Nightwing Revelations, Chapter One

    Dick was bored. Really bored. While he appreciated Bruce’s work in charity events, Dick generally hated attending them himself. He really wished Tim could have come too, but the youth was prepping for his gymnastics meet in a few weeks. Alfred was minding the small table, draped in a delicate white linen. The luncheon wouldn’t be served for a while, leaving Dick to sit. Oh, there were plenty of people he could have talked to, but even though he was raised as Bruce’s ward, he still felt out of place at these ‘rich people’ events. At heart, Dick was a circus kid, a gypsy, struck with wanderlust and a mild disdain for lavish functions like this. He hid it extremely well, but deep down, he knew his Romani ancestors would have balked at his presence here today, even if he did look like just another rich white boy. 

    Sighing, Dick got up and wandered around. Maybe there would be someone his age here. Checking his phone again, he hunted for a message from Panthra. Maybe she’d texted him and he’d missed it somehow. But no. There was nothing. They were only half-way through the two weeks she said she’d be gone. Shaking his head, Dick turned as he heard Alfred calling to him. “Sir, Master Bruce is preparing for the race. Would you like to watch, sir?”

    He gave a shrug, but turned and went down to the dock. Racing… boring. If only there was else something to do here… Hello? Who was that? Dick’s lazy gate halted as he took in the newest addition to the ‘silver spoon club,’ as he called them. She had reddish-blonde hair, which caught his eye. He was a sucker for redheads. Oh, and she was tall, leggy too.

    She had porcelain skin; probably Irish, or didn’t believe in the new tanning fad that everyone else seemed to be throwing in with. She had on a light lavender, mid-thigh length skirt, short enough to be cool for the warm day, but long enough to be ‘proper’ around the snooty, affluent Gothamites. Her ivory blouse just barely had a hint of sleeves, technically making it not a tank top, and it looked like it was an airy cotton, rather than the heavy silk most women here were wearing.

    From behind, he could see her silver waterfall earrings, the delicate chain around her neck, and the tiny anklets around both her legs, just above the white, short-heeled sandals. She wore a cream-colored wide-brimmed sunhat, which must have been pinned into her hair to be staying on in the breeze. A small, teal purse was under one arm, and she was staring out over the water.

    He couldn’t help it. Dick had to talk to her. 

    “Nice day for rowing, isn’t it?” he started with. She turned and glanced his direction, and Dick got a look at her bright, misty blue eyes. They were so pale, they were almost gray. The mystery woman was young, maybe Dick’s age, and looked as bored as he did. “I suppose,” she replied, her gaze returned to the river. She had a very thick, refined British accent. Sweet! Putting his disarming smile to work, Dick stood just outside her personal space. “Not a regatta fan?” he asked.

    She sighed. “Not really. I prefer swimming to boating.” her tone was a touch sarcastic, but not entirely unfriendly. It seemed more that her patience was wearing a bit thin. Clearly, Dick wasn’t the first eager male to approach her today. He tried a different tactic. “I’m just here to watch my friend. Otherwise I’d probably be somewhere else today.” The strawberry-blonde looked at him again. “So who’s rowing for you?” she inquired. Dick pointed out to the black and blue sleek boat, and to the lead rower. “The big black-haired one in the green shirt.”

    The woman nodded. “Ah. Bruce Wayne fan?” She didn’t sound derisive, but a little dismissive. “Not really,” Dick explained, “But he’s a friend, so I told him I’d be here.” She smiled. “Well, I suppose he’s a good friend to have, if you’re into giving back to Gotham.” Dick grinned. “He is all about that.” The boats were lining up at the start line, and Dick waved at Bruce who nodded and took his position, speaking to the other three members of his crew.

    It was funny. Bruce had hurt his lower back two days ago while out as Batman. And even though he was recovering, it was probably still killing him. How many pain killers had he taken to be out there today? The rowers were all ready, and the flagman got his mark. He shouted into a megaphone, explaining the rules. Once through, he raised the flag, which was ceremonial, and the air horn, which was not.
The woman to Dick’s left covered her ears just before the horn sounded at the same time the flag dropped. The boats shot across the starting line. Bruce was acting as lead rower, and as the coxswain, shouting out the orders to the other rowers in his boat and controlling the rudder with a pedal at his feet. There was a small, water repelling mirror at the bow, so Bruce could see where he was going and keep the boat straight.

    Of the six boats in the race, Bruce’s team was one of the fastest. He called out once every four strokes, to keep his team on cadence, but otherwise, the large man focused all his energy on breathing and rowing. The long-handled black oars dipped into the water, pushing the shell forward, then rose from the river, dripping and twisting, before diving back again. This race was 1,000 meters, and would likely take just over three and a half minutes. For the winners, of course.

    Dick found himself leaning over the rail, watching the black and blue boat glide through the softly lapping waters. Once Bruce’s team reached the half-way point, Dick was standing on the middle rail, calling out to his guardian. “Come on Bruce! Push it! You got this!!” The redhead beside him glanced up and smiled. “I thought you weren’t a fan. Of racing or Wayne,” she mentioned. Dick wanted to ignore her, cheering Bruce on from the fence, but he gave the woman a small confession.

    “If he wins this, the Gotham Children’s Home gets an extra $10,000. I don’t care about the race, I just want the money for the kids. They have nothing, so it would be nice for them to get a little more,” Dick explained, returning to shouting for his favorite team. The look of sheer determination on Bruce’s face told Dick that his mentor was in a huge amount of pain. Dick texted Alfred the news about Bruce's back without looking at his phone.

    Soon, the teams were closing in on the finish line. Bruce’s boat was neck and neck with the Smythe and Brighton teams. “Bruce! They’re gaining on you! Pick up the pace!!” Dick was yelling now, leaning over the railing, his body half over the water. He knew she was looking at him, and he let her. Dick was wearing khaki chino shorts that brushed his knees, and a royal blue polo shirt. He had dark boat shoes with black liner socks which barely showed. His mirrored sunglasses hung from the top button hole in his shirt, and his wallet and phone were in his back pocket, out of sight.

    As the digital sensor at the finish blared that one of the boats had crossed the line, Dick cheered, a little dismayed. He couldn’t tell who had won. The judges would probably review the footage and announce a winning team soon. Dick turned to the woman. “Well, I’m going back to the pavilion. They’re serving lunch soon, and at $150 a plate, I’m not missing out on that. Would you like to join my table?”
Her left auburn eyebrow arched. “Who are you?” she asked. Dick put a hand to his face, shaking his head. “Oh! Sorry. You knew Bruce so I thought you knew me to. It’s Dick. Dick Grayson,” he introduced. Her smile was warm, showing perfectly white, straight teeth. “Rachael,” she replied, “and I have my own table. Thank you though, for the invitation.” Dick nodded. “Well, nice meeting you, Rachael. I suppose I’ll see you around.”

    With that, he turned and left, knowing she was probably going to call after him in a moment. As he kept walking, she didn’t say anything and Dick looked behind him. Rachael was gazing out over the water, her back to him once more. Hmm… Coy, was she? Huh. It was just as well; Dick did have a girlfriend. One he was extremely fond of and didn’t want to hurt with something so stupid or foolish as cheating on her. But a little harmless flirting was all in good fun, wasn’t it? Especially if he earned a new friend. He could always use more of those.

    Ten minutes later, Dick was sitting at the spotless table, and heard the announcement that Bruce’s team had won the match, by 0.03 seconds. The young man looked around to congratulate his mentor, but Bruce was nowhere in sight. Frowning, Dick reached into his pocket and called the older man. Alfred picked up. “Wayne residence.”
    
    Smiling now, Dick asked, “How bad’s his back, Al?” The butler’s reply was testy. “I believe he’s pulled a muscle. I warned him not to proceed with the race this morning. He can barely stand up straight. I’m taking him home now. You’ll have to represent him, young sir. Are you up to the task?” Dick sighed. Then grumbled. “I guess so. Can you message me the speech?” There was some shuffling, and Dick heard Alfred call, “Watch where you’re going you ruffian!”

    The young fighter laughed. Alfred could always be counted on for some choice words regarding lax driving skills. He often griped at the ‘lunatics’ they allowed on the streets these days. “There sir, it should be in your inbox. I must go now, Master Richard. Master Bruce sends his thanks, and his regards.” Dick chuckled. “Tell him no problem, but he owes me one. I hate public speaking. Especially in front of his friends.”

    Making their goodbyes, Dick shoved the device back in his pocket. The wait-staff were starting to pass out the plates, and he waited for his lunch. He’d picked the pork loin over the sea bass or baked chicken. Then he remembered a little etiquette and turned the wine goblet over. He wasn’t old enough, not that anyone here would care, but Dick didn’t want any alcohol anyways.

    The plate was set in front of him, and Dick asked for the lemonade over the iced tea. He knew there would be about 25 minutes before he had to talk, and he dug in to lunch while going over the speech. The pork was excellent, perfectly done and juicy. There was a decorative stack of asparagus spears with some sort of creamy sauce, though not hollandaise, and a small pile of mashed red potatoes,   the skins mixed in for color. There were also fluffy white rolls, plentiful salad, and as much ice-cold water as he could drink.
    
    Looking at the speech, Dick decided to make a small addendum to the opening, explaining why he was giving the talk and not Bruce. Overall, it was short, gracious, and compelling, urging the rest of the patrons to donate generously to the unfortunate children and others of the city. If they didn’t care for the sheltered masses, who would?

    Dick took a bite of his salad and was almost through with his meal when he heard something that caught his attention, not as Dick, but as Nightwing. A woman. One who could use some help. Without hesitating, Dick got to his feet and followed the sound.

    Just outside the tent, Dick found what he was looking for. A tall man in a flashy, expensive Armani suit was leaning towards the young woman Dick had encountered earlier. Millard Smythe was a total tool. He only graduated college by his father greasing the wheels throughout the entire process, and now the 20-something ‘silver spoon’ was employed at his father’s office where he ‘worked’ as the vice-president of shipping. If by work, you meant screwing the interns and his secretary, and showing up to the office slightly toasted every now and then.

     But now he had Rachael cornered. She looked angry and uncomfortable. “I said, no thank you,” she stated, possibly repeating herself from before. Dick’s face hardened. The one thing Millard was, was stubborn. He never took ‘no’ for an answer, especially from girls he wanted. “Come now, you’re here all alone! You can sit with my father and I, it will be splendid! The Smythe’s control every dock and commercial air field in Gotham, we’re expanding into Metropolis, too. Come along, I’ll tell you all about it.”

     Yeesh! He sounded as oily as his slick blonde hair! Dick had to do something. “Hey, Rachael? I was looking for you. They already set out the plates. Did you still want to eat, or should we just blow this Popsicle stand?” Dick asked casually. Millard turned and glared at Dick. “The lady and I were having a private conversation, Grayson. We don’t need coattail riding riffraff like you interrupting.” Dick took no offense to Mill’s criticism. The weasel had been calling Dick names, most of them worse than ‘riffraff,’ since the two of them were in middle school together and Millard found out Dick was a circus performer who had been adopted by Bruce Wayne.

     He ignored the poncy lay-about and turned his attention to the girl. “You coming, Rachael?” The woman seemed annoyed, but a bit relieved. “Yes, thank you.” She tried to edge passed her unwanted suitor. Millard blocked her path. “This is none of your concern Grayson, I saw her first.” Dick rolled his eyes. “She’s not a quarter you found on the sidewalk, Mills. You can’t just claim her as though she’s got no say in the matter. Besides, I don’t think over-coiffed jerk is her type.”

     Millard’s next move was incredibly stupid. He lunged at Dick, as though he was fencing. The dark-haired man grabbed the large fist and twisted. Millard cried out wordlessly, and Dick motioned for Rachael to beat it. She moved away from the men, but hung back on the fringes, watching. “Now, now, Millard. You remember how I broke your nose back in 8th grade after you pinched Ms. Houston’s butt, don’t you? I have no problem doing it again. Only this time you’ll muss that pretty suit up. How’s about you just run back to your daddy and whine about it instead?” Dick released the man with a shove, pushing him away from the redhead behind him.

     The defeated blonde gaped at Dick. “Well! I’ll see you sued for assault, Grayson!” A British clipped voice spoke from behind the former acrobat. “You do that, and I’ll take you to the trenches for sexual harassment and battery. How’d that look to your clients, Mr. Smythe?” Millard paled slightly. Then he straightened his tie and walked away. “Hmph!”

     Once he was gone, Rachael turned to Dick. “You didn’t have to do that,” she offered. Shrugging, Dick tucked in his shirt once more. “He had it coming. Millard Smythe is a pompous ass who thinks women are property and uses them up before throwing them away like garbage. He used to try and beat the crap out of me when we went to school together. I never let him then, and I’m not going to let him now. Come on, I’ll walk you to your table.”

     She smiled, and took the arm he offered. The trip was a short one, and her table, though large, was empty except for her. “Dining alone?” he asked. She nodded. “I’ll have my driver come over and stand guard. Thank you for intervening. I might have liked to humiliate that man, but you handled it rather well.” Dick grinned. “Any time. I’ll have to get to my own table now. I’ve got an unexpected speaking part to this play.”

     Rachael thanked him again, and when he got to his table, he looked back at the pretty young woman. There was an imposing figure towering behind her, dressed all in black, with thick shades covering his face. That guy was definitely going to repel Smythe. Dick turned to his food. He didn’t have a lot of time left, so he finished eating quickly, re-reading the speech again.

     The hostess stepped up and tapped the mic a few times. Dick drank some water and wiped his mouth with the napkin. It was time. Palms sweating, he waited for the silvered-haired woman to call Bruce up. She thanked everyone for coming and supporting the various charities for the poor, lost souls of Gotham, noting some of the more generous donations. Dick made sure there was nothing on his face, stuck in his teeth, or on his clothes. Then she asked Bruce to step up and accept the winner’s pot for his team.

     Dick stood and confidently strode to the podium. Mrs. Benton gave him a reproachful glare, but Dick took the microphone. “On behalf of Bruce Wayne, I’d like to thank our hosts, the Bentons, for this wonderful contribution towards Gotham Children’s Home. Bruce sends his apologies. He was so determined to win, he pulled his back out beating the Smythe’s team to the punch!” There was laughter from the crowd, but scowls from Millard and his father, Christian.

     Mrs. Benton relinquished the large, replica check, and stepped back so Dick could talk. “Today, we’ve come together to share a wonderful meal, enjoy the band, and watch our city’s rowers race to sustain their selected charities. I can’t tell you how personally pleased I am to see all of you hear, supporting these wonderful causes. The War Veteran Fund, Gotham Children’s Home, Saint Nicolas Children’s Medical Center, and the Gotham Women’s Relief Charity all send their deepest and sincere thanks for your donations today.”

     “I would ask that in addition to the entry fee, we all dig a little deeper, and find it in our hearts to give generously, that the less fortunate in this city are well cared for. I offer you my gratitude for your noble contributions to the relief efforts,” Dick continued, glancing at his phone to reference the speech. “Bruce wishes he could be here in person, I’m sure, as he is giving $250,000 to each of the charities, and will match the highest donation made today. I thank you again for all your contributions.”

     Dick stepped back as he ended the speech, allowing the applause to rise from the tables. After a moment, he bowed his head slightly in respect, and walked back to his table. Millard tried to trip him, and amidst the applause, no one noticed Dick carefully kick his rival in the shin. As he sat, Dick saw that Rachael was looking at him with a smile on her face.

     Maybe today wasn’t such a waste after all.