The Wayne Manor gates creaked open as the Batwing descended onto the hidden platform behind the cliffs. Its engines hissed, drowning out the wind for a moment. The team disembarked in silence.
Gotham slept in uneasy peace outside, unaware of what had transpired in the League's shadows — unaware that Ra's al Ghul still breathed, and that Nightwing… no, Darkwing, had been reborn.
Rex said nothing as he walked down the long hallway of the mansion. His footsteps echoed, measured, almost hesitant. The weight of everything still clung to him — the darkness of the trials, the rage in his fists, the way no one had tried to stop him.
He passed the portrait gallery. The Wayne family stared down at him from gilded frames. Thomas and Martha. Young Bruce. Even Dick Grayson, caught mid-smile in a photo from happier times.
He paused in front of it.
"I'm sorry," Rex muttered.
The hallway offered no forgiveness.
Later That Night
Rex lay on the guest bed, the same one he'd woken in after his stabbing — after being torn from his world. The sheets were cold. The silence heavy.
He stared at the ceiling.
What am I now? A copy? A glitch in fate?
He remembered the trial. A hundred years of pain, twisted echoes of both Nightwing and Rex Mallory. Visions of blood-soaked alleys, burning cases, faces of victims and regrets that blurred between two men.
And now he had a choice. He could run. Let Batman carry the city. Or...
A soft knock broke the silence.
Alfred stepped in, a silver tray in his hands. On it, a cup of tea and a folded cloth.
"I thought you could use something warm," Alfred said, setting it down beside the bed. "And… this."
Rex opened the cloth. Inside was a simple black domino mask. Clean. Blank. New.
"I thought this belonged to Dick," Rex said, voice low.
"It did," Alfred replied, sitting gently on the edge of the bed. "But it's not the mask that defines the man. It's what he fights for."
They sat in quiet for a moment.
Alfred looked out the window. "Master Grayson was… light. A spark in this house. He had hope even when Bruce had none. When we lost him… something broke in all of us. Bruce buried it. Barbara shut herself away. Even I… I stopped setting the table for three."
He turned to Rex, eyes sharper than his years.
"You've brought movement back to this place. Not comfort — God knows it's not that — but motion. You remind me of a fire that refuses to die. Not Dick's… but your own."
Rex looked down at the mask.
"You think I can really do this? Be some… Gotham protector?"
"I think," Alfred said with a faint smile, "Gotham doesn't need another Nightwing. It needs someone who knows the city's worst truths — and still chooses to fight. It needs someone who bleeds for it."
Rex stood, slowly. Picked up the mask.
He didn't put it on yet.
But he didn't let it go either.
The Batcave – Morning
The waterfall thundered outside. The Batcomputer glowed dimly. Shadows clung to every rocky surface of the massive cave, but the soft hum of technology gave it life.
Batman sat at the console, reviewing crime patterns. A wave of arson attacks. A smuggling ring reemerging in the Narrows. The usual chaos.
Rex descended the staircase in silence. But Bruce didn't turn.
"I figured you'd be here," Rex said.
"Didn't sleep," Bruce replied.
"Me neither."
A beat passed. Rex stepped closer.
"I want a new suit."
Batman finally turned.
"You're not going back to Nightwing?"
"No. That chapter's done. I'm not here to play dress-up as someone else. I want something that fits me. Something that shows Gotham I'm not trying to be another ghost."
Batman stood slowly, walking toward a nearby console. After a few clicks, a 3D model projected into the air — a sleek, dark-blue and black armor sketch with sharper lines than Nightwing's, reinforced plating across the shoulders and chest, and a new emblem: a bird in flight, wings dipped in flame.
"I started working on this after your second trial," Bruce said. "Wasn't sure if you'd make it out."
Rex stared at the image.
"You called it 'Darkwing'?"
"No," Bruce said. "You did."
Rex chuckled once. "Guess I did."
Batman crossed his arms. "You sure about this?"
Rex looked up at the symbol.
"I'm done running from who I am. I've seen what I was. Who I could've been. And who I refuse to be. Darkwing isn't a costume. He's a promise."
"Then we finish the suit today," Bruce said.
Rex nodded.
And for the first time since waking in this world… he smiled.
"I'll admit," Rex muttered, "it's got style."
He turned to Batman, who stood quietly beside him.
"Not as dramatic as a cape," Rex said, flexing his gloved fingers, "but these gauntlets feel good. Weighted. Balanced. Like brass knuckles kissed by a tech genius."
"The boots are reinforced. Grapnel compatibility in the belt. You'll adapt," Batman replied, stoic as ever.
Rex smirked. "You make one hell of a tailor, Bruce."
A sudden metallic ding echoed through the cave.
The elevator.
Footsteps.
Alfred descended calmly into the cavern, but his eyes carried urgency.
"Sir," he said, addressing both of them, "the signal's up."
Bruce turned toward the monitors. With a single keystroke, the giant screen shifted — revealing the Bat-Signal, glowing against the clouds.
"GCPD's calling in heavy," Alfred added. "Penguin and his goons have taken over the Narrows. Armed convoys, street blockades… and he's broadcasting threats on police frequencies."
Rex's jaw clenched, fire rising in his chest. "So it begins."
Batman stepped forward. "Gear up."
Rex turned back to his suit — and for the first time, fully embraced it.
He slipped the armored chestplate over his torso, securing the high-collar piece. The arm guards snapped into place with satisfying clicks. He adjusted the belt, checked his gadgets — smoke pellets, tracker darts, shock claws. Finally, he slipped on the mask — sleek, black, with a sharp angled design that covered his brow and left his jaw exposed.
A mirror sat nearby. Rex caught his reflection.
He looked… right. The darkness behind his eyes didn't make him weaker — it gave him edge, resolve.
He whispered to himself:
"This city broke me… but I'm still standing. Let's see how many of them can say the same."
The Streets of Gotham – The Narrows
Chaos.
Flaming trash bins lit up the sidewalks. Smoke rose from overturned vehicles. Civilians ran, screaming, as Penguin's men — all in bulletproof vests and armed with military-grade weapons — corralled streets into warzones.
Sirens wailed in the distance, but the police perimeter had already been set. Penguin's twisted voice barked through loudspeakers mounted on stolen trucks:
"You didn't invite me to the party, Gotham, so I threw my own! Now watch how the elite squirm when the bottom feeders rise!"
Batman and Darkwing perched atop a church spire overlooking the scene. Rex squinted down, scanning patterns, alley movement, rooftop snipers.
"They've got three main entry points guarded," Rex muttered. "But their communication's sloppy. They're overlapping routes."
He pointed. "That alley — guard's got his back to the fire escape. Could take that angle, disable two of them with smoke."
Batman looked at him. "Good. And the central truck?"
"Has Penguin in it," Rex said. "No way he's missing his own spotlight."
Batman nodded.
"You take the right flank. I'll drop from the skylight. Keep it quiet. We separate them, we finish it."
Rex grinned beneath his mask. "Let's dance."
The Fight
The night lit up with silent fury.
Rex descended the fire escape like a panther, his steps perfectly timed between breaths. He dropped beside the first thug, striking with a spinning knee — crack! — followed by a shock claw to the second's ribs. Sparks flew.
Two down.
He launched a grapnel to the next rooftop, flipping over the alley to take down a rooftop sniper with a sweep kick and a punch that cracked the guy's visor.
Batman dropped into the truck like a storm — CRASH! — and a roar of punches followed. Rex heard groans, groaning metal, and a scream. A body flew through the window.
Penguin himself scrambled from the back, umbrella-gun in hand.
He stumbled onto the street — and froze.
There, in the smoke, stood Darkwing.
Not Nightwing.
Not Rex Mallory.
Something new.
"You're not him," Penguin growled, aiming. "You're not the Bat's little bird—"
CRACK! Rex disarmed him with a twist, snapping the umbrella gun in half and decking the criminal with a brutal jab to the throat.
Penguin wheezed and dropped like a sack.
"Yeah," Rex muttered, "I'm not."
Behind him, police sirens neared. Batman stepped out of the alley, cloak billowing, nodding once.
Darkwing turned toward the light of the signal, his shadow long against the pavement.
The people were watching.
They had a new name to whisper into the dark.