Chương 2: Chapter 2: The Fall and the Rise of Nightwing
As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting Gotham in a dim amber glow, Dick Grayson sat behind the wheel of his black Dodge Charger, driving in a silence so thick it suffocated him. The city, usually buzzing with life, felt like a lifeless backdrop to the turmoil inside him. His thoughts were a maelstrom of emotions, guilt and sorrow battling for dominance. Wally's face haunted him—his wide smile, his laughter, the unwavering loyalty in his eyes. Gone. All of it.
Wally West, his partner, his brother in arms, was dead. And it was all Dick's fault. Or at least that's how it felt.
As he neared the police station, something inside him snapped. He pulled the car to the side of the road, the tires screeching against the pavement as the vehicle skidded to a halt. His chest heaved as the grief that had been suffocating him broke through the walls he had hastily built to contain it. Leaning his head against the steering wheel, he let out a cry of anguish, his hands trembling as they gripped the wheel tightly.
"I should have known," he whispered hoarsely, his voice cracking. "I should have never trusted them."
Images of Black Cat and Barbara Gordon flashed through his mind—two women who had been part of his life, one a criminal he thought he could control and the other, someone who had stood by his side, his friend, his ally. Barbara, who had once been someone he trusted. But now, she had betrayed him. Or had she? The question gnawed at him, the ambiguity of her choices driving him mad.
But as the faces of Black Cat and Barbara swirled in his mind, one figure loomed larger than all the rest—the man responsible for all of this. *Wilson Fisk.*
The name hit him like a punch to the gut. Wilson Fisk, the Kingpin of crime, a man whose facade as a respectable businessman had fooled many. How had he not realized it before? Fisk wasn't just some criminal mastermind—he was the embodiment of corruption in Gotham, a wolf in sheep's clothing. For years, Fisk had been masquerading as a benefactor to the city, helping to build properties, funding charities, all while pulling strings in the criminal underworld.
Dick's sorrow quickly morphed into something darker—anger, burning deep and hot within him. He clenched his fists, feeling the rage course through his veins. Fisk had manipulated everything. He was the one who had orchestrated the chaos that led to Wally's death. And now, Fisk was still out there, walking free, while Wally lay in the cold ground.
Wiping his eyes, Dick started the car again, determination flooding through him. He wasn't going to let Fisk get away with this.
As he approached the station, a flash of familiarity caught his eye. There, standing in front of the station, was Fisk himself, surrounded by reporters, his massive frame unmistakable. The man was speaking to Captain George Stacy, Gotham's precinct captain.
Fisk turned, and for a brief moment, his eyes locked with Dick's. His face, initially neutral, twisted into a smirk—one that sent a surge of fury through Dick's entire being. He slammed his fist against the steering wheel, his knuckles white as rage threatened to consume him.
"Bastard," Dick muttered under his breath.
Just as he was about to exit the car and confront Fisk, the door to the station swung open, and Captain Stacy stormed toward him. The grim expression on his face was unmistakable.
"Grayson," Stacy barked, as he reached the car. "Step out of the vehicle. Now."
Dick's confusion was evident. "What's going on?"
Stacy's eyes were hard as steel. "You're under arrest, Dick. For the murder of Wally West."
The world seemed to stop. Dick's heart skipped a beat, his brain struggling to process the words. "What?! No, Captain, you've got it wrong! Fisk—he's behind this. He killed Wally!"
But Stacy wasn't listening. He pulled out a pair of handcuffs, his expression unreadable. "Save it for your lawyer, Grayson."
Before Dick could protest further, Stacy cuffed him and began escorting him toward the station. The reporters who had been speaking with Fisk quickly turned their cameras toward Dick, their lenses capturing every humiliating moment. Fisk's smirk only deepened as he watched Dick being led away in cuffs.
In the chaos, Dick's thoughts were spinning wildly. How could this be happening? Everything had gone wrong so fast. Fisk had orchestrated it all, and now, the man responsible for Wally's death was free, while Dick was being framed for the crime.
As they reached the station, Dick was thrown into a holding cell. The cold, damp air stung his skin, but he barely felt it. His mind was too consumed with the question that had been eating away at him: *Where did it all go wrong?*
---
Two days passed.
The cell was cold, and the silence was deafening. Dick hadn't slept much. His eyes were red and swollen from hours of crying, his body exhausted from the emotional toll. Wally's death haunted him every second, and being locked away only amplified his despair. His thoughts kept returning to that moment—Wally's body crumpling to the ground, the sound of the gunshot echoing in his ears. And now, here he was, framed for the murder of his best friend.
Suddenly, the silence was broken by the jingle of keys. A cop approached his cell, his voice indifferent as he spoke. "You've got a phone call, Grayson."
Dick, looking disheveled, slowly got up from the bench in his cell. His once-neat black hair was a tangled mess, and the dark circles under his eyes made him look like a shadow of his former self.
He was led to a phone booth, where he hesitated for a moment. There was only one person he could think to call—an old friend. One he hadn't spoken to in a long time, but someone who knew him better than anyone.
---
Hours passed. Dick now found himself in an interrogation room, the fluorescent lights casting harsh shadows on the table in front of him. The door creaked open, and a police officer stepped in.
"Your lawyer's here."
The cop stepped aside, revealing a man standing in the doorway. He was tall, with neatly combed red hair and wearing a sharp suit. His red-tinted glasses reflected the dim light of the room.
Dick's heart skipped a beat. It had been years since he last saw him, but there was no mistaking him.
"Matt," Dick said, his voice barely above a whisper.
The man smiled slightly. "Good to see you, Dick."
Matt Murdock was a childhood friend of Dick and Wally. The three of them had grown up together in the orphanage, where Matt had been an outcast because of his blindness. But Dick and Wally, always the misfits themselves, had befriended him, forming a bond that lasted well beyond their childhood.
Matt pulled out a chair and sat across from Dick. "I heard what happened," he said softly. "I know you didn't kill Wally. But I need to hear it from you. What exactly happened?"
Dick let out a shaky breath, his emotions still raw as he recounted the events. He told Matt about Black Cat, Barbara, the meeting at the warehouse, and how Fisk had murdered Wally in cold blood. As he spoke, his fists clenched, and anger surged through him once more.
When he finished, Matt leaned back in his chair, his face calm, though there was a deep sadness in his eyes.
"Fisk has been playing this game for a long time," Matt said after a long silence. "And now, he's pinned it all on you. He told the police that you were conspiring with Hammerhead's mafia, that you kidnapped him and tried to force him into working for the mob. When Wally and Barbara tried to stop you, you shot Wally in the head."
Dick's face twisted in disbelief. "That's a lie! I would never—"
Matt held up a hand, stopping him. "I know. But Fisk also has camera footage showing you at the warehouse, aiming a gun at Wally. He's got witnesses, evidence, and on top of that, he's filed a restraining order against you."
Dick slammed his fist onto the table, the sound echoing through the small room. "That liar! I'll kill him!"
Matt didn't flinch. "You won't. We'll prove your innocence in court."
Dick's expression softened, the weight of the situation pressing down on him. "How? The evidence is stacked against me. Fisk probably has the jury in his pocket too."
Matt leaned forward, a confident smile on his face. "You've got me. And I'm a damn good lawyer."
---
Weeks passed. The day of the trial arrived, and the courtroom was packed. The tension was thick as witnesses were called to the stand, one by one, each testifying against Dick. The prosecution painted him as a rogue cop, someone who had fallen in with the mob and murdered his partner to cover his tracks.
It seemed hopeless.
But then, Matt Murdock called his star witness to the stand—Barbara Gordon.
Dick's heart raced as she walked up to the witness stand, her face pale but resolute. She avoided Dick's gaze at first, but when Matt began questioning her, she finally looked at him.
Matt approached the stand, his calm and methodical demeanor a stark contrast to the tension in the room. The eyes of the entire courtroom were on Barbara, and for a moment, there was only silence as everyone waited for her response.
"Ms. Gordon," Matt began, "can you tell the court what happened the day you, Detective Grayson, and Officer Wally West went to the warehouse?"
Barbara's gaze flickered from Dick, who sat behind Matt, to Wilson Fisk, seated confidently with his own legal team. She swallowed hard, her knuckles white as she gripped the edges of the witness stand.
"That day…" she started, her voice trembling slightly, but as she continued, her tone grew steadier. "We were following a lead about a new crime boss in Gotham, someone calling himself 'Kingpin.' We went to meet an informant who claimed he had evidence on this 'Kingpin.' But everything went wrong. The informant betrayed us."
The room was silent, the judge and jury hanging onto her every word.
Barbara continued, "When we entered the warehouse, we were ambushed. And then we saw him—Wilson Fisk. He was the Kingpin, and he was behind everything."
Fisk's smirk faltered for the first time, a flicker of annoyance crossing his face.
"Wally... Wally was killed." Her voice cracked. "Fisk shot him. And then he tried to blow us up. Dick didn't kill Wally, and he didn't conspire with any mafia. Fisk orchestrated it all. He framed Dick."
Barbara reached into her jacket and pulled out a small recording device. "I managed to record part of the conversation before everything went to hell."
The courtroom gasped as Matt played the recording for everyone to hear. The voice of Wilson Fisk could be heard clearly, his threats unmistakable, followed by the sound of the fatal gunshot.
The prosecution tried to object, but the judge waved them off. This was undeniable evidence.
Matt stepped back, allowing the recording to finish. When it did, the weight of Fisk's guilt was palpable in the room. Barbara's testimony, paired with the recording, had shifted the tides.
"The jury will deliberate," the judge declared after some time, his voice formal but with an edge of solemnity.
Dick sat, nerves gnawing at him as he glanced around the courtroom. Matt leaned over, placing a hand on his shoulder.
"Stay calm. It's in their hands now," Matt said softly.
---
An hour passed before the jury returned. The judge called the courtroom back into session, and the foreman of the jury stood.
"Has the jury reached a verdict?"
"We have, Your Honor," the foreman said, glancing down at the slip of paper in his hand. "We, the jury, find the defendant, Richard John Grayson... not guilty on all charges."
Dick's heart soared, and he let out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding. A wave of relief washed over him, and without thinking, he turned and hugged Matt.
"You did it," Dick said, his voice choked with emotion. "You saved me."
Matt smiled faintly, giving Dick a firm pat on the back. "You saved yourself by staying true to who you are."
But just as the celebration began, the judge's gavel struck the bench, silencing the room. The judge's voice was stern as he spoke again.
"However, Detective Grayson, despite your innocence in this matter, your failure to consult with your captain and your reckless behavior in pursuing Kingpin without backup cannot be ignored. Therefore, you are hereby stripped of your badge and will no longer serve as an officer of the law."
The words hit Dick harder than a punch. His face fell, and the elation that had briefly filled him was quickly overshadowed by the weight of the judge's ruling. He wasn't going to jail—but he wasn't a cop anymore either.
---
Three days passed.
The sound of the city outside filtered through the cracked window of Dick's small apartment. He sat on the worn couch, staring at an old photograph on the table in front of him. It was a picture of him and Wally, taken the day they graduated from the police academy. Both of them were smiling, their arms slung around each other's shoulders, their eyes filled with optimism and excitement for the future.
Dick's mind wandered back to that day, remembering the joy they'd felt, the celebration they'd had. He could almost hear Wally's voice again, clear as day, saying, *"To the guys who'll do whatever it takes to protect this city and its people."*
His throat tightened as the memory played over and over in his mind. Wally had believed in the job, in the badge. He'd believed they could make a difference.
But now Wally was gone, and the badge meant nothing to Dick anymore.
He thought back to his father's words, ones spoken so long ago but still clear in his memory. *"When you see someone in trouble, Dick, most people in this city will walk past. But us Graysons—we help. It's in our blood. I hope whatever path you choose, you'll continue to help people."*
Dick clenched his jaw, the weight of his father's legacy and Wally's death bearing down on him. He couldn't sit idly by, not while Fisk was still out there, walking free, manipulating the system. The law couldn't touch him, but that didn't mean Dick couldn't.
His eyes shifted to the TV in the corner of the room, where a news report showed Wilson Fisk leaving the courthouse, having walked free from any charges due to insufficient evidence.
That was it. That was the last straw.
"If the law won't put him away…" Dick muttered under his breath, his eyes darkening. "Then I will."
His thoughts turned to a memory from his childhood, of a story his mother had read to him about a hero named Nightwing—a protector who fought for justice when no one else could. It was a fantasy, but the symbolism resonated with him. He didn't need a badge to make a difference. He just needed the will to fight.
Without hesitation, Dick rose from the couch and headed toward his closet. He rummaged through the drawers until he found what he was looking for—a plain black shirt. Grabbing a can of blue spray paint, he quickly drew the shape of a wing across the chest. He grabbed bandages from the bathroom and wrapped them tightly around his hands.
Then, his eyes landed on the escrima sticks that he and Wally used to spar with. His heart clenched as he picked them up, his fingers brushing against the worn surface. With a quick spray of blue paint, they became his weapons.
Finally, he found an old Halloween mask from his childhood, something he'd worn while pretending to be a hero. He painted it blue to match the rest of his makeshift outfit and slipped it over his face.
Standing in front of the mirror, he took a deep breath. He didn't recognize the man staring back at him—someone who had been broken by tragedy but was now piecing himself back together. This was someone new. Someone stronger. Someone who wouldn't stop until justice was served.
"The name's Nightwing," he whispered to himself.
---
That night, the streets of Gotham were alive with the usual chaos. On a rooftop overlooking the city, Dick—now Nightwing—stood, his eyes scanning the streets below. The cool breeze ruffled his hair as he watched for signs of trouble.
Suddenly, a woman's scream echoed through the alleyway below. His eyes darted to the source, where three thugs were cornering a terrified woman, their sneers visible even from this distance.
Without hesitation, Nightwing leaped from the rooftop, his body twisting gracefully through the air as he landed silently behind the men. One of them turned around, startled by his sudden appearance.
"Who the hell are you supposed to be?" the thug sneered, eyeing the masked figure. "Some kind of Iron Man wannabe?"
Nightwing smirked. "Nah. I'm better."
Before the thug could react, Nightwing hurled one of his escrima sticks, the weapon striking the man square in the head. He crumpled to the ground, unconscious, as the stick ricocheted back into Nightwing's hand.
The remaining two thugs lunged at him, but Nightwing was faster. He ducked under their attacks, delivering swift, precise strikes to their torsos and legs, taking them down in a matter of seconds.
The woman, still trembling with fear, looked up at Nightwing as he extended a hand to help her up. "Thank you," she whispered, her voice shaky. "Who... who are you?"
With a confident smirk, Nightwing replied, "The name's Nightwing. Now, call the police."
Before she could respond, he sprinted toward the nearest wall, effortlessly scaling it and disappearing into the shadows of the rooftops above.
Nightwing wasn't just a name. It was a new beginning. A way to honor Wally, his father, and everyone who had believed in him.
And it was just the beginning of his fight for justice.
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