Two days. In the grand scheme of the universe, it was a blink of an eye. For a Viltrumite—even a half-blooded one—it was supposed to be nothing. But for Dick Grayson, those forty-eight hours had felt like an eternity spent in a pressurized chamber, the tension building behind his ribs until it threatened to crack his sternum. Since they had left Arthur's shop, the world had seemed to slow down to a crawl. Every time his phone buzzed, his heart did a frantic gymnastic routine, only to settle into a dull thud when it turned out to be a news alert or a text from a friend.
The anticipation wasn't just about the suit. It was about what the suit represented: the end of the waiting, the beginning of the doing.
It was early morning, the kind of pale, blue-grey dawn that turned the suburbs of suburban Maryland into a ghost town. While the rest of the world slept, Dick was on the roof. The air was crisp, biting at his exposed skin, but he barely felt the chill. He was mid-flow, his body a blur of controlled motion. He dropped into a deep lunging strike, his weight shifting with a feline grace that defied the sheer power packed into his muscles.
A casual observer might have asked why he bothered. He was the son of Omni-Man. His biology was a gift from a race of galactic titans. His bones were denser than steel, his reflexes tuned to a frequency humans couldn't even hear. By all logic, he shouldn't have needed to sweat.
Bullshit, Dick thought, his breath coming in steady, rhythmic puffs.
He knew better. Heritage was just a foundation; it wasn't the building. If he relied solely on his blood, he was just a blunt instrument. Discipline was the forge that turned raw iron into a blade. He pushed himself through a series of handstand pushups, his fingers digging into the shingles of the roof. Every fiber of his being was focused on the micro-adjustments of his balance. He wasn't just training his muscles; he was training his mind to command them with surgical precision.
After the physical exertion came the harder part: the stillness.
Dick sat cross-legged near the edge of the roof, his eyes closed, hands resting on his knees. He tried to sink into himself, seeking that elusive "clarity" his father often spoke about. But today, his inner sea was choppy. As much as he hated to admit it, even to himself, he couldn't get it out.
Mark had it. Nolan had it. Flight.
The ability to simply be elsewhere. To shrug off the shackles of gravity and treat the sky like a playground. Dick could jump higher than any Olympic athlete, and his parkour skills were unmatched, but he was still tethered. He was a creature of the earth, watching his brother and father dance among the clouds. He wanted it so badly it hurt—not for the power, but for the freedom. He wanted to feel the wind without the friction of the ground.
He reached out with his senses, trying to find that "switch" in his DNA, the one that would let him hover. He felt a hum, a vibration deep in his marrow, but it remained just out of reach, like a word on the tip of the tongue that refused to be spoken.
With a frustrated sigh, Dick opened his eyes. The sun was just beginning to peek over the horizon, painting the sky in bruises of purple and gold. He didn't feel clear. He felt heavy.
"Still at it?"
He didn't need to turn around to know it was Debbie. Her footsteps were light, but to his enhanced hearing, they were as distinct as a drumbeat. He stood up, wiping a bead of sweat from his forehead and inhaling the fresh morning air.
"Good morning, Mom," he said, offering a small, tired smile.
Debbie stood at the roof access door, wrapped in a thick robe, a mug of coffee steaming in her hands. She looked at him with that mixture of pride and worry that only a mother could manage. "Discipline is important. But, so knowing when to eat. Breakfast is ready, and if you don't get down there soon, your brother is going to inhale your portion of the pancakes."
Dick chuckled. "I wouldn't put it search him. Where are the flyers?"
"Out 'practicing,'" Debbie said, rolling her eyes affectionately. "Go get them. They're probably halfway to the stratosphere by now."
"On it," Dick said. He didn't use the stairs. He stepped off the edge of the roof, a controlled drop that transitioned into a roll on the lawn below, before sprinting toward the outskirts of the woods where Nolan took Mark for their morning session.
He arrived at the clearing, expecting to see them sparring or perhaps practicing high-speed maneuvers. Instead, he stopped dead in his tracks, his jaw slowly dropping.
"What the bloody hell..." he muttered.
High above, silhouetted against the rising sun, Nolan and Mark were playing catch. But they weren't using a baseball, and they weren't standing twenty feet apart.
Nolan wound up, his form perfect, and hurled a small, reinforced sphere. It didn't just fly; it vanished with a crack that sounded like a gunshot. The air rippled, a sonic boom echoing through the trees. Dick watched, his eyes tracking the faint distortion in the atmosphere.
A few seconds passed. Then, from the opposite horizon, the ball reappeared. It was glowing red-hot, trailing a plume of white smoke as it tore through the air at Mach speeds. Mark, hovering casually with his arms crossed, suddenly uncoiled. With a gloved hand, he snatched the ball out of the air. The impact created a shockwave that flattened the grass for fifty yards in every direction.
"Nice catch, son!" Nolan's voice boomed from a mile away, yet he arrived beside Mark in the blink of an eye.
"It's getting easier to track," Mark said, his face flushed with exertion and pure, unadulterated joy. He looked down and spotted Dick. "Hey! Check that out! We just broke the record for the fastest lap!"
Dick gulped, his brain trying to process the sheer kinetic energy he had just witnessed. "You guys were playing catch... around the world? Literally?"
"It's good for the hand-eye coordination," Nolan said, descending gracefully to the ground. He looked completely unfazed, not a hair out of place. "And it teaches Mark how to handle objects moving at orbital velocities."
"And here I am, worried about the property value if you guys miss," Dick deadpanned, though his heart was racing.
He didn't want to ruin the moment. Seeing the bond between Mark and their father was something he cherished. But still, playing catch, like that. What if they end up hitting a plane?
Dick cleared his throat, trying to get the negative thoughts out. "Mom sent me. Breakfast is on the table. If we're late, she's threatened to give my pancakes to the dog—and we don't even have a dog."
The trio began to turn back toward the house when a familiar electronic chirp cut through the morning quiet. Nolan reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. He glanced at the screen, and his expression shifted from casual fatherhood to something sharper, more focused.
"It's Art," Nolan said.
Mark and Dick froze. The world seemed to hold its breath. Nolan answered, his responses brief and professional. "Yes... I understand. We'll be right there. Thank you, Art."
He hung up and looked at his sons. A small, knowing smirk tugged at the corners of his mouth. "The suits are ready."
The reaction was instantaneous.
"Yes!" Mark shouted, pumping a fist into the air.
"Finally!" Dick exhaled, a massive weight lifting off his shoulders.
The two brothers shared a high-five, the force of it loud enough to startle a flock of nearby birds. The somber meditation of the morning was forgotten, replaced by an electric surge of adrenaline.
—-----------------
Arthur Rose's shop felt different this time. The air smelled of ozone, high-grade polymers, and the faint, metallic tang of industrial sewing machines. Art himself was waiting for them, leaning against a workbench with a look of exhausted satisfaction.
"You boys have no idea the overtime I put in," Art grumbled, though his eyes were twinkling. "The materials you asked for... let's just say I had to break out the heavy-duty needles. And the thermal stabilizers."
He led them to the back of the shop, where two tall glass containers stood like shrines.
Mark's suit was on the left. It was a striking combination of vibrant yellow, deep blue, and black accents. It looked heroic, energetic, and durable—perfectly suited for someone who was going to be the face of a new generation.
But Dick's eyes were locked on the right.
It was a masterpiece of tactical design. The suit was almost entirely matte black, made of a proprietary weave that seemed to swallow the light around it. It wasn't just a costume; it was a shadow given form. Across the chest was the bold, sharp symbol of a bird in flight—a deep, electric blue that provided the only splash of color. It looked sleek, dangerous, and incredibly cool.
The twins were practically drooling.
"Can we... can we try them on?" Mark asked, his voice cracking slightly.
Art gave him a flat look, the kind of look a master craftsman gives a novice who asks if a sword is sharp. "That's generally how it works, kid. Get in there."
The brothers scrambled to their respective changing rooms.
Inside his stall, Mark marveled at the feel of the fabric. It was incredibly light, yet he could feel the underlying strength of the Smart-Atom tech woven into the fibers. He pulled the mask over his head, adjusting the goggles. He looked in the mirror and struck a pose, then twisted around to look at his own reflection from behind.
"Gotta make sure the fit is right," he muttered, checking his butt in the suit. "Yeah. Aerodynamic. Definitely."
On the other side of the partition, Dick was experiencing something different. As he pulled the black suit on, it felt like a second skin. It was reinforced in the joints, designed for maximum range of motion—essential for someone whose primary combat style involved high-speed acrobatics. He stepped out into the main room, and for a moment, the room went silent.
Dick didn't just look like a hero; he looked like a predator. He flexed his shoulders, feeling the way the suit moved with him, never bunching or resisting. He went through a quick series of light exercises—corkscrew flips, shadow-boxing, and deep stretches.
"The mobility is incredible, Art," Dick said, his voice filled with ecstasy.
He reached behind his back, where two custom holsters sat. With a fluid motion, he drew his "babies"—twin escrima sticks, finished in a matching electric blue. They were weighted perfectly, balanced for his specific grip. He spun them in a dazzling blur, the sticks whistling through the air as he dropped into a low strike pose.
Mark, now fully suited up in his yellow and blue, looked over with an impressed whistle. "Okay, I'll admit it, you look terrifying. But... what's with the sticks? You're half-Viltrumite. You can punch through a tank."
Dick stood up, clicking the sticks together and sheathing them with a satisfying thwack. He looked at his brother, a confident grin visible beneath his mask.
"Aesthetics, Mark," Dick replied. "Plus, sometimes you need a scalpel, not a sledgehammer. And let's be honest—the blue matches the bird."
Dick turned to Art and, in a rare display of raw emotion, stepped forward and gave the tailor a brief, firm hug. "Thank you, Art. Seriously. This is more than I expected."
Art patted his shoulder, looking uncharacteristically touched. "Just don't get blood on it in the first five minutes. That weave is a nightmare to clean."
Mark then turned to Dick, his eyes bright behind his goggles. The playful energy from the morning was back, but it was sharpened by the reality of the gear they now wore.
"So," Mark said, his feet hovering an inch off the floor. "You ready for some action?"
Dick adjusted his domino mask and gloves, the blue bird on his chest catching the light. He grinned back, his teeth white against the black mask.
"Was that even a question?"