BANG. BANG. BANG.
The heavy thuds on his door jolted Dick from a dreamless sleep, the kind born from exhaustion, not peace.
"Get up, Grayson. The Grandmaster has summoned you," came a gruff voice through the door.
Dick sat up, groggy, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. "Yeah, yeah. Give me a sec," he muttered.
"Move your ass, Grayson. The Grandmaster doesn't like to be kept waiting," the voice snapped back before Dick heard the footsteps retreating down the hall.
With a long, annoyed breath, Dick rose from the thin mattress. The stone floor beneath his feet was cold, the kind of cold that seeped into your bones. He stretched, rolling his shoulders and neck to loosen the tightness that clung to his muscles like vines. Then he made his way to the narrow closet, opening it to reveal the tailored black suit hanging inside.
The fabric was pristine. Sleek. Precise. Deceptively elegant for what it represented.
Dick stared at it for a moment, jaw tight. Then, with deliberate calm, he began to suit up-shirt, jacket, cufflinks, each movement measured. He fixed the lapels, straightened the tie, then reached for the porcelain owl mask resting on the shelf.
He held it in his hands for a moment.
Cold. Lifeless. Watching.
He slipped it on.
---
The corridor outside was dimly lit, torch sconces flickering against ancient stone. When he closed the door behind him, his eyes immediately locked onto the figure standing at the far end.
Arms crossed. Same gruff build. Same bitter posture.
"Must've been the guy who woke me up," Dick thought.
The court member snorted when Dick approached. "Took your sweet time. What happened? Waiting for your butler to tie your shoelaces?"
Dick didn't reply. He just gave a short smirk beneath the mask, the kind that said I'm not here to play your games-and kept walking.
The court member fell in beside him, boots echoing down the long corridor of stone and brass.
As they moved deeper into the Court's sanctum, Dick's eyes were never still. He clocked every hallway curve, every flickering crest carved into the walls. Symbols-old Latin. Names whispered in murals. Portraits of long-dead patriarchs wearing the same owl mask he now wore.
He counted seven distinct roles based on robe variations alone. He studied postures, chains of command, even the subtle way one servant bowed deeper than another. The place breathed hierarchy and tradition. And secrets.
At the corners of the halls stood gothic statues-some crumbling, others preserved. There were artifact display cases embedded in the walls: ceremonial knives, wax-sealed tomes, even a gold-plated cage with feathers still inside. Probably a Talon's final resting prize.
Everything here meant something.
And Dick Grayson intended to remember all of it.
This wasn't just about pretending anymore.
It was infiltration at its deepest level.
And every step forward was one step closer to losing himself.
The corridor curved sharply, descending a half-flight of steps lit only by flickering iron sconces. The air thickened with damp stone and the faint scent of smoke-until voices drifted in from a side chamber.
Laughter. Cheers. The clatter of dice hitting a marble surface.
Dick's head turned instinctively.
They passed a wide alcove carved into the wall-part lounge, part den. A circular table sat in the center, surrounded by five robed Court members, all still masked. Some leaned in with anticipation, others lounged with drinks in hand. In the middle of the table, six ornate dice tumbled across a green felt mat, one glowing faintly red.
"What's that?" Dick asked casually, slowing his pace.
His escort gave the group a passing glance. "Lie Dice," he said with mild disinterest. "Court tradition. You roll, declare your hand-and the others decide if you're telling the truth. Or not."
"Sounds like poker and roulette had a baby," Dick muttered, watching the game a moment longer.
"More like poker and bloodsport," the man corrected. "You can bet anything-money, influence, a name, a favor. Your reputation. Even a day of someone's service."
Dick's brows rose slightly behind the mask. "Anyone can be challenged?"
"Anyone," the escort confirmed with a sharp nod. "As long as they accept the terms. Even the Grandmaster's been known to play... once or twice."
Dick tucked that away. Another crack in the mask of order. A game of lies, respected by liars. A game where the stakes were real-and the truth was optional.
The idea of turning a game against them one day flickered in his mind like a match.
But now wasn't the time.
Not yet.
He followed the escort onward, but not before glancing back at the players-committing their builds, robes, gestures to memory.
Another note for the mission.
Another way in.
The heavy oak doors of the Grandmaster's office creaked open, revealing a dim, high-ceilinged chamber bathed in cold blue light. Thick velvet curtains covered the tall windows, and a roaring fire crackled behind an ornate owl-carved grate. The Grandmaster stood near a long table draped in ancient maps and parchment scrolls, flanked by three other figures.
"Grayson," the Grandmaster said without looking up. "You're just in time."
Dick stepped inside, nodding silently.
The first figure to turn was a man in his early thirties-sharp eyes, sunken cheeks, hair slicked back with precision. He offered a curt, almost bored nod. "Sam," he introduced simply.
Next was a broader man in his late thirties with short, cropped hair and the scars of a dozen knife fights etched across his hands. He had a brutal confidence in the way he leaned against the table. "Pauline," he said. "Don't make me repeat myself on a mission."
Lastly, an older man stood behind them-lean, grizzled, maybe mid-sixties to early seventies, with gray eyes that missed nothing. He said nothing, only offered Dick a long look. One of silent judgment.
"Frank," the Grandmaster supplied. "One of our strategists. He's forgotten more about this city's underworld than most ever learn."
Frank gave a short grunt. "Still remembering enough to know who can be trusted. We'll see where you land, Grayson."
Dick didn't flinch. Just gave a polite nod.
The Grandmaster gestured at a map of Gotham.
"One of our old assets," he began, "the Headhunters-a small but efficient gang operating in the East Trident sector-has decided to switch allegiances. They're working with Oswald Cobblepot now."
"Penguin," Dick said calmly.
"Yes," the Grandmaster confirmed. "Slippery as always. This group used to run guns for us. Intel. Minor eliminations. But they've grown greedy. We won't chase them. We'll burn them. Let others see what happens when you take our coin and then spit on it."
The Grandmaster turned to Dick and Pauline.
"You two will make the message clear. Their vehicles are stored in a private lot under the Trident Overpass. Burn them. Every last one. If they show up, remind them why betrayal is a dead-end street."
Dick nodded. "Understood."
Pauline stepped away from the table and motioned with a tilt of his head. "Come on. Armoury's downstairs. I'm not dragging your ass through fire unless you're properly dressed."
As they walked, Dick cast one more glance at Sam and Frank. Neither seemed particularly impressed, but both were watching him closely.
The test never stopped.
---
Downstairs - Court Armoury
The air grew colder, sterile, humming with subtle machinery as they descended through a secured stairwell into the Court's private armory. The walls were lined with racks of weapons-custom firearms, blades of every shape, exotic gear that looked like it belonged in a museum of war.
Pauline tossed Dick a matte-black fire accelerant canister. "This'll eat through engine blocks like they were made of paper. Won't take much."
He then strapped on twin short swords and grabbed a combat shotgun from a wall holster. "Stick to the plan. No killing unless they pull first. But if they do? You end them fast. We make noise tonight. Controlled, surgical noise."
Dick selected a low-profile tactical suit-armored, flexible, and anonymous. He made sure not to choose anything that screamed Nightwing. Just a ghost among ghosts.
Pauline loaded two more canisters into a duffle bag. "We hit fast. No speeches, no mercy."
Dick adjusted his gloves and checked the weight of his own weapons.
"Let's light the fuse then," he said, voice calm.
Pauline grinned.
"Oh, now you're talking."
The armory door groaned open with a hiss of pressurized air as Pauline and Dick stepped into a wide underground chamber that smelled faintly of oil, gunpowder, and steel. Weapon racks lined the walls in neat rows. Each weapon was tagged, catalogued, and cared for like sacred relics.
Behind a reinforced workbench cluttered with gun parts and half-disassembled drones stood a wiry, grease-stained man in his late forties with goggles pushed up into his messy hair and a cigarette dangling from his lips.
"Vinny," Pauline called out. "Got something hot for us?"
Vinny turned, grinning through a smudge of ash across his cheek. "Hot, huh? Who's the new owl?"
"Grayson," Pauline said with a shrug. "Fresh off the feathers."
Vinny looked Dick up and down. "You ever used a gun before, featherboy?"
Dick hesitated for a moment, then deadpanned, "A few times... at the Blüdhaven county fair."
Vinny blinked. Then he laughed-a dry, raspy cackle. "The fair? You serious?"
Dick gave him a small smirk. "I hit all the targets."
Vinny snorted. "That don't count, kid. You don't know recoil till it knocks out your front teeth."
Pauline stepped in. "We're not here for target practice. Grandmaster wants fire. Vehicles. East Trident lot. You got anything that burns fast and hard?"
Vinny's eyes lit up like it was Christmas.
"Oh, do I." He ducked beneath the bench, rummaging around while muttering to himself. "Was savin' these for a party. Guess it'll be yours instead."
With a loud thunk, Vinny heaved a reinforced crate onto the bench and popped it open. Inside-carefully packed in foam-were a dozen glass Molotov cocktails, each sealed with wax-dipped rags and tagged with little labels in sharpie.
Dick raised an eyebrow. "You label your firebombs?"
Vinny grinned. "Keeps things personal. This one's 'Hot Divorce.' This one's 'Rage Nap.' This one here..." He held up a cloudy red one. "I call this baby 'Uncle Sal's Liver Problem.' Goes up real mean."
Pauline rolled his eyes but took three. "We'll take enough to toast ten cars and scare the rest of the city."
Vinny nodded and packed them carefully into a padded carrying case, handing it to Dick. "Don't drop it, rookie."
Dick accepted it, his grip firm, calm.
"Wouldn't dream of it."
Pauline slung his shotgun over his shoulder. "Let's move. We've got a date with betrayal."
As they left the armory, the flames of the future mission seemed to burn a little hotter in Dick's mind-not just from the Molotovs, but from the line he was steadily walking... between being one of them and ending them.
And every step forward pulled him deeper into the owl's nest.
The hallway narrowed as they approached the underground garage-a half-lit space that smelled like exhaust, metal shavings, and oil-soaked rubber. A low hum of machinery echoed through the concrete chamber. Someone was working under the hood of a black armored sedan, humming off-key to an old jazz tune playing faintly from a dusty radio.
Pauline abruptly held out an arm, stopping Dick mid-step.
"Wait for it..." he muttered with a wicked grin.
Then, without warning, he leaned forward and yelled:
"HEY! RALPHIE!"
CLANG.
"AHH-s-son of a-!"
A hollow thud rang out as the mechanic jerked upright and slammed his head into the underside of the car's hood. A wrench clattered to the floor and rolled beneath the nearby workbench.
From under the car emerged a small, twitchy man in his mid-30s, grease stains smeared across his cheeks and hands. His hair stuck up at odd angles from under a backwards cap, and a pair of thick goggles hung around his neck. He rubbed the top of his head furiously, blinking at them like they'd just kicked open the gates of hell.
"D-d-damn it, Pauline!" he stammered. "Y-y-you trying to k-k-kill me?!"
Pauline laughed, unapologetic. "If a little noise sends your brain into orbit, maybe you should ask for a desk job."
Ralphie glared, then noticed Dick standing silently nearby.
He quickly wiped his hand on a rag and extended it awkwardly. "Uh, h-hi. Y-you must be the new guy. R-R-Ralphie. I, uh, I run the garage here. Or s-s-sort of... supervise it."
Dick took his hand and gave a firm shake. "Grayson. Sorry about your head."
Ralphie chuckled nervously. "N-n-not the first time. P-p-probably not the last."
Pauline grunted. "We need something off the books. Fast, quiet, untraceable. Room for two. Preferably with decent trunk space in case we need to load up something... messy."
Ralphie perked up. "Y-y-you're lucky. I-I just finished tuning the G-G-Ghost."
He jogged across the garage and pulled back a tarp with a dramatic flourish. Beneath it sat a matte-black muscle car-low, sleek, reinforced with plated panels and a twin-pipe exhaust that looked like it belonged on a jet turbine.
"No trackers, no r-r-records, no questions," Ralphie said proudly, tapping the hood. "Engine's a m-m-monster. Zero to s-s-sixty in under three. Quiet enough to sneak past a patrol, b-b-but loud enough to scare off m-m-most street rats."
Pauline gave an approving whistle. "Now that's what I'm talking about."
He opened the driver's side door and tossed the Molotov case into the back.
Dick circled the car once, inspecting it carefully. The tires were reinforced. Brakes looked sharp. Suspension customized for quick maneuvering. Someone had really poured care into it.
"You built this yourself?" he asked.
Ralphie beamed, cheeks flushing. "M-m-most of it. Took parts from four d-d-different wrecks. She ain't pretty, but sh-she moves like a dream."
Dick nodded. "She's perfect."
"Good," Pauline grunted, sliding into the driver's seat. "Because tonight, we light up betrayal."
Dick climbed in beside him, the door shutting with a satisfying click.
As the engine rumbled to life and the garage doors began to roll open, Ralphie gave a nervous wave.
"D-d-don't scratch her!"
Pauline smirked, revving the engine.
"No promises."
The car's engine purred like a predator in the darkness, smooth and lethal as it tore down the damp, winding underground tunnels beneath Gotham. The only light came from the Ghost's headlights, slicing through the murk like twin blades. Brick walls rushed past in a blur, old support beams creaking above them as the weight of the city rumbled far overhead.
Dick sat in the passenger seat, eyes flicking between the road ahead and Pauline's expression-calm, focused, and hardened like concrete.
He broke the silence.
"You ever wonder why we're working with gangs in the first place?"
Pauline didn't look over. "Not my job to wonder. Just my job to make sure they remember who they serve."
Dick pushed a little harder. "But still-you and I both know the Penguin isn't someone who moves in without a reason. These Headhunters switching sides... it means Cobblepot thinks the Court's weak."
Pauline's jaw flexed slightly.
"Because we were," he admitted. "The last few years haven't been kind. Batman hurt us. Bad. The Talon program fractured. We lost assets, ground, trust. So we made alliances. Temporary ones. Dirty ones. Until we can rebuild."
Dick leaned back slightly, absorbing the information. He already knew much of this from Bruce's files, but hearing it spoken aloud-from within-made it real.
"And what's the endgame?" he asked, voice casual, curious. "We rebuild... and then what? Gotham's already got a king in the shadows. You planning on crowning a new one?"
That got a reaction.
Pauline's eyes flicked toward him for the first time since they left the garage.
"You ask a lot of questions."
Dick didn't blink. "If I'm going to get my hands bloody for the Court, I'd like to know where I fit in the picture. I don't like being a pawn."
Pauline was silent for a few seconds, the engine humming in the tunnel's belly.
Then he spoke.
"The Court doesn't play checkers, Grayson. We don't have pawns. We have knives. We have tools. We have ghosts."
He shifted gears as the tunnel sloped upward, leading to a grated exit.
"But since you asked-there are plans. Big ones. The kind that shape cities. Gotham doesn't belong to the Bat. It belongs to us. Always has. Always will."
They burst from the underground tunnel into open night, the tires screeching slightly on slick asphalt. A streetlamp flickered overhead. Ahead, the skyline loomed like a jagged crown of stone and steel.
Pauline continued, his voice lower now, more intense.
"We're going to reclaim what's ours. The gangs? The money? The weapons? All of it's just fuel. The real fire's coming."
Dick didn't speak. Not yet.
But deep inside, he felt the temperature change. The Court wasn't just rebuilding.
They were preparing for war.
The Ghost pulled to a slow, rumbling stop in the shadows of a crumbling overpass in Gotham's East Trident sector. Above them, rusted highway signs groaned in the wind. Below, tucked behind a half-collapsed chain-link fence, sat the target-a private lot littered with souped-up cars and half-stripped bikes, the turf-marked domain of the Headhunters.
The lot was dimly lit, but not deserted. Dick spotted at least half a dozen figures-leaning on car hoods, smoking, pacing near the gate. Laughing. Armed. Relaxed.
Too relaxed.
They didn't know what was coming.
Pauline cut the engine and stepped out first, grabbing the Molotov duffle from the backseat. He tossed Dick three bottles carefully, the clink of glass barely audible beneath the wind.
"Alright, Grayson," Pauline said, voice low but focused. "I'll go in loud. Front gate, get their attention. You move around the back wall, slip in through the alley behind that auto shop."
He pointed to a crumbling structure just past the lot's chain link. "There's a hole in the fence. Use it."
Dick nodded, already visualizing his route. "You want all of them torched?"
"Every car with a Headhunter tag," Pauline confirmed. "Leave nothing but melted rubber and smoke. Let 'em know we were here, but not who."
He stepped forward, his tone sharpening. "You light it up and get out. Don't linger. If they spot you, keep your face hidden, keep your head down. We're ghosts, not vigilantes."
Dick gave a quiet nod and slipped into the shadows without another word. No mask now-just the night, the mission, and the growing fire in his chest.
Pauline, meanwhile, rolled his neck, checked his shotgun, and casually strolled toward the front gate, whistling a tune that made the guards stiffen.
---
Rear Alley - Moments Later
Dick moved fast and low, Molotovs strapped in a makeshift sling across his back. The alley reeked of rot and gasoline, the ground cracked with weeds and glass. He reached the hole in the fence, just like Pauline had described, and slipped through without a sound.
Now he was inside the lot-hidden behind a row of broken-down dumpsters, just thirty feet from the closest row of gang cars.
From the front, he heard Pauline's voice-loud, brash, confident.
"Evening, boys," he called. "Nice place you got here. Shame if someone decided to light up your ride."
Laughter. Then shouting. The goons were distracted.
Perfect.
Dick pulled out his first Molotov-Uncle Sal's Liver Problem, according to Vinny's label-and lit the rag with a spark from a pocket striker.
He held it for a heartbeat, watching the flame twist.
Then he hurled it.
The bottle exploded against the hood of a black muscle car with a WHUMP, fire spraying outward and climbing across the paint like hungry vines. Tires shrieked as they burst from the heat.
Dick was already moving, ducking low behind another row. Another bottle lit. Another throw.
WHUMP.
A second car ignited, then a third.
By the time the shouting at the front shifted into alarm, half the lot was ablaze. Goons turned and ran toward the smoke, yelling over each other in panic.
And Dick? He was already slipping through the shadows, back the way he came, flames painting the night behind him.
The Court's message had been delivered.
Loud. Clear. Merciless.
The flames still licked the night sky behind them when the Ghost sped away from the East Trident lot. Dick sat silently in the passenger seat, watching the orange glow in the rearview mirror fade into the distance. Sirens were already starting to wail several blocks over-too late to catch them, exactly as planned.
Pauline shifted gears, cutting through a side street that would take them back to the tunnel entrance. He didn't speak much on the return drive. He didn't need to.
The message had been sent.
The Headhunters would know exactly who had scorched their wheels-and who to fear again.
---
Court of Owls Lair - Briefing Hall
By the time they reached the lair beneath Gotham's bones, word had already spread through the Court.
The Grandmaster stood at the center of the hall when they entered, hands folded behind his back, robes perfectly still like carved stone. Around him, masked figures watched from the upper balconies-silent, expectant.
Pauline stepped forward and gave a short nod. "The job's done. Lot's ash now. Cops were just getting there when we left."
The Grandmaster turned his head toward Dick.
"But he was the one who lit the spark, wasn't he?"
Pauline smirked. "Quick, quiet, clean."
The Grandmaster stepped closer to Dick, stopping just short of arm's reach.
"You've made quite the impression, Grayson," he said, his voice like velvet over steel. "Loyal. Efficient. Controlled. You understand the value of silence-and fire."
Dick held his gaze, offering only a quiet nod beneath the owl mask.
The Grandmaster leaned in slightly, almost conspiratorial.
"Keep walking this path, and the Court may have... greater roles for you. Perhaps even something once denied."
Talon.
The word didn't need to be spoken. It hung in the air, as sharp as a knife's edge.
"Dismissed," the Grandmaster said, turning away.
Pauline clapped Dick lightly on the shoulder as they walked out. "Not bad, rookie. Not bad at all."
---
Later - Dick's Room
The heavy door clicked shut behind him.
Alone again.
The room was cold and quiet, but the adrenaline still buzzed faintly in Dick's chest. He stripped off the black suit piece by piece, placing it neatly on the chair. Then, from the inside of the mattress seam, he pulled out the burner phone-tucked away with surgical care.
One new message.
From her.
Barbara G.
> "Hey, just checking in again :) how's Eastern Europe treating you? No frostbite yet? Miss you. xx"
Dick stared at the screen for a long moment.
Her message was light. Casual. But he knew her too well-knew how hard she was pretending. Knew how late it probably was wherever she was. Knew how much she hated waiting in the dark.
And he couldn't tell her the truth.
Couldn't even send more than a few words.
Still, he typed.
Dick (Burner):
> Cold. Tiring. But I'm getting through it. Sorry for the silence. I miss you too. Badly. I'll call when I can. Be safe.
He hovered a second, then hit send.
Then powered the burner down completely.
And sat in silence, staring at the wall, wondering which mask-his or the owl's-would be harder to take off in the end.