A Banana Projectile Gets Projected
This…couldn't be real. He'd watched Bollocks die; dove at him as a bullet went right through the other man's skull.
Were zombies a thing he was going to have to deal with now? Because Dick was not emotionally equipped to deal with zombies.
Despite his disbelief, Dick had also seen a lot of strange things in his life. So…maybe? Then again, this could all be some trauma-induced psychosis causing Dick to finally lose his mind.
But those hands on his back, pushing him from the roof, had been real, as were the cracks in the pavement. Very, very real.
Bollocks, if that was really him, grinned again as Dick took another stumbling step back.
"What?" His mind raced, slowly scrabbling at clues that weren't aligning themselves properly in his head. M'gann again? No. An illusion? No. Fake? No. Insanity? …Possibly. "How?"
His voice cracked over the word and he cleared his throat, shoving away his frayed emotions so he couldn't get distracted by their clamouring confusion.
It didn't matter if Bollocks was here, alive and suddenly looking like an undead WWE champion. He could puzzle out the hows and whys later.
Bollocks took a step forward, his body moving with fluid grace. Unnatural grace. There was no way a rookie like Bollocks had mastered that through normal means in a matter of weeks.
When he was supposed to be dead, no less.
"Admiring my new modifications?" The man—could he even be called that anymore?—asked, taking another one of those feline-esque steps in Dick's direction "My master's work has turned out most excellently."
Dick's back pressed up against the alley's dead-end wall and he couldn't figure out whether that was a good thing or not.
On the one hand, there wouldn't be any attacks from behind. On the other, he was also cornered by a recently resurrected co-worker who was currently belting out a supervillain laugh like he was trying for an Oscar.
And again with the whole 'master' thing? What connected Bollocks, who was a previously dead rookie cop, to characters like Sniper and Copperhead?
This whole situation was starting to sound like a bad joke. And give Dick a massive headache.
Why me? Dick thought distantly as Bollock's laughter cut off just as quickly as it'd started. Why couldn't I have become a crossing guard? Or a librarian? Surely they didn't have to deal with stuff like—
A fist colliding with his stomach sent all other thoughts flying out of his skull.
Bollocks had been standing several feet away one minute, then the next he was in front of Dick and delivering a nasty blow.
The vigilante's head collided with the brick behind it, his breath exiting in a wheezy gasp.
"Hm," Bollock's bare feet scraped the pavement as he took a step back, surveying Dick with a detached stare. "He said you had an excellent reaction time, but that was rather pathetic. Of course, I am a little special now." The man flexed his fists, stretched-too-thin skin splitting even further. "Much more special than you."
Dick didn't give two shakes of a rat's ass how special Bollocks was. And he would've said so, too, if his lungs hadn't been currently collapsing in on themselves.
"You're probably wondering how I'm still alive," Bollocks was watching him now, looking disturbingly like a spider that'd just caught a particularly interesting fly. There was nothing left of that rookie cop in his eyes, just cold, glittering intelligence.
Dick grunted in response and, unable to articulate his real thoughts on the matter, stuck up his middle finger. Bollocks could interpret that however he liked.
In hindsight, antagonizing the super-strong and clearly unhinged individual wasn't the best idea. Especially when that single blow to his stomach had already hit harder than any of Bruce's practice punches.
But Dick was still feeling out of it, like he was underwater. Like his reality filter had broken after M'gann's little Batman impersonation; like he was trapped in some kind of giant, soundproof bubble.
In fact, how did he know this wasn't more Martian mind games? That she wasn't impersonating his dead partner to figure out more about him?
(He knew he was being ridiculous. Ridiculous and paranoid and illogical). The Martian would never do this to him. Not after how she'd genuinely apologized earlier.
Yet the rest of his mind didn't seem to know that. Hadn't quite caught the memo yet.
He suspected this probably had something to do with 'trauma' but, unfortunately, there weren't any therapists in this dark, dirty Bludhaven alleyway to confirm his theory.
The unexpected sensation of hands around his neck cut off Dick's thought process, his already ragged breathing blocked off completely.
Still, despite the way his hard-earned survival instincts were screaming at him, it felt as though his mind were trapped in goo. Stuck.
How did he think again? Why did he think again? And why was he fighting this if Bollock's death was technically his fault? Didn't he kind of deserve this? Why was he even fighting in the first pla—
The hands around his throat loosened and Dick blinked against the black dots swarming his vision. Oxygen deprivation, fan-flipping-tastic.
Even those thoughts were distant. What was wrong with him?
Shock? Some kind of delayed fear response after seeing Not-Actually-Bruce on the hospital roof earlier?
Another fist flashed towards his stomach and Dick recoiled, slamming against the hard brick of the alley wall. But at least he hadn't sustained another one of those devastating hits.
His breathing strained against the crushed sensation in his throat and he pressed a hand against the bruises there, allowing his thoughts of ouch ouch ouch to ground him in the present moment.
"You know, when he said you'd be vulnerable, I wasn't expecting this," Bollocks was leaning in again, his gaunt face filling Dick's field of vision. His breath reeked of decay and other, less pleasant things. "I could beat you in my sleep like thi—"
Dick shuddered. At this rate, the bad breath was going to kill him before Bollocks managed to.
With a grunt, he smashed his forehead into Bollock's with an ominous crack.
Withholding a few choice curse words at the unpleasant throbbing in his skull (he knew how to headbutt properly, but damn it still hurt), Dick fumbled for his escrima sticks as Bollocks stumbled backwards.
"You know," The vigilante spat out a glob of blood. Either he'd bitten the inside of his cheek or had fluid in his lungs, hopefully the latter, "when you first started monologuing, I thought fighting you might actually prove a challenge. Nice to know even the best can be wrong sometimes."
Despite the bravado in his tone, those black spots were starting to swim in front of his eyes again.
Perhaps nearly splitting his own skull open hadn't been the best idea after all.
He waited for Bruce's chiding voice, telling him what he could've done better, but heard nothing. Just ringing silence.
And then he turned, and Bruce wasn't there. But, of course he wasn't there. Why had he expected him to be?
Dick blinked, swiping at his face with his suit's grimy sleeve. What was happening to him right now?
"—hate you. I hate all of you!" Bollock's was spitting mad, face contorted beyond recognition and his pupils so wide they looked black, but his voice kept fading in and out. Dick's hearing was apparently taking a temporary leave of absence.
At this point, Dick calculated he had approximately two chances of survival; keep Zombie Detective talking until there was an opening for escape, or snap out of this weird brain fog and beat Bollocks to a bloody pulp.
Given how his mind was still reeling, Dick decided to go with option one.
"What was that?" Dick slid into a defensive position that didn't require as much weight on his ankle, which was starting to teeter. "I was having a crisis, didn't quite catch it."
If Bollock's was angry before, he now looked downright deadly.
"You heroes!" He growled, like a literal bear. "Always preaching about the greater good while you mess things up for everyone else. Destroying buildings and hurting civilians, then getting a 'clap on the back' for knocking out the bad guy. Not to mention the publicity. Can't go without your weekly interviews, can you? Leashed to the government. Makes me sick."
Dick tightened his hold on the escrima sticks, uncomfortable put off by Bollock's train of thought. Something about it struck a cord in his mind, like it was familiar…like it was…..
Exactly what he used to think about heroes. Before he met some for himself, that is.
As Bollocks continued to rage, spittle flying and his voice becoming increasingly loud, Dick realized that's what he used to look like.
Albeit without the spit and unnecessary shouting, but the content was the same.
He used to think all the heroes were in it for glory, for the thrill of throwing a villain around. However, Dick had come to realize that they really believed the stuff they said.
That crap about things like 'justice', 'world peace', or 'cooperation' wasn't for show. They really, truly thought it was possible.
And, in that moment, Dick made a choice. One that was probably going to screw him over later. One that would lead to some really, really awkward conversations, but also one that was long overdue.
It was his choice. Not Bruce's, not the Justice League's. Not even the Team's.
His.
Now he just had to survive this encounter so he could act on it later.
"You're all hypocrites!" Bollocks screamed, apparently not having run out of air yet. "You're all—"
With newfound clarity, Dick readied himself, escrima sticks tucked close to his sides.
"Yeah?" He goaded, "And who's this 'he' that you're following? He the one that made you look like a Walking Dead extra? Does he get his rocks off having a zombie freak around?"
Another bellow and Bollocks was snapping forward, quicker than lightning. He was fast, superhumanly fast.
If Dick hadn't been expecting it, dodging would've been impossible. Even as he was, partially asphyxiated and limping like a lamb, Bollock's fist nearly clipped the top of Dick's head as the vigilante ducked into a somersault.
Bounding to his feet again, Dick yanked three birdarangs out, situated them between his fingers, and flung them.
There was a hiss—Bollock's grunting—the thunk of a blade entering flesh, then a swiping motion too quick for Dick to follow.
Bollocks was bleeding from two wounds now, familiar metal embedded in his ligaments. Places that would hopefully slow him down.
But in his hand he held the third birdirang, its glinting surface catching the guttering light of a street lamp.
Dick swallowed. Had Bollocks just grabbed that out of the air?
He wasn't in the right frame of mind to fight an opponent this skilled or genetically altered right now. His ankle still shuddered with every step he took and his previous injuries, even the mostly healed gash on his leg, were starting to slow him down.
Bollocks snapped his wrist in one smooth, very unpolice-like motion.
There was a whine as the birdarang flew from his fingers and Dick barely had enough time to spin out of its path, cold metal streaking hot pain across the plane of his cheek.
It'd nicked him. A second later, and it could've severed the tendons in his upper jaw.
"Shoot," He muttered, clapping a hand to the cut. Shallow. Hardly more than a scratch, but it'd could've been much worse.
"You should know I don't like your tricks, even if my master does." Bollocks, as if he were simply plucking a daisy from a field, yanked one of the birdarangs from his shoulder.
Plink, it rattled against the dirty pavement, soon to be followed by another plink as he seized the one poking out of his knee.
There was a rush of blood from both wounds, then—nothing. The wounds continued to bleed, the liquid black and oily looking.
At least he didn't have any accelerated healing powers.
"He thinks your antics are amusing. Clever, even." Bollocks sneered, "He finds everything about you amusing, actually. Even your stupid jokes."
"Screw you," Dick spat, subtly eyeing the jutting roof of an apartment building above. Would he be able to scale it in time? "I'm hilarious."
"That right there," The man—creature? Whatever—rolled his eyes in an oddly human gesture. "Master would find that stirring."
He moved so fast there was no way Dick could even hope to react in time. An ankle hooked around the vigilante's bad leg and sent him tumbling. He managed to throw up his escrima sticks in front of his face, just in time to ward off a flurry of increasingly powerful punches.
His back was shoved against the alley wall. The stinking scent of nearby dumpster clogged his nostrils and made him gag, but he locked his arms in place.
Apparently deciding beating Dick's brains out wasn't nearly enough fun, Bollocks changed tactics and rammed his knee into Dick's unprotected stomach.
For the second time in so many minutes, Dick felt the air whoosh out of his esophagus, sending him sputtering again.
His opponent wasted no time in seizing the back of his neck, fingers cutting off his airway, and slamming him into the metal rim of the dumpster.
Dick grunted. What were the people of Bludhaven eating? Their trash reeked.
Again, what little air was left in his lungs fled his body. Again, he made a noise like a dying fish. Again, this stupid dumpster was kicking his ass.
He slumped against it, his fingers scrabbling at its grimy rim while he tried his best to look defeated (which, admittedly, wasn't that hard). Keeled over, Dick hoped Bollock's wouldn't see his hand closing over the nearest throwable object.
All he needed was a distraction—a few seconds to get his grappling hook situated and take aim.
"I wasn't supposed to snap anything in you, no broken bones. He was very clear about that," Bollocks ruminated, tapping his chin in faux contemplation. "But your neck is looking very tempti—"
Before he could finish, Dick swivelled on his screaming ankle and lobbed the object at Bollocks. Days and hours spent throwing projectiles made the throw one of deadly accuracy, meaning the object—a half-mushed and very rotten banana—split against Bollock's gaping mouth like…only a half-mushed and very rotten banana could split.
While Bollocks was distracted, Dick heaved away from the dumpster and re-positioned himself, sliding another set of birdirangs into his grip. He just needed an opening, to incapacitate Bollocks for a few seconds…
The creature's, Dick was currently having a very hard time thinking of Bollocks as human, almost brought down the very rooftops with his roaring.
"I'll—I'll kill you!" Bollocks spat and cursed, his stomping foot cracking the cement where it landed. "I don't care what he says! I'll kill you I'll kill you I'll kill you I'll kill you I'll kill you I'll—"
Dick, figuring he'd already picked out a coffin so he might as well sign a death warrant too, flicked his fingers in a 'come at me' motion. "Go bananas, you undead hero wannabe."
In hindsight, antagonizing the genetically altered sort-of co-worker that he'd also sort-of gotten killed wasn't Dick's brightest moment. In fact, it was likely in his top ten dimmest.
There was another bout of enraged roaring followed up by curses so vile they'd have made a sailor's ears bleed, then Bollocks was charging.
Dick dodged the first attack with ease, but then felt his ankle nearly buckle and realized that, maybe, he'd bitten off more than he could chew.
The crackling slap that followed nearly sent what little was left of Dick's brain flying out of his skull.
"Hey," He gasped, ducking under a particularly heavy blow that would've sent him through the nearest wall. He gestured at his neck and adjacent head. "I need that."
A bellowing shout was all he got in response. Real articulate, this Bollocks guy was. He should consider starting his own talk-show.
"Must've went wild over those vocabulary words back in kindergarten." Dick murmured. His mouth was literally going to be the death of him. "Won all those school spelling bees."
Stumbling to his feet, Dick spun on his aching ankle and tossed the birdarangs in quick procession, letting out a grunt of triumphant when they all hit home. Bollocks stumbled, his knee cracking the pavement as he was brought low.
Dick took advantage of his opponent's weakness and flew into action, getting a few good blows in with his escrima stick before blessing Bollocks with a roundhouse kick-in-the-face.
Dark, almost black blood sprayed from Bollock's mouth as his head jerked back, neck strained by the unnatural angle.
Grinning, blood slipping from between his own teeth, Dick readjusted his weapon and slammed it into Bollock's sternum before planting a heavy boot on the man's chest.
It seemed the monster (ex-cop?) had forgotten that, even though he was injured, Dick did actually know what he was doing.
Most of the time.
Occasionally.
Really only when it came to fighting; Alfred always said he was hopeless in situations where common sense was required.
Dick was just beginning to think he'd broken Bollock's jaw when the man spat, something white—was that a tooth?—flying out of his mouth. "This is on you!" He started, eyes wild and bloodshot. "You killed me, threw me aside like some disposable doll, and now I'm here."
He waited for the guilt. That soul crushing whisper of this is all your fault, but it never came.
Because Dick…hadn't gotten him killed. Not really.
It was easy to blame himself for things like this, but, staring down at where Bollocks lay underneath Nightwing's boot, he didn't think he needed to.
Dick hadn't been the one to hire Sniper, Dick hadn't sat up in that warehouse's rafters and aimed the gun. Dick hadn't made Bollocks become an officer or asked for him to be his partner.
It was terrible that the man died, no question. Dick would regret that forever…
But, although he'd probably never really stop feeling bad about it—especially with Bollocks staring up at him with bulging eyes and peeling skin—Dick wasn't going to blame himself anymore.
He didn't even know if that was possible, but he was going to try. Starting that night.
"It's not my fault." He said quietly, hardly more than a whisper, but he knew Bollocks heard by the way his trembling form stilled. "And it wasn't yours either. Sometimes bad things just happen, and you're left to pick up the pieces. Sometimes bad things happen and you end up dead. That's life. That's not my fault."
Dick sucked in a breath through his nose, ignoring the way it rattled his bones, and raised his escrima stick. If he hit Bollocks just right on the temple, he'd have enough time to scale the building and—
Something surfaced in Bollock's eyes as he stared up at the vigilante, something undeniably human.
He looked like that rookie cop again, hand drifting too close to his holster. Terrified over Dick's maniacal driving.
It was there for barely a second and, later, Dick thought it possible he'd imagined it, but it was enough to cause him pause.
"…Bollocks?" He asked, his escrima pausing in its downward swing.
That single hesitation proved to be Dick's doom.
(A/N): I'm baaaaaack! #$% I cannot thank you all enough for your patience while I recovered my computer data, I don't know how I ended up with such incredible readers 333
(Seriously, you're all so kind ;-; pat yourselves on the back, have a cookie. Or don't. I love you all)
Anywho, lemme know if you spotted any mistakes in this chapter! I read each of your reviews and absolutely loved them, you have such great questions and theories and UGH T-T
(also...we may/may not be getting an identity reveal next chapter ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°) stay tuned)
~ASL