Chapter Text
“This is the worst idea you’ve ever had.”
Jason didn’t look up from the controls, but Dick could see the amused spasm of his mouth. “You’re really saying that. To me.”
“Yes.”
“Out loud. To me. During our brotherly bonding trip.”
Dick’s eyes narrowed. “You think an escort mission is brotherly bonding?”
“Being locked up together in space for a week?” Jason asked. His eyes flicked over to Dick. “Yeah. It’s that or the alternative.”
“Lord of the Flies?”
“Lord of the Flies,” Jason agreed. His teeth flashed in the near-darkness of the cockpit. “You know me so well.”
Dick rolled his eyes. He leaned back in his seat, wincing as the persistent ache in his lower back made itself known. Again. “You have three copies of it at home in your room.”
“First of all…” Jason spared precious time to turn away from the controls, smirking at his brother. He held up one finger. “Having three copies doesn’t mean shit. Second, I love how you’re tiptoeing around the implication that we’d spear-murder each other in the right context.”
“You don’t have a spear,” Dick pointed out. Jason raised an unimpressed eyebrow, channeling Alfred in all but name.
“Don’t I?” he asked, wiggling his hands. Dick rolled his eyes again, turning away.
A few minutes of silence passed, companionable only in the sense that it had not, yet, been broken by the inevitability of their next conversation.
“Airspace is closed, Dickie,” Jason said under his breath, good humor flowing out of his voice and posture like blood from a gushing head wound. “Comms are down because of that solar flare we clipped. It’s this, or we try and land B’s second-favorite baby around a few ICBMs. We can’t orbit forever. We’ll burn through our fuel reserves and get stuck up here.”
“The ship is cloaked,” Dick pointed out, picking up the threads of their original argument. “B flew this through active warzones before. No one saw or heard a thing.”
Even to his own ears, the argument sounded weak. Modern radar might overlook one of Bruce’s vaunted ships, especially in a warzone, but there was a vast difference between the confusion of a battlefield, and a complete closure of global airspace. And the longer the corresponding groundstop was in place, the more twitchy governments would get.
“I don’t know about you,” Jason said, following along with Dick’s silent assessment. His expression had darkened, taking on some of Bruce’s grimness. “But I don’t like to gamble like that. Not with our lives, at least.”
Dick nodded, taking the point with a hitched swallow. “We know what B would say.”
That made Jason rock back against his seat with a snort. “Yeah, he’d tell us to ditch this on the moon, camp out, and call it a day.”
There was another pause, silence stretching between them in the small cockpit. Dick took the opportunity to glance down at their course on the co-pilot interface, studying their destination.
“The way he talks about it…”
Jason’s expression tightened. “I know.”
“It can’t be much safer.”
“Safer than getting blown out of the sky by a nuke?”
Dick set his jaw, sliding a tongue across his upper teeth. “Yeah.”
“Yeah?”
The console beeped. Dick looked up through the transparent canopy, spotting a familiar outline hanging in the inky, unmeasurable field of space.
Bruce’s influence was obvious in every line of the Justice League Watchtower. It was every bit as sleek and intimidating as his other products. But it didn’t belong to him. Not truly.
The console beeped a second time, indicating a docking path. Jason jabbed at the screen, accepting the coordinates.
“If we lay low, no one will notice us,” Dick started, more for his own benefit than Jason’s. “As soon as airspace opens back up over Gotham, we hightail it out of here.”
Jason grunted. “And if they do notice us?”
Dick didn’t need to respond. They both knew the answer to that question.
In a stroke of luck, the Watchtower docking system pushed them through to an automated berthing, having already flagged the ship as Justice League property. Even so, Dick could tell that the easy docking rankled something in both of them. Their current ship -- one of Bruce’s lightest hybrid spacecraft -- had never docked on the Watchtower before. To Dick’s knowledge, it had never even left Gotham.
In a sea of berthed, sleek ships, clearly reproduced from Bruce’s earlier prototypes, it didn’t stick out. That much, Dick could be grateful for.
“Mask, weapons, belt?” Dick asked Jason as they stood in front of the airlock.
Jason tapped his domino mask, then the edges of his jaw where the full rebreather and modulator was stored when not deployed. He wiggled his gloved hands again in Dick’s direction, earning himself an eyeroll, and then set them on his holsters, attached to a wide, compartmented belt that mirrored Bruce’s in everything but color.
He’d wisely foregone the Bat symbol on his chest armor. Dick gave him a nod.
“Mask, weapons, belt?”
Dick tapped his own domino, rolled his shoulders back to show the tops of his electrified escrima sticks holstered between his shoulder blades, then let a hand fall to his belt. It was thinner than Bruce and Jason’s belts for the sake of agility, but no less stocked. On their paired missions, Jason carried the majority of their medical supplies and rations, but Dick’s belt contained two backup rebreathers, a portable AED that could be charged by his escrima sticks, and three different types of neutralizing cuffs.
“Good,” Jason said gruffly. He glanced at the airlock. “Want to do a mad minute?”
“We’ve been together for the last week.”
“Then it should be quick,” Jason rebutted. He had instincts like that sometimes, the same way Bruce did, so Dick inclined his head, agreeing.
“I’m at operational capacity. No known injuries or illnesses. To the best of my knowledge, I was not followed here. My objective for this mission is stealth. Successful completion of this mission is safe return of all agents to Gotham with the assigned ship. Adequate completion of this mission would be safe return of all agents to Gotham by other means. PACE communication for this mission is as follows: Primary, in-ear comms. Alternative, gauntlet comm messaging. Contingency, coded communications via existing JL messaging networks. Emergency, beacon in heel. Mission locations in order: Target, Batman quarters. Secondary, JL cafeteria. Tertiary, ship berthing.”
Dick waited patiently as Jason repeated the same back to him, checking the time on his gauntlet comm. At the end, they’d hit 47 seconds exactly, evidence of how seamless their operating relationship had become in recent years.
“B?
Jason’s mouth flattened into a line. “We’ll evaluate extraction options.”
They both knew, again, what wasn’t being said. Dick took a breath, then jabbed at the airlock release button.
They’d both taken time during travel to review Bruce’s classified documentation of the Watchtower levels. Slipping into the main lines near the entrance was fairly easy; even so, they kept their heads down, proceeding exactly as the heroes and sidekicks ahead of them. When it came time to scan their credentials, Dick palmed a blank keycard over to Jason, holding his own out for visual confirmation by the attendant.
Both keycards scanned without issue. For a man who’d all but forbidden them to step foot on the Watchtower, even in an emergency, Bruce had fully fleshed out alternate identities for each of them. Nightwing scanned as Graham Wilson from Bludhaven, with no mention of Gotham or Batman. Red Hood scanned as a Gotham hero -- it was, ultimately, hard to avoid -- but also as a separate entity working embedded within mob operations. Neither of them received more than a glance from the Watchtower staff and security as they entered.
Jason flashed a handsign to Dick as they entered the Watchtower proper. Eyes on. Dick cleared his throat, indicating he’d noticed the same thing. Every single corner, nook, and cranny of the primary floors was under high quality surveillance -- audio, video, and, if Dick had to guess, infrared as well. Stealth, in this case, didn’t mean remaining unseen, but rather, blending in without notice.
As they passed through the first floor lobby, Dick spotted a wall of screens off to the side, tuned to various Earth news channels. Superman was mid-speech to the UN on what looked like a live feed. The next screen displayed an empty map of American airspace. The rest contained similar coverage from around the world.
Dick made eye contact with Jason out of the corner of his mask, flashing another sign low and near his hip. Go primary?
Jason gave a subtle nod of his chin. They both headed for the residential elevators, choosing the correct one -- for junior heroes -- that had been carefully picked out in Bruce’s schematics.
Dick scanned his keycard. Jason waited until a few more sidekicks had scanned theirs before inputting his own. To his surprise, they were both assigned quarters on the same floor, only a few doors down from each other. There was no point in reading into the decision, but it still felt like an intentional choice on Bruce’s end. There were negatives to grouping undercover operatives together -- higher chances of suspicion or detection -- but there was, admittedly, a benefit he could feel had guided Bruce’s hand.
Closer together meant they had each other. And, ultimately, it meant that evacuation was faster and more efficient. In the blink of an eye, Bruce could have them on a ship and back into the depths of space within seconds, instead of minutes.
And, Dick thought to himself. It makes you feel better to have all your ducklings in one place, doesn’t it? Another strange instinct Bruce had demonstrated several times across Dick’s vigilante career.
They proceeded to their separate quarters without incident. Once inside, Dick locked his door, activating sleep mode with a switch above the lock. He sat down on the bed, admiring the thick comforter and soft, expensive sheets underneath.
JL standard issue. Decidedly not Bruce’s influence. Before he could pursue that line of thought, Dick’s wrist buzzed with an incoming message from Jason’s gauntlet comm.
Secure?
Dick typed back a reply. The next message came even faster than the first.
Primary.
Dick glanced around the room, under no impression that he was alone or unobserved. He pretended to stretch, evaluating his options.
Jammer underneath sink unit. Then proceed.
When Jason replied in the affirmative, Dick stood, beginning the pretense of undressing. As he pulled his belt from his waist, he activated the jammer inside the second pocket, tossing it under the small sink that separated the bathroom and bedroom.
As the silent timer counted down, Dick splayed out across the bed, closing his eyes and making a show of falling asleep. When the jammer had fully activated, he picked his belt off the floor, replacing it around his waist.
His comm buzzed three times in succession, noting the neutralization of three corresponding recording devices. The looped footage would stay active for at least the next eight hours. He marked the time on his comm, just in case they needed to return and repeat the charade all over again.
As they’d discussed on the ship, Dick headed for the slim closet tucked away behind the door. With some maneuvering, he eventually found the hidden switch under one of the shelves. When he depressed it, the closet wall opened, revealing the evacuation hatch.
On one hand, Dick was surprised Bruce hadn’t simply rigged their rooms to evacuate directly to the docking bay. On the other, he prayed the quick note Bruce had left on the shafts -- lead shielded -- remained accurate.
They met up in Bruce’s quarters, no small feat, considering the numerous levels they’d had to shimmy through to reach the Founder residential levels. Dick entered first, clearing the room with his jammer just in case Bruce’s quarters were also under surveillance.
Jason popped out of the shaft a minute after him, scowling under his mask. He’d had to squeeze much more than Dick, one of several drawbacks to his greater bulk.
Clear? he signed at Dick, who nodded.
“Yeah.”
“Jesus,” Jason said, lowering his hood to run a hand through his sweaty hair. “I’ve had more fun trekking through Gotham sewers than that.”
“No you didn’t,” Dick said absentmindedly, still scanning the room around them. “Does this feel…smaller than the other quarters?”
Jason grunted. “Founders have suites. The attached rooms are probably larger.”
“But there’s no doors.” Dick’s eyes narrowed. He gestured at the bathroom and sink. “This is even smaller than my quarters.”
“Big enough to sit tight, though,” Jason said, not quite agreeing or disagreeing. “It was your idea to hide out here. You said it would be--”
Dick tuned him out, stepping closer to the bed. He yanked up the corner of the comforter, revealing a far thinner mattress than the one assigned to his quarters. Even the sheets seemed lower quality. Cheaper and -- quite obvious to anyone who knew Bruce -- completely unused.
“He doesn’t sleep here,” Dick surmised. Jason grunted, already halfway through the cabinets and closet -- all, presumably, empty.
“Where does he sleep, then?”
“I don’t think he sleeps at all.” Dick rubbed the edges of the comforter between his fingers, ill at ease. “Maybe it’s by choice.”
They both let that hang in the intervening silence, neither of them believing it. Not really.
Finally, Jason spoke.
“Permission to change mission parameters?”
Dick’s heart began to race inside his chest.
For a Justice League Founder and, functionally, the highest-ranked tactician on the Watchtower, Batman was impossible to track down by his own system. Even when Dick used one of Bruce’s backup access keys to the mainframe, he wasn’t listed like his fellow Founders. This, Dick assumed as the pit in his stomach widened, was likely intentional.
According to the system, Green Lantern was currently in Founder Sparring Room #7 on the first level. Superman and Wonder Woman had reserved a conference room just adjacent to the main meeting hall. Green Arrow had been remanded to the medbay on injured reserve, having sustained an injury even Bruce’s key couldn’t access key details of. Flash was sleeping in his quarters, scheduled for a sleep cycle that ended in a few hours.
There was no indication of Batman’s current location, but Dick could guess. Between himself, Jason, and Bruce’s access to the surveillance systems, they had ruled out several options -- Bruce’s quarters, the main communal spaces in both wings of the Watchtower, the cafeteria, and the medbay. Everything else was either a Founder-only space, or a private suite.
Their objective switched to obtaining access to the Founder levels without being recognized. With Dick’s approval, Jason had infiltrated the cafeteria, making conversation with a few staff members who had been marked for maintenance and cleaning on the Founder levels. Dick listened in over comms as he sat in one of the lounges, pretending to watch the news on one of the overly-large screens. Junior heroes chatted in groups around him, discussing the global airspace closure with a kind of levity that struck Dick the wrong way.
Working in tandem, they managed to pickpocket a keycard from one of the staff members heading to the zeta tubes for transportation back to Earth. A desperate part of Dick considered them as a possible escape route; the rational tactician, the one that sounded like Bruce in the back of his mind, dismissed it immediately. Zetas were cued down to the very DNA. In the best case scenario, their departures would go unnoticed until the Zeta feedback was read. In the second-to-worst case scenario, the Zetas would be stopped mid-dematerialization. The worst case scenario didn't bear thinking about.
The elevator to the Founder Levels ascended so quickly, Dick had to purposefully clear his ears before they popped. Next to him, Jason exhaled roughly, likely doing the same thing.
They were dancing in the space between being fully covert, and being detected. The two of them were being recorded, there was no jamming the elevator itself without drawing attention, but those recordings weren’t being monitored by the very second. Especially not when they continued to blend in with the dozens of junior heroes and sidekicks on the Watchtower with them.
Once they were identified, the footage would be a smoking gun for whoever reviewed it. Their objective would likely be clear, and retracing their footsteps would be child’s play. Until then, being recorded was an inevitability. A liability, yes, but not an immediate one.
“Did you feel that?”
Dick looked up from his boots, eyebrows raising behind his mask. “What?”
“That weird gust of air when we got on.” Jason’s jaw tightened. Down by his hip, hidden partially by the corner of his jacket, he signed: Followed. ?
“Must be running the air conditioner extra high today,” Dick said, adding a burst of humor to his voice. “I swear it’s always cold up here. My toes are freezing.”
Behind his back, still in Jason’s line of sight, he signed: With us. ?
Jason’s fingers moved in a subtle so-so motion. Unclear.
“No kidding.”
The elevator beeped softly when they reached the Founder Levels. Dick took the opportunity while exiting the elevator to swap his lenses to infrared, scanning the interior with a brief swipe of his eyes.
Negative he signed to Jason, a closed fist by his side. Jason didn’t seem comforted by the response. His shoulders had been up near his ears since they’d first stepped foot on the Watchtower, even though the plan was his.
By mutual agreement, they’d chosen the first floor to begin their search. The level was comprised of sparring rooms, specialized gyms, and, to Dick’s surprise, a sprawling recovery room with hydrotherapy circuits, red light therapy booths, cold plunges, and a number of indulgences he didn’t even recognize.
Bruce limited all of his operatives to ice, heat, or foam rollers. Despite the jealousy growing in Dick’s chest as he glimpsed the therapy rooms, he understood why. It was hard to imagine Batman, coming off a rough mission, sitting waist deep in a hot tub. Or worse, entirely naked in a red light therapy booth. Both were watered down versions of the most effective therapy combination: heat and manual therapy. They also required a much larger time commitment.
According to Dick’s last check, there was only one room actively being used on this floor. It was especially strange considering how large the facilities were. The gym alone could have held thirty people easily, but it was entirely empty. The sparring rooms they passed were set up with clean towels and bottles of water, untouched except for the screens someone -- presumably maintenance -- had turned on.
The sparring room currently in-use was located at the very end of an empty hallway. The red light from the room sign covered the ceiling in an eerie glow.
Jason stopped in front of the door, glancing at Dick. Dick took a breath, then nodded, taking one final inventory of his escrima sticks and cuffs as his brother hit the admit button.
After a moment of silence, something hit the floor inside of the room. The door slid open shortly after, revealing a familiar figure. A heavy green ring hung from the middle finger of his right hand, flickering intermittently.
“Good,” Hal Jordan said, sweaty and slightly disheveled where he was leaning against the doorjamb. “They took forever to send you up. I told Admin I needed sparring partners two hours ago. Can you believe that?”
“Sparring partners,” Dick repeated, cringing as the words left his mouth. By some stroke of luck, Jordan clearly took the question as agreement.
“Yeah. Your predecessors are down in the medbay with Ollie playing hide the salami with each other, last time I heard.” Jordan’s waved them inside, teeth flashing in a mockery of a smile. “Come in, come in. You’re killing me with the innocent act. You’re both, what, Level 5? Level 6?”
“Something like that,” Jason said, giving Dick a look as they stepped inside. The door slid shut behind them with a soft click. The pit in Dick’s stomach continued to deepen.
“Alright.” Jordan stomped back to his sparring mat, dismissing them with a wave. “Big guy, sit on that bench. You’re on deck. Little guy, step up.”
Little guy? Dick thought, then realized -- in comparison to Jason -- that meant him. All six feet and 185 lbs of him. “Um. Right.”
“Step up,” Jordan repeated, clearly irritated. He waited until Dick approached the mat’s edge before continuing. “You’ve got, what. Sticks?”
Dick glanced at Jason out of the corner of his eye. It was an understatement, which might actually give him an edge of surprise. And that edge, up against a fully-powered Green Lantern, might be just enough to keep him from death or grievous injury. Barely.
It was a risk even Bruce wouldn’t take unless he absolutely had to. And, in a way, they did -- have to. Or they’d blow everything on the very first floor.
“Yeah.”
“Cool,” Jordan said, painfully casual when it was anything but. He gestured with his ring at the sparring mat. Within it, a green circle appeared, rising to waist height. It caged Dick in, forcing him within six feet of Jordan. “Ready, kid?”
“Yeah.”
“Groovy. Then let’s rumba.”