A Familiar Masked Face

Later, he'd kick himself backwards for doing something so stupid.

As soon as Bollocks saw the hesitance, he seized Dick's bad ankle—which was still planted on top of him—and wrenched it to the side.

Hot, fiery pain shot up Dick's leg so fast he saw stars, like his brain couldn't even process the amount of ow it'd just received from his nerve endings.

The ground rose up to meet him and suddenly his knees were slamming into cement, the reverberations of the impact shuddering up Dick's spine and rattling his teeth.

A fist came out of nowhere, forcing Dick to attach his escrima sticks into a staff and hold them outward as a kind of faux shield.

Bollocks merely grunted when his punch met the metal rod instead of Dick's face, then he was swinging again.

The intercepted blows sent splintering pain through both his wrists, but Dick stubbornly held firm, setting his jaw against it as Bollocks pulled back yet again.

What followed was a barrage of hits, Bollock's fists flying as he sought for a way past the defense. Dick dodged best he could on one leg, ducking and rolling with minimal movement and zero grace.

He couldn't care less if it didn't look pretty. At this point, Dick just wanted to get out of this encounter with all his extremities still very much intact.

One hit, then another. The metal of his staff groaned. He dodged a particularly nasty blow, then lifted his staff to intercept the next one—

Only to have it shatter on impact.

The weighty crack shook the very bones of his arms as Bollocks went reeling, trying to avoid the flying metal splinters.

Something sliced along Dick's cheek and temple, but his suit protected his body from the brunt of it.

Dick had no time to mourn the loss of his weapon (there was also no reason to, seeing as he had several backups stashed at his apartment), before Bollock's knuckles collided with his right eye.

It felt like getting a brick thrown at him. Which Dick could say without exaggeration, considering he'd had multiple bricks thrown at him on separate occasions.

Unpleasant occasions, but that was a given.

His eyes watered at the pressure while bobbing black dots obscured his vision. Whatever'd been used to alter Bollocks' physique must be powerful stuff if one punch had left Dick like…this.

Then there were hands around his throat, a thumb pressing into his larynx and leaving him shuddering with the effort to breathe.

He was half-tempted to tell the ex-cop-ex-corpse that an elbow to the windpipe was a much more effective way to strangle someone, but figured that'd be counterproductive.

The pressure vanished and Dick's lungs heaved as air trickled down his doubly bruised throat. He didn't know if he was standing or sitting anymore; everything was too fuzzy.

Like the lack of oxygen had somehow severed his brain's connection to his legs.

"I really believed you'd be a bit more of a challenge, hero." A heavy boot planted itself on the vigilante's chest, like a mockery of how Dick had done the same to Bollocks earlier.

The man's leering face came into focus. He looked different now, altered. There was barely—if any—humanity left on his face.

Bollocks, the rookie cop that'd gotten carsick with Dick's crazy driving, was dead. This snarling shell of a man had nothing of him left.

Dick's gaze lingered on the man's forehead, the puckered scar where the bullet had gone in, and smiled.

Blood slipped down his chin, but he ignored it; if there was nothing of Bollocks left, then Dick had no reason to hold back. Not anymore.

For the first time since his encounter with M'gann on the rooftop, Dick's mind clicked back into focus. Ice-cold clarity flooded his senses and a deadly calm settled over his bones.

Dick couldn't stop smiling that smile. Time to go to war.

He snatched a birdirang from his belt and rammed it into the Achilles tendon of the foot keeping him down, driving straight through Bollock's leather boot and into the skin beyond.

There was an inhuman howl as Dick snatched the blade out again, ignoring the dark blood covering its metallic surface.

Bollocks cursed and the pressure on Dick's chest disappeared entirely.

He'd have a nice boot-shaped bruise on his skin later, but that was tomorrow's problem.

The vigilante snapped up to his feet, ignoring his body's various complaints as he grabbed another birdarang. Now, with one bloody weapon and one clean, he rounded on Bollocks and attacked.

Now that he wasn't holding back, they were on a slightly more even footing than before.

It was a whirl of dodged blows and shallow nicks, blood coating the air as it misted around them. Dick was still injured, but adrenaline and purpose had filled him so thoroughly that he hardly noticed it.

The tips of his fingers shook. It was his body's only sign of imbalance.

Bollocks was still lightning quick, but the slice to his ankle had drastically slowed his movements.

This was just like a training session with Bruce, Dick reminded himself as he dodged a punch to the head and delivered his own blow to Bollocks' kidney. Nothing to freak out over.

And, if he hit a little harder after that reminder, that was nobody's business.

Therapy was expensive. Taking out his interpersonal issues on a resurrected zombie cop cost him nothing.

Bollocks stumbled back after receiving a particularly long slice across his chest, blood shading the air a dark crimson. He spat, fixing those hateful eyes on Dick.

"Master was right to warn me about you, Mr. Strait-Laced-Police-Officer." Bollocks spat again, wiping at his mouth. His hand came away red. "I was expendable to you, is what he told me. Heroes would just use people up and then toss them aside. They wouldn't—"

"Do you ever stop talking?" Dick interrupted.

Bollocks glared at him. "You're just like them. Don't even have to stop smiling for the press. Don't get any repercussions from the law. Nothing. You destroy things and people and get away with it."

Dick studied the man's loose posture, waiting for an opening. He'd just have to keep the ball rolling a little longer…

"I used to think the same thing," His ankle began to throb again as he slid closer to Bollocks, still waiting for that opening. "I had someone who taught me the same thing. But I've also seen young heroes do what's right. They botch it up half the time," A smile curved his lips, and it wasn't really part of the act.

"But they do their best. They've saved people, saved cities. And, if you let them," He made careful eye contact with Bollocks, "They'll save you, too."

There was nothing human left in Bollocks' eyes. They were wide, wild, and crazed beyond recognition. "I don't need to be saved!"

"Mm," Dick saw his opening, the relaxing of Bollocks' left arm, leaving his fifth and sixth rib exposed. He grinned, the expression probably a little feral, and let his birdirang fly. "You and me-three-weeks-ago would've gotten along swimmingly."

Bollocks' form trembled as he tried to dodge but fell short, the glinting metal nicking his side and sending more blood cloying into the air.

It slicked the pavement and filled the alleyway with an iron tang, soaking into Dick's boots. There was even drying blood on his gloves, making them sticky and red and—

He wished he could say with confidence that all of it belonged to Bollocks, but Dick figured a good amount of it was actually his.

Right now, he was running on pure, unchecked adrenaline. A few more minutes of this and he'd probably collapse.

He just had to keep looking for that opening. Just had to distract Bollocks…

Bollocks, however, had other ideas.

With an unintelligible roar that loosed dusty mortar from the nearby buildings, the creature lunged forward and snatched up a piece of Dick's broken escrima stick.

Which, yeah, probably wasn't great. In fact, that was very not great. Very, very not great. Dick ducked low, concentrating his centre of gravity, preparing for—

Bollocks struck like a viper, like he was attached to some kind of loaded spring, and rammed the escrima stick's jagged edge into Dick's side.

Which. Sucked.

That…really sucked.

Dick choked, a gasp wrenching its way out of his esophagus as his hands automatically flew to the object now sticking out of his side.

What was it with him and getting impaled recently?

Bollocks leapt back, taking the escrima stick with him as Dick stared absently down at the new stab wound in his middle.

After he watched the black fabric of his suit become slick with blood, it occurred to him that he really should be putting some pressure there.

Wrapping an arm around his middle, he lifted his increasingly blurry gaze to Bollocks.

Shock sure was a mind-screwing drug, but even in Dick's addled state he knew it was important to keep his opponent in sight.

"You," He murmured, trying to keep his mind from shutting down any further, "missed."

Bollocks threw back his head and laughed, spittle flying from his mouth as his pupils dilated unnaturally. He didn't look human, that's for sure.

It made Dick feel a little less guilty over what he was about to do, his fingers clumsily pulling a remote trigger button out of his utility belt as he rested his thumb on it.

"I missed?" Bollocks laughed again. "I think you've taken a few too many hits to the head."

"No, you missed my kidney." Dick explained with all the patience of a healthcare professional. "A few more inches to the left and you likely would've killed me."

Going by the look on Bollocks' face, the man was a little put-out by Dick's lack of…pained screaming, perhaps? Panic?

Dick didn't know how most stab victims reacted, but it probably wasn't like this.

"Doesn't matter," Bollocks shouted. "Master will be here any minute now. He's excited to finally meet you."

Yeah, no. That was not going to happen. Not today.

Dick pressed down on the trigger, the one that controlled the miniature explosive he'd attached to his escrima as Bollocks had stabbed it into him.

He'd clapped it to the broken weapon as he'd pretended to be 'disoriented', activating the magnetic surface of the miniature bomb so it adhered to the broken escrima stick.

The broken escrima stick Bollocks was still holding obliviously.

"You missed," Dick said again. That smile was pulling at his lips, the one that'd always made Bruce uncomfortable. Wide, perhaps a little too unhinged. "But I didn't."

Then he blew Bollocks to high kingdom come.

He didn't…..actually blow Bollocks to high kingdom come.

That would be highly unethical, to say the least.

He wasn't a murderer. Occasionally he had some murderous thoughts, yes, but he hadn't acted on them.

Yet.

M'gann had pushed the limit with her little shifting stunt earlier, but he hadn't really wanted to kill her. Never wanted to kill anyone, really.

As soon as his thumb was off the trigger, Dick was moving. His grappling gun out and aimed at the lip of the building he'd been eyeing earlier.

Behind him, the dust began to settle around Bollocks, but the vigilante didn't bother looking back.

His arm was nearly wrenched out of its socket as he sailed upwards, but Dick didn't care. He was getting out of this alley now, before Bollocks had time to recover or the infamous 'master' showed up.

Dick, with his various shallow slashes, throbbing ankle, stab wound, and partially asphyxiated throat (these injuries were really adding up), was in no shape to meet the mastermind behind everything.

What he was in shape for was an escape, so that's what he was doing. Now.

There was movement in the alleyway below, someone slipping out of the shadows and approaching Bollocks—a flash of orange and dark, navy blue.

Dick paused, risking a glance over his shoulder as he readied his grappling gun again.

There was a figure standing next to Bollocks' prone form. Orange. Black. Blue. The hilt of a katana peered out above their right shoulder as they stared up at Dick, one eye glinting through the full mask disguising their features.

Dick almost dropped the grappling gun as the line shot out of it again, yanking him further upwards and away from the figure in the alley.

The figure that Dick definitely recognized. The one Bruce had warned him of.

The one Dick had met, years ago. Back before he was Robin, back when he was just an angry kid recently adopted by Bruce.

He shook his head, trying to physically push the intrusive thoughts out.

Then he was twisting in the air, shoulders flexing as he sailed through the night towards his apartment, the lights of Bludhaven blurring beneath him. For the first time since he'd encountered M'gann, he could breathe again. Even if doing so hurt his partially crushed throat.

He had something he needed to do, something that involved confessing some things to a few young adult superheroes.

The identity of Bollocks' master might not be the only one getting revealed tonight.

I...didn't really edit this chapter. I am sincerely sorry if it's full of mistakes, I've just had zero time lately. Sorryyy 🙏

Thank you for reading, and for your lovely reviews last update! I read them all and they blow me away each time ;-;

Aight, back to work. Thanks again! Stay safe, friends and enemies!

~ASL