Nightwing/Oracle: Superhero Spandex
Chapter 1
Oracle, aka Barbara Gordon, leans into the electronic telecommunications device and flips the switch forward.
"Nightwing, we've got an arms deal coordinating at the docks in 18 minutes. I'm tracing 3 of the suspects vehicles; they're on the way to the water now," she says urgently, speaking closely into the dotted, centralized com-link.
She switches it back to red, waiting for a response. After a few moments of static noise, Nightwing responds.
"Can I change into my suit there? I don't have a phone booth that's easily available to me right now," he says, breathing heavily.
"Where have you been?," Oracle asks.
"Personal stuff. I'll be at your dojo in 5 minutes. Entering through the ceiling vents, no questions or comments…please," Nightwing pleads.
"Fine," Oracle says, exhaling softly. A few minutes later, a bang echoes through the metallic, highly-secure building exterior. A few clicks and clangs, sounds of metal-on-metal. A tile swiftly slides out of the side of the ceiling. Nightwing, aka Dick Grayson, jumps down, landing on his feet, his left knee slightly bent. He's wearing a white t-shirt, a pair of jeans, and has a duffle bag clasped in the palm of his left hand. He presses his thumb onto the zipper, its metal surface heating up like a warm light bulb, reading his unique thumb print signature/temperature. When the orange hue lightens, Dick is able to unzip the bag, pulling out his gear.
He takes off his shirt first, then quickly unbuttons his belt and tugs his jeans down. He forgets to take his everyday shoes off first, bending over and pulling them off with his pants around his ankles. He's wearing a pair of dark blue briefs, tightly pressed against his thin but toned thighs; there is no mistaking him as Batman, no matter what he says. He may fool a few small-time clowns, but the career criminals have the silhouetted shape of the real Batman permanently engraved in their brain. The wide frame, the prideful stance, the deeper grunts; most don't need the Riddler to be able to read the clues.
Grayson grabs the back of his waistband and tugs, the V-shaped brief curving narrowly up his hips, engulfing his buttocks in a snug cotton/spandex embrace.
Standing in only his skimpy underwear, Oracle stares at Dicks semi-nude figure inquisitively, her thin eyebrows sharply raised. She's wearing her rectangular, yellow-tinted glasses, a small light reflecting off the left lens; her famously ambiguous eye color appearing blue through the left lens, green in the right.
"That's all you wear under your suit? No bullet-proof fabric, no chainmail armor, nothing? Just a pair of blue tighty whities?," she asks, semi-concerned, semi-amused, though amusement isn't a feeling Barbara has been chasing for awhile now. She softly taps her Escrima sticks with a sole finger. They're stashed in a custom-made crevice in her wheelchair, always ready to use her upper body strength and judo training to combat any threats, no matter how towering they may appear.
"These are what superheroes wear. They don't show underneath the lycra spandex and they hold everything in place. The least amount of clothing allows for the highest amount of movement and flexibility within my Zentai body-suit. It's a different poly-blend than Bruces more bulky, blocky suit. Its maintenance routine has to be adjusted accordingly, as Bruce would say," Grayson explains, pulling a black-blue sleeve over his right arm.
"Makes sense in theory, but I'd rather have armor security than temporary flexibility. You're making a dangerous wager on your abilities and skills; do you trust them that much?," she asks, somehow able to speak with a serious, intelligent tone despite the fact that her longtime, frequently flirtatious friend is stumbling about before her in tight blue briefs.
"Yeah, I do. If you don't believe in your abilities, you don't do this job. Why would someone? A death wish?," Dick says, shrugging.
"Doesn't sound that far off from some, or one, of Gotham's heroes…" Oracle says, forcing a cough-like grunt, clearly referring to her stoic, intense leader, Batman, aka Bruce Wayne.
"Don't say that. He prepares us for all eventualities, such as these—", he points to his backside, snaps his dark briefs with two fingers, the elastic clapping back against his firm hips.
"He even specially orders my underwear—these— demanding specific materials in the most OCD manner possible; but every detail matters. I've learned that through him. Preparation is the ultimate key to success," Dick says emphatically, sounding like a true Robin, converted and entrusting his lifestyle to the whims of a one-man hurricane.
"These briefs are made of 91.2% pure cotton and 8.8% polymorphic spandex, form-fitting to the body, never moving, always keeping the lower body firm and secure. The leg holes stretch and hyper-bend against high degree kicks, slides, or splits, god forbid…" Dick says, shaking his head at that last notion, a split..
"Well...is there a woman's version of this super bikini? Or are they just for Bat 'men'?," Barbara teases, though she's half-serious. The toys and the attention she used to accrue as Batgirl had quickly dissipated, though the years have blunted most of those lingering longings. Now she only gets calls, pings, and flash-drives, an electric socket perched on a pair of wheels.
Oracle suddenly cranes left: a flash of movement slides into view on a vid-frame. She looks closer at one of her many green-tinted vid-screens. A black van slowly pulls up to the long dock, the surrounding water lightly flushing white foam onto the bay. The van coasts calmly in a characteristic, almost cliche bad guy move. Suspicious people always creep up slowly; ask Batman, she thinks. He knows all about that sort of slow, methodical form of creeping.
"Dealer #1 has arrived, license plate starting with 6-L-I-K. Memorize those 3 letters and digit and determine the street value of chasing that particular van; you know as well as I do that they'll split up in all directions like slimey, severed tentacles," Barbara says sternly, like an older sister reminding her brother to lock the door.
"6-L-I-K...got it," Dick repeats, nodding in confirmation.
"Now it is time for you to split, Grayson," Oracle says, gesturing towards the door. Nightwing slides the last portion of his suit, the pant legs, up his lower body, stretching and pulling it upwards like rubber taffy. He quickly performs three halfhearted jumping jacks, loosening up the suit.
"Come on, go!" she exclaims, yanking her wheelchair to the right.
Dick looks up at the empty ceiling tile, then at the door, then at the ceiling tile. He jumps, pulls himself up into the vent, and continues back through the Z-shaped metal corridor.
"Why do we even build doors?," Oracle whispers to herself. She turns her wheelchair back in the direction of the vid-screen displays, leaning in and formally initiating her part of the mission, logging in through the Wayne-patented bio-metric firewall. Oh yeah, I have wheels for legs, she reminds herself, as if she wouldn't be absolutely overwhelmed with glee if she could move her toes just one more time, like she had been able to following the operation by Doctor Mid-Nite, albeit for just a short time. A small gem of joy born from a nasty, corrupt virus.
Their is beauty in many forms, she says to herself, turning on the joy-stick to the right of her wheelchair, using it to control and direct the Bat-drone, zooming past building windows like she had swung through the streets as Batgirl many years ago...
The End