Takes place July 4th, second month of Dick and Damian's time as the Dynamic Duo.

Disclaimer: Star-Spangled and Saint Nick are of my own creation. Everything else belongs to DC Comics.

II. Red, Black, and Blue

His feet hit against the rooftop. He immediately tucked into a roll, shifting to his feet once more and continuing his pursuit. The soles of his boots were designed for silence, but even then a distinct thud came with every footfall. He internally groaned, noting how it was always much harder to stay in stealth mode while running. Of course, stealth at the moment wasn't as imperative as usual, as the criminal he was facing already knew he was there.

And by that, Batman meant that Robin very much did not appreciate stealth. Yet another thing that they would have to work on. (It seemed the list was always growing.)

He could see Robin ahead of him, three rooftops separating them, and Dick idly wondered if Bruce had allowed the bright colors of the Robin suit just so that he could easily keep an eye on them. Dick found that it was actually quite effective, and he was glad Damian had gone with a solid yellow cape (unlike the black and yellow that Tim had used). On the other hand, he shouldn't have to find Damian. The brat was supposed to stay with him, and had instead decided to chase down the villain by himself. And Dick was having to push himself at a brutal pace just to keep up (it was impossibly hard to run when he was wearing a Kevlar ball-gown).

This was not going well.

To make matters worse, the villain that they were chasing was new to the scene and there weren't any files on him in any of the Batcomputer, Birds of Prey, or League databases. He was unpredictable, and could have very well been trained by professionals. Dick had ordered Damian to stay close, and they would scout out the villain's abilities from a safe distance, but, of course, the brat had to go against orders and rush into things without thinking and-

Damn. Were all Robins going to be like that? No wonder Bruce had had so many rules for them.

As he pushed his legs to work faster, he propelled himself forward, reviewing the facts as he went. The villain they were hunting down went by the name Star-Spangled, or something else as completely ridiculous, and was one of the many 'holiday-themed' villains that seemed to congregate in Gotham (really, it's not like Superman ever had to fight Saint Nick on Christmas, or Scarecrow on Halloween, or, hell, even Poison Ivy on Arbor Day). This particular villain was taking advantage of the huge supply of fireworks that Gotham City always had shipped in for the big 4th of July celebration (if Dick had learned anything about Gotham, it was that they always threw the biggest parties to make up for all the death). Star-Spangled, or whatever the hell his name was, used military-grade explosives to simulate fireworks, and had already killed several dozen people.

He saw Robin disappear over the edge of a building, landing down in a road right on the edge of Crime Alley. Narrowing his eyes, Dick leaped forward and closed the distance between them. Lunging off the side of the roof, he swooped down in classic Batman fashion and found Robin surrounded by a horde of thugs. Dick landed on the shoulders of a burly goon, sending his face smashing against the concrete, before he followed through with his momentum and nailed another square in the chest with both his feet.

There were seventeen thugs, none of them armed, but they were gathering bits of scattered trash to use as weapons. Two of the attackers were already down for the count, blood pooling around their heads from where they had been smashed against the dumpster, while Damian was facing off against another five. The rest spotted Dick and immediately ganged up on him. From what he could tell, they weren't hired by any of the main Gotham crime bosses, and, if the stars sewed onto the shoulders of their shirts were anything to go by, they must have been hired by Star-Spangled (who was now nowhere to be found).

Even if Dick and Damian were well-trained, if they didn't play it safe, the sheer number of their attackers would overwhelm them. They would have to fight smart, not like the furious way that Robin was. Dick suppressed a groan at the kid's tenacity, before dodging a punch thrown his way and sweeping the legs out from under one of his opponents. They couldn't afford a drawn out fight, which meant fighting fast and dirty. Truthfully, Dick was perfectly fine with that. If he couldn't take out his frustration with Damian on Damian, why not on the scum of the Earth?

One of the thugs lashed out for a vicious kick aimed at Dick's side, and he retaliated by grabbing the limb and twisting it harshly, sending the man to the ground with a loud snap and a screech of pain. He wouldn't be getting up anytime soon. There were still nine attackers on him. Dick would have to speed things up. He landed a series of crippling blows on one thug, before wrapping his legs around another and flipping them to land on the man's head. Following through with a brutal scissor kick, he knocked out two more men, nearly snapping the neck of one.

Five of Dick's attackers were left. A blow landed heavily against Dick's ribcage, sending a rattling effect through his lungs. Two of the hired hands had found some lead pipes along the alley, and Dick knew from experience that piping actually made surprisingly good weapons, and he would no doubt have a nasty bruise later. He knocked the piping out of one goon's hand, before hitting him right in the temple and sending him crumpling to the ground. Strong arms wrapped around his neck, squeezing his airway painfully and lifting him a few inches off the ground.

The remaining thugs circled around him, one landing a blow right to his solar plexus and driving the air from his lungs, while the second goon with the lead pipe smacked him across the jaw. Supporting his body's weight with the grip around his neck, Dick lifted his feet off the concrete and kicked a guy into the brick wall of the alleyway, just as a ball of red, yellow, and green fury leapt out of nowhere and tackled another. He threw his entire weight up and around, flipping so that he ended up behind his attacker. Dick twisted his arm behind his back and kicked the popliteal region of his knees so that he collapsed to the ground.

Damian was handling the final guy, relentlessly bashing the thug's face in until it was practically indistinguishable. Even when it was apparent that the thug was down for good, the ten-year-old didn't cease his vicious assault. Dick clenched his jaw, before stepping over to the boy and lifting him up by his cape, effectively separating him from his victim (and that was why it was mandatory for all Robins to have capes).

"Enough," Dick ordered, forcibly reminding himself that Damian was still new to the no-killing rule and that he needed time to learn how to temper his blows.

"Tt," the boy breathed out, slapping Batman's hand from his cape. "I had the situation under control."

"You were going to kill that man," the new Dark Knight crossed his arms.

"I was going to kill all of them," Robin corrected coldly.

"We don't kill," he forced out, his teeth grinding painfully in his effort to keep his temper in check.

"They didn't even have any information!" Damian exclaimed angrily. "It's pointless to keep them alive!"

"Pointless?" Dick scoffed harshly. "The point is that we don't stoop to their level!" his voice raised to meet the volume of Robin's.

"My method works better," the boy spat, bringing himself to his full height.

"As long as you wear that tunic and work under the name of the Bat, you will respect your father's method," Batman growled, looming over his young protégé with as much threat as he could.

It was sorely ineffective.

"My father is dead!" Robin screeched, and Dick couldn't help but notice that it was not with the desperation of an orphan, but rather with the anger of a broken child. "And I am not going to waste my time with his pathetic replacement!"

"So what? Are you going to go rogue and wear the cowl yourself?" Dick scoffed venomously, giving into the anger that was boiling over. "In case you haven't noticed, kid, you're still a bit too short for the Batsuit!" he held out a hand a few inches over the boy's head to emphasize his point.

"And you're not!" Damian snarled hotly. "You practically have to use stilts just to see out the optics lens, you gypsy swine!"

"At least I can go on all the big kid rides, ungrateful brat!"

"Tt. I have no tolerance for your piteous attempts to be worthy of the cowl!" At that, Damian turned on his heel and fired his grappling gun, launching himself up onto the roof of a nearby building.

"Get back here, Robin!" Dick ordered, practically straining his voice from the volume of his shout.

But there was no reply, not even an ill-tempered scoff, as the boy disappeared over the edge of the building's roof. The kid would no doubt continue after Star-Spangled, even if all the variables were too unknown to estimate the result. Damian was no fool, but he often jumped into a fight before assessing the situation. Dick couldn't follow the brat, as there were seventeen defeated thugs that took precedence, beyond even the urge to hunt down his rogue partner and ensure his safety (and that he was properly punished).

Hopefully, the brat wouldn't get himself killed before Dick could find him.

"Well, at least ya got the 'Dynamic' part down," one of the goons, the only one still conscious, remarked dryly from where he was propped up against a brick wall.

Batman narrowed his eyes venomously, turning his head slowly to glare whole-heartedly at the thug's audacity. His fist drove right into the man's already battered face quickly and efficiently, before he grabbed him by the collar of his shirt and dragged him away to a more convenient interrogation area. In that moment, Dick knew that he was easily as terrifying as Bruce had ever been.

He really hated sassy criminals; and Robins, for that matter.

Grayson was not worthy of the cowl. Some insipid, loathsome, primitive fool did not deserve the right to bear his father's mantle; the gypsy filth hardly deserved to wipe the dirt off Damian's boots. He was soft, careless, and altogether pathetic. No doubt Grayson would die within the month, leaving Damian to rise to his true destiny without the moron around to slow him down. Damian found he rather liked the sound of that. No Grayson around to scold him for being a good fighter, no Grayson around to nag him to 'be a better person', and no Grayson around to ruin the reputation Father had built.

That being said, Damian was no idiot, and he knew a useful soldier when he saw one. And Damian, if nothing else, trusted his father's opinions. If Father had trusted Grayson for the past fifteen years (trusted him the most, nonetheless), then Damian figured the circus orphan would have to do. Damian reasoned that Grayson was also the only one of Father's strays that was satisfactory for keeping the cowl warm until Damian himself could inherit it. Grayson was at least better than Todd or, heaven forbid, Drake.

That didn't make Damian any happier with the situation, though.

Grayson was nearly as bad as Father had been. Neither of them put any amount of trust in Damian, and it was beginning to grate on his already frayed nerves. He was Robin. That meant that Batman (regardless of it being the lesser replacement) should trust him. They were supposed to be partners, the Dynamic Duo. But how were they supposed to do that if Grayson insisted on Damian tempering his blows, weakening his fighting prowess, playing the same silly game that had cost his father (and Todd) their lives?

It was stupid. And Damian was sick of Grayson's games.

So he would do this on his own, and Damian would prove that he was the true heir to the Bat Mantle.

His target was pathetic at hiding his trail, especially to one such as Damian who had been trained by professionals. It wasn't hard for the boy to locate the route that the idiotic villain had taken, and soon Damian found himself racing across rooftops with a distinct feeling of freedom as the wind whipped past his cape and hood. He refused to call the sensation joy or happiness, as those sort of feelings were beneath him, but he was aware that it certainly wasn't an unpleasant feeling.

Damian liked being Robin. Being Batman would've been better, but Damian was, at the very least, occupied with his current role. It gave him the chance to prove himself, while at the same time offering experience for what he would one day become. Mother had never allowed him much field experience, and the chance to hunt down criminals and put them in their place was far more gratifying than mere training.

A shadow at the edge of his vision caught his eye, and Damian immediately zeroed in on the figure. Thin and gangly, with just enough muscle to seem threatening, Star-Spangled was an unknown variable in Robin's solo pursuit of purging the city. But that wouldn't stop the Boy Wonder from taking down Gotham's latest psychopath.

Star-Spangled seemed to be headed for the roof of the "C" Building, a cluster of three high-rises that housed many members of Gotham's high-society. None of them were anywhere near the prestige of the Wayne family, but they were the gaggles of rich citizens that seemed to flock at every societal party, every high-class charity, and every promising business meeting. Robin assumed Star-Spangled was yet another lower-class Gothamite, looking to take out his anger on the rich, blaming them for his own misfortunes as if they had personally bestowed them upon him.

It was a common occurrence in Gotham.

Damian leaped off the edge of a twenty story building, allowing the weight of gravity to tug at him for a fraction of a second before firing his grappling gun and expertly swinging around. He aimed for the roofs around him, steadily growing taller until he was able to reach the roof of the "C" Building, where Star-Spangled had since disappeared. One last well-timed swing brought Robin to the top of his target building, and he rolled silently as his feet touched the concrete of the roof.

An industrial air conditioning unit, humming jaggedly and adding to the ceaseless cacophony of the city, provided a sufficient cover for the young boy as he crouched right at the edge of Star-Spangled's awareness. Peeking around the metal of the AC, Robin pinpointed his target, and was displeased to see that the villain was not alone. Damian was just close enough that he could make out the harsh murmurings from the criminal and his trio of henchmen, but the voices were too distant and muffled by the air conditioning for him to discern. He muttered a near-silent curse at himself for choosing such a regrettable hiding place.

Star-Spangled was average in build, with limbs that would've appeared lanky had the lean muscles not been accentuated by the man's horribly colorful red, white, and blue blazer (although, once Damian got his hands on the villain, he would be more like red, black, and blue). Aside from the blazer, which was highly reminiscent of the American flag, Star-Spangled wore a pair of black jeans, reinforced at the knees with what looked like military-grade revisions, and lightweight boots that were nearly as high-grade as Damian's own. The henchmen around him, burly men with rippling muscles and calculated scowls, were less extravagantly dressed, but sported firearms that seemed to be of a high-caliber.

They may have been new to Gotham, but Star-Spangled and his men were certainly not new to the business. That being said, they were nothing compared to Damian. He had been trained by the League of Assassins, by the best of the best, and he could surely handle a few minor criminals.

With that thought in mind, Robin rolled from his hiding place, twisting and letting several batarangs slice through the air. They hit their targets with precision, knocking the guns from the henchmen's hands before they could so much as pull their triggers. Damian left his opponents no time to regroup, and was quickly leaping right at Star-Spangled. His steel-toed boot connected with the man's jaw, bashing his head viciously to the side, and Robin followed through with an elbow to his collarbone.

Before his elbow could make contact, a roughly calloused hand wrapped around his ankle and yanked him down, smacking his back and head against the concrete of the "C" Building's roof. A solid punch was delivered to his ribcage, driving all the air from his lungs. He quickly flipped to his feet, narrowly dodging yet another blow aimed for his head, and slid between the legs of the meatiest thug. Damian rolled to his feet and struck right at the man's crotch, receiving a satisfying groan of pain before he followed his momentum and delivered a kick that all but shattered the thug's kneecap.

The second thug, less meaty than the first, but with a greater advantage of height, managed to snag Damian's cape, pulling the boy in for a merciless beat down. Damian fell back, nearly losing his footing, only to push off the ground and flip over the man. He planted his feet right at the henchman's lower back and used his cape to pull backwards and strangle his opponent. Just before the second thug passed out from lack of air, the third made his move.

A nasty strike to the back of his head left a ringing in Damian's ears, and his body was thrown to the side from the blow. He rolled with the force of his momentum, swiveling onto his feet at the last second, just as a round of bullets crushed the concrete where he had just been. Damian cursed under his breath. Dropping several smoke pellets, he weaved through the cover of the fog, using the thermal vision built into his mask eyelets to help him see.

But it seemed as if Star-Spangled was better prepared than Damian had suspected. Without any hesitation, the three thugs switched to their own thermal visioning and convened on the Boy Wonder from different directions. Damian was able to land a solid kick to one's knee and a single blow to another's nose, no doubt breaking it, but an elbow slammed into the nape of his neck caused him to lose his focus. He stumbled ever so slightly, nearly pitching forward onto his face, and his vision tunneled sharply.

Strong hands grasped him by his arms, while a steel-toed boot lashed out to the back of his knees and forced him to kneel. Someone yanked back his hood and grabbed a fistful of his hair (he would have to get it cut again; it was supposed to be too short to grasp) and twisted his head back at a painful angle. By wiggling the slightest bit, Damian could tell that the pressure holding down his limbs was too much for him to escape from. A string of curses, in several languages, flashed through his mind, and he grit his teeth in both anger and pain.

Star-Spangled stood before him, towering over the boy in all of his villainous glory and no doubt with a long-winded spiel on its way. Damian resisted the urge to roll his eyes, but allowed for a short exasperated huff of breath. All of Gotham's villains were the same: they would kidnap/tie up/apprehend/etc. the Dynamic Duo (or at least half of it), and then they would waste their time giving a speech and allowing Batman and/or Robin to escape. All Robin had to do was let the man talk himself to death and then make his move. Simple as that.

Or, it would've been, had Star-Spangled been the 'villainous spiel' type. Unfortunately, Damian found that the week's psycho was not. The reticent man gave a nod to his lackeys, who immediately began to bind Robin's arms and legs while still maintaining a bruising grip on him. They stretched out his limbs spread-eagle, tying the far ends of the rope to the multitude of faculty units that dotted the "C" Building's roof. He was held up only by the ropes, and he could tell that right behind him, the roof stopped and gave way to a drop of over forty stories.

"Sorry to hit and run," Star-Spangled offered unapologetically, his voice so annoyingly casual it made Damian want to spit in his face. "But I've got more to worry about than just you, Boy Wonder," he continued, standing before the tied up hero as his henchmen set up something behind him. The villain glanced over his shoulder and let out a whimsical giggle, prancing over to what looked like a comically oversized firework.

It was pointed right at Damian.

"You know what they say," he went on nonchalantly, lighting a match and watching it in awe for a split-second. "Out with a bang," Star-Spangled chuckled, before setting fire to the fuse that would detonate the firework. "Bye-bye, birdie," the villain gave an extravagant bow, before he and his henchmen disappeared through the service hatch into the building (Damian was pleased to notice that two of the thugs were limping severely).

He was not, however, pleased to see the angry red rocket-like contraption pointed at him, the flame quickly getting closer and closer to the main fuse. The boy set to work immediately, twisting his hands and feet in an attempt to loosen the binds. The henchmen had used sturdy knots, the kind used in the military and such, and had tied them sufficiently tight enough that Damian couldn't quite reach the lock-picking tools stored in his gloves.

Panic threatened to rise up, and he promptly pushed it down. He could escape. He had from much worse before. A bit of rope was nothing compared to the death contraptions he had been locked into in previous adventures. But his vision was still dangerously darkened, his head swam from the torrent of blows he had received, and his adversaries had been competent enough to put him in a situation where his various gadgets were all but useless.

A quick glance at the firework confirmed his fears. The fuse was unbearably shorter than he had last seen. If anything, the flame seemed to be traveling even quicker than before. Damian redoubled his efforts, tugging uselessly at the ropes that bound his limbs. Sweat beaded on his forehead, and he forcibly told himself that it was merely from the heat and the smog of the city. Panic would not help him escape. He needed to stay calm.

Of course, that was much easier when an explosive rocket wasn't pointed at him.

The fuse was exceptionally short. Damian's wrists hurt from yanking and twisting. He was growing more desperate (he had even dislocated one of his wrists in an effort to escape). The rocket was going to launch right into him and then explode. It would probably kill him, if Star-Spangled's apparent pyromaniac tendencies were as serious as Damian believed.

He had once promised himself that he would look death dead in the eye and scoff at it. That was surprisingly hard to do when death came in the form of the 4th of July.

Damian couldn't look at the firework, and he found himself squeezing his eyes shut. What a horrid way to go. Death by firework. It was going to be even more humiliating than Todd's death had been. Robin grit his teeth and mentally cursed, trying once more to free any of his limbs. His legacy, his reputation, would be worse than Todd's.

That, he decided, was the worst fate he could ever imagine.

There was a bang. Damian's heart stopped in his chest. He forgot how to breathe. His body went rigid. It was all over. Here lies Damian Wayne, Boy Wonder of a mere three weeks. May he rest in pieces.

Nothing happened.

The world was frozen for several drawn out moments.

"I'm debating how long I should let you think you're going to die," an annoyingly familiar voice remarked, amusement coloring a tone that should've been anything but.

Damian's eyes flew open, instantly locking onto the idiotic smirk that was settled on the face mere inches from his own. Batman was looking far too pleased with himself, and Robin quite frankly would rather have blown up than have been faced with his current predicament. Glancing around the Dark Knight, Damian could see the over-sized firework, completely doused and no longer threatening to explode, while an unconscious and tied up Star-Spangled was sporting a few nasty bruises from where he groaned on the ground.

"You let the henchmen get away," Robin retaliated.

Batman's eyes narrowed, and his shoulders tightened almost imperceptibly, before he rolled his eyes and let out a sigh of exasperation, his stance relaxing considerably. "At least I'm not the damsel in distress this time," Grayson joked casually, his smirk growing insufferably.

"I am not a damsel," Damian spat.

"Okay," the fool shrugged easily, turning away from his young partner and going to collect the apprehended villain. "Guess that means you don't need any help getting home?"

Robin's mood soured impossibly more, and his face settled into a scowl so deep it would've impressed even the grotesque likes of Two-Face. At that moment, a heavy barrage of fireworks decided to launch themselves into the air over Gotham Harbor, no doubt the finale for the over-zealous firework display the city threw every year (regarded as one of the best in the country). Damian flinched from the noise before he could even identify it, and then proceeded to inwardly curse his weakness.

"Grayson!" he snapped irritably at the man's retreating back. "Get back here, you insufferable simpleton!"

Batman offered a friendly wave over his shoulder and a playful "Happy 4th of July, brat!" before hopping from the edge of the building and disappearing.

"Dammit, Grayson!"

A/N: Awww. Aren't they just so adorable? HAPPY 4TH OF JULY MY WONDERFUL FELLOW AMERICANS! AND HAPPY BIRTHDAY AMERICA! For those of you who aren't American, I hope you still enjoyed this chapter, and I hope you all had a great (normal) day!

I was going to have Dick and Damian go to Gotham's July 4th Extravaganza, but then I realized that they've only been together for three weeks (in my personal headcanon timeline), and that Damian would never agree to go (yet). This was my compromise.

Thank you so very much to everyone that reviewed/favorited/added/etc. my story! You all are so wonderful!

Hope you all enjoyed this chapter!

Please leave me a review!

XOXO,

~Gossip Girl

…er…I mean…PNGuin…