Chapter 3: Nightwing's First Flight in Blüdhaven

Blüdhaven always seeks to emulate Gotham. The derivative harlot shamelessly rips off whatever it thinks will mimic her sister’s success. Anything that can allow her to reach the cultural and financial prosperity that Gotham enjoys. Yet she only succeeded in stuffing her face even deeper into the ASS of injustice than her sister, squeezing her face deep in its asscheeks and going nose deep into its crack.

She desires all Gotham is, all she has. Except for one notable cape donning, spandex-wearing exception.

Blüdhaven has never hosted a hero of her own. Neither in the time of the Mystery Women that battled Mobsters and Nazis. Nor to this fantastical new age of superpowers. No scantily-clad champion of justice and potent masturbation fuel has treaded their feet on her streets or rooftops. She would not welcome them, and they would not court her.

A superhero would threaten to dismantle the corrupt system Blüdhaven’s worst enjoy. The last thing the lawlessly landed powers of the city wanted was a do-gooder ruining their lofty fiefdoms. They would become a powerful and sexy symbol for the people, a better, more lovemaking mistress than those that demean them to suckle at her feet. That would not tolerate their wicked ways and could not be cowed simply with bribery, ****, seduction, or elimination.

How fortunate for them that no hero has taken up the city as their cause. In all likelihood, they deemed Blüdhavenas a lost cause. Corruption has penetrated deep into the city's core and saturated her DNA with its essence. It existed like an essential part of its nature. A hero would not simply be fighting crime; they would fight the city itself. Blüdhaven values its imperfect order too much to have it disrupted, heedless that it would be for the better. Wise heroes understood this and spared themselves the futility.

Until now.

Ricarda Grayson kicked up the asphalt of the rooftops, finally wearing the visage of her true self. Not as Officer Grayson, and no more as Robin the Girl Wonder.

But as Nightwing. Breaking Blüdhaven’s abstinence from a hero.

She glided above in the smog-coated moonlight, leaping from building to building, swinging with her grapple line. Traveling through the city with speed and agility, one would think of as superhuman. Yet was just her sheer skill and prowess.

Clad in a high-tech costume specially designed for her high-flying acrobatic style—a sleek and lean black bodysuit. With the crest of a bluebird, outstretched wings etched above her ample bosom, blue lines extending from the wings, traveling through her arms to her gauntlets.

Said gauntlets, alongside her boots, contained compartments storing a wide array of equipment. She found that placing them near the ends of her limb’s complimented the ergonomics of regularly flipping and somersaulting.

Nightwing carried her signature weapons on her back. Polymer reinforced Escrima sticks held in spring-loaded sheaths. One of which she had in her hands, using the integrated line launcher to swing off of buildings.

So used to the feeling of spandex up in her since childhood, Ricarda didn’t even realize how lewd she would look to anyone graced by her abundant form. It was ironic that she felt so odd in the scantily clad uniform of a public servant but felt no discomfort when her costume paraded her body like she wore nothing at all. The latex-like polycarbonate kevlar fabric fully displayed her voluptuous, bottom-heavy form. Finding every square inch of skin there was to touch and clinging to it, every lean, athletic muscle outlined. It dug into the crevice of her opulent mounds, squeezing them to hint at deep cleavage without actually showing any and lasciviously displaying her nipples and cameltoe.

Regardless of her quasi-naked form dancing above the central business district, she felt free in the blue domino mask. She was swinging off the high towers of corporations, fearlessly jumping off the rooftops, then grappling onto buildings at the perfect time and angle to launch herself through the sky. Heedless of gravity and fear, Nightwing showed that a mortal could fly without superpowers.

Nightwing is racing to Waterloo Docks, the Blüdhaven's former whaling harbor, enhanced to substantial overcompensation. She tried to **** herself to become a significant player in international trade by overdeveloping Waterloo's capabilities. Yet the fleets of treasure ships meant to launch her prosperity never came. More interested in making port at Gotham. Instead, it became one of the east coast’s largest arteries for illegal smuggling.

Nightwing perched herself on the dock’s cargo crane to survey the scene below. A ship berthed flew the Rheelasian flag, a banner that would never wave openly in the wind of any respectable port. Cargo draped in cloth was offloaded onto a train riding the B&O rail, with armed goons securing the freight, each donning a unique mask. Nightwing instantly knew who they were and that she was not the only unwelcomed thing coming from Gotham.

They are members of the False Face Society—the foot soldiers of Roma Sionis, the Black Mask. Gotham’s Queenpin was not the one who founded the gang but being an enthusiast of masks herself, Roma established herself as their leader. They are her private army of enforcers. Every member is required to don a mask. Visages that outwardly display their inner slut. Hypersexualized feminine faces, sultry cultural relics, lewdly anthropomorphized animals, cobbled together or improvised patchwork, perverted corporate brands, and even the faces of notable villains and heroes warped into slutty parodies of themselves.

It was clear Roma was forcing herself onto Blüdhaven and her criminal underworld. The False Facers her probing cockhead into the city's folds. Lining up the first thrust for her takeover. They were stealing contraband, likely meant for the native crooks. But the question was what and from whom.

The whistle of the train blows, and observation time is up. Nightwing boards the hijack limited. The train has a long, slow start, giving her time to check the cargo before it takes too much speed. Hiding between them, she uses a Wing Ding to tear through the covering. Revealing a coupe, a decade-old one at that.

“What’s the deal with this?” She cut open the other two next to the vehicle. Both of them were cars, both well past their years. “These ride looks at least a decade old. Must’ve been a late shipment.”

Her wondering makes her nearly overlook the pantyhosed False Facer, with an oversized lipstick outline touching her nose and chin and thick eyelashes drawn on the eye holes. The thug spots her and brings down a rain of nine millimeters. Nightwing’s reactions were just as fast as the bullets, jumping out of the way as soon as pantyhose face pulled the trigger. She leaped quicker than the goon could follow and simultaneously threw her throwing weapon. It hit its mark on the leg. The pain made her drop her gun and opened for a kick to the face.

There has to be a small army of Facers’ on board, meaning a potential rolling firefight. Proven right as two more climbed up top just as Nightwing puts the cuffs on their fallen comrade. One white dressed Facer with a medical mask and nurse’s cap and another with a lace masquerade turned up their bootlegged AR’s “We got the bird nailed,”

Spoke too soon, her partner turns to see the oncoming bridge arch. “Heads up,” both fall prone and fire their rifles in the new position. Nightwing doesn’t slow down. The bridge gives her the advantage. As they fire at the narrow viewpoint, Nightwing disappears.

She leaped onto the bridge, grabbed onto the railing to launch herself upward to the street lamps’ bars above the cars. Swung off to land on top of a truck. Hopping off the top, using its momentum to land herself on a speed sign, jumping off towards a passing oil truck. Then swinging off the cables suspending the bridge and back onto the car as it just made it to the other side.

In the seconds it took for the train to take the goon to the other side and rise, Nightwing was behind them and knocked them out with a double kick.

After binding them, Nightwing sees another set of cars. The train turned into the Park and Ride, getting closer to the Narrows. Fortunately, no False Facers were around for now. She had a little opportunity to search the vehicles more thoroughly. The cars can’t be the swag; they are all unsubstantial. It must be something within them.

She pops the trunk, cuts the seats, punctures a wheel, even checks the glove compartment. Whatever their hiding, it concealed well. She risked getting discovered the longer she investigates, And the train was getting closer to Littleneck Bridge, nearly halfway out of the city.

Maybe it’s within the frames? Nightwing was about to pop off the exterior of a car before she had to dodge pairs of bullets.

“Kinda far from home, aren't you, birdie?”

Standing on top of a cargo container was a curvy, burgundy-suited woman with a low buttoned shirt and two smoking pistols tracked on Nightwing. Her mask was a sultry red fox with thick red cocksucker lips on the snout. At her appearance, a platoon of henchwomen swarmed with pipes, wrenches, chains.

“Can say the same about you. The Black Mask sent you to scout some new real estate? Or is she diversifying into collecting antique cars?” Nightwing responded with a defiant smirk as she subtly repositioned herself to a better position. But she was quickly surrounded by a half-circle of melee-equipped Facers.

“The boss is gonna take this second-rate Gotham wannabe for herself. And a second-rate Bat wannabe isn’t stopping us.” Surprisingly she holstered her pistols, trading them for a knife. “No guns, girls. Cant risk totaling these things before we can take a look; this will be a HANDS-ON JOB!”

It seemed her conclusion was on the money. They know that something is within the vehicles, but these gals don’t know what that is. And that second-rate jab made her eager to get her hands on her foxy foe.

She would deal with both once she dealt with the False Facers swarming her. Improvised melee weapons came from all sides. She brought out her Escrima sticks to parry their flailing, amateurish strikes and paying them back in kind. Her skilled dual-wielding offset the disadvantage in numbers, and they were not familiar with fighting on a moving, limited space while she was.

That said, the numbers and confinement put the odds against her. Weapons of opportunity needed to be utilized. She used the cars themselves, kicking out the doors to knock them away, vaulting off the cars like balancing beams to dodge and redirect their limited reach, and slamming them into their hard exterior. “Ooof, that’s a bad ding their girl,” knocking a door into a goon “going to need some detailing here, Foxy. You guys are hell on trade-ins.”

Nightwing hit a gimped Facer with a swing of her stick. Then used the momentum for a follow-up kick on a Pig. But that kick went too far, and Nightwing had to catch herself. Fortunately, a Luchadora’s head was there to check her fall, rewarded with a smothering of softness and bliss before going ****. She barely got her equilibrium before having to maneuver to avoid a chain and kicking the Facer wielding it. Her combat finally brought her face-to-thick-lipped-snout with the leader.

“Making me work for my score.” Foxy lunged at the blue-clad hero, yet the more skilled melee fighter parried her swipes. “This was supposed to be easy. All we had to do was ride a train back to Gotham” Nightwing linked her sticks together, extending themselves into a staff. Taking away Foxy’s reach and making her more frustrated.“I love to make trouble Foxy” She grinned, then **** her back with a hit. “Besides, do you even know what you’re taking? Or who you’re taking from?”

“Don’t know.” SWIPE “Don’t care” SLASH “And if you would STAND STILL, you won’t have to WORRY ABOUT IT!” Foxy had a fuse, and the troublesome bird was shortening it real fast. Her anger did no favors to her clear hand-to-hand disadvantage, making her too aggressive and more inefficient. One wild slash left her wide open for Nightwing to deliver a jumping roundhouse, sending her flying over the frontmost car.

Acrobatic ass-kicking and ear-grating quips; it’s how she has fought bad guys for years. But unbeknownst to her, there was a third aspect of her fighting style, arising when she matured into a full, full woman. Abundant flesh, combined with her skintight, nearly frictionless costume, meant the continuous undulation of her feminine charms. Every kick made her thighs ripple and booty wobble. Every punch or strike from her sticks threw around her tits. And every flip and somersault caused a gyrating storm.

It provided an unintentional tactical advantage. Nightwing’s jiggling would enrapture aggressors. It was stopping them in their tracks for crucial seconds—plenty for her to take them down. As she matured, she believed that her skill grew to astound her foes. She was right in more ways than she realized. Her opponents imagined their faces shoved in between her chest when she overshot a punch, stuffed between her thighs when she grabbed them in a submission hold, or simply watched her body shake before they caught her attention.

Nightwing had the advantage, but they were past the entrance to the Blue Line Tubes. Time was shortening, and she was no closer to figuring out what they were fighting over. That’s when she noticed something emanating from the cars, a slight purple vapor coming from the car next to her, hissing through where the Facer with the chain hit.

A False-Facer, wearing an Ahegaoing Noh mask, charged at her. Reacting by instinct, she leg tripped them, and they ended up landing right on the door, right on the gas leaking hole. Cries of pain changed into moans of pleasure. And as they writhed on the floor, Nightwing was pretty sure that her natural face was matching her mask.

Just as quickly as the Facer cummed into unconsciousness, the orgasm-inducing vapors dissipated into nothing. This chemical is what’s being smuggling? What Roma’s flunkies are unknowingly seeking? Whatever it is, it can knock a girl flat out to Nirvana.

CBRN defense training kicked in. She accessed a rebreather in her gauntlet pouch. Then twisted a knob on her combined escrima staff to pop out a notch, giving her a crowbar. She needed to keep her distance from whatever this was. Orgasm inducement wasn’t guaranteed to be its only effect.

She knocked away a goon trying an opportunity strike, then used her staff to pop off the car door’s already damaged frame. The inside is lined with small glass capsules the width of a finger. Many of them are broken and empty from the tussle. The intact ones contained a fluorescent purple solution. The vials must be vacuum-sealed since the liquid vaporized when exposed to oxygen.

She twisted her staff again to pop out a small reaching tool. She needed to acquire a sample. The effort put into hiding this and Black Mask’s interest in it meant this was worth studying.

But just as she picked off a vial, a car suddenly jerked and slammed into the car she was extracting from, destroying and dissipating all of the chemicals into the open air. She narrowly avoided the gas and the car jerking back again. It made her lose her rebreather, the shock making it fall out of her mouth and off the train. Then they slammed and crunched into each other. Nightwing narrowly avoided being crushed, and other facers, just as surprised either jumped or knocked off.

“Die. Die! DIE ALREADY YOU BLUE BEAUTIFUL BITCH!” Foxy howled. Rage has overwhelmed her reason, bringing the vulpine to **** measures. She was riding in an old Ford convertible, actually driving ON the train. Ramming through the other cars, just to run down Nightwing. She is attempting vehicular homicide, with no regard for her women frantically jumping off the train out of the way, nor the one that slammed into her car. No care that she was destroying the contraband she and her women were supposed to be stealing.

“I heard crazy like a fox” Nightwing flipped over one of the cars falling off the train. “But you’re just plain crazy” She landed on the convertible's hood. The car’s front window broken off, allowing a clear view of Foxy. Now up close, Nightwing saw that the mad vulpine's clothing is drenched in purple. The same vapors were leaking off of her suit. There were several splotches of dissolved holes, yet her skin was pristine. It even looked smooth and oily, with a slight purple sheen.

“Yourrrrgh, Your gonna PAY for this, Birdie,” Foxy growls sounded genuinely animalistic. “I’m gonna make you pay for ruining this for meeeeee!” Even while drifting, she reached out a hand through the broken window to claw at Nightwing. “Your ASS is gonna pay.”

“All. Rrrrgh”

“Night. Grrrrgh”

“LONG! HOOWWWHHH!”

Foxy was being driven wild like the **** vehicle she was riding. The explosively euphoric property of the chemical did not reduce her to her happy place. Anger and malice burned within and kept her conscious. Instead, it pushed her into a feral fury and animalistic heat. The addled wild woman would get them both killed. Nightwing could knock her out, but it wouldn’t stop the car from careening off the train.

But maybe it should.

Nightwing reached forward to seize the car wheel. In her crazy horny mind, Foxy let go of the wheel and grabbed her object of desire by the face. “Gimme those lips! Gimme, GIMME!”

“You want them. HERE YOU GO.” Nightwing lied. Not giving her lips, but headbutt. The crazed vulpine recoiled back into her seat, giving Nightwing the chance to bring the car off the train, jumping off as it fell.

It fell onto the extensive collection of bushes, which Nightwing saw approaching. The fauna caught the convertible and saved Foxy from slamming on the ground. Instead, she got hit by airbags and knocked out for good. Nightwing's victory was secured.

She finally stopped the train after freeing the conductor from the last False Facers keeping her hostage. It stopped near Melville, right before it hit the bridge to cross the Narrows. Starting from the train’s front and searched backward, all of the old modeled cars were either all the vehicles are totaled or fell off the train. The vehicles that were still on top of the train were shot up or smashed. Any trace of the chemical they clandestinely contained was gone.

Nightwing foiled black Mask’s hijacking, and she cost her a platoon of her False Facers. Whoever was supposed to receive this dubious chemical would lose it as well.

But it did not feel like a victory to Nightwing. Her first significant action in Blüdhaven was a disaster. She sat on top of the first car she investigated, contemplating her failure. The front riddled with bullets from the first Facer mook that surprised her. She could have been the one bored with holes rather than this coupe.

Nightwing could imagine The Bat looming above her, feeling her admonishing eyes. She wouldn’t say anything and didn’t need to. She knew every way this went so badly.

She did not prevent the train from traveling in the first place and letting it so far throughout the city. Letting the False Facers get the jump at her and letting them control the flow of the battle. She got so close to getting shot or being struck by their haphazard weaponry. And it took so long to take them down. There was too much collateral. Cars sprinkled throughout the road—too much damage to the infrastructure.

Her technique was sloppy. She should have taken them down without them even noticing, or at least long after it was too late. She spent too long messing with them, too much defense, too much parrying. She should have counterattacked as soon as they hit her with their poor strikes. Or not have bothered and hit them with her superior reflexes. Chiefly she should not have let herself get goaded by a petty crooks jab at her.

Chiefly, she failed at her primary goal of investigating what is going on in Bludhaven. The primary reason The Bat told her to come to this goddess-forsaken city was that twenty-one members of Angela Maria’s syndicate were found in Gotham. Their bodies filled with cum, carrying reservoirs in their stomach and womb. Their minds were broken, turned into maniacs thinking of nothing but being fucked.

Angela Maria was Blüdhaven’s top mob mistress. And twenty-one of her women were literally fucked over. The Bat wanted to know why and what this could mean for Gotham’s sister.

When she first arrived, she thought they were casualties of a gang war, someone making a big move to take The Angel’s place at the top. But Blüdhaven was quiet, eerily silent. The dark order of the city was still running with its blood lubricated smoothness. Gangs were not fighting a battle royale for the place at the top. To all perceptions, it was like the top was still running fine.

The only disruptive elements have been the Black Mask and herself.

Nightwing shoulders fell, hunched over in disappointment and puzzlement. Those twenty-one cum balloons have to mean something. And this attempted hijacking by Roma Sionis confirmed it. A shift has happened in the shadows of Blüdhaven, and Nightwing had to find out what happened. Too bad she lost the only clue she had. Several of them, in fact, all shattered and vaporized in the air.

Until she once again catches something easily overlooked. A tiny glint hit her viewpoint at just the right moment to catch her eye, right under the window wipers. Curios, and with nothing left to lose. She laid on the hood and took out a Wind Ding to dig under the wipers, under the front window. Between the nozzles of wiper fluid, she found the broken glass of the front window. But amongst it smaller pieces of glass, the ones from the capsules.

“They laced them everywhere in these cars,” She muttered while absently picking through the fragmented remains, not genuinely expecting anything.“Too bad they didn’t expect a derby to happen on a train.”

“The silly fools, how did they not plan for a crazy fox woman to drive a car on top of a train…” She stopped herself when she felt a ding of a solid fabricated shape. A single intact capsule within a bed of broken glass, glowing with that mysterious and alluring fluorescent purple. The little thing slightly lifted the weight of her failure, something salvageable out of this.

Her relief by the discovery was interrupted by sirens in the distance. The BPD finally caught up. Unlike in Gotham, it is not a welcoming sound for a vigilante. They did not sound the trumpets of comrades fighting justice, but a danger just as threatening as the criminals she just fought. She couldn’t interact with them as Nightwing to work together in solving this case. The BPD might welcome Officer Ricarda Grayson with open arms aiming for her buttcheeks. But the only thing they would greet Nightwing with was bullets.

Except for one, Nightwing’s only “friend” in the ****—the one that guided her to this debacle. Undoubtedly she was coming to work the crime scene. The only one that the Chief Redhorn would trust to handle this intrusion of outsiders.

Nightwing needed to arrange for a clandestine meeting and see if Fatal Phyllis Soames had any more to offer her to illuminate the veil over Blüdhaven.