Dick woke with a groan and a pulse pounding in his skull like a drumline. The light streaming through the blinds stabbed into his eyes, and he winced, shielding his face with a hand.
"Never drinking that much ever again," he muttered to himself, dragging his legs off the bed.
His feet hit the floor. Cold. Reality.
A hangover was one thing. Regret was another. But regret didn't fry your brain behind your eyes like this did.
He staggered to the kitchen of his modest apartment and started cracking eggs into a pan, not even bothering to look. Muscle memory took over, and in minutes, the smell of butter and scrambled eggs filled the air. He dumped it on a plate, grabbed a fork, and collapsed onto the couch in front of the TV.
The screen flickered on, voices already mid-broadcast. A news anchor's perfectly coiffed head took up the screen.
"…Fantastic Four foil a plot from a man named Doctor Doom. The armored dictator was defeated in Midtown after a tense battle—"
Dick stared at the screen, chewing slowly. On it, Reed Richards was binding a massive figure in tech-enhanced cuffs while the Human Torch hovered overhead, smirking. A metal mask caught the light. The news banner read: "DOOM DEFEATED."
Dick snorted and shook his head. "Wow… this world really is going to shit."
He finished eating in silence, eyes distant. When the credits rolled, he stood, grabbed a towel, and decided to move his body before his brain could start spiraling again.
The gym smelled like rubber mats and sweat. Familiar. Grounding. He hadn't done gymnastics seriously in years, but it didn't take long for his body to remember.
He gripped the bars, chalk dust clinging to his palms, and launched into a routine that flowed like water. Handstands, spins, vaults and his limbs moved with effortless grace. For a moment, he was twelve again, flying through the air without fear.
Then came the MMA gym.
Dick stood barefoot on the mat, muscles taut, sweat beginning to bead on his neck. His opponent was bigger but slower moved like a brawler. Dick bounced on the balls of his feet, blue tank clinging to him, gray shorts rising with each shift.
"Alright, Dickie," the coach called from outside the cage. "Let's see what you've got."
DING.
The bell rang, and the bigger man surged forward but he was predictable, aggressive. A jab-cross combo wide as a barn door.
Dick slipped inside the first, ducked the second, and chopped into the man's leg with a vicious calf kick. The impact cracked like a snapped tree limb.
Then he danced.
A blur of motion, he rebounded off the cage and landed a spinning elbow that clipped the side of the guy's head. The man stumbled. Dick grinned.
"You alright?"
No answer just a grunt and a takedown attempt.
Dick sprawled, controlled the pressure, but instead of finishing the guillotine, he let go. Let the guy up.
"What are you doing?" his opponent asked, breath ragged.
"Fighting. Not winning. You need the rounds too, right?"
The man frowned, confused but didn't hesitate when he charged again.
Dick ducked, elbowed, tripped, rolled. He made it a dance. A calculated, painful ballet.
From the side of the mat, someone whispered, "Who the hell is this guy?"
"Grayson. Used to be a gymnast. Ex-cop too, I think."
"He moves like a damn superhero…"
Dick just grabbed a bottle of water and smiled.
"Two on one?" the coach asked.
The new opponents stood ready. A wiry Muay Thai striker and a thick-set wrestler.
Dick nodded, wiping sweat from his brow. "Sure. Why not."
The bell rang again.
The striker lashed out fast with a roundhouse kick flying. Dick caught it with his forearm, gritted his teeth. Then the wrestler barreled in low.
Dick leapt up, slammed a foot into the wrestler's jaw, and cartwheeled away, landing clean. A clinch came fast knees thudding into his ribs.
He waited for the rhythm. Then broke it.
A headbutt shattered the striker's nose. The wrestler grabbed from behind mistake. Dick flipped, twisted, jammed an elbow into his shoulder, and reset.
Every move was efficient. Elegant. Brutal.
By the time the coach called "Time!" the mat was scattered with bodies. Dick stood, chest heaving, but smiling.
Weapon sparring. Round three.
The gym was quiet but for the hum of lights and the faint click-click of spinning nunchucks.
Dick gripped his escrima sticks, wrists wrapped, hands gloved. Across from him, a man twirled the nunchaku with flair. Fast, but unrefined.
"Begin!" the coach barked.
DING.
The nunchucks lashed out Dick dodged, parried, jabbed. Sparks flew as stick met chain. The weapon wrapped his arm, but he turned with the pull, landed a blow to the man's leg, and slipped free.
It became a rhythm. Clash. Twist. Strike.
Dick's movements blurred, graceful as they were violent. At one point, he backflipped over a low sweep and caught his own stick mid-air without looking.
The round ended with Dick's escrima stick inches from his opponent's throat.
"Nice flow," he said, tapping them together. "But the chain's only as strong as your rhythm."
The opponent panted. "You hit like a car crash."
"Better than getting hit by a real one," Dick replied with a wink.
The coach grinned. "You can keep the sticks."
Dick nodded and left, gym bag slung over his shoulder, heading out into the city streets.
That's when he heard it. Shouts. A woman screaming.
He turned the corner and saw them six men chasing a blonde woman into an alley.
Dick dropped his bag, jaw clenched. He pulled the escrima sticks from the side pocket and followed.
"HEY!" he yelled.
The men stopped, turned. One sneered, twirling a crowbar. "Look at this gym rat. You lost, ballerina?"
Another tapped brass knuckles against his palm. "You bring sticks to a knife fight, jackass?"
Dick spun one stick in his hand, calm. "Just figured I'd even the odds."
The leader big with tattoos and a knife in hand grunted. "Break him."
They rushed.
First came the bat.
Dick ducked, locked the swing under his arm, and smashed the bat-wielder's ribs with a CRACK. The man dropped, wheezing.
Two more came. Brass knuckles. Crowbar.
Dick rolled between them, rose behind, and struck both X-style. One crumpled. The other screamed, his collarbone shattered.
A knife slashed.
Dick caught the wrist, twisted, disarmed. His stick slammed into the elbow another crack.
Someone grabbed him from behind.
Dick drove a backward elbow into the thug's nose, then turned and jabbed both sticks into his gut. The man folded like laundry.
Only the leader was left.
"Drop it," Dick said. "Or I drop you."
The man lunged.
Dick caught the knife wrist, twisted it up, kicked the man's knee sideways, and ended it with a clean cross to the jaw.
Silence.
The woman stood frozen.
"You're safe now," Dick said, walking toward her, sticks lowered.
She collapsed into his arms, sobbing. He held her gently.
"Hey, hey it's okay. What's your name?"
She sniffled. "H-Harleen. Harleen Quinzel."
"Nice name," he smiled. "Call the cops. Then get home safe."
She nodded, pulled out her phone, and walked away.
Dick picked up his bag, slung it over his shoulder, and walked back to his car.
He returned to his apartment just as the sun was setting, casting the world in a quiet orange. As he approached, he spotted Elle locking her door.
She waved. He waved back.
Inside, the apartment was dim. Dick dropped his bag, sat on the couch, and stared at the TV.
The news was still running.
"…in local headlines, another sighting of the mysterious Spider-Man in New York—"
Dick leaned forward, his face unreadable.
Spider-Man.
That name stuck with him. A vigilante doing what needed to be done.
He looked out the window.
The feeling, the rush of stopping those men, of saving that woman it burned behind his ribs like a flame.
He stood. Walked to his closet. Opened it.
It didn't hold answers.
But it held tools.
Black cargo pants. Reinforced knees. Flexible. He slipped them on.
A black compression shirt. Then a padded MMA jacket, lightweight but armored. He rolled his shoulders.
Then the gloves. Fingerless. Grippy.
He held his escrima sticks.
Then reached for the balaclava. Pulled it over his face. A shadow looked back in the mirror.
But it needed something more.
Dick grabbed blue duct tape. Sat down.
He cut. Peeled. Pressed.
Piece by piece, he shaped a crude, angular "V" across his chest.
He stared at it.
This wasn't just for show.
This was who he was now.
A protector.
A shadow in the alley.
A whisper in the dark.
A symbol.
Vigilante.