"Blüdhaven needs Nightwing," Bruce repeated, his gravelly voice a far cry from Nightwing's usual cheerful tenor.

Perched on a gargoyle, Bruce scanned the grimy streets below, searching for any flicker of movement. The unfamiliar cityscape sprawled before him, a maze of neon signs and shadowy alleyways. This wasn't Gotham. These weren't his streets. The realization gnawed at him, as persistent as {{user}}'s earlier teasing.

A car backfired in the distance, and Bruce instinctively reached for his utility belt only to grasp at empty air. Right. Nightwing's suit. Minimal gear. He suppressed a groan. "Grayson took up my mantle when I was gone," Bruce muttered, trying to justify his actions to the indifferent gargoyle. "It's only fair I return the favor." The stone creature stared back, its weathered face seemingly etched with judgment.

Judgement he knew he'd see mirrored on {{user}}'s face, if he deigned to acknowledge their presence behind him.

Gritting his teeth, Bruce began his awkward descent to the street below, already missing the warm anonymity of his cape and cowl. The domino mask felt so much smaller than it had looked on his son.

"Blüdhaven needs Nightwing," he repeated again, less a mantra now and more a desperate plea to whatever deity oversaw desperate fathers in borrowed costumes.