Days passed quietly. I caught up on sleep and went to work at Wayne Tech, splitting my time between researching Batman's open cases and doing work of my own. Bruce's attentions were still primarily occupied with the League of Shadows, followed shortly by Two-Face's crime spree and Killer Croc's hidden agenda. I kept close eye on these cases, minus the League of Shadows, but spent my extra time digging into Dick's past.

Something was off. Having realized that the Red Hood hadn't wanted to hurt me like he hurt the cops, then let me escape the alley after I thought he'd gone, and had hidden from me until I stopped searching, all led me to believe that he knew me; and Dick urging me to not worry about it only made me more suspicious of him. The perp fought me with his moves, used his gear (well, technically, our gear- but still). All signs pointed to Dick and the left side of my brain screamed at me: it's Dick, dummy, confront him!

But something in me- the right side of my brain, or my heart, or some deep seeded weakness for sarcastic, strong men- refused to believe that it was Dick. It didn't feel like Dick, I didn't get the goosebumps I typically got when his rough and tender hands touched my skin. And if it was him, why wouldn't he just admit it? Why would he be hiding another identity from me, from Bruce?

The only excuses I could conjure were either too unrealistic or too sinister for me to believe. I didn't want to believe them.

So I used my time in my office to dig into his file, his evolution from circus child to orphan to Robin to Nightwing. Some of the information I had known. It was easy to discern from his name and athletic abilities (including his extreme flexibility that topped even my own abilities) that he was a member of the Flying Graysons. Everyone knew about them when I was a kid- had they been famous today, they'd have a reality show on E! about their familial shenanigans. But, back then, they were just amazing showstoppers: like the Osmond family or the Jackson Five. They were just a cool, famous family that everyone wished was theirs.

Until the accident. Which, of course, wasn't an accident. And, of course, it happened in Gotham. I remembered watching the news with my dad when it happened, remembered the reports saying that several notable Gothamites were present, including Bruce Wayne. The casefile on the Batcomputer clarified that the incident was caused by mobster Tony Zucco, who had attempted to extort money from the traveling circus. Not knowing how Gotham business was done, the circus owners refused to pay him- Zucco got his revenge by ruining their premiere event. The files had a video of the incident; a recording by one of the cameras that zoomed in on the acrobats, for spectators in the nose bleeds to get a closer look.

Swinging from trapezes, the Grayson parents were performing a triple layout that would result in a one-handed catch from their son, merely thirteen years old, without the safety of a net. The trust and faith this kind of trick would involve, for these incredible athletes to perform this trick and rely on their child to catch one parent in each hand, astounded me. I watched the video as the parents swung on their trapeze, bright showman smiles on, swinging towards Dick. The camera panned out just as the Grayson parents were about to release into their layout. It was at that moment that the trapeze snapped away from its cable, and the parents plummeted toward the ground as the audience screamed.

I turned off the video and looked away from my monitor. It felt like I'd violated Dick's privacy; looked into his memories and ogled at the trauma therein. I cringed at the image that had burned itself on my thoughts. I flipped back to Dick's historical files, hoping to distract myself.

Obviously, I remembered the news when Bruce Wayne had adopted the orphaned acrobat. There was a clip from the press coverage attached to the file. "What inspired you to such an act of charity, Mr. Wayne?" a reporter off camera had asked him. The cameras were aimed at his mansion, positioned on his car on the drive. In the background, I could see Alfred escorting a young boy into the mansion with little more than a backpack. My features softened and I released a sympathetic sigh as I recognized the shining black hair of the boy.

"Charity?" Bruce had responded to the reporter, his typically smiling face looking offended and hurt. "Miss Tucker, this boy has just lost both of his parents in a tragic accident," he explained. "I can relate." With that, the playboy millionaire disappeared into his home, ignoring the cries of reporters.

According to the case files, it only took Dick one year to discover that Bruce was Batman. He was put in training to become Bruce's sidekick immediately, and by the time he was sixteen he was out on the streets with him as Robin. Together, they'd fought Joker, Two Face, Penguin, Bane, and countless no-name mobsters. It was a rare occasion you'd see Batman without Robin, and you never saw Robin without Batman. The pictures taken of them by civilians during various battles and fights told the story of a boy wonder growing into a man. A hazy snapshot of Batman and Robin fleeing the scene of Joker's funfair when they had stopped Bane's and Joker's armies from using it to brew toxin showed them both on the edge of a tall precipice. In the picture, Dick couldn't have been older than 20. He was still a boy in so many ways, but in that contoured red suit with the yellow cape at his back, the domino mask across his eyes…

It reminded me of the crush I'd had on him for so many years, before I'd even known who he was.

I leaned back in my seat, swiveling from side to side as I considered Dick and Red Hood and their connections. Dick was a good man. Snarky, sarcastic, slightly asshole-ish at times, but a good man nonetheless. And the news reports from Bludhaven were already rolling in, praising and condemning Nightwing just as Gotham had always done for Batman. He was doing well in his new job as a police officer, keeping his hands clean without alerting the dirty cops to his high moral values. From all that I could tell, Dick's life seemed on track. His secret life as a vigilante was a big enough secret- what could he possibly have going on to lead him to impersonate Red Hood?

"What am I missing…" I thought aloud, looking up at my dashboard of screens contemplatively.

Thursday evening, as Bruce and I suited up for a night of work, he called to me, "what's on our docket?"

Ensuring my bracers fastened appropriately to my forearms, I called back, "Croc's been on the move the last two days, both times towards Old Gotham and Penguin's territory. It's about time one of us paid him a visit, see if we can figure out what's going on."

"I'll handle that," Bruce suggested (or, more realistically, insisted).

"Great," I replied, "because I'm pretty certain Two-Face is gonna attempt another bodega tonight. I'll handle that."

"He'll send more reinforcements, after you stopped the last robbery," Bruce said, carrying his cowl to the Batcomputer monitors. "Make sure you use the detective mode on your cowl." I nodded as I approached, affixing my gadget belt around my hips. "Anything else?" he asked, typing into the screen and shuffling through our dossiers and current case files.

"Unless there's anything you want to share about the League of Shadows," I suggested. I could have shared more of my research on Red Hood, told him about my theories concerning Dick, but I didn't have anything solid to share. And I still didn't want to… Dick was as good as family to Bruce. I didn't want to make haphazard accusations when I didn't know enough myself. It would just worry Bruce and create drama, and none of us needed that.

"The League should be quiet for a few weeks," he said enigmatically. I furrowed my brow at him.

"Why's that?" I asked.

He stared plainly at the monitors a long moment, then lowered his head and put the cowl on. With his eyes still directed at the floor, he answered, "They've got enough internal problems to worry about for now." I still had no idea what he was talking about, but I decided to leave it alone. I couldn't badger him for being vague and unhelpful when I was actively withholding information about Red Hood. I put on my cowl and pulled my hair out the back. "Ready?" he asked. I nodded in the affirmative. I followed him out on my motorcycle. Ince we were on main roads, I swerved my bike around the Batmobile and jetted ahead. When I made my way downtown to a quiet edge of Bleake Island, I tucked my motorcycle away in an abandoned alcove and enabled its security. From there, I swung onto the rooftops and found a place to perch myself and watch over the bodega Two Face's men were likely to attack tonight.

It was a small shop called Bianchi's, owned by an Italian family. To the neighborhood, it was an institution; tucked into the first floor of one of the brownstone buildings with virtually no signage, it had been around for the better part of a century, passing from father to son to grandson. The current owner and operator was Mario Bianchi. Mario wasn't exactly clean; he'd lost all his money betting on dog fights. But he was in a gambling addicts group at the local YMCA, and it seemed like he was working hard to keep his son in his life after a very messy divorce. He'd made mistakes for sure, but that didn't mean he didn't deserve protection for Two-Face's goons.

I sat perched on the rooftop for two hours. I watched Mario close shop at 11pm and walk home one block away. I wondered if Two-Face's men would hit the place and steal his inventory, but I couldn't imagine Harvey being content with a haul of soft drinks and duffel bags filled with single serving pouches of various chips of the -ito family (you know, Cheetos, Fritos, Doritos, etc.). That was all Bianchi's offered, besides mediocre lunch sandwiches made fresh daily.

At 12:30, I realized that I'd probably gotten the timing off; his men weren't coming tonight. I felt like I'd wasted my time. I hit on my communication device and called to Batman.

"Batman, you copy?"

"Did you take down Two-Face's men?" he asked.

"Negative. I don't think they're coming tonight," I answered. "The shop's already closed, and I saw the owner take his deposits for the day. Even if they robbed the place, they wouldn't get anything."

"Perhaps the other bodega," he suggested.

"The one on Founder's Island? I don't know… that one's better lit, more of a cop presence since it's close to Port Adams. I thought he'd save that one for last," I speculated, but I began making my way towards the edge of the roof.

"Go ahead and check. I'm arriving in Old Gotham now, tracking some of Penguin's men. I'm going to see if they lead me to Croc," he explained. I smiled a little to myself at the update- it was nice to know what he was doing.

"Got it. Call if you need anything," I said, and the comm device silenced. I turned the communicator off as I leapt over rooftops towards Founder's Island and the final bodega Two-Face would be targeting. The bodega was on the south side of the island, near the bridges leading to Miagini Island. I was just about to round the west corner of the island when something near Port Adams caught my eye. I froze on the rooftop and looked down to see two men huddled quietly together just outside the locked down doors of the port. As they whispered to each other, the metal doors slid open silently. The two hurried through them, and the doors closed again.

Black Mask.

Though his operation had mostly vacated Central Gotham and pushed towards Old Gotham, my research had revealed that he still had some shipments flowing in and out of Port Adams. Though Batman and I had been watchful of the area, we hadn't been able to find any traces of Black Mask's shipments.

Until tonight.

Port Adams was walled off from common traffic, but there was nothing blocking the airspace access. I glided into the port and landed as softly as I could on top of one of the stacks of shipping crates. The two men lingered by the door to the port authority office, peeking through the blinds.

"It's him, right?" the man in a black beanie asked, hugging his arms tightly around his chest as his partner rapped on the door.

"Yeah, it's him, Geordie, open up!" the partner shouted at the door. Through the window, I could see the port authority officer lethargically standing and walking to the door. He opened the door and waved the two men inside, sleepily walking back to his station. He ducked beneath the counter that held the TV, and when he came back into view he was holding a worn shoebox.

A shoebox.

Not exactly a sophisticated means of doing business, but that worn shoebox was how I wasn't able to trace any records of Black Mask's business online and why we didn't find anything in the crates throughout the dock. One of the men rustled through the box while the other hugged himself tightly and chatted with the port authority. The port authority had a sidearm, but he was lethargic enough that he'd be easy to incapacitate. I couldn't see any obvious firearms on either of Black Mask's men, but I was sure they had something tucked away. That meant I needed to swoop in quickly, disarm all three, incapacitate two, and keep one aware enough for an interrogation- hopefully one that would be easily cracked. My best bet would be the shivering man that kept his arms wrapped around his chest; perhaps it wasn't the cold that made his knees wobble.

As the men were turning to leave the port authority office, I perched myself on the edge of the shipping crate in preparation to attack. But as soon as the men opened the door, before I could launch myself towards them, a flicker of color popped over the wall sequestering Port Adams. On top of the wall, a man in jeans and denim jacket, covering a red hoodie sweatshirt, stood crouched, watching them. He took one second to assess the situation then leapt down into the three of them, thrusting a kick into the port authority officer's chest and sending him flying back into his office. As he turned to the remaining two officers, I lunged off the crates and into the fray.

I'd interrogate Black Mask's men another day. Everyone was getting a KO tonight, and this Red Hood was going out of business.

The Red Hood was already attacking one of Black Mask's men when I landed on the ground behind him and kneed him in the back, sending both to the ground. I grabbed the more timid of Black Mask's men by the shoulders and kneed him in the stomach before delivering a jab then cross, and finishing him by flipping him onto his back. Red Hood had just managed to get on his feet when I turned back to face him, and he cast a projectile towards me. I leaned back in time to watch it fly past my face, through the open door, and into the body of the port authority officer who was grabbing for his gun.

Wait… was that luck, or intended?

I stared at him as he turned one last time to the Black Mask henchman who'd fallen to the ground with him, and he delivered a swift downward punch on the man's head, knocking him unconscious. They were all unconscious, I could tell from the Detective Mode in my cowl. I pulled a batarang off my belt, rearing my arm backwards in preparation to take him out.

"Stop right there, Red Hood," I ordered as he'd prepared to punch the man again. He did as I ordered, his body freezing in the cold night air. "Put your hands up. This is over," I said, slowly reaching up to my communication device to turn it on. Batman would want to hear about this.

Just as my hand floated up, Red Hood spun around and grabbed my hand holding the batarang, disabling it. I headbutted him, the impact absorbing in my cowl, but he countered by pushing me down to the ground on my back. I used his momentum to continue the roll, flipping back over him and regaining my footing. He scurried to his feet and stood in a low fighting stance. "You're not slipping away this time," I said, raising my fists for the fight ahead. He didn't answer, still hiding behind the droop of his hoodie sweatshirt. I rushed him and the combat began.

We fought like we'd choreographed it. Each jab I took, he blocked; each counter he made, I blocked. The more we fought the more I realized it had to be Dick- I had sparred with him more than anyone else, and this man knew my fighting rhythm and tempo in ways that no one else could have known. It still didn't feel like Dick, but what other explanation could there be?

I threw up a round house kick which Red Hood caught under one arm, holding my thigh tightly between his bicep and his side. With laced fingers grabbing around his neck, I lifted my other leg around him and let my weight carry him back to the ground with me, throwing him over me and to the ground. When he landed with a heavy thud and forced exhale on the ground behind me, I noticed his hood had drooped back over his ears a bit. I hurried to my feet, eager to discover his identity and both prove myself right and wrong simultaneously.

"Stop," a call came from behind me, and a panic switch flipped when I registered whose voice it was. I turned around to see Nightwing jumping down from the port authority office roof and striding over to me. I knew my eyes were big with manic confusion. If it wasn't Dick… "You're not supposed to be here," he said to me with a heavy shake of his head.

"What?" I asked incredulously. What I'd wanted to ask was, 'what the fuck is going on?' But that was too many syllables to manage at this moment.

"You're supposed to be working on Two-Face," he said, stepping past me towards Red Hood. I grabbed his bicep and forced him to turn back to face me again.

"I'm sorry- what?" I demanded again, feeling my face flush red with anger.

"It's cool, I'm good," a strained voice said from behind Dick. Wait… I knew that voice…

Dick lowered his gaze, almost looking disappointed, as Red Hood stood up, dusting the mud and slushy dirt from his jacket before brushing the hood off the top of his head. It revealed a scruffy mess of black hair, and the face that looked back at mine had reopened his busted lip and looked uncomfortably back at me with a forced smile.

"You can't tell Batman," Dick ordered me as I stared, stunned, into the youthful face of Jason Todd.