no sign of the moon nor a star in sight, nothing new. At home, I move on autopilot— kick off my shoes, heat the leftovers, shower. Then the blinds come down, two monitors blink to life and my world is narrowed between them, nothing but silence and code. Somewhere between the bypass and the encryption, I wasn’t Spencer anymore.
Blackwire had clocked in.
A cup of coffee sits next to my monitors as they hum in chorus, a cadence that's become my comfort every night. The information on the mafia I've been tracking for days sits on my left monitor; their comms, movements, logs, anything that I could get my hands on is now staring back at me as I analyze.
They’ve been quiet, and that is rarely a good sign, it’s like the calm before the storm, the eerie and tense silence that comes before chaos attempts to tear this city apart.
My right monitor shows me the camera I installed last night, concealed and invisible on the roof right across the gang’s front door, and tonight, I’m going to reprogram them. It’s the last missing piece of the puzzle I need to have them completely at my mercy. To plan my attack and look for the perfect opening to swoop in and end their operations.
I smirk when it doesn’t take much to achieve it. The rooftop camera blinks repetitively as I set up a loop for the feed—nothing fancy, just the most boring corner of the street— and then watch the feed stay fixated on it. Got it. Then, I get into the hacking.
‘Access granted’ blinks on the top corner of my screen, I was in. I can’t help but let a snort out at how Gotham’s shitty technology lets me reprogram them so easily.
I watch them for a while, taking notes about the entries, exits, how many men guard the door, anything crucial. After a while, I stand and walk to the kitchen to top off my coffee when a ping makes me stop mid sip. I hurry back to my chair and my eyes wander across the screens, trying to find the source.
01:29:50.
“Huh,” I murmur to myself “That’s odd”. My system pings every 30 minutes, and this one came ten seconds early. I check the logs on my left and notice a new command, one I definitely didn’t type in. I search for a glitch, anything unusual that might’ve triggered the command, but I find nothing.
Then, in big letters, ‘downloading files’ paired with a progress bar going so fast I can’t do anything to stop it.
My eyes widen in realization. Someone is downloading all the information I have on this mafia, right now. “What the fuck!” I scream, how could this happen? This has never happened! I think as I try to find the source, but they’re good, really good.
I counteract. A small trace. Local. Gotham grid.
But they notice as soon as I latch onto it and reroute it. That’s when I know. It’s not the cops, it’s not a company, it’s someone like me… a shadow. My mouth goes dry. Most people would panic. I didn’t. I did what I always do when Gotham tries to shock me—I face it.
When it’s over, fast as it came, my fingers go motionless as a message flashes across my screen ‘Thank you.’ My fingers act on instinct to send a reply, not real data, just a message folded in code. ‘Who are you?’
My breath hitches in anticipation as I wait for the answer. It comes ten seconds later, encrypted but simple, they want me to understand.
.-- .- - -.-. .... / -.-- --- ..- .-. / -... .- -.-. -.- Watch your back.
“What. The. Fuck.” I say, exhaling as I stare into the message. Whoever that was, they just found Blackwire.
And for the first time, I’m not sure what to do when I stare into my keyboard.
DICK
03:18:27.
I’m perched on a rooftop gargoyle, watching over Gotham City. I’ve already stopped 3 alleyway muggings and someone trying to rob a convenience store. Fucking typical.
It’s my turn on the weekly patrol rotation to stay out until five, even though the others are probably not sleeping anyway. I sigh thinking about it, not that I sleep much anyway these days. I chase the thoughts away by dragging my hands down my face.
Donning the Nightwing suit is arguably the best part of my day, there’s no denying my love for it. The thrill, the chase, the hunting, it’s all I've ever known, but it takes an emotional toll sometimes.
A voice interrupts my thoughts before they get heavier. “Nightwing, status?” Oracle’s voice crackles through my earpiece.
I hit the mini controller in my utility belt to activate my side. “Hey Oracle,” I say before reporting all that has happened tonight, “Just another normal Thursday night.” I laugh and shrug even though she can’t see me.
“Well, that sounded like fun, any injuries?”
“Nope, I’m feeling great.” I say while standing up to stretch.
I’m lying, I think I have 2 cracked ribs from getting hit with a crowbar and a small sprain from landing funny on my ankle. But I’m not bleeding out, so it’s a win and not a reason to worry anyone.
Her voice comes back after a few seconds, a little lighter than before. “Well, a few more hours to go!” She’s one of my oldest friends so I know her comment comes with a little sarcasm laced into it.
“Yep,” I sigh. “Let me know if anything changes on your end.”
Her serious voice is back. “Yes, Oracle out.” It’s the last thing I hear before static comes through and signals the end of it.
I swing between rooftops, feeling bored and a little antsy. It’s October now and rain is falling more consistently than normal, but what worries me is the weird calm on the streets tonight. Especially with Halloween right around the corner, I don’t like it at all.
Halloween is the worst day in Gotham, by far. It’s basically hell on Earth, and that’s putting it lightly; so the silence should be nice, but not tonight. My trained instincts tell me to thread lightly, like I might trip a live trap any second.
I continued my route until the clock hit 5, thankfully I didn’t have to intervene in any other crimes, just patrolling. I turn my comm on to the bat’s frequency.
“On my way to the manor, does anyone want anything to eat?” I ask anyone who might be listening. “I’m swinging by Pamela’s.”
Even though I'm dead on my feet, I know some of them probably didn’t go down to eat what Alfred made for dinner.
“Can you get me two pancakes and some coffee?” I recognized Tim’s tired voice immediately.
“Is this a late-night or early-morning situation Timmy?” I frown lightly, knowing it's the former.
“Um, early morning, a hundred percent.” He answers with an uneven voice. He knows I know.
I groan into the line, and murmur a terse “Fine” as I continue my path for Gotham’s best diner. I drop down, head to the back door and knock 3 times, in only a way the owner will know it’s one of us.
A short, older lady, Sophia, opens the door a little to take a peek and only when she notices it’s me, opens wider. “Long night, Nightwing?” she asks in a sweet, maternal tone.
“You know it Soph.” I sigh. I stumbled into ‘Pamela’s diner’ once while heavily injured and starting that night, we Bats found a friend in Sophia.
“Could I get five pancakes and a black coffee?” I give her my best Dick Grayson smile.
She happily agrees and tells me to wait a few minutes, I wait at the back alley while she gets them done. I hug her and give her our thanks as I climb up the fire escape.
When I reach the manor, Tim’s door is closed so I leave three pancakes and his coffee outside his door and knock once so he knows they’re there. I go into my room, take a quick shower and don’t have any stray thoughts as I fall asleep. The endless rain, a distraction.