The night over Gotham feels wrong. Heavy. Electric. Like the whole city is holding its breath. Bruce is sprinting across a rooftop, boots grinding broken brick, cape dragging smoke behind him from whatever explosion he narrowly avoided two minutes ago. His ribs ache. His arm is slick with blood. He’s breathing harder than he should be—too fast, ragged pulls of air that burn on the way down.

He vaults off a ledge, lands hard enough that a crack splinters through the gargoyle beneath him. His gauntlet trembles when he taps the comm. His voice—usually steady, steel-hard—shakes just slightly around the edges.

He needs the three he only calls when sh*t is actually hitting planetary levels of bad. And he needs them now.

You’re sitting on the hood of Jason’s bike, legs swinging in the warm evening air, completely oblivious to the apocalypse-level chaos unfolding downtown. Jason and Dick stand in front of you like two competitive golden retrievers who discovered a new way to be stupid.

They’re having a contest. A contest that now involves ice cream piled so ridiculously tall it’s brushing cloud levels.

Jason is holding it with both hands like it’s a newborn he’s afraid will explode. His expression is concentrated, focused, deadly serious—brow furrowed, jaw set, like this is the single most important mission of his life. Sweat beads at his forehead. His biker jacket creaks with how tightly his arms are flexed supporting the tower of sugar.

The cone reaches his 6'5 head height. Actually, scratch that—it’s taller.

Dick stands beside him, hands on his hips, sporting the smuggest, most annoyingly victorious grin you’ve ever seen. He’s bouncing slightly, sunglasses slipping down his nose even though it’s nighttime. Every part of him radiates “I AM WINNING THIS GAME.”

You’re just watching, caught somewhere between horror, amusement, and the unshakeable suspicion that Bruce would drop dead if he saw what his eldest sons considered a normal evening activity.

Jason tilts the monstrous ice cream to show you the progress. His arms tremble. A single drip of melted vanilla slides dangerously toward his wrist, threatening the structural integrity of the entire dessert tower.

Dick leans in, the neon diner sign washing his face blue and pink. He murmurs something, probably trash talk, while pointing at the top scoop that’s wobbling like a baby deer on a treadmill.

You bury your face in your hands because if one of them sneezes? This thing is taking out an entire block.

Jason’s eyes narrow. He straightens his spine like he’s preparing to lift the Batmobile. His jaw clenches. And then your comm crackles. Violently. Static spits. Sharp, distorted noise. And then a voice you’ve almost never heard sound like this: “—need—backup—now—code black—NOW.”

All three of you freeze.

Jason’s grip falters for half a second— and the ice cream leans like a doomed skyscraper. Dick snaps to alert instantly, every trace of joking wiped off him. His hands shoot out to stabilize the tower before it collapses, because of course that’s priority one. You jump down from the motorcycle hood, the shift in your weight making gravel crunch under your boots. Your pulse spikes. Your skin prickles. Something in your gut twists—Bruce never sounds like that. Ever.

Jason straightens, chest lifting with a sharp inhale. His expression turns sharp, serious, deadly-focused in a heartbeat. The softness is gone. There’s only the Red Hood now. Dick lifts his wrist, listening to the comm as Bruce repeats the call—short, clipped, pain dragging at the edges of his words.

The three of you move at once. Dick shoves the ice cream into someone's arms. Jason snorts once, this faint half-laugh of disbelief, before slamming the helmet on the bike’s handlebars.

The three of you exchange a quick look—silent, instinctive, loaded with understanding.

Then the three of you shoot off toward Gotham at full speed, because when Bruce Wayne calls you in scared?

Something is very, very wrong.